then came empty rooms that might be shops; after this a narrow and untidy street, and then a livery stable--a sort of monopolistic cab stand, where a few ponies and carriages were to be found--but no one understood or did anything as long as possible, except to say that all the rigs were engaged now and always. However, a little violent English language, mixed with Spanish, would arouse emotion and excite commotion eventuating in a pony in harness, and a gig or carriage, and a desperate driver, expert with a villainous whip used without occasion or remorse. The cool place was at the front door, on the sidewalk, seated on a hard chair, for there was always a breeze. The Spanish guests knew where the wind blew, and gathered there discussing many questions that must have deeply interested them. But they had something to eat, no authority or ability to affect any sort of change, and unfailing tobacco, the burning of which was an occupation. The ground floor of the hotel, except the barroom, the washroom, the hall, the conservatory and the hollow square, had been devoted to shop keeping, but the shop keepers were gone, perhaps for days and perhaps forever! Stone is not used to any great extent in house interiors, except within a few feet of the surface of the earth. Of course, there is no elevator in a Spanish hotel. That which is wanted is room for the circulation of air. Above the first flight of stairs the steps have a deep dark red tinge, and are square and long, so that each extends solidly across the liberal space allotted to the stairway. The blocks might be some stone of delightful color, but they are hewn logs, solid and smooth, of a superb mahogany or some tree of harder wood and deeper luxuriance of coloring. The bedrooms are immensely high, and in every way ample, looking on great spaces devoted to wooing the air from the park and the river. The windows are enormous. Not satisfied with the giant sliding doors that open on the street, revealing windows--unencumbered with sash or glass, there are sliding doors under the window sills, that roll back right and left and offer the chance to introduce a current of air directly on the lower limbs. One of the lessons of the tropics is the value of the outer air, and architecture that gives it a chance in the house. It is a precious education. The artificial light within must be produced by candles, and each stupendous apartment is furnished with one tallowy and otherwise neglected candle stick, and you can get, with exertion, a candle four inches long. There is a wardrobe, a wash stand, with pitcher and basin, and a commode, fans, chairs, and round white marble table, all the pieces placed in solitude, so as to convey the notion of lonesomeness. The great feature is the bed. The bedstead is about the usual thing, save that there is no provision for a possible or impossible spring mattress, or anything of that nature. The bed space is covered with bamboo, platted. It is