The next morning after breakfast I proceeded to Santiago, and landed at the custom house wharf, where I found everything bustle, dust, and heat; several of the captains of the English vessels were there, who immediately made up to me, and reported how far advanced in their lading they were, and enquired when we were to give them convoy, the latest news from Kingston, &c. At length I saw our friend Ricardo Campana going along one of the neighbouring streets, and I immediately made sail in chase. He at once recognised me, gave me a cordial shake of the hand, and enquired how he could serve me. I produced two letters which I had brought for him, but which had been forgotten in the bustle of the preceding day; they were introductory, and although sealed, I had some reason to conjecture that my friend, Mr Pepperpot Wagtail, had done me much more than justice. Campana, with great kindness, immediately invited me to his house. “We foreigners,” said he, “don’t keep your hours; I am just going home to breakfast.” It was past eleven in the forenoon. I was about excusing myself on the plea of having already breakfasted, when he silenced me. “Why, I guessed as much, Mr Lieutenant, but then you have not lunched; you can call it lunch, you know, if it will ease your conscience.” There was no saying nay to all this civility, so we stumped along the burning streets, through a mile of houses, large massive buildings, but very different in externals from the gay domiciles of Kingston. Aaron Bang afterwards used to say that they looked more like prisons than dwelling-houses, and he was not in this very much out. Most of them were built of brick and plastered over, with large windows, in front of each of which, like the houses in the south of Spain, there was erected a large heavy wooden balcony, projecting far enough from the wall to allow a Spanish chair, such as I have already described, to be placed in it. The front of these verandas was closed in with a row of heavy balustrades at the bottom, of a variety of shapes, and by clumsy carved woodwork above, which effectually prevented you from seeing into the interior. The whole had a Moorish air, and in the upper part of the town there was a Sabbath-- like stillness prevailing, which was only broken now and then by the tinkle of a guitar from one of the aforesaid verandas, or by the rattling of a crazy volante, a sort of covered gig, drawn by a broken kneed and broken winded mule, with a kiln dried old Spaniard or dona in it. The lower part of the town had been busy enough, and the stir and hum of it rendered the quietude of the upper part of it more striking. A shovel hatted friar now suddenly accosted us. “Senor Campana--ese pobre familia de Cangrejo! Lastima! Lastima!” “Cangrejo--Cangrejo!” muttered I; “why, it is the very name attached to the miniature.”