Every chamber in the house is fitted up with elegant comfort, the long suite of parlors furnished in varied magnificence, the halls filled with works of art, and the library with rarest literature. All the domestic details, usually so troublesome when we move to a strange place, are arranged with perfect system and regularity, and a large retinue of well trained servants, subservient in demeanor, anticipative,
yet not officious in their attention, await our commands and faithfully discharge their appointed duties.
All these arrangements were perfected before our arrival by our very efficient agents, Messrs. Rinaldo, who have had charge of the estate since Mr. Rurlestone’s death, and nothing was left for me to do but to assume control of the establishment.
Herrara Lola, grown portly and plethoric since I last saw him, yet still exceedingly handsome, is living near, and he and his lovely Spanish wife are our frequent guests. Indeed they, and a few Southern families who have fled to Havana, are the only society we receive, as we desire yet a while quiet and retirement.
I have heard once from Ben Bemby since we reached here. All were well, and in good spirits. His father, himself and Horace, had all gone to work vigorously on their respective farms, preparing them for the next year’s crop, though he apprehended great difficulty in securing effective labor. His letter, though characteristic, showed a spirit of earnest energy and hopefulness, and was burdened throughout with messages of love for us all from true and honest hearts.
But, as I was saying, Carlotta and I were in the balcony, looking at the sunset. Cloudless and alone the god of day was sinking to his rest. A few fleecy racks towards the South were blushing with his good-night kiss, and a purple bank with silver fringe lay beneath him, like the pillow of his couch. Drowsily he sunk his head upon it, and drawing the ocean, like a burnished coverlid, over his golden face, was asleep!
The spell of our silent admiration was broken by Miguel, my valet, who approached with the mail from Havana. Running hurriedly through the letters I came to one directed to Carlotta and myself, and dated from New York the very day we sailed. Calling her to my side, I tore off the envelope and read:
”My only Friends—