Life in Mexico | Page 8

is
Madame A----, returning from being prima donna in Mexico, in a
packet called after the opera in which she was there a favourite, with
her husband Señor V---- and her child. There is M. B---- with
moustaches like a bird's nest; a pretty widow in deep affliction, at least
in deep mourning; a maiden lady going out as a governess, and every
variety of Spaniard and Havanero. So now we are alone, C---n and I,
and my French femme-de-chambre, with her air of Dowager Duchess,
and moreover sea-sick.

28th.--When I said I liked a sea life, I did not mean to be understood as
liking a merchant ship, with an airless cabin, and with every variety of
disagreeable odour. As a French woman on board, with the air of an
afflicted porpoise, and with more truth than elegance, expresses it:
"Tout devient puant, même l'eau-de-cologne."
The wind is still contrary, and the Norma, beating up and down, makes
but little way. We have gone seventy-four miles, and of these advanced
but forty. Every one being sick to-day, the deck is nearly deserted. The
most interesting object I have discovered on board is a pretty little deaf
and dumb girl, very lively and with an intelligent face, who has been
teaching me to speak on my fingers. The infant heir of the house of -----
has shown his good taste by passing the day in squalling. M. B----, pale,
dirty, and much resembling a brigand out of employ, has traversed the
deck with uneasy footsteps and a cigar appearing from out his
moustaches, like a light in a tangled forest, or a jack-o'-lantern in a
marshy thicket. A fat Spaniard has been discoursing upon the glories of
olla podrida. Au reste, we are slowly pursuing our way, and at this rate
might reach Cuba in three months.
And the stars are shining, quiet and silvery. All without is soft and
beautiful, and no doubt the Norma herself looks all in unison with the
scene, balancing herself like a lazy swan, white and graciously. So it is
without, and within, there is miserable sea-sickness, bilge-water, and
all the unavoidable disagreeables of a small packet.
31st.--Three days have passed without anything worthy of notice
having occurred, except that we already feel the difference of
temperature. The passengers are still enduring sea-sickness in all its
phases.
This morning opened with an angry dispute between two of the
gentlemen, on the subject of Cuban lotteries, and they ended by
applying to each other epithets which, however much they might be
deserved, were certainly rather strong; but by dinner time, they were
amicably engaged in concocting together an enormous tureen of
gaspachos, a sort of salad, composed of bread, oil, vinegar, sliced
onion and garlic--and the fattest one declares that in warm weather, a
dish of gaspachos, with plenty of garlic in it, makes him feel as fresh as
a rose. He must indeed be a perfect bouquet.
The opening of morning is dramatic in our narrow cabin. About twenty

voices in Spanish, German, Italian, and broken English, strike up by
degrees. From a neighbouring state room, _Nid d'oiseau_ puts forth his
head. "Stooar! a toomlar! here is no vater!" "Comin, sir, comin."
"_Caramba!_ Stooard!" "Comin, sir, comin!" "Stuart? vasser und toel!"
"Here, sir." "Amigo! how is the wind?" (This is the waking up of el
Señor Ministro, putting his head half suffocated out of his berth.) "Oh
steward! steward!" "Yes, miss," "Come here, and look at this!" "I'll fix
it, miss,"--etc.
1st November.--A fair wind after a stifling night, and strong hopes of
seeing the Bahama Banks on Sunday. Most people are now gradually
ascending from the lower regions, and dragging themselves on deck
with pale and dejected countenances. Madame A---- has such a
sweet-toned voice in speaking, especially in her accents of her bella
Italia, that it is refreshing to listen to her. I have passed all day in
reading, after a desultory fashion, "Les Enfants d'Edouard," by Casimir
Delavigne, Washington Irving, D'Israeli's "Curiosities of Literature,"
etc.; and it is rather singular that while there is a very tolerable supply
of English and French books here, I see but one or two odd volumes in
Spanish, although these packets are constantly filled with people of that
nation, going and coming. Is it that they do not care for reading, or that
less attention is paid to them than to the French or American passengers?
One would think Cervantes, Lope de Vega, Calderon, or Moratin,
better worth buying than many commonplace novels which I find here.
3rd.--Yesterday the wind blew soft as on a summer morning. A
land-bird flew into the ship. To-day the wind has veered round, but the
weather continues charming. The sea is covered with multitudes of
small flying-fish. An infantile water-spout appeared,