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!"