being thrown overboard, it will show a wonderful degree of forbearance on the part of the passengers.
8th.—The weather is perfect, but the wind inexorable; and the passengers, with their heads tied up, look more gloomy than ever.
Some sit dejected in corners, and some quarrel with their neighbours, thus finding a safety-valve by which their wrath may escape.
9th.—There is no change in the wind, yet the gentlemen have all brightened up, taken off their headkerchiefs and shaved, as if ashamed of their six days' impatience, and making up their minds to a sea-life. This morning we saw land; a long, low ridge of hills on the Island of Eleuthera, where they make salt, and where there are many negroes. Neither salt nor negroes visible to the naked eye; nothing but the grey outline of the hills, melting into the sea and sky; and having tacked about all day, we found ourselves in the evening precisely opposite to this same island. There are Job's comforters on board, who assure us that they have been thirty-six days between New York and la "joya mas preciosa de la corona de Espana."[1]
For my part, I feel no impatience, having rather a dislike to changing my position when tolerable, and the air is so fresh and laden with balm, that it seems to blow over some paradise of sweets, some land of fragrant spices. The sea also is a mirror, and I have read Marryat's Pirate for the first time.
Thus then we stand at eight o'clock, P. M.; wind
- ↑ The most precious jewel in the Spanish crown, the name given to Cuba.
