person’s face as if to find out if he had also some secret sorrow or vexation. It would have been “tarts and cheesecakes to him,” as Sancho says, if he had discovered any one as wretched as himself.
One day—about half-an-hour before dinner—as I was sitting alone in the saloon, this gentleman , entered. He scanned me with an inquiring, scrutinising look. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but, thinking better of it, shut it again. There was-a mirror at each end of the room. He walked slowly up to one and looked at his tongue. He came thoughtfully back—went up to the other glass, and examined his eyes, opening them wide with his finger and thumb; he then heaved a deep sigh. Approaching to where I was seated, he, with a strong nasal twang, thus accosted me:
“I guess you’re a Britisher?”
“I have the honour to be one.”
“I’m a citizen of the U—nited States, I am.”
“Indeed!”
“Whare did you come from last? You ain’t located here?”
“From ”
“Was you riz there?”
“No.”
“Where are you going?”
“To ”
“What for?”
“For my health.”
“What’s the difficulty?”
I told him, and then inquired the object of his travelling.
“Like you, strannger,—health.”
“May I ask what is the difficulty with you?”
“Worrification.”
But there was one gentleman, who, more than all the rest, attracted my attention and excited my curiosity. He was also an American. He had a good-looking, intelligent face, a fair complexion, large piercing grey eyes, and light hair. He might be from five-and-twenty to thirty years of age. He was accompanied by his sister, who was considerably older. He ate sparingly, drank only water, and spoke to no one. Even to his sister, he addressed no further observations than what the attention of a dinner-table requires. Whatever happened to be the topic of conversation, or whosoever might be speaking, he appeared to take no notice of it. To the vapouring of the Vice-consul, to the braggadocio of the General, to the quiet, sensible remarks of the consumptive Titan, he turned a deaf ear. He was wrapped in himself. After dinner he would withdraw into the saloon, take a seat by the window, and fall into a deep reverie. One afternoon I determined, if possible, to draw him out. He seemed at first quite reluctant to converse, and his remarks were short and snappish. But, after a little time, I overcame his sullen taciturnity,—he thawed, and gradually entered into conversation. I understood him to say that he was a doctor, practising at Mobile,—that he had accompanied his sister to Havana, who had some business to transact in that city, and that he was then only waiting the arrival of the steamer to return to New Orleans. In the course of conversation he frequently became greatly excited, and spoke with vehemence and fluency, his grey eye lighting up and emitting sparks of fire. He inveighed in terms of indignation at the despotic government of Cuba, at the excessive imposts upon articles of commerce, at the protective duties, and condemned in strong language his own government for not taking possession of the island. “If the government of the United States,” he said, “did its duty, it would immediately send a powerful force and annex Cuba. Look at the vessels in the harbour,—are they not almost all American? Are not the wealthiest merchants American? Are not their architects and engineers all American? Do they not import their furniture, their ironware, and most of their articles of commerce from America? Do they not send 20,000,000 dollars annually to the Spanish exchequer, which sum is almost exclusively obtained by means of American commerce? And see how they treat us. If an American dares to utter his sentiments freely, he is immediately pounced upon by some of their cowardly, dastardly, worthless soldiers, and clapped into the Morro Castle, or Il Fuerta. But if the American people had a voice in their government, these things would not be submitted to.”
I told him I did not understand him. “Were not the United States a Republic?”
“A Republic! yes,—but not an American Republic. A German Republic—an Irish Republic—but not an American Republic. The American people, the real American people—the educated classes, the wealthy merchants—are not represented in Congress, they have no voice in the government. The Northern States contain a mixed population, and the old Americans, whose families were attached to the soil long before the war of independence, are overwhelmed by a horde of filthy, swinish Germans, or low Irishmen, the very dregs of their own country, from which they have been driven, either by your despotic laws, or by their own crimes. Ignorant, drunken, worthless vagabonds, who are not fit to live in any country, and who, if I had my way, I would have lashed out of the United States, to feed the gibbets, and people the gaols in their own land. Here they come in shoals, they are naturalised, and they become American citizens, and they rule everywhere. No respectable educated man need put up for Congress in the United States, the Germans, Irish, and other foreigners will have none but blackguards like themselves. The real, true Americans, men of education and property, seeing this state of things, leave public affairs to take their course, and attend only to their own private concerns. It is better, however, in the South. But mark me, this will and must come to an end before many years pass over. The Southern States will not for ever consent to be governed by the sweepings of the gaols, and the scum of foreign countries. We have got a will of our own, and we’ll show it some day.”
“Do you know,” I said, “General Marsden, who is staying in this hotel?”
“No, I don’t know him, but I have heard of him. He is a pettifogging lawyer, and parades his title of general wherever he goes. A general! 1 should like no better sport than, with a hundred stout Americana—real Southern Americans to the