It Is Like A Private House
Compared To A Railway Hotel.
Six of the passengers are invalids,
more or less.
Mr. Porter, over-worked, going home for health to
Ireland; two men, both with delicate chests, and one poor young
fellow from Capetown in a consumption, who, I fear, will not
outlive the voyage. The doctor is very civil, and very kind to the
sick; but I stick to the cook, and am quite greedy over the good
fare, after the atrocious food of the Cape. Said cook is a
Portuguese, a distinguished artist, and a great bird-fancier. One
can wander all over the ship here, instead of being a prisoner on
the poop; and I even have paid my footing on the forecastle. S-
clambers up like a lively youngster. You may fancy what the
weather is, that I have only closed my cabin-window once during
half of a very damp night; but no one else is so airy. The little
goat was as rejoiced to be afloat again as her mistress, and is a
regular pet on board, with the run of the quarter-deck. She still
gives milk - a perfect Amalthaea. The butcher, who has the care of
her, cockers her up with dainties, and she begs biscuit of the
cook. I pay nothing for her fare. M-'s tortoises are in my cabin,
and seem very happy. Poor Mr. Porter is very sick, and so are the
two or three coloured passengers, who won't 'make an effort' at
all.
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