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A phrenologist would pronounce his head worth a king's ransom.' He abides by his friends through evil as well as good report. Attractive as this portrait may be, it is not so beautiful as his character.
By chance, it is mentioned to this gentleman, to whom we have alluded, that there is a poor boy on board, homeward bound to die. Consumption has marked him out as a victim, and the seal of death is stamped on his white forehead. When our friend first saw him, he was walking slowly through the saloon toward the deck. The sufferer was very pale, emaciated, and rather shabby in dress; yet bore a respectable appearance. Our friend inquired his history, and learned that his name was Francis from San-Francisco; that his brother had come down with him from the mines, given him all he had to give money to purchase a ticket home in the steerage, and ten dollars in gold. His means did not permit him to accompany the sick brother, and thus they parted; poor Francis hoping to reach his boyhood-home before he should grow worse. Gradually his strength forsook him. Manfully he battled with the 'fell destroyer.' Sad, very sad, grew the poor sufferer's heart, and he began to fear he would die alone, uncared for, in this crowd of human beings. Is there no one to pour consolation in that distressed heart?
Mr. A- (by this name we must designate our friend) saw how fatigued the poor boy seemed, and kindly addressed him ; proposed that he should go with him to his state-room and lie down to rest, where he could enjoy the cool, refreshing breeze. The sufferer looked up in perfect amazement, doubting if he heard aright. As soon, however, as he was conscious that he had found a real friend, he sank like a helpless child, and Mr. A- obtained the services of a young man to watch by the couch at night, and carry him in his arms up-stairs in the morning.
We reach Acapulco at ten o'clock on a beautiful evening, enter the harbor, and anchor to await passengers from the city of Mexico, six hundred miles distant. The harbor is one of the best in the world, protected on all sides by mountains rising almost from the water's edge. We gaze with admiration and wonder on the beautiful landscape before us. The moon shines in this tropical climate as it shines no where else, tinging all with an indescribable golden hue indescribable, not that silvery brightness seen at home.
Yonder lies the city: we hear the distant shouts of the natives, see the glimmer of lights, and soon perceive the small canoes push from the shore. Hurried preparations are made by those who will avail themselves of the opportunity to leave the vessel, and once more step on terra firma. The river is soon dotted with a multitude of small boats. Strange, discordant sounds salute our ears, like the chattering of monkeys and parrots. We are greeted with the salutation ofHombre ! hombre, boat!''How much? ' we ask. 'Hombre, two dime, four dime,' is the reply - two dimes
for each passenger, being the usual rate. We must of course go with the crowd. We descend the ladder, and step into the little boat.
A few minutes bring us to the low sand-beach, and several young natives plunge in to push up our frail bark. We permit the civil boatman to take us up like dainty dolls, and place us on the dry ground.
A novel sight here meets our view. The long ranges of low adobe houses, tile-roofed and weather-stained, with latticed verandahs in front; the long line of booths, exposing for sale fruits of every description-cakes, coffee, and specimens of their handiwork, in shape of cups, curiously carved; the motley group of natives, many-hued and fantastically-attired; all these interest and delight us.
The fair and dark Senoritas have their hair braided in two long locks, that hang down behind, very fancifully decorated with flowers or beads; the fashionable lady wears satin-slippers without stockings. Some of them have the gaudy rebosa' thrown carelessly over the head. 'Saah Senorita, buy?' exclaims a little dark-eyed damsel of seven summers, holding up a tiny white muslin bag. We inquire what it is. She unties the thread, and carefully empties in her dark little palm the most beautiful shells imaginable.
The doors of the queer little houses are all open, as it is a sort of holiday to the inhabitants when a steamer arrives. In all of them you will see the hammock suspended between the front and back entrance, to catch the cool evening-breeze.
TWO MILLIONS. By WILLIAM ALLAN BUTLER. New-York: D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 346 and 348 Broadway.
THE popular author of 'Nothing to Wear' has presented the public an epic of ninety pages in heroic verse, full of trenchant satire upon the follies of the day, and especially those characteristic of New-York society. The metre is more appropriate to the subject than the tripping dactyls of 'Nothing to Wear,' enabling the author to accommodate himself to the grave and the gay, the pathetic and the ludicrous. A genial play of humor and polished invective are alike indispensable to the satirist; and in these qualities no American poet excels Mr. BUTLER, if indeed any one equals him. The hero of the story is a certain magnificent FIRKIN, who rejoiced in the possession of Two Millions, a merchant of renown, whose name was a luminous act of credit, and whose praise was in all the banks. His portrait is drawn in a few burning couplets:
In his principality,
Threw its bright beam across that dark frontier,
You read it in his eye, dull, dark, and stern,
In genial glances, through the open day,
No ties ancestral linked it with the past,
'He had a coat of arms, a very grand one,
To pay his way, he thought he scarce could miss,
Depreciated scrip of sham gentility;
'His creed was simple as a creed could be,
Forsaken, nor his children begging bread,
'It was his boast, he never lost a penny, And the old boy, the brokers would repeat, Was quite the keenest shaver in the street.
Thus active practice kept his faith alive,
'And yet, he seemed devout: without much search,
gorgeous coachman, somewhat flushed with sherry,
'His politics took on the Neutral tints,
A safe complexion for a Merchant Prince,
FIRKIN was childless. His wife drooped and died; but before her death, had adopted an orphan child, whom the Millionaire determined in good time to marry to some Bank-Director:
'SHE was a fair New-England maiden, born,
Not where broad fields of yellow wheat and corn