Added to these public divertmientos, there were the sociedads, where the necessary aliment of Mexican existence was in constant operation. This was monté—our usual resort was that of the gran sociedad, conducted by Don Manuel Carbia;—he was a diminutive old Spaniard, very shrewd and intelligent, and among his numerous occupations was that of a proprietor of launches, keeper of an almacen of ship chandlery on the Mole, divers pulperias, billiard-tables, restaurateur, and pawnbroker in general. Señor Carbo, as our beloved Colonel Jacobus called him, was never seen without a cigar between his teeth; it acted as a kind of safety valve to his vital organs, and it was strongly surmised that if he ever discontinued, for an interval of five minutes, he would inevitably choke to death. Seated behind the long green baize-covered table, with his implements of cards and dollars around him, the very chink of the coin lighted up his dark visage, like to a fresh cigar. He merely played for amusement—so he said—and although he amused himself considerably at our expense, yet we had no grounds for just complaint; he played, bueno como caballero—fair and above board,—and if we lost our cash, it was in striving to win his. Once if my memory serves me aright, when mounted on the caballo—the picture of a horse on Spanish cards—I kicked Don Manuel so severely, that his teeth chattered like a pair of castanets—but this did not often occur.
There was another odd character, who kept a casa de bebida, near the Cuartel, where the officers sometimes touched in passing. No one knew what nation claimed him as a subject—he was a fat mottled-visaged Boniface, whom the Mexicans—as they always nick-name every one—had christened the "Golden Toad." The toad played melodiously on the flute, supposed to be a mild restorative to soothe the sorrows consequent upon the unfortunate state of his domestic relations.
The carnival was not carried on with much spirit, nor was Lent regarded with the same pious severity as in other Catholic countries. The Mazatlanese are not a pious people; there were, to be sure, a few processions, and fire-works, accompanied by a wooden piece of artillery, discharging salvos of sugar-plums, with nightly fandangos, but this was all.
Our intercourse and diversions were not restricted to native society, for we also enjoyed a pleasant association with foreign residents. The circle of our own countrymen was limited—the Consul, good Doctor Bevans—who gave us a grand feast on leaving,—and the Anglo-American house of Mott & Talbot. From all of these gentlemen we experienced the utmost civility; but to Mr. Mott and his amiable lady we stand indebted for many and repeated acts of kindness and hospitality, that never can be too gratefully remembered.
Not only in Mazatlan but all over the world, the great firm of "Mynheer and Company" chase the dollars with as keen a scent as the Yankees; and there is not a nook, however remote, where these thriving Germans are not filling their sacks, but still their thirst for gold does not prevent the pleasures of "faderland" from being re-enacted in their far-away homes. There was one jolly Belgian there—a large, handsome, jovial blade, ever on the vivo for fun or punch,—his house, like himself, was lofty and capacious, with a cellar over the way, where one might wish to live until it became dry. And the Hern Hutter, too. Will eye of thine, my pleasant friends, ever glance at this tribute to your virtues? Let us recall those delightful evenings. Old Jack's oysters, and, mein gott! that delicious arrack—when shall we ever taste the like again?—with the piano tinkling, and the rich sonorous voice of portly Hausen chanting the solemn avé purissima until the very paving-stones rattled, and the lovely lips of his pretty wife were held in a painful state of wide-mouthed laughter. Where art thou, O! Hern Hutter! dost remember Piny and Luigi, even until the matins were tolling, when we mounted our steeds—your own the famous piebald charger—and never checked rein, until tumbling in the sparkling surf upon the sands?
Besides these warm-hearted fellows, there was another to whom my heart still yearns, and no time can ever banish the love I bear him. He was the beau-ideal of a John Bull—burly, surly, brave, obstinate, and strong in his likings or dislikings. We met at first, neither in a pleasant mood; I was the aggrieved person, for he permitted me to mistake him for a Mexican, and talk bad Spanish half an hour, when he coolly broke ground in Anglo-Saxon. But time removed first impressions, and in his little cottage by the shore, at his generous board, and in fact in very many ways he loaded me with favors and hospitalities, which I shall always recur to as among my brightest recollections of the past. And truly it is not in great cities, or teeming ports, where merchants are seen to social advantage; it is in out-of-the-way spots—far, far away—when least expected, that the traveller finds warm hearts and firm friends—and none more so than in Mazatlan.
I was a daily guest of Don Guillermo's, at the cottage. Dinner over, and a rubber at whist, I usually strolled about the town—peeped in at the fandangos—perhaps a shy at monté—thence to arrack—music, jolly Hausen, and so home to my quarters. Though a sort of vaut-rien existence, still it was one quite in consonance with my tastes, and since I am not at all competent for a clerkship, if any of my former friends can employ me as a smuggler, or in any other nautical and honest pursuit, I shall be most happy to comply with their terms.
For a short period, these my amusements were unpleasantly interrupted, and came within an ace of being finally closed in eternity. Sitting one night, in a moralizing mood, by my friend, Mr. Mitch, during a pause in conversation, we were startled by the long rolling sound of the drums, beating the alarm from the Cuartel. The sentries shouted from the walls, for the men to get under arms, and snatching up hat and pistols, we rushed out. The night was quite dark, with thick fog; besides, I was nearly blinded from a lighted room; and mistaking the stairs by a few inches, I walked off the piazza—a height of fourteen feet—falling, most fortunately, between three men coming out from below, with fixed bayonets, and escaped being impaled, by a slight wound in the wrist. I was picked up insensible, and my companion thought even burnt brandy would prove unavailing. However, on coming to, and being duly jerked about the legs and arms, no bones being fractured, I was found whole, with the exception of some severe contusions in legs, back and head. After all the row, the generale was only beaten by way of precaution. For some days I was confined to my cot, without being able to move, consoled, however, by lots of agreeable visitors—bottles of liniment—good cigars—alleviated by the sympathies of an admirable young nurse. There I was, reposing "in ordinary," swinging backwards and forwards. From one window I could see green plains and lagoons stretching away to the distant hills; and from the balconies, long strings of mules, with their cargoes, and could hear the shrill whistles and cries of the arrieros, urging the perverse brutes in either direction. The borders, too, of the lagoons were dotted with groups of women and children washing; and whenever I took a too long glance through the telescope, at some brown half nude figure, I was sure to attract the attention of my black-eyed nurse, who cunningly would place her finger before the lens. I always chose the mornings to study or write, when the clear, cool sea-breeze was beginning to fan the polished surface of the water, as the swell rolled rippling on in gentle undulations towards the beach—while swarms of pelicans sailed sluggishly along, until sighting their prey, when, with a dart like a flash, they parted the waves in concentric circles around, and rested contentedly on the water, packing away the little fishes in their capacious pouches. Then, if our little house-keeper was docile, and not mimicking the Colonel, for she detested the sight of a book, I would draw the table to my cot, and enjoy an hour's tranquillity. But when, later in the day, the breeze began to roughen the sea into light caps of foam, causing the waves to break heavily upon the shore, then the windows began to struggle and slam, books and papers to whirl across the room, until I was glad to put by everything, and say, amigita canta—sing, my little friend. She would purse up her roguish lips in mimic affectation, and then, in a lively strain, begin some provincial ditty—
"En la Esquina de casa,
Un oficial mi habló."