“I will tell you a little tale of a camel,” he said, “if you will allow me—a camel greatly overladen who lamented his sad fate. ‘I am bent to the earth,’ he said; ‘everything is heaped upon me and I feel as if I could never rise again under such a load.’ Upon his pack was seated a flea, who heard the lament of the camel. Immediately the flea jumped to the ground. ‘See!’ he said; ‘now rise, I have relieved you of my own weight.’ ‘Thank you, Mr. Elephant,’ said the camel, as he glanced at the flea hopping away. The recognition of these islands would help Cuba about as much,” he added laughingly.
But the President of Haiti, concerning whom much more might be quoted, is less a part of the present picture than Thomas Bailey Aldrich, of whom Mrs. Fields wrote, February 21:—
T. B. A.’s wit and pleasant company never fail—he is so natural, finding fault at times, without being a fault-finder, and being crusty like another human creature when out of sorts—but on the whole a most refreshing companion, coming up from below every morning with a shining countenance, his hair curling like a boy’s, and ready for a new day. He said yesterday that he should like to live 450 years—“shouldn’t you?” “No,” I said; “I am on tip-toe for the flight.” “Ah,” he said with a visible shudder, “we know nothing about it! Oddly enough, I have strange impressions of having lived before—once in London especially—not at St. Paul’s, or Pall Mall, or in any of the great places where I might have been deceived by previous imaginations,—not at all,—but among some old streets where I had never been before and where I had no associations.” He would have gone on in this vein and would have drawn me into giving some reasons for my faith which would have been none to him, but fortunately we were interrupted. He is full of quips and cranks in talk—is a worshipper of the English language and a good student of Murray’s Grammar, in which he faithfully believes. His own training in it he values as much as anything which ever came to him. He picks up the unfortunates, of which I am chief, who say “people” meaning “persons,” who say “at length” for “at last,” and who use foolish redundancies, but I cannot seem to record his fun. He began to joke Bridget early in the voyage about the necessity of being tattooed when she arrived at the Windward Islands, like the rest of the crew! Fancying that he saw a sort of half idea that he was in earnest, he kept it up and told her that the butter-mark of Ponkapog should be the device! The matter had nearly blown over when yesterday he wanted her suddenly and called, “Bridget,” at the gangway rather sharply. “Here, sir,” said the dear creature running quickly to mount the stairs. “The tattoo-man is here,” said T. B. With all seriousness Bridget paused a moment, wavered, looked again, and then came on laughing to do what he really wanted. “That man will be the death of me—so he will,” said B. as she went away on her errand. She is his slave; gets his clothes and waits upon him every moment; but his fun and sweetness with her “_désennuie de service_,” and more, charges it with pleasantness.