The occupants of our cabin are two Yankee sailors returning from China, three Englishmen, four Irishmen, four Frenchmen, one of whom is an ex-chasseur d'Afrique on his way to the gold diggings, and the other three bound with their ``patron," in the first-class cabin, for the Far West.  Besides these there are two Germans, a Polish priest on his way to Mexico, a Spaniard, two Swedes, and a Dutchman.  They all seem to be good specimens of their various nationalities, as well in their  physique as in their habits--the French Brobdingnag beneath me being, of course, excepted.  He might have answered for an Englishman.

The Yankees are chewing and talking politics.  The Englishmen are walking backward and forward in the corridor.  The Frenchmen are playing cards and chattering gayly the while.  The Germans are lying in bed smoking.  Of course the Spaniard is sleeping; while the Swede is reading the history of Charles the Twelfth, and the Dutchman cleaning his tin plates.

Suddenly the Frenchmen become more earnest in their tones.  The ``patron," from the first-class cabin, and the chasseur d'Afrique especially are becoming quite excited.  Some difference of opinion has arisen respecting the game.  The chasseur asserts vehemently that he has won the stakes--a half-franc piece--while the ``patron" protests he has not.  The chasseur appeals to the other Frenchmen, and demands from them a fair verdict.  These latter evidently think the chasseur has fairly won the stakes; but then the other is their ``patron," and they consequently decline to express an opinion.  This rouses the chasseu's indignation.  From assertions he rises to invectives, from invectives to denunciations, and from denunciations to threats, till at last a perfect story of eloquent indignation bursts from his troubled breast.

``You will pay me here, or you will pay me in New York!"  he exclaims from time to time, with a significant gesture which seems to forebode pistols for two and coffee for one; and then at intervals, with a curl of inexpressible contempt on his lips, he grinds between his teeth, ``Sacre nom de Dieu! Pur une miseralbe piece de cinq sous!"

During all this time the Dutchman, having ceased cleaning his tins, has been looking upon the exciting scene in comic wonderment.  He is confounded at such an energetic display of language as that which gushes in torrents from the lips of the chasseur.  The Irishmen do not understand a word of the dispute, but they know instinctively that there is a row on the carpet, and they move uneasily about while their hands grasp nervously at imaginary shillalahs as though they were eager for the fray.  The Englishmen and Americans also know that the Frenchmen are quarreling about something, but can not conceive it possible for men to talk so long without coming to blows.  They do not understand French nature, and are consequently somewhat amazed, not to say disgusted, when before many minutes have elapsed they see the storm blown over as suddenly as it rose, and the late antagonists bowing and smiling a l'aimable.

``A thousand pardons, Monsieur!"  exclaims the chasseur; ``I am in despair at having been so rude to Monsieur."

``My dear friend," replies the ``patron," ``you do yourself wrong, and I shall never forgive myself, my excellent--"

``Let us forget, let us forget, embrassons!"

And embrace they do to the intense surprise of the Dutchman, and finally the patron sends for half-a-dozen bottles of biere anglaise, and so the dispute terminates.

Not so happily is the difficulty of one of the Irishmen arranged.  Since the day of sailing he has managed to sustain his spirits by the aid of a big bottle of whisky; but he has been too generous in distributing it to his friends, of whom he counts nineteen in the cabin.  The consequence is, that the whisky has at length become exhausted, and Pat's natural and factitious spirits vanish at one and the same time.  The American can talk, chew, and read, the Englishman can walk about the Frenchman can play cards, the Spaniard can sleep; but the unfortunate Irishman--what is he to do?  Now that  his whisky is done he has nothing to fall back upon.  He would willingly extemporize a small Donnybrook and have a free fight, but no one seems inclined that way, not even his countrymen.  No one will tread on the tails of his coat.  He becomes quite gloomy and low-spirited, and is just about to take to his bed, when, in sheer desperation, he makes a vigorous onslaught on the taller of the two Yankees.  The too pugnacious Irishman is, however, soon overpowered by the object of his attack, and after being nearly throttled in the encounter is delivered into the hands of the Philistines --the steward and his boys--who very unceremoniously drag Pat from the scene of his exploits.  Where they take him to I can not say; suffice it that we saw no more of him till the following day, when he reappeared in the cabin a wiser and a sadder man.

We have now been twelve days at sea, and the time begins to hang heavy on our hands, and we are looking impatiently for land.  The time drags along.  The chief events of the day are breakfast, dinner, and supper--events which the Frenchmen, at least, do not forget to celebrate.  The Shadow beneath me appears to have the appetite of an elephant.  He rarely leaves his bunk, his too solid flesh rendering it difficult for him to do so.  There he lies, firmly wedged in his bunk.  No sooner, however, does the steward make his appearance than from the bunk in question issues a hoarse cry of ``De la soupe! Encore de la soupe!"

``I'm blest if you wouldn't eat Napoleon Bonaparte!"  exclaims the steward, as he replenishes the Shadow's bowl for the fourth or fifth time.

``Oui, oui, Monsieur," replies the other; ``merci bien."