Supper was served in the inner room opening from the corridor lit by a few swinging lanterns of polished horn and a dozen wax candles of sacerdotal size and suggestion. The apartment, though spacious¹, was low and crypt-like, and was not relieved by the two deep oven-like hearths² that warmed it without the play of firelight. But when the company had assembled it was evident that the velvet³ jackets, gold lace, silver buttons, and red sashes of the entertainers not only lost their tawdry and theatrical⁴ appearance in the half decorous and thoughtful gloom, but actually seemed more in harmony with it than the modern dresses of the guests. It was the Excelsior party who looked strange and bizarre in these surroundings; to the sensitive fancy of Miss Keene, Mrs. Brimmer's Parisian toilet had an air of provincial⁵ assumption; her own pretty Zouave jacket and black silk skirt horrified⁶ her with its apparent ostentatious eccentricity⁷; and Mrs. Markham and Miss Chubb seemed dowdy⁸ and overdressed beside the satin mantillas and black lace of the Senoritas. Nor were the gentlemen less outres: the stiff correctness of Mr. Banks, and the lighter⁹ foppishness of Winslow and Crosby, not to mention Senor Perkins' more pronounced unconventionality, appeared as burlesques¹⁰ of their own characters in a play. The crowning contrast was reached by Captain Bunker, who, in accordance with the habits of the mercantile marine¹² of that period when in port, wore a shore-going suit of black broadcloth, with a tall hat, high shirt collar, and diamond pin. Seated next to the Commander, it was no longer Don Miguel who looked old-fashioned, it was Captain Bunker who appeared impossible.  
Nevertheless, as the meal progressed, lightened by a sweet native wine made from the Mission grape, and stimulated¹³ by champagne—a present of Captain Bunker from the cabin lockers¹⁴ of the Excelsior—this contrast, and much of the restraint that it occasioned, seemed to melt away. The passengers became talkative; the Commander and his friends unbent, and grew sympathetic and inquiring. The temptation to recite the news of the last half century, and to recount the wonderful strides of civilization in that time, was too great to be resisted by the Excelsior party. That some of them—notwithstanding the caution of Senor Perkins—approached dangerously near the subject of the late war between the United States and Mexico, of which Todos Santos was supposed to be still ignorant, or that Crosby in particular seized upon this opportunity for humorous exaggeration, may be readily imagined. But as the translation of the humorist's speech, as well as the indiscretions of his companions, were left to the Senor, in Spanish, and to Mrs. Brimmer and Miss Keene, in French, any imminent¹⁶ danger to the harmony of the evening was averted¹⁷. Don Ramon Ramirez, the Alcalde, a youngish man of evident distinction, sat next to Miss Keene, and monopolized¹⁸ her conversation with a certain curiosity that was both grave and childish in its frank trustfulness. Some of his questions were so simple and incompatible¹⁹ with his apparent intelligence that she unconsciously lowered her voice in answering them, in dread²⁰ of the ridicule²¹ of her companions. She could not resist the impression, which repeatedly obtruded²² upon her imagination, that the entire population of Todos Santos were a party of lost children, forgotten by their parents, and grown to man and womanhood in utter ignorance of the world.
 
The Commander had, half informally, drunk the health of Captain Bunker, without rising from his seat, when, to Miss Keene's alarm, Captain Bunker staggered to his feet. He had been drinking freely, as usual; but he was bent¹⁵ on indulging a loquacity²³ which his discipline on shipboard had hitherto precluded²⁴, and which had, perhaps, strengthened his solitary²⁵ habit. His speech was voluble and incoherent, complimentary²⁶ and tactless, kindly²⁷ and aggressive, courteous²⁸ and dogmatic. It was left to Senor Perkins to translate it to the eye and ear of his host without incongruity²⁹ or offense³⁰. This he did so admirably as to elicit³¹ not only the applause of the foreigners who did not understand English, but of his own countrymen who did not understand Spanish.
 
"I feel," said Senor Perkins, in graceful³² peroration³³, "that I have done poor justice to the eloquence³⁴ of this gallant³⁵ sailor. My unhappy translation cannot offer you that voice, at times trembling with generous emotion, and again inaudible from excessive modesty³⁶ in the presence of this illustrious assembly—those limbs that waver and bend under the undulations of the chivalrous³⁷ sentiment which carries him away as if he were still on that powerful element he daily battles with and conquers."
 
But when coffee and sweets were reached, the crowning triumph of Senor Perkins' oratory³⁸ was achieved. After an impassioned burst of enthusiasm towards his hosts in their own tongue, he turned towards his own party with bland³⁹ felicity.
 
"And how is it with us, dear friends? We find ourselves not in the port we were seeking; not in the goal of our ambition, the haven⁴⁰ of our hopes; but on the shores of the decaying past. 'Ever drifting' on one of those—
 
                       'Shifting
     Currents of the restless main,'
if our fascinating friend Mrs. Brimmer will permit us to use the words of her accomplished⁴¹ fellow-townsman, H. W. Longfellow, of Boston—we find ourselves borne not to the busy hum and clatter⁴² of modern progress, but to the soft cadences⁴³ of a dying crusade, and the hush⁴⁴ of ecclesiastical repose⁴⁵. In place of the busy marts of commerce and the towering chimneys of labor⁴⁶, we have the ruined embattlements of a warlike age, and the crumbling⁴⁷ church of an ancient Mission. Towards the close of an eventful voyage, during which we have been guided by the skillful hand and watchful⁴⁸ eye of that gallant navigator Captain Bunker, we have turned aside from our onward⁴⁹ course of progress to look back for a moment upon the faded footprints of those who have so long preceded us, who have lived according to their lights, and whose record is now before us. As I have just stated, our journey is near its end, and we may, in some sense, look upon this occasion, with its sumptuous⁵⁰ entertainment, and its goodly company of gallant men and fair women, as a parting banquet. Our voyage has been a successful one. I do not now especially speak of the daring speculations⁵¹ of the distinguished⁵² husband of a beautiful lady whose delightful⁵³ society is known to us all—need I say I refer to Quincy Brimmer, Esq., of Boston" (loud applause)—"whose successful fulfillment of a contract with the Peruvian Government, and the landing of munitions⁵⁴ of war at Callao, has checked the uprising of the Quinquinambo insurgents⁵⁵? I do not refer especially to our keen-sighted business friend Mr. Banks" (applause), "who, by buying up all the flour in Callao, and shipping⁵⁶ it to California, has virtually starved into submission⁵⁷ the revolutionary party of Ariquipa—I do not refer to these admirable illustrations of the relations of commerce and politics, for this, my friends—this is history, and beyond my feeble praise. Let me rather speak of the social and literary triumphs of our little community, of our floating Arcadia—may I say Olympus? Where shall we find another Minerva like Mrs. Markham, another Thalia like Miss Chubb, another Juno like Mrs. Brimmer, worthy⁵⁸ of the Jove-like Quincy Brimmer; another Queen of Love and Beauty like—like"—continued the gallant Senor, with an effective oratorical⁵⁹ pause, and a profound obeisance⁶⁰ to Miss Keene, "like one whose mantling⁶¹ maiden⁶² blushes forbid me to name?" (Prolonged applause.) "Where shall we find more worthy mortals to worship them than our young friends, the handsome Brace⁶³, the energetic Winslow, the humorous Crosby? When we look back upon our concerts and plays, our minstrel entertainments, with the incomparable performances of our friend Crosby as Brother Bones; our recitations, to which the genius of Mrs. M'Corkle, of Peoria, Illinois, has lent her charm and her manuscript" (a burlesque¹¹ start of terror from Crosby), "I am forcibly impelled⁶⁴ to quote the impassioned words from that gifted woman,—
 
     'When idly Life's barque on the billows of Time,
       Drifts hither and yon by eternity's sea;
     On the swift feet of verse and the pinions⁶⁵ of rhyme
       My thoughts, Ulricardo, fly ever to thee!'"
"Who's Ulricardo?" interrupted Crosby, with assumed eagerness, followed by a "hush!" from the ladies.
 
"Perhaps I should have anticipated our friend's humorous question," said Senor Perkins, with unassailable good-humor. "Ulricardo, though not my own name, is a poetical⁶⁶ substitute for it, and a mere⁶⁷ figure of apostrophe. The poem is personal to myself," he continued, with a slight increase of color in his smooth cheek which did not escape the attention of the ladies,—"purely as an exigency⁶⁸ of verse, and that the inspired authoress might more easily express herself to a friend. My acquaintance with Mrs. M'Corkle has been only epistolary. Pardon this digression, my friends, but an allusion⁷⁰ to the muse⁷¹ of poetry did not seem to me to be inconsistent with our gathering⁷² here. Let me briefly⁷³ conclude by saying that the occasion is a happy and memorable⁷⁴ one; I think I echo the sentiment of all present when I add that it is one which will not be easily forgotten by either the grateful guests, whose feelings I have tried to express, or the chivalrous hosts, whose kindness I have already so feebly translated."
 
In the applause that followed, and the clicking of glasses, Senor Perkins slipped away. He mingled⁷⁵ a moment with some of the other guests who had already

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