LIBRARY University of California. Class f!.i^ifeJriirUii^iifeiMiityiiiii ^ i 'ir^-^^w^v^m^'^Wf^^'^^ ® _ (POf-^^ Rather at Sea, COLLECTED UNIFORM ILLUSTRATED EDITION Of F. C. BURNAND'S WRITINGS. J^AT It ^R ^1 5^A-»- By F. C. BURNAND AOTHOR or •'HAPI-V THOICHTS," -VERY MICH ABROAD,- ETC. IKustrutions from " '^uncb,' LONDON BRADBURY, AGXEW, .■ CO. L... BOUVERIE STREET 1890 Lo^-Do^ : ERA&BURY, AGNFW, (J: CO. LIMD., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAR*. CONTENTS, ON BOARP THE -AMAKINTHA A SHORT HOLIDAY rRUlSE . ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE . MY HEALTH 229685 ^7^ ^ 9><; PAGE 1 47 97 > > ■>■> F^ATjHER /cT SEA ON BOARD THE "AMARINTHA'.' A Short Holiday Log. CHAPTER I. STRANRAER — THE " AMARIXTHA ON BOARD- A BOTTLE " THE BATH. CRACKING may be. CuUins does not profess to be a ^OWNtoStran- aer — (can't master this name, but my friend Cul- lins the Composer does) — by night- train from Euston. Long journey. No refreshments en route. Happij Thmight. — Got 'em with us. Morning. — Forced gaiety. Dismal fail- ure. Bad prepara- tion for a voyage, as a journey like this must upset any- one, no matter how- good a sailor he good sailor, and the • • .'sr.::*': >;'...••: :,,;22*lT^^i2 at sea. nearer we approach the sea the worse sailor he acknowledges himself to be. I comfort him — and myself — with the assurance that everything — or, as a saving clause " nearly everything " — depends on your state of health at starting. Arrived. Hailsher and crew in view on the landing-place. Wind decidedly fresh. Sea decidedly not smooth. Small boat — the dingy — (why "dingy"?) — takes the luggage aboard, and we embark in the gig — (again, why " gig " ? Must get a nautical phrase-book, not to leani the terms, with which I am partly acquainted, but to learn their origin) — the crew have ^^ Ama- rintlia'" on their jerseys — consequently, the name of Hailsher's (our host's) yacht is Amarintha. She is a handsome schooner of 150 tons. Note. — Xever have yet had it clearly explained to me why yachts are weighed, like coals, by the ton. Xow is my time to have it clearly explained. No ; on second thoughts, noio is not my time, as Hailsher, the only person of whom I could ask the question, is intent on steering — being very short-sighted, he is earnestly intent on his steering — and of course I can't ask the men who are rowing, reserve my question for a time when Hailsher is not, so to speak, " the man at the wheel." I wish he would j^ut up his glasses — even one eye-glass would be better than nothing — as, in a crowded thoroughfare, I mean where there are lots of small boats, and yachts, and fishing-smacks either rowing about or waggling at anchor, it does not convey to the passenger a feeling of absolute security to hear your steercr say, " Hullo ! we were nearly into that thing, whatcA^er it was. I didn't see her,*" or " Hullo ! we just shaved that cutter's bows ! "' or watch the anxious expression of the weather-beaten stroke, evidently an experienced old salt, as he says to our host, " Helm down. Sir ! " — then, as we nearly nni into a herring-boat, in con- sequence of his not being quite clear as to its meaning — "Xo, Sir, t'other rope ! " Whereupon Hailsher (who is the politest man in the w^orld, and who is always the same, no matter what society he may be in) apologises, and replies, with truth, that " he had always thought ' helm down ' meant something quite different," and that on this belief he had acted. " Starboard I " says the stroke, and immediately afterwards Hailsher again apologises to THE ''AMAEIXTHA:' 3 the crevr genemllvj for having taken them in exactly the contraiy direction. After escaping three collisions, I can't help, though it's my first visit, and I am a comparative stranger, certainly knowing less about nautical matters than Hailsher, — yet I can't help saying, "My dear fellow ! " this persuasively, so as not to give offence to the politest man in the world ; " my dear fellow, why don't you put on your glasses ? " And then add, encouraging him with a possible example, " / should, if I were you ! " But, staring straight ahead of him, with an evident intensity of purpose that speaks volumes fior his will to do the right thing, he replies, " Ah ! I can"t see so well with my glasses," which is an explanation. At last we draw near the Amarintha. A tall man, chiefly in flannels, and with a decidedly un-nautical hat — (by the wa}-, Hailsher is the only really correctly nautically-attired of the party — and, to any one unaccustomed to naval costume, he might be anything from an admiral in undress to an elderly midshipman. X.B. — Are there elderly midshipmen ? or are they really mis- called, and remain only boys, midship boys, but " men " by courtesy ?) — is shooting on board. Is he near-sighted too ? Because he doesn't seem to see us approaching, but continues shooting until the nautical men, whom I subsequently find are the Captain and the Mate, come up to him, and I suppose point out to him the danger of shooting at a boat approaching with people in it. What is he shooting at ? It suddenly occurs to me that to-day is August 12th, the festival of St. Grouse, in the Xorth, and we are in Scotland— that is, off the coast of Scotland. Still, grouse don't fly over the sea like gulls, and I don't as yet observe anything flying away from him, or tumbling dead into the water. We find that he is shooting at a bottle in the sea, and I point out to him before being introduced, that he should never fire at a bottle in the sea, as, in case of hitting it, which in his particular case seems a remote chance, it might contain despatches of importance, or letters from shipwrecked mariners, or perhaps worse, fatally-lost mariners, who at the last moment have found time and opportunity to write letters home to their fi-iends, and then got a bottle to post them to the nearest shore. 4 BATHER AT SEA. The shooter, affably and with the utmost good-humour, explains that he has himself chucked the bottle in, and he adds, with a hearty laugh — I have seldom heard so hearty a laugh at the best joke ever made — that he intends to "crack a bottle or two before breakfast." At this, having, I feel, rather interfered where I had no sort of business to say anything, I also go into a hearty laugh — a friendly, peace-making laugh — and so does Hailsher, who, I fancy, has been a little nervous at my venturing on giving the shooter a lecture before being introduced to him. Cullins the Composer also laughs, but not loudly nor heartily, nor, as it seems to me, intelligently. Indeed, I am sure, were I to ask Cullins, in the words of a well-known song, " At what is the old man laughing ? " he would be unable to give a satisfactory account of it. Already the sea seems to have affected him. He tells us that he will be all right " after a wash ; " from which we conclude that he is all wrong before it — that is, at the present moment. It turns out that, years ago, I have had the pleasure of being introduced to the tall shooter. He is a Dean of a College, and if build goes for anything, he is both a High and Broad Churchman, being at least six-feet-two in height, and of proportionate breadth and stoutness. "We shake hands heartily, as if we'd been sepa- rated by a cruel fate for years, and had at last come together in spite of all difficulties. "We are so glad to meet one another, it is perfectly delightful to witness. Our host asks us if we (Cullins and myself) wouldn't like to go below, and take a bath before breakfast. Hajyj^l/ Thought. — Bath. Accepted with thanks. We descend "the companion," which Cullins, who seems depressed, insists on speaking of as " the stairs." I am rather proud of calling things by their right names on board the Amarintha. I don't know many things, but those I do I take every opportunity of speaking about. I recognise "the rattlins," the " shrouds," the "sheets,' the "main sheet," — but am a little uncertain as to the boom- spanker, or the boom-spinnaker, or the spinnaker-boom — not being quite clear how to pronounce them, and being utterly vague as to the spelling, if required. Delightful yacht ! Cullins and myself are to share the same cabin. Hailsher announces this to us in his politest and kindest THE ''AMAUINTHAr 5 manner, so as to anticipate and do away with any sort of objec- tion on our part to one another's company. We express our immense delight at the arrangement, and eye one another askance as the first thought occurs to each of us, " Does the other one snore ? " " I think you'll be good stable-companions," says Hailsher, in the pleasantest possible manner, as he retires and leaves us to the Steward, only popping his head in again to observe that breakfast will be ready in half-an hour. Now for the bath. The Steward raises a trap-door in the floor — ^just like discovering a hidden treasure, or giving a hunted-down man in a melodrama the means of escape by a secret way leading down to the caves on the shore — and shows us something unpleasantly suggestive of a sort of amateur cofhn on board, and which he points out to us with pride as ''The Bath!'' RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER II. MELODRAilATIC CHATS BATH-TIME SUGGESTIONS TIED FOR SHORE. ^HE Bath in the cabin-floor. I take it in a sort of nervous, hasty ^vaY, not liking to lie down in it -vvithout, at all events, holding on to the sides, having a sort of nervous dread of the bottom suddenly- coming out, and dropping me into the sea. Then what would happen 1 I couldn't call " Steward ! '' There's no bell, mv shrieks would be stifled, and before anyone had time to ask, " Where is he ? "Why doesn't he come to break- fast ? " the water, which I be- lieve has a knack of always rising to its own level, would rush up, and, in fact, there'd be an end of the yacht — she'd idea of the Bath in the floor, in a Melodrama — Drury Lane. The cabin Drury Lane disapj)ear — scuttled. That's one Then there's another for a Sensation Scene something for Messrs. Merritt and Harris at stage could represent the cabin — (beautiful stage would make !) — trap-door in Centre — villain, disguised as Steward, turns on the tap of sea-water, and allures Victim into ]3ath — music 2^i<^^iisshno and tremolo as Victim descends — Steward shuts down the lid quickly, drags portmanteau over it, and stands on it, breathing heavily, when suddenly he starts, for through the skylight above he perceives the eye of the Mate on him ! ! Aha ! the Mate's silence must be bought ! But at what price ? I don't exactly know why the Steward should treat the Victim in this THE ''AMAEIXTHA" 7 manner ; but this is a detail which I can consider while I"m brushing my hair, and so get round to the beginning of the plot. The Victim must of course escape — but how ? Undercun-ents could wash him rapidly out to sea, one undercurrent bringing him up for breath, and another taking him miles away from shore — and Yes, that's it Just as I've got to this point, Cullins the Composer looks in, to remind me that he has to share the cabin, and the sooner I clear out the better. " In five minutes you shall have it all to your- self," is my ready reply. I generally make it " five minutes," It is like five shillings, a tangible sum, and it has the advantage over five shillings, as it must be taken colloquially to mean any time up to half an hour — at least, that's my idea of " five minutes." It's a pleasant way of getting over a difficulty, and inspires the other party with hopefulness. A man writes to say " he wants five minutes' chat with you." It reads nicely and lightly : it really means at least an hour's earnest conversation on matters involving the interests of a life-time, probably destroys a whole day, and knocks every other previously made aiTangement out of time. Give a man five minutes' chat and he'll take an hours conversation. " Five minutes " has an exact, well-calculated and business-like sound. In this particular instance — there are my bags to unpack, the things to be put into the lockers, the dressing things (mine) to be arranged, so as to secure places (as it were) before the nish of Cullins into the cabin, when he will find all the best seats gone. I take for granted that he won't attempt to re-arrange everything on Ins plan. In order to avoid this sort of Box and Cox life in a cabin, we shall have to fix some clear and definite line of demar- cation. He looks in again. He observes, somewhat crustily, " It's ten minutes since he was last there." I can only reply with an air of astonishment, "Is it, indeed?" adding in my most soothing and pleasant manner, " WeU, old fellow, I shan't be five minutes more." He gi'owls out something about breakfast being just ready and they won't wait, from which I infer that with these precautionary measui'es of mine / shall be in time for that meal and he won't. I comfort myself with the reflection that Cullins is a quick dresser 8 RATHE II AT SEA. (1 don't know that he is), and that perhaps after all this is only a ruse on his part to get me out. If it is a ruse, I can give myself an extra five minutes just to teach him (as we are going to be cabin'd and cribb'd together for the next ten days) that he must always deal with me straightforwardly and truthfully. At last he, so to speak, bursts into the room. The smell of the coffee and the ham and eggs has excited him beyond measure ; he scents the breakfast afar off, and won't wait any longer. He is almost violent. He is, he says, "ravenous." So am I, I tell him, in a tone of reproval, intended to convey that, though ravenous, I can still be courteous. " Yes," he says, brusquely, " but you're dressed and all ready. I'm not. At least," he corrects himself, " I'm ready as far as appetite goes, but " " Rough as far as manners go," I suggest. " Oh, you be bio wed ! Do get out," he exclaims. And I do get out, for I remember that he is to be, as Hailshei puts it, " my stable companion " for ten days, and it won't do to begin with a row. I've known Cullins the Composer for years — out of a cabin, but have never yet had any experience of him in one. " Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast" — but it doesn't seem to have had its usual magic effect on Cullins. Odd. Perhaps it's the sea-air that's bringing it out of him, or the combined effects of the sea-air, hunger, a long and restless journey from town, and disap- pointment at not having a cabin all to himself. I ascend " the companion," leaving my " stable companion " in the cabin. Though we are moored stern and stem, yet there is an undu- lating motion, and the sea — (is it the sea ? — I am not quite sure, as we're in full view of the town and pier, and land on each side of us for miles) — and the sea — (or whatever it is — it's salt, I know that from the Bath) — is decidedly rough — in fact, very rough. There is a stiffiish breeze. There are several other yachts in che bay. Is it a " bay " ? It looks like it. By the way, where are we ? Scotland. Yes, I'm aware of that fact ; also, we are off Stranraer. But what is this bay called? Oh, we are in Loch Ryan. (Not a bay — wrong again.) " Ryan " is decidedly an Irish name. "Yes," the Dean explains in his jovial manner, THE ''AMAEIXTHA." 9 *' there are lots of Irish in Stranraer — it's the nearest point for the Irish coast," and then he takes up his rook-shooter, and has another pop at a bottle floating in the water, and tied by a string to the stera. " Capital practice," he says. Hailsher, our host, quietly remarks that it must be excellent practice, and that the Dean evidently wants a lot of it, but that for his own part he has a nervous horror of fire-arms ; that is, he hastens to add with the utmost politeness, " when in the hands of inexperienced people." That, the Dean observes, does not of coiu-se apply to hirn. " Xot in the least," Hailsher returns, io his most insinuating manner. "I mean persons not accustomed to handle fire-arms, and I really don't think you ever have yours out of your hand." " Ha ! ha ! " laughs the Dean, — he is evidently out for a jolly holiday, and prepared to laugh at anything heartily, and pops again at the bobbing bottle, while Hailsher gives a slight but perceptible shudder. " Breakfast is ready, Sir ! " says the Steward. We descend. The Dean disappears into his own cabin for a few seconds, and returns in, apparently, an entire change of costume. He is no longer the nautical sportsman, but the country gentleman in very easy circumstances. I have never seen such a rapid act of change of costume out of a " variety entertainment." The Com- poser arrives late : he is clean, but churlish, having cut himself severely while trying to shave. He remarks severely on the movement of the vessel. Hapfjy Tliovgld {for the Composer). — Movement in C. Hailsher says, quietly, "Oh, you'll soon get over that. It's nothing." I repeat, '•' Oh, nothing at all !" — but I have my doubts. As the Composer warms to his work, or is warmed to his work by the stimulating tea and coffee, breakfast is a veiy cheery meal. "I shaU make a thorough good breakfast now," says the Composer, taking his third helping of pigeon-pie : "as, if it's rough " [I agree with him, but am silent. I wish he wouldn't talk like this. AVhy not avoid such a subject ? Far better taste not to 10 BATHER AT SEA. say a word about it ; specially at our first meal on board ship.] " Oh," inten-upts Hailsher, smiling in a reassuring way, " we shan't get out to-day. The Captain says there's too much wind outside." {Happy Thought, to myself— 1)011! t go outside.) " It's not worth while getting a wetting for nothing." " The steamer had to face a nasty head-wind," observes Bolby the Dean. " She could hardly get out." Now, when I hear that we absolutely canH move from our moorings, all the Columbus-like spirit of maritime adventure rises within me. I want at once to weigh anchor — to go off somewhere ■ — to discover new continents — to — to — to do in fact what I've come for, that is to yacht, which, with me, means to sail, to cruise. If I can't sail and cruise, why am I here ? Not to sit in a boat, tied stem and stern, and look at a lot of houses, a pier, and a railway-station ? "Is there no chance of getting away to-day?" I ask, with a show of cheerful contentment. " Not much," replies Hailsher ; " but I propose '" He pauses, and I brighten up, as he has evidently an idea of trying to start, and perhaps, like Vanderdecken, the Flying Dutch- man, he u'ill get round the point of the bay, even though he battle with the waves till doomsday. " Yes," I say, encouragingly, " you are thinking of " " Yes," he continues, in his charming and persuasive manner, as if he were tlioroughly agreeing with my idea and letting me have my way in everything, " yes, I was thinking that we'd have the gig out after breakfost and — go ashore." " Oh yes," I reply, blankly. Bolby wants to go on shore for more cartridges. At which avowed intention Hailsher smiles, and says, " Oh, I dare say you'll be able to get them," and evidently devoutly hopes he won't be able to do anything of the sort. The Composer takes me aside, and murmurs, " I say, I didn't come down to go on shore. I came to go out yachting," He is in a grumbling humour. I point out to him that it is necessary to go on shore sometimes for provisions, papers, kc. " Yes," he says, still grumbling, as if it was all my fault, "but THE ''AMABIXTHA:' 11 I want to find out what sort of a sailor I am and how I shall really like it." I try to agree with him jDleasantlT, remembering that he is to be mv " stable companion " for the next ten days. Name for a novel — "A Life's Trial; or, Tied to a Composer." A letter-writing fit seizes us all, as if we were starting for the Antipodes or on an Arctic expedition and leaving England for years. The gig is ordered. The gig is waiting at (so to speak) the front door. It is manned by four sailors in oilskin coats and overalls and sou'-westers tied over the ears. The gig is bumping up and down, and the yacht suddenly seems to be in motion. "We are having a see-sawing match with the gig. Sometimes the men's heads are on a line with the bulwarks, and the next second they have so entirely disappeared that I look over the side nervously, half expecting to see a man or two cling to the sides of the yacht, and only the oars and rudder and perhaps an extra oilskin floating on the surface. But no, there they are, bobbing up and down — and now for the first time I begin to realise that a summer suit of flannels, in fact, a regular lawn-tennis costume, intended for exercise on a hot August afternoon, is not the thing to come to sea in — at least, ofi" the coast of North Britain. Hailsher puts on a watei'proof. Bolby comes out in another change of costume, includiug an entirely difi'erent sort of hat. "Wlien, subsequently, he returns from shore he comes on deck in another hat, and after lunch he wears one totally diflferent from the other three, while in the evening he again startles us with another novelty on his head. On Sunday perhaps he has a sur- prise in store for us in the shape of a College cap. Why not ? There's a College hornpipe. And what costume could be more appropriate for dancing in than a nautical College cap? At present he is in a stout jersey. He seems to be all Jersey — and a part of Guernsey as well. I try to pretend it's fine weather and very warm, but it won t do ; so, having got on my ulster, a pair of ordinary thick walking boots, and pot-hat, I feel I might as well be on shore, where, in fact, we are going. Gettmg into the "gig" is not easy. Hailsher descends first, 12 BATHER AT SEA. and takes the helm. The Dean goes next, and occupies an entire side. I back down the steps, and put out a leg where I think the boat is — or where it was when I first put out my leg, and where it will be again presently — at least I hope so — and remain iu the attitude of a Flying ^Mercury. " Leave go of the rope, Sir," says the stroke. Oh, yes I — but where will I be then ? And I pause. " Get on ! " says Cullins the Composer above, in a desperate hurry, as if the yacht were on fire, and he were the last to make his escape. " It's all very well to say ' Get on ! ' " I remonstrate, " but " and before I can find a safe place for my foot, I receive a stunning blow on the head from the irritable Composer, who, obstinately descending the ladder, comes bump on to my hat. Nothing so instating as a man recklessly injuring your hat, specially when it's on your head, and it is impossible for me, even before the Dean, to avoid jerking out a " big, big, D," as I fall back, like Chatham, into the arms of the attendants — I mean I fall against the Coxswain, who sturdily supports me, and places me on a seat. • " Couldn't help it," says the Composer, by way of apology ; "you ought to have been quicker." I ani about to retort severely — when I once more remember he is to be my " stable companion "'" for the next ten days, and it's no use having a row with your partner. " Give way ! " cries the stroke. Happy Thought {as regards my conduct towards the Composer). " Give way." I do. We are ofl:' for shore. Big waves. AVind and drizzle. Hailsher the near-sighted, steering, and asking " Which way ] " as he goes along, occasionally inquiring " What's that ? " when we are just into a vessel riding at anchor. Finally, we reach the slippery steps, bow grapples them with his boat-hook, we struggle on to the quay, and Hailsher, as he finds his eye-glass and looks back on to the boat, as if to discover how on earth he had got there at all and what sort of a thing he had come in, observes, with a kind of nervous diflSdence, but still with some complacency, "Oh, I thought the steps were farther down : I didn't see they were here, THE "AMARINTHA. 13 It's a difficult bit, and I am as blind as a bat. However," he adds cheerfully, " here we are I " We all say that nothing could be better, and congratulating him on his successful steering, and ourselves on arriving safely, we proceed to examine the town of Stranraer. CHAPTER III. SHORE — REFLECTIONS — OESERVATIONS — GEOGRAPHICAL — MUSICAL ON BOARD. N SHORE at Stranraer. Feeling like invaders or mission- aries in disguise (very much in disguise), with, however, the conscious- ness that we have a boat within hail to take us away should the inhabitants object to our presence. We agree that Stranraer reminds us all of Ire- land — that is, as we express -it vaguely, it has a decidedly Irish character. On reflec- tion, I fancy this is because we associate shoelessness and hat- Ireland, at least in rith lessness — especially in children pictures, and in a stage crowd. {Inserted aftericards in my log.)— A propos of the above observa- tion, I notice subsequently the peculiar tendency of our party, generally led by the Dean who is a very much travelled man, to pick out all along the coast strikingly picturesque or peculiarly 14 HAT HER AT SEA. beautiful spots, as vividly recalling some totally diflereiit place either in Italy, or Switzerland, or Norway, or Germany, and so forth; so that at last there is absolutely nothing of Scotland itself left worth mentioning. They've seen it all before some- where else. " It's very like Switzerland," says the Dean, " only," he hastens to explain, with the air of a man accustomed to the highest society in the way of mountains, " of course these Scotch * Bens ' are merely mountains in miniature." Happp Tkour/Jit.—" Little Bens." After all, the Biggest Ben isn't in Scotland — it's at Westminster. "Whenever the Dean catches sight of a pointed roof, a promon- tory, or a ruin with a background of fir- wood, he at once exclaims, "Ah! Isn't that like the Jungerwaus (or whatever the name may be that occurs to him at the moment) as one sees it from the Oberwazen Pass, eh ? " The in(iuiry is usually directed to Hailsher, who has once accompanied tlie Dean on a walking-tour — the latter having been, as far as I can make out, generally several miles ahead, and taking giant strides. The Dean says he can't get on without a walk. AVith a walk he can get on — at about six miles an hour. Happy Thougld. — Dean Swift. Hailsher observes, with his usual suavity, that " A walk is the only time when he can't get on with the Dean ; " whereat Bolby, who, as he is taking a good holiday at some one else's expense, is determined to enjoy thoroughly everything said at his own, shakes with laughter, as he recalls with true British satisfaction some wonderful feats he has accomplished at home and abroad. Hailsher sometimes differs from the Dean about the similarity existing between certain places, and points out that what reminds the Dean of Switzerland, reminds liini of Italy, while the Com- poser invariably sticks to Germany and various views in the neighbourhood of Leipsic, v\"ith which nobody else is acquainted. \Miat strikes Cullins above everything else is not the pic- turesque effect of changing light and shade on coast and sea, but that he himself should be there at all, " among," as he saj's with an air of intense perplexity, '• the very names one used a.s a boy to see on the map at school 1 " He can't get over this. THE "AMARINTHA. 15 " What's that place ? " he asks. That's Arran, or Bute, or Colonsay, as the case may be, is the answer. Whereat his asto- nishment is unbounded. " Wh}'," he exclaims in a tone of anno\'- ance, " why that's in the map. I remember it well." He almost seems inclined to quarrel Avith his host for not takino- him to some place which he has not been fomiliarised with on the map in his early childhood. How painfull}- Geography must have been impressed upon him ! Or, has he thought up to now, -when his education is being completed by a yachting trip, that maps were merel}^ the product of a romantic and fertile genius who invented the places and names, and that, in fact, Geography was a myth altogether, merely intended " for the use of schools," but having no practical value in after-life ? After this discovery, "My Berth is noble!" which he makes on our second sailing day, he is thoughtful and subdued for hours. It is as if another boyish allusion of his were dispelled for ever. Ilairpy Thovjjlit. — I propose to the Composer a retrospective geographical song, inspired by the first sight of Arran, Bute, Arc, to be entitled, ''^ Them Mappy Days" This playful suggestion is met crustih^ with " Oh, bosh I " Cullins the Composer, when he has a musical idea which he is working out in his brain, is not a man to be trifled with : only it is difficult to tell, from any outward sign, the exact time when he is working out an idea. When he is peculiarly crusty, and retorts, " Oh, bosh ! " it is pretty «afe to assert that he is in a state of active composition. When he graduallj^, but vacantly, smiles, as if he were seeing angels somewhere .... (Pretty idea this. AVould suggest it to 16 BATHER AT SEA. him, only he's not smiling at the moment, when I'm making this note in my pocket-book) .... he is beginning to unbend, evi- dently dismissing the idea, politely with a bow as it were, asking it to call again when he can bestow more attention on it, — then, he may be spoken to cautiously, yet with safety. From Stranraer we make an excursion to a pretty place, whose name I can't distinctly catch, but which is so much talked about that I feel inclined to christen it Happy Thought. — Loch Jaw. Back to yacht. As, with the exception of the host, none of us have got exactly our o\vn sea-legs on, but each one of us has, so to put it, got somebody else's, which even in this gently undula- ting movement he is not able to control, we seem naturally to take to sofas and siestas before dinner. We have sent telegrams (we have experienced a perfect mania for sending telegrams when on shore), we have procured a Scotsman — invaluable journal to the English tourist — and we have been unable to purchase either tomatoes or vegetable marrows at Stranraer. " We never take such things in this town," replies the Green- grocer, gravely ; and we retire from the shop as if we'd inquired for something which can only be mentioned with anything like propriety in an Act of Parliament for the Preservation of Public Morals. What that Scotch Greengrocer's idea of tomatoes and vegetable marrows was, we failed to make out ; but they were evidently somehow or other things which we ought to have been ashamed of ourselves for venturing to ask for in Stranraer. I never was so crestfallen in any shop, not to mention a Green- grocer's ! Imagine going in, as a perfect stranger, to a Green- grocer's, and asking mildly, " Have you got any tomatoes ? " and then seeing everyone turn away — the girls running precipitatel}' into the back" parlour, the wife fainting, the lady purchasers blushing, and the gentlemen customers frowning, and, on repeat- ing the question timidly, the Greengrocer himself, a stern and severe man, probably an Elder of the Kirk, administers to us the gi'ave and dignified rebuke, " We never take such things in this town ! " We begged his pardon, and sneaked out. We didn't say, "We'll inquire somewhere else" — we only looked at one THE ''A^IAEINTHAr 17 another — Hailsher and myself, Hailsher blushing painfullv, being a man who wouldn't hurt the feelings of a Thug if he could pos- sibly avoid it, and stammering something to the effect that " he didn't know — and only thought " — and so we stumble one over another, abashed and ashamed, into the street. The sooner we are on board the boat the better. X.B. For Xortli Britain generally. — Xever ask for tomatoes and vegetable maiTOws unless you see them in the window. I believe we only narrowly — or marrowly — escaped the violence of a justly, though to us unreasonably, incensed population. Xow I think of it quietly, what could we have said to offend them? Tomato, the Dean suggests, is associated with " Sauce ; " but this is treating the matter too lightly. So we return to the yacht. Won't go on shore again. Make a note to this effect, seconded — harmoniously seconded for once — by the Composer. " We must ask Hailsher to get on and sail — not to stay in the bay." Happy Thought. — Great opportunity I point out to Cullins for a song — " Here ive stay, in the Bay'' — but he says it's been done. I compliment him by saying, "But not as yoi^d do it." He replies to this " Oh, bosh ! " Xote. — Clearly mustn't be fulsome with a Composer ; and then he is going to share my cabin for the next ten days. However, we agree to ask Hailsher :— " Please to sail With the gale From the Bay Where we stay," kc. ; or, " else," says the Composer, ^rumblingly, as we toilette together in our cabin, previous to dinner, " I shall go back." Haijpy Thought {commercial idea).—'' Sail or Return." Com- poser appreciates this, as he once published a song on those terms. He says he never heard of its sale, and he never got any return. Is he a disappointed man ? And does the sea air bring, as it were, the grumblings out of him ? Steward opens door, and says, " Dinner ! " Henceforth I stick to the yacht. « Never go had: to Shore,"^ song for Composer. Also, historic song, " J/^ Pretty Jane Shore I " What a lot of ideas I give him ! He pretends he won't have 'em ; but I think he goes into comers, and notes 'em downi when I'm not looking. c 18 . BATHE B AT SEA. CHAPTER IV. HARBOUR — BUNK — SKIPPER — HISTORY TITLES GAME RHYME SWEETENING PROVERBIAL. ITILL in harbour. Why? Because " the Captain says,'" ttc., Arc. As yet I have not seen the Captain. He is to me, up to this time, a sort of Madame Benoiton, as whenever I say insinuatingly to Hailsher that I jshould like to have a talk to the Captain, Hailsher replies that he hasn't seen him to-day, and the Steward, ^vho is the intermediary between Hailsher and everybody in the foc'sle (this, I believe, is the correct way of spelling and pro- nouncing Forecastle — where the Captain resides Avhen at home, and where he is not to be disturbed by anybody — Happy Tlioiight. — Nautical Proverb : an English Skipper's house is his Fore-castle. N.B. Get up a new edition of Xautical Proverbs, and publish them at every Marine Library in the kingdom) — and the Steward, after o-oing through the very evident farce of disappearing for a few- seconds, and hiding himself behind a door, returns with the answer that the Captain has just gone on shore. I can't make out when he comes back. I never see him come back ; so I presume he must choose an opportune moment, either when we are at dinner or at one of our meals — which are not few and far between — and, as it were, quietly " board '' us, take his rations — [Nautical phrase "rations" — "a sailor is a rational- being." This will go to my Collection of Rough Matet^ial for Nautical Proverbs, to be subsequently worked up under the motto, " Let who Avill make the songs, but let me do their Nautical Proverbs." But the Composer can make the songs — will suggest it to him when he's in a good temper.] — and then quietly slip off THE "AM A EI XT ha: ;.19 ^gain in the "Dingy," — [Name of little boat — why "Dingy?" Origin of nautical terms and phrases would make an Appendix, or as Milburd would say, an Up-on-decks to my Handy Volume of Nautical Proverbs ; only Milburd would spoil the whob thing by calling them " Xaufjhty-gal-Froverhs,'' — I know him — anything senseless as long as it's a jeu de mot] — while we are siesta-ing, and then back again and into his berth or bunk — [Why " Bunk ? " Is it Dutch? "Mynheer van Bunk" — no, that was "Dunk"]— when we are carousing in the saloon, or when we've retired for the night. So that we are governed by an invisible Captain. " A good subject this," I say to Cullins, the Composer, " for yow. Like the Flying Hollander. The ' Invisible Captain,' eh?" "Don't see it," replies Cullins, curtly. Hailsher pleasantly adapts the well-known line from Tke Critic by way of softening down the Composer's asperity, and says, " The Invisible Captain lie cannot see, because he's not yet in sight." Whereat the Dean roai-s heartily, and then looks about the breakfast-table to see what more he can devour, finally settling on everything the Com- poser had thoughtfully selected for his own consumption. But we are tired of doing nothing, lying at anchor in Loch Ryan, while according to the Invisible Captain the stormy winds do blow outside. We begin to feel mutinous. The three guests, after darkly talking the matter over " aft," determine to represent the case to Hailsher, whom the sailors speak of as " the Governor." They call the Captain " the Skipper." [Why " Skipper ? " Sounds like a playful name for a flea. ] Hailsher conceals his annoyance under an appearance of list- lessness. Except the Dean,— who makes believe he is taking c 2 20 RATHER AT SEA. violent exercise by dressing in flannels, walking up and down the deck, then going below, putting on a shooting coat and deer- stalker hat to play at going out shooting, which he does with his rook-rifle at bottles tied to the stern, — we are all becoming depressed, and pining for movement at all hazards. Now, for the first time, I can appreciate the full force of a passage at the opening of some chapter in our National History which (if my school memory serves me right) began — *' The fleet had now been inactive for some months, and both officers and men began to express the very generally felt opinion that they ought to be doing something if they were to attack the enemy at all before the advent of the winter season rendered all operations at sea impossible, or at least, highly dangerous for the ships, and disastrous to the English prestige.'"' That's just our case : specially mine. I want to be off: some- where, anywhere. " Anywhere, anywhere, out of the Loch ! " To be up and doing : something, anything ! And so say all of us. We begin to murmur : we murmur to the Governor in the hope that he will bawl to the Captain, the invisible Captain. " And when the Captain comes for to hear of it" — it is to be hoped he'll give the word to pipe all hands, hoist sails, and put out to sea. Afternoon in Harbour. — Shooting bottles becomes monotonous. The Dean and myself congratulate one another on our excellent aim — and when we succeed in knocking one over, which we do on an average about once in twenty-five times, one of us says to the other with a knowing sportsmanlike air, "Ah, I don't think a rabbit, sitting, would have much chance with us now?" Privately, I don't think he would, if he only sat long enough. [Happy Thought. — AVhat chances an animal painter must have with a rabbit sitting !] AYe both agree, however, that bottle-shooting is " excellent practice," and, as we go on, we tell each other stories arranged oii a gradually ascending scale of thrilling interest, about what we have individually done in the way of rabbits, hares, grouse, and (^ame generally. I never knew till this afternoon, when I am backing myself against the Dean, what a first-rate sportsman I have been up to now, and what a vast experience I suddenly seem to have got. Where does it come from 1 I've only been out THE " A MA B. I XT HA. " 21 really shooting twice in my life, and I can't have clone it all then Yet I am not conscious of absolutely telling untruths : I am per- haps embellishing, and am dividing the twice I went out (which being for tivo days was, say, altogether sixteen hoiu-s' shooting) by eight, so that I can give a varied experience. Wonder if the Dean is doing the same ? I don't think so, because he has got a gun of his own and I haven't. I notice there is one sort of shooting we both avoid mentioning, and that is the only one we're likely to get on our yacht ; i.e., wild fowl, and sea-birds. With this exception we draw the line at Deer ; that is before we come to Deer. Neither of us risk any anecdotes about Deer. The Dean's biggest success on land appears to have been with " Rabbits sitting." Mine I know has been so, with my gun well- rested over a gate, and about five minutes to take steady aim, when such was the destructive character of my shot, that, by the time the smoke had cleared away, nothing was left of the unfor- tunate rabbit but two front teeth, some scattered remains, and a lot of fluffy fur. Of tliis I make no mention to the Dean, but express (what I really feel) my opinion, that " to shoot rabbits sitting is cruelty, or at all events unsportsmanlike." Whereupon the Dean says apologetically, that he has only done it once or twice as a pot-shot with a rifle, but that as a rule he always shoots them running. I say "So do I" — but I mean shoot at them running, which is all the diff'erence — to them. About fifteen bottles fall to an expenditure of three hundred cartridges, and Hailsher, who privately confides to me that his head aches with the perpetually popping, most pleasantly and with great apparent consideration for the Dean's future amuse- ment, advises him to " cease firing," as perhaps he won't be able to get any more cartridges, and he may want them for sea-fowl. Dinner. — Joy ! joy ! the Captain has been seen at last. He has been interviewed by the Governor, and has made up his mind, come what come may, to sail to-morrow morning. We drink his health in a bumper of Pommer\\ Hailsher offers a prize of an extra glass for a rhyme to Pommery. Here it is — One glass of Pommery Makes little Tom merry. 22 BATHER AT SEA. The prize is mine, and once more I drink the Captain's health. "I hope we shan't start till after breakfast," says the Composer, who observes that " he hasn't jet got his sea-legs " — as if he were expecting them to be sent home the first thing to-morrow, so that he may try them on while dressing to see how they fit. ' The Evening. — We pass it hopefully, cheerfully, gleefully. The Composer, who till now has held aloof from the piano with a sort of " don't-know-you " and " never-seen-you-before " sort of air, .now seats himself, gives a few preliminary flourishes, and begins, as I observe, to warble. ""Wobble, not warble, you mean," he says, for the first time pleasantly, " for the notes seem going up and down." '*The piano hasn't got its sea-legs on," says tlie Dean, who is just recovering from a short fit of despondency, consequent on his not having been able to find a rhyme to Pommery. We are all specially polite to the Composer. The reason of this oozes out later. Each one of us has a song he wants to sing (for his own personal and peculiar delectation) and each one of us will be dis- appointed should Cullins refuse to accompany on the piano. Happy Thought — Sweeten the Composer. Keep him sweet. Shades of evening gather round ns as the sounds of harmony ascend from our saloon on board the Amarintha. To-morrow we sail— with the gale, from the Loch of Ryan, oh ! I make the following notes : — Rough Material to be worked up into a new collection of Nautical Proverbs : — "An English Skipper's house is his Fore-castle." " One Skipper doesn't make a " (what ?— word wanted here.) "Cry Hammock and unslip the cords" — {From the Nautical Sliakspeaj^e). "The Early Fish catches the Worm," or "The Early Worm catches the Fish." N.B. Are worms used at sea for bait? If not, substitute whatever is used. A bit of tin is used as bait for Mackerel. So—" The early bit of tin catches, ain,'' — as it will be to him if he's not a good sailor — " Oh, do not ivake me, let me dream again ! " — but he only becomes violent — not much room for being violent, laid up on a nan*ow top-shelf like old clothes in a cupboard, — and wants to know "if I can't be quiet for five minutes and let him go to sleep." Hapjpy Tlumght. — " Five minutes allowed for refreshment." He is still restless. I propose calling the Steward. " What for ? " he interrupts, starting up at right angles to his shelf. "For coffee and toast, preliminary breakfast, something to do," I explain, and down he goes again, somewhat soothed by the suggestion. But how to get at the Steward] There are no bells. Odd this, when everything on board ship, as I have hitherto understood, is always regulated by bells. The "watches" are regulated by bells — or 32 BATHER AT SEA. ought to be. Is Cullins to get out of his berth and call the Steward, or am I ? He flatly — " flatly '"' is the position he has now taken up in bed — refuses. I point out to him, reasonably enough, that he is next to the door, and that it can be no possible trouble for him to , but he replies, shortly, " Door be deed ! " {N'ote. Irritability of genius; — Genius considered as a "stable companion" for one week only.) "We regard one another curiously across the cabin. It is a sort of chess problem, — white to move — (we're both in white) — but what's the next move, and who's to make it ? Suddenly we hear a stentorian voice singing a verse from " Tlie Saucy AretJnisa,'' mixed up with the '^ Ba?/ of Biscay y It is the Dean's. He begins " Loud roared the dreadful Thunder," of which he is apparently attempting to convey an idea by loudly roaring himself. Happy Thcmght. — Who's to move ^ The Dean shall solve the Gordian Knot — our Dean ex machitid. The Dean is one of those hearty and very muscular Christians who like to begin a day as they are going on with it, and who, having fetched himself out of bed by his own innate physical force — Happy Thought. — Blown up in the air by combustion of animal spirits, — finds it absolutely necessary as a safety-valve to let off" the rest of his steam by knocking at other people's bedroom - (ioors — playing on them with his fists like the mechanical toy of the rabbit and the drum — and shouting out "Now then, Lazy- bones ! Up you get 1 " But you don't — and that's where you have the pull of these exuberant characters. "We hear the Dean playing rabbit-and-drum at Hailsher's cabin-door. Hapjpy Thought. — " Cabin-door " sounds as if Hailsher were an Irish peasant, and the Dean were coming to him as a bailiff for rent. Another Happy Thought. — Xotes for a new book, Aunt Sally's Yacht : sequel to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Fine figure-head. Hailsher, from within, replies in a patient tone — suggesting the epithet which was applied to Ulysses of " the much-enduring " — that he does not intend to rise for another two hours ; and this being evidently a hint that any further disturbance will be resented bv the much-enduring one, is at once taken, as a blind horse is j)opularly supposed to take a nod, by Bolby, who is about to storm THE "AMAEIXTHA. 33 the ' companion " when he is aiTested by cries for help from our cabin. He pauses, and shouts, "Hallo ! What's up ! " Happy Thought. — What's up ? We're not — but the Dean is, and — (this we formulate in a politely put request) — ^he can, if he will be so good, summon the Steward to attend to us. He calls us " lazy I " tells us that we ought to be up on deck and plunging in the sea, and we acknowledge humbly and still from our shelves — where we lie winking at one another like a couple of sly sea-dogs, in anticipation of the success of oiu- artful device — that we ought to be up, but caiiH rise till we have seeii the Steward. This touches the Dean, who thereupon summoni the Steward from out of some ingeniously-contrived sleeping arrangement which, judging from the clatter he makes on being suddenly aroused, he is sharing with the knives, spoons, forks, tumblers, cruets, and pickle-jars. In a quarter of an hour he brings us our preparatory coffee, and Cullins seizes this oppor- tunity for inquiring " if we are really moving 1 " He answers that «-e are not, but that we shall be very soon. After he has retired, Cullins professes utter disbelief in the statement, which he con- siders the Steward made merely out of a kind desire not to upset us too much so early in the morning. We both agree that there is a swaying motion. Happy Thought. — A couple of Xautical Galileos — "But it moves —for all that." * * * Breakfast. 9.30. Not yet oif. "We shall have a roughish time of it when we once get out," observes Hailsher ; " so I advise everybody to make a good breakfast." His is not theory without practice. He is a dainty and gentle but ample breakfast-eater. Four more different specimens of breakfast-eaters could not well be gathered round one table. Hailsher professes to make a good breakfast, and does so, gently, calmly, thoughtfully, helping him- self as politely as he does anybody else ; his right hand pours out tea for his left hand with the greatest possible pleasure, and he supplies his own plate with butter as if it were a visitor to whom he wishes to pay the utmost attention. I should on the whole, were I called upon to distribute prizes, award him the first as the model breakfast-eater. 34 ' RATHER AT SEA. Hailsher meditates for some time silently, looks kindly and sweetly round at the eatables and at everyone else's plate, as if to see what is the popular dish, and then gradually makes up his mind and says, smiling pleasantly, to the Composer, " Will you give me some of that pie, please ? " These requests are always made to the Composer, who, somehow or other, invariably manages to get everything that everybody else wants all about him, and then pretends he can't see them, and grumbles at being disturbed. Bolby is a boisterous breakfast-eater. He intersperses his feed- ing with occasional bursts of harmony — much to the Composer's annoyance — as, for instance, when he has finished an egg he breaks out into the opening chorus of the Camp Scene in Roberto — (generally popular with noisy men who indulge in " snatches " of melody out of sheer overflow of love for their fellow-man) — and sings, /or^miwio, without words, " Rum turn tum turn tum turn ti do — Rum tum tum tum tiddle tum tay — ha ! ha ! ha ! yes ' tay by all means " — hands his cup, jJ'''^^ nie, the Composer making no offer — and Hailsher smilingly inquires, "Tea?" — to which the Dean replies, " If you please," and beams on everyone with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other, with which he emphasises the tune on the table as he continues — " Rum tum tum tum '* (looking at the ham), " tum ti do " (regarding a heap of pie on the Composer's plate), "Rum tum tum tum tiddle tum" — and he breaks off at the last note with " Yes, I'll have some pie. Now, Cullins, my lad, all hands for pie ! " "Whereupon Cullins, who can't spare any hands at that moment, and who does not like being addressed as " my lad," very ungraciously, assists him to whatever in the pigeon-pie he would least like himself, and observes, surlily, "Xow, I hope you'll be satisfied." "In time, old man," replies Bolby, — and then, after taking three pieces of toast on which the Composer had had his eye, and helping himself to butter, which he puts on my side, out of Cullins's reach, he settles down to the pie. The Composer gets everything eatable and drinkable in front of him, * within easy reach," as the house-agent's advertisements say, growls over his food, and finally pushes his empty plate away from him with an air of profound contempt. As for myself I am THE ''AMABINTHA:' 35 only an amateur at this meal, and cannot expect to hold my own -with three professional breakfast-eaters. Breakfast over. Appearance of the Invisible Captain. The mildest, politest, smilingest, steadiest, thick-set, trust-worthiest looking person— just the very man for the place. A convenient- sized man, too; as on a yacht — even in a 140 tons' — where, after all, accommodation, unless it has been most craftily planned, is limited, the less space a man can take up the more valuable he is. The Captain says we shall have a stiffish time outside. We watch Hailsher. Will he blench at the last moment 1 No. He nails his colours to the mast, and says, "Well, Captain, we all want to get on — we'll risk it." "Very good. Sir," replies the Captain, looking upon us, evidently with an air of kindly pity, as four land-lubbers who don't know when we are well off. Then, as an excuse, Hailsher hastens to inform the Captain that one of his guests (myself) has received a telegram on business, and must be at Oban by a certain date. This is true. It gives us an object. To Oban ! Oban or AVestminster Abbey ! or pedestals at Madame Tussaud's, with a number and an advertisement in the papers that we have been "recently added to the collection?" Xo more words — the Captain is satisfied, and in another minute the orders are given, and the sailors are at work weighing anchor and then hoist ing sails. The Composer becomes thoughtful. He says he thinks it will be pleasanter to "go on deck than to remain in a stuffy cabin " — he means a cabin where he has been stuffing. His temper is decidedly not improving. There is certainly a stiff breeze, or, as it blows about, I should prefer to call it a loose breeze. There are several breezes springing up, it seems, in different directions, judging by the few boats we see coming in or going out The Irish steamer from Stranraer has started. We watch her with interest, as we are in her wake, and she is evidently "getting it." I draw his attention to the peculiar utterances of the sailors as they haul up the sails. Couldn't he set them to music ? " Pooh ! " he snaps me m^— (Happy Thought— X " snappy " Composer,) — shortly, " It's been done." Everything I suggest to the Composer seems to have been done before by somebody else. D 2 36 BAT HUB AT SEA. I try to catch the phrases, and note the sounds : they tug at a rope in a row — never less than five men at one rope — ejaculating, spasmodically, at intervals, " Hey ! hip ! " — a pull — " Hey jelly boo!" — another pull — "Hey! hip!" — another and a stronger puU— " I told you So ! " Then again, "Hey hip ! Hey jelly boo!" I cannot make out what effect "jelly boo" has on the sail. None, apparently, as though it has rustled and flapped and creaked, it doesn't seem to have risen half an inch. Why can't all this be done by machinery — like reaping and threshing ? " Oho ! Hey ! Hey ! 0-Ho ! " The first sail has gone, like Tom Boivling's better part, "up aloft." Then the Captain says, shortly, " Ease away ! " and presently, after a lot more energetic " Hey hos ! Hey jelly boos ! " he sud- denly stops it all with a supercilious, " Belay that ! " which does sound uncommonly like " Hold your row ! " and certainly has the same eff'ect as that command would have had comino; from authority. Then we haul the " taykel "—(is this " tackle " % Note for Nautical Book). Then they all go at the mainsail with a new set of expressions. '" Up with her ! Ho ! " " Up with her, quick ! " " Up with her ! " Then, as she doesn't seem to yield to their cheery persuasiveness quite so readily as they had imagined she would — a very coquettish and perverse female this mainsail seems to be — they look aloft, and putting fresh energy into their move- ments, cry out, "Hey ee hip ! " — and it goes up perceptibly about an eighth of an inch — " tea track ! gee bo ! " This last " gee bo ! " is more exhilarating, and the sail mounts quite half an inch. The men much delighted and encouraged by this pro- gress, resume their "0 tea track ! gee bo ! jelly bo ! " — but the sail seems to think she has given way sufficiently, and that to take a step farther might compromise her dignity, when the Mate, evidently losing all patience with such obstinacy, braces himself up, or rather hitches himself up, for one grand final eff"©!!, and the crew follow his example. The Mate won't stand any more non- sense ; and, as if he were a bold buccaneer ordering off a trouble- some female captive to instant execution or to the dungeons in the secret cavern among the rocks, he roars out, with bluff determina- tion, " Now, my lads, away with her ! " and to it they go with a THE "AMABIXTIIA." 37 will — one old man nearly coming on his back in his excitement — all gasping out the words of this mysterious nautical incantation scene, " tea track ! gee bo ! jelly bo ! tea track ! " and the sail is just up to the top — another half-inch will do it — when they all bawl out " Oho ! '" and the unwilling virago of a sail struggling, writhing, and fighting to the last, is hauled up, bound, as it were, hand and foot, hung with a powerful jerk mast-high, and — and — we are actually under weigh ! " "Well off now ! " exclaims Bolby. I hope we are. "We all seem to be enjoying ourselves, except Cullins the Composer. Under weigh ! ! — in another second a quarter of the deck is under water, but it rushes out again at the scuppers — and now we are sailing — all on one side — sprawling about anyhow, as being taken by surprise — and fairly ofif at last. " For where ? " I ask — " what sea ? " " The Atlantic," answers Hailsher. " The Atlantic ! '* gasps the Composer "You don't mean to say " And then the cane chair slides away with him, and he is very nearly shot over the bulwark, but for the fortunate acci- dent of coming sharply against the skylight of our cabin, which brings him on to the deck, where, until we " go about again," he prefers to remain. The Atlantic ! I don't think that in his wildest dreams he had ever an idea of meeting the Atlantic pei-sonally, being under some sort of impression that, once on the Atlantic, you were hopelessly at sea until you suddenly discovered America — like Columbus. The Dean points out a small vessel outside, dipping her bows every minute, and playing see-saw fearfully. " Shall we do that ? " Cullins inquires. "Well," replies the Dean, "we shall be where she is — and doing much as she does." I look at the Composer. He is silent, and gradually turning a pale unearthly green. Song for him. — " Of what is the old man thinlcing, as he sits m that loiv cane chair V There is a fixed expression on his suddenly worn and changing countenance which seems to say, " Silence all ! I am going to meet my fate ! Behold me and the Great Atlantic together at last ! ! " 3S RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER YII. XOW WE SAIL WITH THE GALE " LAMLASH REST. W 'E HAVE hauled up our peak, we have squared our halliards, we have taken in taykel, we have hauled up the stay-sail. We fly along, we don't use the spinnaker, the hatches are battened down, the tiller is tied with a rope, and the man at the tiller holds on by another rope. Hailsher, wrapped up in patent leggings, mackin- tosh, and with a sou' wester tied over his ears, is curled up on the taffrail ex- amining the waves through his eyeglass. Bolby, in an entirely fresh suit, con- sisting of a rough pilot coat, an oilskin hat, and a pair of seven-leagued boots reaching up over his knees, reminds me of the theatrical portrait of " Mr. So-and-So as Will Watch, the Bold Smuggler," only without the belt and pistols, though he might have easily stowed these away under his capa- cious pilot-jacket ; while Cullins, whose complexion at this moment has assumed the faint tint of a Spanish olive that has been some time out of bottle, might, on account of his limp and dejected appearance, be taken for a prisoner, whom the Bold Buccaneer, sailing under the burgee of the Death's-head and Cross-bones, is conveying to a secret cavern in some distant Pirate's Isle, with a view to a subsequent ransom being offered by the Composer's ''friends at a distance," who under these circum- stances would be " requested to take notice," and stump up. Were this really the case, I fancy the Buccaneer's speculation Avould be a bad one. With every button of my Ulster doing its duty, my collar turned up, and my deerstalker pressed tightly down, I defy the elements, stand by a bulwark, and keep a firm grip on the rigging. Here's a wave coming — up we go — down we go. Here's another TEE '' AMARINTHAr 39 bigger than the first— bang— aud though we dodge, and though, without daring to let go of my rope, I get as much as I possibly can of myself hidden for a second behind the bulwark, it bursts over us with the force of a small waterspout, and we are shaking ourselves like Newfoundland dogs after a bath, and laughino-, to show what careless, hardy, daring, devil-may-care Eoverswe all are — all except the Composer, who takes what he gets of his duckino- with the utterly resigned air of a man Avho has given up all hope, and to whom I quote the Shakespearian line, " Let Hercules him- self do what he may, The " when he stops me with a sad reproachful look, which lasts but the space of a flash of summer lightning, and then his eyes resume the fixed, vacant stare of one of Madame Tussaud's life-like effigies in wax, to which, on the whole, in colour and rigidity of position, he bears a striking resemblance. Waves come at us from every direction. There are a lot of waves going, as it were, the wrong way ; these, coming into sharp collision with others going the right way, jump up, flood the deck, wet the Composer's shoes — (he has twice tried to tuck his feet in under the chair, but the water " made for them " with malice aforethought, running in at them each time as a cat might after a mouse, and so he has given up even this slight attempt at making himself comfortable), — and then rush out tumultuously at the open scuppers. Personally, I am glad of the wind and wetting ; it keeps me fresh — and well. I think I'm well. The excitement of this ocean steeple-chase — the ship being the sea-horse, and taking all its fences magnificently — prevents my experiencing any decided qualmishness, and I exclaim aloud, " Ah ! this is indeed enjoyable ! " " Isn't it ? " cries the Dean. " Delightful ! " says Hailsher, politely nodding his approval of the sea's proceedings up to this point. " Capital fun ! " seems to shout, by way of returning our com- pliments, the biggest wave we've yet had, — a wave that staggers us all, causing me to lose my rope, when I am swimg forcibly round, and find myself sprawling over the top of the state-cabin skylight. The Steward has crept up the Companion, and the Steward's head, coming out, announces " Luncheon ! " Shall I ? or shan't 1 1 Can I ? or can't I ? I am all right on deck— 40 RATHER AT SUA. couldn't be better. But to go below — is it not as it were to tempt Providence ? Will not the cabin be stuffy 1 It has been shut up all the morning ; and won't everything be see-sawing. " I shan't come do^Ti," the Composer says, shortly and decisively, in answer to the Dean's hearty invitation. " Shall I send you a sandwich and a glass of brandy-and- water on deck ? " asks Hailsher, very cautiously descending the Com- panion, and guarding his head as if expecting some practical joke from an exuberant wave. The composer nods assent. I am hungry, and a yacht's cabin is not like a steamboat's saloon. T will risk it ; and, after a cheerful nod to Cullins, intended in a charitable spirit to impress him with the notion of how very well / am, I Avatch my opportunity, make a fairly good shot for the opening, and descend backwards. My sea-conscience says, " Are you doing the right thing ? '' I have my doubts. I fall against two wrong doors, and then reel into the cabin. The Steward is there, all sideways, with a tray, apparently making a violent but vain effort to walk up a hill ; the Dean is there, slanting in a totally different direction ; Hailsher is standing up at what was a sober, sensible table, but which is now only an intoxicated eccentricity, sloping downwards, and doing its best to shake everything off on to the cabin floor. The piano is going up in the air, the chairs are dancing — I don't know which way to go — I grasp at nothing in the air like an after- dinner Macbeth seeing several daggers — and, worst of all, there's the ivhole acene hefore me repeated in the looking-glass, where the muddle seems to be made twenty-times worse. Oh, dear ! now there are two Hailshers struggling with ham, and two Stewards going up hills with brandies and sodas on trays, and two Deans roUing about witli loaves of bread, and an awtul figure, with staring eyes, yellow face, and rough hair, bearing a strong family likeness to myself, but startlingly suggestive of what my appearance might be after a few years of life as a bushranger, — and before I have recovered from the shock which the mirror's reflection of myself has given me, someone or something — I fancy at the moment it's a chair: — hands me a plateful of ham and some bread, when, all at once, I am seized with an uncontrollable yearning for mustard, and I say, " I'll come for it," meaning the mustard-pot, — when, in making one step to THE "AMARINTEA:* 41 the right towards the table, I find myself shot off by some invisible force in exactly the opposite direction, ^vhere I arrive, in an atti- tude of supplication, clutching the edge of the sofa with one hand and saving my plate with the other. Then I pause for breathing time, and all I notice is that the Steward is still vainly toiling up hill with the same brandy and soda on a tray, which he is vainly trying to deliver to Hailsher, who seems as far off as ever. I got on to my knees, and collect my food. I am still deter- mined as to mustard. The Dean's voice — I only see a shadowy Diagram showing relative positions of Yacht, Table, and Ourselves, (Yacht looks a little too like a tee-to-tum, but the intention is clear.) A.A. Yacht. B.B. Ourselves and swing-table. C.C.C. Evident. form of him, with an uncertain outline, in the glass — says, " Here it is ! " and on all fours I make for the direction whence the voice proceeded, leaving my plate on the floor. Somehow^, Hail- sher hands me the mustard — that is, I am suddenly thrown for- ward with a lurch to receive it, and find myself on a level with Hailsher's hand in which is the mustard-pot. The Steward is slanting backwards on his heels, engaged, apparently, in a frantic stiiiggle with a clipboard. A minute more of this topsy-turvydom, and it will be all over with me. Hairpy Thought.— Qhd.m^^%\\Q ! One glass ! The Dean, who seems to be rolling about the place, gives me the champagne, — I think it's the Dean who does this, though the 42 BATHER AT SEA. Steward's legs are mixed up with it somehow, — but anyhow I know it isn't Hailsher, as he appears to be "setting," as tbey say in quadrilles, to the ham, and he and his vis-a-vis are doing an eccentric dance from side to side. I just see this, as I drink ott' my champagne, which I take kneeling, as though I were a Jacobite pledging "the king over the water," and then feeling that one second more below will settle, or rather unsettle me eflfectually, I make a wild dash for w-here I think the door is, bump up against the side, jerk to the right, stagger to the left, fall sideways into a recess where the water-proofs ought to be, stagger out of this, go head foremost against a side cabin-door which doesn't yield to pressure (thank goodness !) then fall back on the second step of the companion, — seize the companion-rail, dash up the stairs — bang my head against the cover which has been shut down, ejacu- late forcibly, struggle to remove it, crawd out on deck, stagger upon my legs once more, gasp, regain my position, and my firm grip on the rope of safety ! How do I feel? How am I? I think I'm all right. I question whether taking just that extra inch of ham was quite judicious, but the champagne, coupled with my determination to come on deck, saved me. Another five minutes ! Xo more qualms — a magnificent wave is coming full at us ! I will not duck my head ! Prepare to receive wave! Shoulder arms ! Present! Water!! Bang !!!... Delicious ! Delightful ! I am a giant refreshed with salt water ! And — which is everything to me — I am warm and comfortable, an effect that I feel is entirely due to that one glass of Pommery ! If challenged to make another rhyme, I would sing the praises of that " glorious vintage of champagne," as a certain remedy for mal de mer. I will tell this to the Com- poser. It will do him good. Where is he ? There is the vacant chair. Has he — while we've been carousing below — has he been washed overboard at last ? The man at the helm will know. He says that the gentleman didn't feel quite right — he has gone below. So the day wears on. Rougher and rougher — and always more or less within sight of Ailsa Craig, covered with seabirds, like white pocket-handkerchiefs spread out to dry. An-an in view. Comparatively still water. I descend to see THE ''A2IA11IXTEA." 43 after CuUins. I find him behind the cabin-door. Better in colour and general tone : but incUned to take a despondent view of the future. He freshens up : and when we are once more anchored stem and stern in Lamh^sh Bay, he is as ready for dinner as the rest of us. We notice that he is more amenable, and less grumpy. He is almost cheerful, and very nearly polite, if not absolutely con- siderate. He does not feel up to music, so we sit silently enjoying the In a Gale— Tacking for Mustard. calm beauties of a moonlight night in Lamlash Bay, and then turn in. All tired. " I say," observes my " stable companion," as he sits by the side of his berth, en deskaliUe, mbbiug his knees thoughtfully, " I say " I am all attention. "You're going away after a week of it, ain't you?" I sincerely regret to say I am. In fact I must. " I shall go with you," he says. I point out to him that this course will be most rash ; that he is throwing away six weeks of pleasure because he has had one day's bad experience : I assure him that he will get more and 44 BATHER AT SEA. more accustomed to it as he goes on : I remind him that Nelson was ahvavs ill, — " at starting " I add emphatically, foreseeing his objection to the eminent example as a case in point of )wt having got over it : and I finish with, heartily, "You stick to the ship, and you won't be ill again ! " " Ah ! ■' he exclaims, with a dissatisfied air, " I don't so much mind being ill; but "' and here, in his classic costume, he climbs into his berth, and shivers. " You don't mind being ill '. "' I repeat, astonished. " But — what?" " Well, I don't mind so much being ill," — he returns, in a tone of most intense annoyance, — "but everything's so damp 1" I have no answer to this. Our convei-sation ends. He is right ; there is a good deal of dampness about, specially in the berths. The things have a way of clinging aff'ectionately to you, and you do feel strongly inclined to find fault with somebody for their not having been thoroughly aired. But I say to him, " Isn't it often the same at the sea-side ? '' '•' Xot exactly the same," the Composer replies, discontentedly, as he turns his face to the wall, and in a few minutes we are both sweetly asleep in the utter calm of Lamlash Bay. THU "AMAEI^^THA:' 45 CHAPTEH YIII. PEACE — CAMPBELTOWN — PLANS — OBAN — FAREWELL. TH E roughest time is over, and we have roughed it. Ciillins is all right again; he finds nothing " damp " — at least he doesn't complain. He is de- lighted with Lani- lash Bay; he is charmed with Camp- beltown, where we can and do get tomatoes and mar- rows — (Stranraer, take notice !) — and the best hand-knitted socks at the lowest possible prices. The Captain is of opinion that we can "make Oban" in less than a day and a half. [I/o2)pi/ Thonght—" ^Icike Oban ! " Good thing for Oban. Evi- dent, and not an " Oban question."] Xow that we are sailing calmly, the Dean once more brings out his rook rifle, and we go in for "potting" puffins, divers, sea-fowl, and gulls. As a matter of fact we do not pot them, but we shoot at them briskly, the man at the wheel making a point whenever there are any birds in sight. One diver accompanies us for half-an-hour, and supplies us with a perfect fund of amusement. " They take a deal of shooting," says the Dean, and they undoubtedly do. At all e\euts, they get no hitting, and, on the whole, appear to enjoy the fun as much as we do, reminding me of the little dog in the nursery rhyme, " who laughed to see such sport." As a rule, just as the Dean fires, the diver disappears, and Bolby shouts, triumphantly, " I've hit him .' " We are just about to credit him with a success, when the bird reappears, waggles his 46 RATHER AT SEA. head and tail merrily, gives a queer, dry, sarcastic laugh — some- thing between a quack and a chuckle — {Hajjpy Thought — say a " qauckle '*'] — which evidently implies, " No, you didn't that time, my boy ! " and then he placidly floats on the water, quuckling to himself in perfect security. Once, during a calm, the old sea-dog, I mean the pointer at the helm, indicates a lovely chance — a certainty — a diver riding, so to speak, at anchor, within a few yards of the yacht. I have time to take a steady aim. Bang ! The bullet has cleared him by about two inches, and gone with a spurt into the sea ahead of him. The diver is clearly quite new to the sport, as he makes a rush, open-mouthed, in the direction of where the bullet disap- peared, stretching out his neck to peck at it, being evidently under the impression that it's something to eat. Cullins is annoyed at discovering that this is not the Atlantic, but the Irish Channel. At first he won't believe it. " The Irish Channel ! " he exclaims. " How can that be when this is Scot- land % " He decides that all maps are wrong, and gives up the study of Geography. Henceforward, having got his sea-legs properly fitted on, he will enjoy himself At Oban I say farewell for the present to our polite host, Hailsher, and my pleasant companions — including the one leading down to the cabin ; and, envying them their seven weeks' cruise, I close my short log — (phrase suggestive of " cutting my stick " ■ — which, alas ! I have to do) — and so terminates my happy holi- day on board the AmarintJm. A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE, SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. CHAPTER I. OVER OLD GROUND— ON- BOARD— THE MYSTIC UMBRELLA—THE COM- POSER IN- A NEW CHARACTER— ARRIVAL— UNDER WEIGH. hope Une\ try u N C E more going Xorth from Euston, with my friend, Cullins the Composer, whose charm- ing song ''The Past is hut a Muddled Dream,'' re- cently created such a furore in musical circles, both bound for the Yacht Amarintha, We go by the Limited Mail, and find an unlimited female trvino- to take possession of our seats. She has had, how- ever, to argue with a sturdy Scotch Guard, and is now confronted and put utterly to rout by the lawful owners. She disappears, and is heard no more. It is late in the season for a cruise, and we fear the Aveather is breaking. We f®r the best, and are more or less prepared for the worst, -entful journey. At Carlisle, hunger being a sharp thorn, we cup of luke-warm and doubtful coffee and attempt a nibble 50 MATHER AT SEA. at a slice of bread-and-butter, to which the description of some fine ancient vintage would apply — " curious, old, and very dry." It is nine minutes past 5 a.m., and the Guard did not inform us that, as we were bound for Stranraer, we had at least a quarter of an hour to spare, instead of being hurried off in five minutes. Why has he kept this a secret ? There might have been something better at Carlisle, after all, than the above-mentioned fossil bread-and-butter, tepid coffee, and indifferent tea, w^hich last considerably upset the Composer's equanimity. However, he justified his professional claims by composing himself to sleep ; and repose, not conversa- tion, being our object, we were more or less somnolent, and per- fectly silent. N.B. — North Britain. Sunrise very effective. I draw the Com- poser's attention to it, thinking he would like to compose some- thing about a Sunrise, — say a Sunata,— but he only turns round and burrows into the cushion, muttering " Sunrise be blowed ! " The Composer is evidently a trifle crusty. To adapt Dr. Watts's Sluggard, " I have called him too soon, I shan't call him again." We pass the " Irving Arms Hotel." Evidently a theatrical dis- trict. Wonder if there's an "Irving Legs Hotel"? Nobody visible ; only geese and donkeys out at this time of the morning. This observation would not be a safe one to make in the presence of a man gifted with what in Shakspearian times was styled " a pretty wit." He would be sure to use it against you. In his present sociable frame of mind, I fancy the Composer would if I gave him a chance. Dumfries. — The Composer murmurs, as he gazes wearily through the window, at nothing in particular, " Um ! Castle of Dumfries. Let me see— what happened there ? Siege— I think— subject for cantata — or opera." Then he dives down again head-foremost, and disappears under a rug. At Lochmaben, or some such name, which sounds to the initiated as if not totally unconnected with the mysteries of Freemasonry, we don't stop, but only considerably slacken speed, and the train passes as it were on tiptoe, so as not to disturb the sleeping inhabitants. Perhaps there's a special signal up "Please don't wake the Station Master." If not, it is remarkably thoughtful of A i?/ Thovgld for Christmas Tale. — The Haunted Yacht. (I hereby patent the idea for my own shilling dreadful.) What might it have been — this occurs to me, drowsily— if not a burglar or a ghost ? A Stowaway. I am dozing otf, dreaming of Stow- aways, when slowly the peifonnanee begins again— creeee-ak— cree-ak— suddenly crik, whack ! whack '.—pause — then, quite as a little sui-prise, it closes with a startling whop Bang ! like the two l)eats on the big drum at the end of some march — the one in the Prophcte, I think. I am sure there are such beings as Imps, mischievous Imps— the spirits, high spirits of practical jokers yet unborn, or of undeveloped practical jokers who had only appeared in the world for a few houi's, or weeks, and then— quite in keeping with their character, not caring what trouble and grief they caused tlieir parents — departed this life without the shgbtest explanation. II faut qunne porte soit onverte ou fermee, and if I can only get off my berth to fix it, without endangering my enfeebled constitution, I will. I raise myself ou my elbow, and regard it interrogatively, as much as to say, " Now are you going on like this the whole afternoon, or will you be quiet 1 " And the Imp in the cupboard seems to understand what is passing in my mind, for the door remains closed and appears to fit so neatly, that I can scarcely believe I haven't been dreaming. So I he down again and close my eyes. In' a few seconds I am conscious of the wardrobe-door being stealthily opened with scarcely any noise. I look at it, wondering what its next move will be, and what mine will be too. It remains open at right angles, as if hesitating which way to go, when, without any warning, there is a lurch forward, a roll, and the door gives a sharp angry creak and whacks the washing-stand on the left, then slams kself back, then reopens and again attacks the inoffensive washing-stand, so savagely, that I am compelled to scramble off my berth, stagger up to the rescue, and with both hands shove the door back to its proper place. But the handle won't catch. Not being in the habit of carrying about patent door- fasteners in my pocket, I have no appliance ready. I am repulsed. I ovra mv defeat, and stagger back to my berth. CO RATHER AT SEA. Then the Imp is in ecstacies, creaking, whacking, banging, until I fear that great damage will be done to the furniture, and I look in vain for some means of summoning the Steward, or of attracting the attention of anyone on deck. But impossible : I see no bell, and as for calling — my vocal cords are in such a relaxed state that I can scarcely speak above a whisper. Fortunately at this juncture the Steward appears, and in the feeblest accents I draw his attention to the outrageous conduct of the cupboard-door, as if it were a living thing, much in the same way as I might have complained to a keeper of a neighbouring menagerie that the monkey had got loose again, and was causing us much annoyance. The Keeper — I mean the Steward — is quite vexed at its mis- conduct, but deals with it at once ; walking up to it in a masterful manner — the door not daring to move now, and absolutely quiver- ing with fear as he approaches, — and then stuffing in a couple of improvised paper wedges, which produce the desired effect. " There ! " says the Steward vindictively, as though this was not the first time the door of this cupboard had played him these tricks, " I don't think it'll do it again, Sir." For a few minutes after the Steward's departure I watch the door with nervous anxiety ; but no, the Imp is bottled up, and the paper wedges have imprisoned him in the wardrobe as closely as Solomon's seal did the Genie in the Arabian Xights' Tale. So, thankfully I began to doze. The lurching and the pitching have ceased to materially affect me. I hear the Composer's voice above, and I hope to goodness that he won't enter into an argument — he seldom talks without arguing — requiring any great exercise of voice just over my skylight. But he too is evidently '-^ jjianoP The " pitch " has been too high for him. I fancy that he either once more disappears below or subsides into a chair on deck. I receive " a refresher " from Xature in the shape of a short soimd sleep, and at seven I am perfectly ready for dinner and a glass of champagne. "We anchor in a quiet bay with a name something like Mackracken, but as there is nothing much to see here, and as we shall be off early to-mon'ow morning, I am not sufficiently interested to make any further inquiries. Our pai-ty consists of four, Melleville, our host, Cullins the Composer, and a jovial gentleman with a double-barrelled name — A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 61 Ford-Bamly, which only seems to me to require the addition of '* and Co." to constitute him a firm. First Night on Board. — A^voke early next morning. Usual noise of scrubbing and rubbing just overhead and within a few- inches of my nose, and the idea occurs to me that I am buried somewhere and being walked over ! Happy TJiought.— 'Racing notion. " Walking over a corse ! " Hauling and pulling and yeo-ho-ing. Not much movement, except an occasional slow swing from one side to the other and then very deliberately back again. Presently the rapid rippling of water against the sides, and I know we are under weigh, and gliding on with a fair wind. On deck. Delightful. I recognise old Jura and other former acquaintances. Brealfast. — We are all on in this scene, and it is, I am bound to say, a very fair performance taken all round, though one out of tlie number does not do sufficient justice to the excellent materials provided by the author. This one is myself. I explain that as a rule I am not a breakfast-eater. Cullins explains that as a rule he is, but is not quite in form this morning, so he only takes fish, poached eggs, and ham, a little tongue, some marmalade, and then hopes that " when he gets quite acclimatised he will be able to play a good solo part, as well as join in the quartette." For the last week of August, it is fairly warm on deck. Sun shining sufficiently for us to make some show with our books— 62 RATHEli AT SEA. which we never read — and papers and pencils wliich we never nse. So we sit enjoying existence, f\ir away from the madding crowd, no morning papers, no afternoon second editions, no sensational news, no possibility of letters and telegrams reaching us — mdess postmen pursne us in special steamers, as we are only sailing — ■ and no " little accounts," nor intimations that " our Mr. .Toues will call to-morrow to receive the sum of, S:c., etc." A life on the Ocean wave, and a home on the rolling dcej) "' — rolling as little as possible, of course — by all means, for these are the jovs — no matter about the sorrows — -of such an existence. " We'll never come back no more, boys ! " we feel inclined to sing ; but at some time or other, unless we become Pirates and the Terror of the Xorthern Seas, we inevitably must go ashore for provisions. J SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 63 CHAPTER III. NO TIME DINNER SEA-COOK QUERY — SEA-QUACKS WALKING REMINISCENCE THE TAR ISLANDS — WHAT COURSE — COUNCIL SUGGESTIONS CAUTIONS DECISION. TITEXT Day. — Xo date x^articular. J A One loses all idea of time at sea, except breakfast - time, luncheon- time, and dinner-time — especiall y dinner-time. My rule of sailing Is, go where you like all day, from as early an hour as 3'ou can, but put in somewhere, that is, as it were, tuni out of the main thoroughfare, and go down some quiet street for dinner. This, I am glad to say, is also our host's view. He has an excellent cook on board, who, I believe, is considered as one of the crew, and lends a hand in that capacity when required. In this line he is a cordon bletc, or a Captain Cook. And this leads me to inquire hoM', in nautical phraseology, " the son of a sea-cook '' ever came to be a termf of opprobrium. It may not be so nowadays, but it certainly wks so in the days of Captain Marryat, whose novels are, I see, being re-issued at cheap prices. In this author's time, when one naval gentleman wished to insult another naval gentleman, he spoke of him as ''the son of a sea-cook." Xow the more I have seen of sea-cooks, the move inexplicable has this term seemed to me. Take our present admirable artist, for example. His appear- ance on deck — where hi^ visits are as those of angels, few and far loetween — the simile being rendered all the more forcible from his being clothed from head to foot in white,— strikes me with a sort of awe, that is, when you see him legs and all, for, as a rule, when he ordinarily comes to the surface — for air, I suppose — he rises from a sort of open trap-door, and shows merely his head and shoulders, like one of the apparitions in the witches' cauldron, and then, after taking in a supply of ozone, he descends once more to his work in his rather limited kitchen, where, as it appears to me 64 BATHER AT SEA. the stove is not half the size of the joint ^vhich has to be served. The sea-cook is evidently looked up to by the crew, and is treated, as I can note, with profound respect. Ex una disce ojyines sea- cooks, or is this one the exception 1 In fact if, after the Captain, there is one person who is more deferentially treated than another it is the sea-cook. And if sea-cook pere is so eminently respectable, why should it be a reproach to anyone to be the son of such a parent ? Is it possible that the sea-cook is, after all, only a whited sepulchre 1 No, never ! tell that, among other absurdities, to the marines. It is lovely weather, and Cullius the Composer is full of inspira- tion. Fresh inspirations are brought by every breeze ; we can almost see them coming, and the Composer catching them. The proximity of the Irish coast suggests to him a cantata on the union of the three countries, to include a selection of the most popular national melodies. Mackracken Bay, or whatever was the name of the tranquil spot where we anchored for dinner last night, and which we quitted early this morning ere we were out of our com- fortable berths, has also suggested a romantic ballad to him. He says it ought to begin with something mysterious, and some words lil^e " 'Twus in Mackracken Bay All night the (something) lay." And what next ? Being in a lazy mood after breakfast, our host supplies a line — '* And in the mom we were under weigh," which has the merit of being strictly true, though the Composer scorns it. Then, from its not having been seized at the moment, the inspiration evaporates, and the Composer sits listlessly in his easy-chair, gazing at the islands and the islets, until he hears the quacking of a sea-bird, when he wants to shoot at it, wherever it is. The sexL-birds are perfectly indifferent to being shot at by us. They know as well as we do that we only wish to show how near we can go without hitting them. We should all be most unhappy 'chould anyone of the party hurt a sea-bird, as we can't stop to pick it up, and if we cotdd it would be of no use to us either for eating, stuffing, or selling. A SHORT HOLIDAY CEUISE. 65 On the whole, Avhen we feel that we must shoot — for there are moments on board a yacht when you do begin to be absolutely fatigued with the exertion of sitting still and doing nothing — we prefer bottles to birds by way of targets ; and as perpetual pop- ping is apt to result in headache, the necessity for doing something being strong upon us, we put down the rifle and pace the deck sharply up and down, jocosely at first, saluting one another with good-natured nods, just as people meeting on the same promenade at a sea-side resort are accustomed to do, until, in default of not knowing exactly what etiquette requires of you on passing a person Cracking a Bottle' together." for the tenth time in the course of three-quarters of an hour, each looks another way directly they spy each other coming, and at last they cut one another dead, with a glassy and even contemptuous stare, which says as plainly as words could, " Confound the fellow ! what's he doing here still ? "Why on earth can't he go away, and let me walk up and down without meeting h{77i ? " And the mention of this recalls to my mind a very comic scene, supposed to take place at Brighton, which was given years ago by ^lessrs. Edmund Yates and Harold Power at the Egyptian Hall. We are repeating that episode on deck now, only without an audience. So we invent dodgy walks, in and out round the skylights, and F CG BATHE B AT SEA. avoid one another until we feel sociable, then wc make as many variations of companionship in promenading as our number will peiTnit. Ford-Bamlj prefers sitting down until the Captain gives home Avord of command, w^hen, being a thorough sailor and up in all the mysterious workings of the ship, he suddenly jumps up, rushes at a rope, and is seen hauling at it hand over hand, as if his life, and the lives of all on board depended solely on his dexterity and presence of mind at this trying crisis ; and he goes on sternly and manfully graj^pling with it long after the crew have done their work, whatever it was, until a quiet old sailor comes up, nods to him pleasantly in a humouring, patronising sort of way, and taking the rope out of his hand, fixes it somewhat with a twist, luid retires to the fo'csle, whereupon Bamly, with the modest air of a man who is conscious of having deserved well of his country, but is disinclined to urge his claims, resumes his scat without a word, and betakes himself to examining the coast, through his race-glasses as if nothing extraordinary had happened ; but all tlie time seeming to say to us land-lubbers, "Look here ! it is of stuff like this that the British Tar is made." We are passing more islands. No one apparently on any of them. Occasionally a small house. Who lives there? How did he get there ? How will he ever get away from there? Do they ever see the papers ? I can observe no signs of cultivation. I see no boats. Nov,- and then during the day we catch a glimpse of a large house, most picturesquely situated, evidently belonging to some very rich person ; for only two classes could possibly resido herCj the very rich who can get away, and the very poor who can't Revolutions might happen in England, or in Scotland for the matter of that, and the residents in these out-of-the-way islands — if there are any residents — would never be any the wiser, as, pro- bably, they would be none the better, for communication with the inner world. I am not speaking of course of places evidently near such centres of civilisation as Oban, Tobermory, and so forth, but of the wild islands which have names (who gave them ? ) and local habitations (who live in them? — Kobinson Crusoes and MTridays?), and which, when carefully searched for, can be found in the sea- chart, and are known only by sight to mariners, who, however, have never had the curiositv to land and make further inquiries. A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 67 All this is old to us ; and Cullins, who has had no inspiration since lunch at 1-30 confides to me at 4 p.m. that he yearns for something new. He longs to sail away, somewhere, where he hasn't been, to see something he has never seen, and do lots of things he has never done. These are, as I recognize, the aspirations of Genius. He repeats these hints to Ford-Bamly. But Bamly has been everywhere, and seen everything. To him mere sailing is the purest enjoyment. He loves the sea, he loves sailing for sailing's sake ; he loves ships and shipping, he has all nautical phrases at his fingers' end, and can splice a main-brace, or make taut whatever lias to be made taut — for here my powers of descrip- NAUTICAL REPARTEE. "Shall I lend you a hand?" "No; but if you don't move, I can give you a tow." tion fail me — and can twist ropes into all sorts of elegant shapes, specially priding himself on some peculiar sort of sailor's knot, and on trimming and plaiting a rope's end in a decorative fashion, somewhat similar to the manner in which farmers do up their horses' tails wlien they are taken to a show. So Ford-Bamly doesn't care where he goes as long as the ship sails, and he's m it. For my part, when, after dinner, the subject is broached, and our host politely inquires, '^ Where we fellows would like to go ?" I am ready to leave the matter in his hands, and so is Cullins the Com- poser, on the understanding, which constitutes a sore of clause m the agreement made and provided, that we go somewhere fresh to us, and where he (Cullins) has not been before. " How about Staifa and lona ? " asks our host. F 2 G8 BATHER AT SEA. Of all places the ones I, personally, should have selected. Yes, the Composer, too, brightens up at the mention of Staffa and lona. He adds, looking round at our host inquiringly, " And Fingal's Cave, eh ? " Whereupon our host replies, " Of course." Already the Composer sees a cantata, or an Oratorio, on StafFa and lona; though it suddenly occurs to him that " Fingal's Cave " lias already been done. However, we arc unanimous for Staffa and lona, and, indeed, we all become enthusiastic on the subject — all, that is, except Ford-Bamly, who is never visibly enthusiastic about anything. He has been out yachting and voyaging about for the greater part of his life, is as hardy as an ancient Norseman, as bronzed as a veteran mariner ought to be, and, as he is credited with possessing an inexhaustible fund of nautical experience, we listen to him with that deference to his opinion which the authority of such a navigating Nestor ought to command. For my part, now that we have settled on Staffa and lona, it seems that the one chief object of my life, up to this time, has been to see these two cele- brated places. I know little more of them, except from photographs, than Columbus did of America before he discovered it. If I were asked, off-hand, to give my notion of Staffa and lona, I should say — under correction of anyone who had been there - that they were two weird islands whose grim basaltic rocks rose to a gigantic height above the sea, while their wild and awful aspect seemed to menace with dire vengeance the approach of the temerarious sailor. Huge caverns there must be, where strange marine monsters lurk ; here is the home of the sea-serpent in wet weather, and as to water-fiends, stonn-goblins, and amphibious demons, I should 8ay that Staffa and lona are their nocturnal play-ground, with a submarine communication between the two islands. Then as to Fingal's Cave — what do I picture it ? A gigantic Basaltic Cavern piercing the Island (whether Staffa or lona I am not certain) for miles in eveiy direction ; where, at the entrance, the fierce waves are roaring like Lions guarding the Giant's gates, which, being once passed, the adventurous traveller becoming gradually accus- tomed to the dim light, will come upon placid silver lakes, caverns within caverns, caves within caves, may even see Sirens and A SEOBT HOLIDAY CBUISE. 69 Water-nymphs— will mark the silver-fish darting hither and thither in the deep blue waters, while after passing along another basaltic gallery, flambeaux will be lighted by the guides, and he will enter the Stalactite Hall which is called " Fingal's Refectory," and crossing this will be shown another cavern, glowing wdth red sandstone called "Fingal's Kitchen," and so on to his Stables, and then out by FingaVs Backdoor, where the Sea-Lions are again roaring, and where the visitor is suddenly blinded by the glai'e of daylight, and thanks Heaven that he once more basks in the glorious sunlight. The above, off-hand, is my idea of Fingal's Cave, which, I fimcy, commences in Staffa and finishes in lona, or vice versa. I regret that we can't sail right through it in the yacht ; but, as it is a one- hundred- and-forty tonner, this is evidently impossible. Still, to go as near as we can to that grand solitude, with none but the wild sea-birds for our companions The Composer interrupts, and exclaims, " It will indeed be grand ! " He sees violoncello passages all through Staffa and lona, with drum and ophicleide, and cymbals. Ford-Bamly, in his most genial and always nautical manner, shakes his head pleasantly. " It is very diflicult land- ing," he says ; " in fact, if it is at all rough, we shall not be able to ojo ashore. Awkward place," he continues, cheerfully, filling his pipe and smiling pleasantly all round, " very awkward place. Xot a year but there are some lives lost in lauding." The Composer and myself regard one another with curious interest. Our host, who has been on deck for a few minutes to make some inquiries of the Captain, now returns, takes his seat at the head of the council-table, and having assumed his pince-nez with an air of conducting the most searching inquiry into what has been going on during his absence, listens attentively to the words of experience that are falling from the lips of the great navigator, Ford-Bamly, who, however, only repeats for MeUeville's benefit, his opinion, with additional force and increased geniality as to the dangers of landing at Staffii, or lona; and then further exhilarates us by giving us a few cheerful stories of Atlantic swells having quite unexpectedly, and with no sort of intimation from any fore-cast whatever, taken harmless explorei-s quite unawares, and on the most lovely days, when the sun was shining and all nature 70 BATH Eli AT SEA. Avas rejoicing in full summer time, swept yachts, boats, and sailors right away, temporarily swamped Stafta and lona, choked up Fingal's Cave, and drowned everybody generally in a sort of localised Universal Deluge. Of all this Ford-Bamly delivers him- self with winks, nods, and smiles, in the cheeriest possible manner, as if he alone had escaped to tell the tale, and simply considered himself rather lucky, and that was all. " But if going to Staffa and lona is so dangerous, what awful risks photographers must run ! " This I put by way of argument, to show that Ford-Bamly may possibly be mistaken. The argu- ment, I am aware, is not absolutely convincing, and Ford-Bamly only shrugs his shoulders and smiles, as much as to say, " My dear fellow, no one can answer for what a photographer will do." Our host here drops his pince-iiez, and observes, quietly, " Of course we are not going there in the yacht." This falls like a thunderbolt on the Composer and myself. I acquiesce silently, but Cullins the Impetuous almost jumps off the sofx. " Not in the yacht ! " he cries. " Then how " " By steamer," Melleville informs him, and then adds — " I've just been consulting the Captain, and I find there's a steamer, TJie Chevalier it is called, which starts every morning at eight, and takes people for the day's excursion." The romance of Staflfa, lona, and Fingal's Cave has all suddenly vanished, and we, the gay Yachtsmen, the bold explorers, the undaimted sailors, with our own vessel and our own crew, — that is, our host's, but the effect is the same to outsiders, — we are to become to-morrow mere Steamer Excursionists, taken with Dick, Tom, 'Arriet, and 'Arry — specially 'Arry, — at so much a-head, to "do" Staffa and lona. However, it is settled, and to-morrow we start. I take it philosophically ; any change is a little holiday for me. But the Composer is depressed. .-1 ,'SHOIiT HOLIDAY CBUISE. CHAPTER IV EXCTRSIOX TO STAFFA AND I<:»XA THE BREAKFAST THE ISLANDS THE CAVE THE PROCESS SUFFERINGS — THE RETTRX GE^■ER.^X SATISFACTION PRC»SPECTS. S) A[^ E R hearing FoitI- Bamlv's statement of all the dangers attendant upon landing at Staffa and lona — [if F.-B. had been one of "William the Conqueror's advisei-s, the latter would never have at- tempted to invade England] — on retiring to my berth, I con- sult Murray s Guide, and after a little time, so full of horroi*s is this work, with special reference to the Atlantic Ocean where we shall be to-moiTOw, that I close the book under the impression that the traveller who did this journey for ^Murray must have been a grim humorist. However, we are going, and to-morrow morning we shall be ranked among the Excui-sionists. '\Miile trying to remember whether "Wordsworth's Excursion was an account of \\ cheap trip to the Lake District or not, I fall asleep. The Day. — Up early. Steward uncommonly sprightly at 6 a.m. Evidently the prospect of getting rid of us for a whole day's Excur- sion is a pleasing one. ShaJcespeanan Mem. — " Alanmis and Excursions."' Ah ! he was not for an age, but for all time, including 6 a.m. Everybody takes a cup of something that cheers, but does not inebriate, which would be awkward at the commencement of our "outing."' "We embark in the gig. Why called "gig'' I have never yet been informed. "Which had the name first, the boat, or the one-horse vehicle ? Xobody in the gig can tell me. Melleville is steering for some steps which he can't see, and has what the novelists call " a stranc^e far-off look in his eyes." He may possibly 72 MATHER AT SEA. be conscious of my question, but he doesn't reply to it, and I remember that I must not speak to the man at the wheel. The Composer, Cullins, is cold, and in a " don't-care " sort of humour ; while Ford-Bamly tries to look as if he knew all about the origin of the term "gig," but I am convinced he doesn't, and, from the expression of his countenance, I feel sure he is making a mental note to look up the subject, and add to his stock of nautical in- formation on the very first available opportunity. We are rowed ashore and land ; and then we step along the mucky roadway — this part at Oban is invariably mucky — and go on board the Chevalier. Though it is the close of the excursionist season, the steamboat is fairly crowded. "With horror I see a German band on the quay approaching us. They are carrying their instruments of torture ; but, thank Heaven ! they give the jDreference to another excur- sionist steamer, going in quite a different direction from ours. It says much for the liberality, or the indifference, of the High- lander?, that they, who have their own beloved pipes, and their own beautiful melodies (how were these ever composed fur the pipes only 1) should tolerate the presence of German Musicians. Ford-Baml}' comes up cheerily. "Fine day," he observes, "but blowing outside." Where did he expect it to blow ? "I doubt whether landing at Fingal's Cave will be safe to-day. Pity," he adds, " if we can't get in. as you've never seen it — and it is worth seeing." " Beastly hungry ! " exclaims Cullins, shrugging his shouldere, and stamping, to get waiTn. It is an interesting psychological study to note how the lower nature tyrannises even over genius. Would an inspiration be of any possible use to the Composer at this present moment ? I will try the experimen:. I tell him what great things I expect from Stafia and lona ! I look forward to the mysterious caves, to the home of the wild sea-birds, to the melody of the mighty ocean, and I ask him if he has read the beautiful description in when suddenly a bell rings — " Breakfast, by Jove ! " shouts the Composer, and in another second he is inextricably mixed up with a crowd of famishing Excursionists, all struggling to be first down the com- panion and in at the commencement of the Scotch breakfast, for A SHORT HOLIDAY CBUISE. 73 which I find the Chevalier is celebrated, and, I may here add, justly celebrated too. It is simply astonishing what early rising, holiday time, Xorthem Scotch marine, quite ultra-marine, atmosphere can do for a man who " as a rule never takes breakfast." The Composer and Ford- Bamly are, so to speak, professional breakfast-eaters, and therefore, given such exhilarating and stimulating circumstances, there is nothing wonderful in their feats of appetite, though there is in it something of the awful and alarming. But when our host Mellc- ville and myself, whose ordinary breakftist in town is a cup of something — tea or cocoa-nibs — and a piece of dry toast, at an Stuffer and I own 'er. early hour — say eight — and then nothing until twelve, when comes the dejeuner a la fourcJiette v^hich. will stand a fair comparison with an English limcheon, I say when a couple of middle-aged gentle- men, whose regular rule of quiet morning life is as just stated, find themselves at 8-30 a.m. on board a Scotch steamer, sitting down with a crowd of ravenous Excursionists, and enjoying a meal con- .sisting of two kinds of fish, broiled ham and eggs, chops and AYorcester sauce, muffins, hot buttered cakes, oat-cakes and mar- malade, taking all these in the order as I have set them down, and as they were set down before us by the waiters, with the accom- paniments of tea and coffee, and not subsequently suffering any inconvenience, but, on the contrary, experiencing such a feeling of 74 RATHER AT SEA. tranquil satisfuctiou as makes the enjoyment of a pipe in the open air the temporary reahsation of a sort of natural beatitude whicli knows no regrets for the past, and only hopes, according to the trade formula, " for a continuance of the present esteemed favours," then it is evident that a new existence is opened out for these two men, who up to that moment may not have considered life so very much worth living, or at all events could have anticipated that this sort of living was worth remaining alive for. Xow, after this marvellous breakfast, where all but the tea and coffee is excellent, there is, as the Composer justly and sensibly puts it, something yet left to live for, and that is — luncheon ! So we sit on deck, and placidly examine the scenery which is all fiimiliar to us from point to point. The day continues fine, the Itreeze is light ; the Chevalier, actuated by the courtesy associated with the title, stops for a minute at every desolate-looking landing place, in case there should be any solitaries, who, tired of their seclusion, might like to avail themselves of this unexampled opportunity of getting away from themselves, and joining the society of their fellow men and women. But there are none ; the desolate landing-places look more and more desolate as we approach them, and in one or two instances, assume an aspect so dreary and forbidding, that the few passengers who had got their luggage ready packed and addressed to some invisible Inn in these out- landish parts, think better of their intention of disembarking, and prevent their boxes being taken on shore, preferring to throw in their lot with the happy excursionists on board the Chevalier and the goods v.hich the Chevalier has provided, to encountering the awful depression which must evidently overcome the friendless stranger landing on that sad shore. There is one exception : a very young man, in a tourist suit, with a Tam O'Shanter cap, a thick stick, two big portmanteaus, a hat-box (why a tall hat ?), overcoat, watei-proof, and rugs. He steps on to the landing-stage — I forget its name — his luggage is placed beside him ; there is no one to receive him, there is no hotel in sight, no human being, nor living creature, visible for miles, except the aged weather-beaten old man in charge of the landing-stage. The youthful exile casts a curious glance around. We see him, as the Chevalier casts off and hurries away, regarding us wistfully ; we see him (now A SROET HOLIDAY CRUISE. 75 through glasses) address the old man, but the old man only shakes his head and disappears into his hut on that desolate landing- stage. Then the last glimpse we get of this young man, a much sadder, a much wiser, and a much older young man within the last few minutes, is that he sits down on one of the portmanteaus in a liopeless attitude, and so remains until he fiides away and becomes I)art of the vanishing distance. Perhaps when we are out of sight lie will j)ut on his tall hat by way of something to do. Poor young- man ! Tobermory passed, and now, to the Composer and myself, the scene Is very soon quite new. In another five minutes we shall have turned the corner, and be in the broad Atlantic, with nothing between us and America. Cullins, quoting Murray's information, informs me that here the traveller will "probably experience, for the first time, the Atlantic swell" — or words to that effect. Ford-Bamly explains that an Atlantic swell is a sort of a peculiar roll of the big ocean wave — but that to-day it is his opinion, as an old salt, that it won't be much. Although I am not quite certain as to what he means by " much," yet this opinion, coming from Ford-Bamly, so far reassures me, that I can contemplate turning round the comer and coming on to the broad Atlantic suddenly, with comparative equanimity 76 RATHER AT SEA. Here we are. Atlantic swell imperceptible. Beautiful September 8uinmer diiy. Sun comes out uncommonly strong. Excursionists begin pointing out to one another Staffa and lona in the far dis- tance. As a rule, the person w4io has been there before, and knows all about it, points out Staffa as lona, and lona as Staffa, finally admitting that he is not certain, and that, on the whole, he does not think that those two islands, which we can just see with the naked eye in the offing, are Staffa and lona at all. Then, in spite of all the pictures, photogniphs, histories, and guide-books on board, the Well-informed Person finds himself beset by the fol- lowing questions : — Are Staffi and Tona together? If not, how far apart? To whom do they belong? Where is Fingal's Cave ? Who was Fingal ? Was he a poet ? or a giant ? or a hermit ? or a saint ? or a robber ? Didn't he write prophecies in ancient Grclic ? If not, who did ? Hadn't Fingal something to do with Ossian ! The Well-informed Person — there is always one of these superior beings on board — shows a disposition to answer the first few interrogatories in such a manner as to inspire confidence, and at once finds himself lecturing a small crowd of earnest inquirers, until, on the arrival of the boat at the promised land, he is suddenly superseded and snuffed out by the Professional Guide, to whom is intrusted the task of personally conducting the visitors. From the moment of his abandonment by the fickle crowd, the Well-informed Person stands apart, w^ith an expression of supercilious scorn for the (iuide, and of pity for the people, who are evidently, in his opinion, being misled and mis-instructed. Staffa, — Landing in boats : on the basaltic rocks. Ptocks chipped up into neatly cut black blocks, as if the Yal de Travers Co. had taken a contract for laying down an asphalte pavement, and had already sent a heap of material and left it there. Here we go, all the Excursionists in a line, 3'oung men and maidens, children, fat old women, thin old women, with the Chevaliers Guides, dressed like stewards to direct oiu- steps, doing the whole distance under a broiling sun and against time, with the oppres- sive consciousness that the Chevalier, in spite of all his politeness, won't wait luncheon for anybody, but will sit down at one o'clock [>unctually. Hurry along — push on — keep your eyes on the A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 77 rocks to prevent stumbling — a few falls — up again — on we go — evervbodT verv hot — no rest to stop and admire — for fear of being: left behind — here, round to the right, Fingal's Cave — " Is this ..?"... Yes The Composer pauses at the entrance — he is enraptured — " Is this indeed Fingal's " — but the voice of the Guide interrupts. " Pass on, please — pass on 1 " And then voices from behind^ " Now, then. Sir, get on, do, or let them come as wants to," — and the Composer, just on the verge of a glorious inspiration, is hustled along, and lost to my view as I am shoved aside by one of the stout, sweltering old ladies, carrying a basket and a big umbrella,, who, after nearly knocking me off the rocks and sending me any- how into the deep sea at the entrance of Fingal's Cave, begs my pardon, and bustles on. Yes. Fingal's Cave is grand. I pick up the Composer a little further on, and we have a few seconds' quiet to admire the view of the Ocean as seen from the Cave. Y'es, it is grand — but — " Pass along, please — time's up ! " We're the last. Where's Ford-Bamly ? Where's Melleville ? Gone back ? Yes, very beautiful — should like to see it quietly — but get on — up here — down there — round the coi-ner — look, the boats are going — how tiiey crowd them — 'tisn't safe — " Now then, Gentlemen, come a^w ! " — and blundering over the rocks, stumbling into small pools, clutching at sharp edges, and stepping cleverly down into decej)- tive hollows which are only receptacles for sea-water, we flill at last into stalwart sailors' arms, are stowed away in the broad- beamed boats anyhow, packed closely shoulder to shoulder,, umbrellas and legs and sticks all mixed up painfully together, and so we remain tightly wedged in, and hopelessly protesting against eveiything and everybody, until we are gradually unpacked again, and able to stretch our limbs on the deck of the Chevalier. Then we draw a long breath, and the Composer looks at me and I look at the Composer, and we both exclaim, " Well, anyhow we've seen Staffa and Fingal's Cave." And we agree that, in consequence of high anticipations on the strength of photogi'aphs, we are decidedly disappointed, and consider that Fingal, whoever he was, might have done much better. Ford-Bamly and Melle- ville, to whom the show is familiar, have merely strolled about- 78 RATHER AT SEA. the rocks for the sake of improving their appetites. Luncheon, which is not quite up to the breakfast mark, and tlien \\c arrive at loua. Io)ia. — Much the same performance again. Boats crowded with Excursionists, as if we were being taken in batches to be sold for slaves. We are assisted out, and with difficulty recover the use of our legs on the slippery stepping-stones. Guides ready to receive us. Little ragged children selling necklaces of shells, and shells of all sorts and sizes ; also flowers and ferns. One Guide leads the way, another acts as whipper-in, and brings up the stragglers sharply. Here is the Nunnery of St. Columba (who was slie? — an ancestress of Columbus?) — ruins — last of the Prioresses, or last of the Priors of a monastery in l-iOO. Then the Excursionists, 'specially some of the waddling Excursionists who can't keep pace with the Guide but want to have all they can for their money, interrogate one another anxiously — " Indeed ? Very curious ? " " AVhat's he say ! " " Last of the ivho / " Prioi-s — ah ! we're the pryers now — and as I do not want to be humed, and have quite lost sight of the rest of my party, I am quite "the last of the pryers " myself. Animated, or rather sootlied by mixed feelings of sentiment, reverence, and indigestion after lunch, I am lingering over the Prior's grave ; but the Whipper-in won't have it. "You'd better go on," he says, sternly, "and keep up with the Guide.'' I obey him sullenly, as the weary slave moves on under the lash of tlie driver. Then we all gather round the Graves of the Kings, as if for a funeral service, while the Chief Guide tells us, as fast as he can, how many Kings of Scotland and Chieftains occupy the small enclosure of thirty feet by eight, which we are now examining, An American Young Lady is very much interested. She sto])s the Guide as he is moving off rapidly, and says, " See here I if all the Kings and Chieftains were buried in this place, what w;\s Wallace about all the time ! " She evidently thinks that Wallace ought to have prevented this. The Guide, rather staggered, repeats her question, but is rmable to give any answer to satisfy the fair American. And he can't shake her off, though he walks on faster than ever ; and after each description, which he gives as rapidly as possible, he bolts to another part of the ruin, in order A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. Id to avoid her questioning. " See here '' she commences again, but the Guide is not to be caught. There is a Pamic Cross with an inscription, and something built by St, Martin of Tours — prophetically appropriate, for surely he, -"St. Martin of Tmtrs," must be the patron Saint of Messrs. €ook tfe Co. and of all personally well-conducted Tourists. Now the show is over, and it is time for us to stream back again, stumbling over the ruins, picking our way across the fields, and once more on the dusty road leading to the shore, where the children, becoming desperate at having done but a poor day's work in shells, ferns, and flowers, waylay us furiously with their commodities, and vainly attempt to extort coppers. Then once more we are huddled into the boats, squeezed in shapelessly, any- how, and delivered compressed, but safe and sound, to our old friend the Chevalier. Steam up — and off again. Lovely after- noon : perfect evening. Back to Olmn. Boafs crew waiting. Once more in the gig O^'^^J gl^" 0? ''^^^^ '^^ "-^^ ^'^ '^^'^ enjoying an excellent dinner, on board. Thankful to get back once more to our comfortable floating home, we dedicate our first glass of Pommery 74 to the health of Stafta, lona, and Fingal. After dinner we discuss our next move, which is to go far North to the liome of the Sea Lions, and beard them, like oysters, in their dens. 80 BATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER Y. SPORTING PROSPECTS — SEALS — NAUTICAL TERMS — IRISH NAMES PORPOISES HERRINGS CLASSIC THE SEA-SERPENT THEORIES JELLY-FISH LOTOS-EATERS CALM FRESH ARRIVAL DIS- APPEARANCE DINNER — NIGHTS — ROW ANCHORED. The Origin of Fin Ga!'c Cave. STAFF A and Ion a done. What next ? Anything— on one condition that we don't go as tourists on an excur- sion steamer. AVe take our time to consider. Our host has made up his mind. Our ultimate destiny is to some Xortheni Island where the seals make their home, where young whales are brought up by old and ex- perienced whales, and strange sea-birds do mostly congregate. Here we shall stalk the seals, gun in hand ; perhaps secure several, which we can bring home and sell for immense sums, their skins being peculiarly valuable, when dressed, to ladies (also when dressed), who affect seal-skin jackets. Porpoises, too, we may obtain ; their hides make boots and cigar-cases, that is if confided to persons who know how to convert hides into boots and cigar-cases. "What a mess I should make of it were I to try ! "What a very poor helpless sort of Robinson Crusoe I should have been ! I forget the name of the island where we are to lead this wild kind of life, subsisting on what we may shoot or catch (except in the way of drink — as we cannot very easily catch Pommery or Lanson, or another nice light champagne with which our host varies the entertainment, and which I think is called Gourlay or something like it), but the Composer, who has been once before disappointed in seal-shooting and big fishing, is delighted at the prospect, and so am I. A ^HOIiT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 81 Ford-Bamly knows the Island ^vell. "If it's fine when we're up there, it'll be difficult work getting at the seals," he says, "and if it's bad, we shan't get a sight of one. As to fetching it at all, it's a question of time, and, if the wind's unfavourable, we may be days doing the distance." He speaks nautically of "fetching" the Island. This expression takes, so to speak, the wind out of the sails of the old proverb about Mahomet and the Mountain. Substitute "Island" for "Mountain," and then the proverb nauti- cally stands, " If the Island won't come to Admiral Mahomet, R.N., then Admiral Mahomet, R.X., can tell Captain Sanballat, R.N., to 'fetch it.'" However, we are not to be discouraged, and, above all, our host Melleville is not — and he has determined on the expedition. First, though, we are to go, he says, to a place that sounds to me like " Ballyhuish." This certainly ought to be in Ireland. Bally- huish is decidedly Irish ; and there's a joyous, jiggy kind of air about the name, suggesting knee-breeches, shoes and buckles, red waistcoats, open collars, blue stockings, loose tie, mis-shaped hat, shillelaghs, short petticoats, bodices, and bare arms akimbo, which are all associated with Irish peasantry at a fair, — perhaps more on the Stage than in real life, as should be from a name beginning with Bally or Ballet-huish, — the "huish" representing the shout that Pat gives in the excitement of the national dance. I regret to find on the map that it is spelt Ballachulish, and that it is on Loch Leven. As we go along with, on the whole, a fair wind and, for the time of year, a really wonderful supply of sun, the objects of interest are more remarkable for their scarcity than any great variety. First, at intervals of half an hour between each shoal, are porpoises, whose life appears to consist in turning head-over-heels — like the dirty little boys "two wheels a penny" in streets — only that these latter do it for money, while the porpoises go on at it hour after hour, aimlessly rolling over and over, in a lazy lolloping sort of manner, as if they were monotonously humming over to them- selves the tune of the old chime, " Turn a-gain^ Wliit-ting-ton, Turn a-gain, Wldt-ting-ton I " and so on all day. Do porpoises sleep ? If so, having got in the habit of rolling over and over, they must still continue it unconsciously " e'en in their sweetest dreams." 82 BATHER AT SEA. Then we watch a number of youthful herrings, shining like silver, as they jerk themselves up with a great muscular effort au inch above the surface, and then sink back again exhausted. Very weak-minded of them to show how shining they are, as for this act of vanity they are punished by the gulls and the quackcrs, who soon show them a short and easy way of doing small fry. And not only do the glittering little fish attract the birds, but even the playful porpoise will swallow four or five of them down at a gulp if they don't get out of his way in time, and then he'll take two or three extra turns after his meal, for the sake of digestion, as if he were chuckling to himself and saying, " Capital eating, those young herrings ; capital I Over we go again ! There's more where they came from ! Over we go again ! Always take two or three rolls with my dinner ! Flop, boom, over again ! Here's a lark 1 " Occasionally we shoot at a porpoise. But he only turns over once more head-over-heels, and rolls out of the way with a sort of " Oh, don't bother me ! " movement, and disappears for a few seconds, to reappear, still doing turnovers some distance off and well out of shot. The porpoise is a living illustration of " 7/iulta revohetis," which might be porpoisely translated, " Turning head-ovcr-heels lots of times." I do not believe that any line of porpoises, no matter how numerous, nor of whales either, whatever their size, could ever have been mistaken for the Great Sea-Serpent. If I feel certain of anything, specially while in this listless state out yachting, it is of the existence of the Sea-Serpent. " Or of a Sea-Serpent," says the Composer. " Yes," observes Melleville, who has lately been reading Frank Buckland's Memoirs, " it is impossible to imagine that only one Sea-Serpent exists. Unless," he adds, correcting himself, " it is the last of its race." " You can't suppose," says Ford-Bamly, waking up and joining in, " that captains of position, crews, and passengers have all been Iving for years 1 " Then he places his book on his knees, and is off to sleep again. AVe consider this proposition silently. The Composer is presently heard to murmur to himself that A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE 83 " the Sea-Serpent wouldn't be a bad idea for a Cantata," and he disappears below, carried away by an inspiration, to the piano. But the divine afflatus doesn't take him further than the sofa, and when, on not hearing the sounds of music, I look through the sky- light, I see him stretched out fast asleep, with, I rather think, a brandy-and-soda, half emptied, by his side. Thus with him ends the possibilities of " The Sea-Serpent, a Cantata by Christopher Cullins, R.C.M." But with regard to this marine monster, we have arrived at this conclusion, that either there is somewhere a family of Sea-Serpents Oh, please, Serpent, don't speak to the Man at the Wheel !" — there is plenty of room for them in the Atlantic- — or the one occasionally seen is the last of its race gradually expiring, and coming up to the surface now and then to give a last look round before disappearing for ever. There is something inexpressibly sad in this latter theory about the Sea-Serpent. Second objects of interest are the jelly-fish. It occurs to me that we must have come to the very extreme of idleness when we are sensible of the smallest excitement from watching jelly-fish. We try to read papers, whose news is now the ancient history of a week ago : we try to write letters ; begin them and leave off at the bottom of the first page. We try to read books : futile. 84 BATHER AT SEA. Ford-Bamly is the best at this sort of thing, as he takes up a book, places it on his knees where he can't possibly see to read it, folds his arms, and goes fast asleep. When he wakes up, if he feels more than usually lively, he sets to work to plait ropes'- ends, and as this involves a good deal of plucking and pulling to pieces, the employment at first suggests oakimi-picking as a fine art. Melleville has by his side all his charts, maps, two sets of glasses,, and a couple of novels. After a while the charts weary him, he knows the route by heart, the glasses discover nothing new, the novels he has tried on the system of "one down t'other come uu;" but as most of the time is occupied in finding out where he left oft when he last looked at either of them, he too gives himself up to listlessness and torpid enjoyment of the mere fiict of existence, with the consciousness of becoming gradually hungry without the necessity of exercise. Occasionally, as in the instance above recorded, the Composer retires below, and plays the piano. This is soothing. I tell him 80 through the skyhght, and ask him to continue. Whereupon he immediately leaves off. Evidently I have interfered with an in- spiration, and stemmed, — I was going to have said "damnvd," but it does not sound polite ; so, on consideration, I will say " stopped," —the flow of genius. I betake myself to watching the jelly-fish. We try a little bottle-shooting, but everyone has become such a, dead shot that there is no variety in this form of amusement. We- are developing into lotos-eaters, when suddenly we are aware of a dead calm, and we are not yet within measurable distance of Ballachuish. There is nothing for it but to put into a bay — nice quiet little siding where we can dine — but to get there we must be towed by our cutter. To be towed by a cutter sounds like being kicked by a tailor. Present this to Mr. Dumb Crambo Junior. During the day one exceptional object of interest to us has beea from time to time the approach of a large schooner yacht, evidently bent on the same journey as ourselves. Through the glass Melle- ville has made her out to be the Norseman, belonging to Mr. Brush, K.A., who, the Captain happens to know, is on board, and, being very fond of it, probably sailing her himsel£ This will give the- A SHOUT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 85 nrtist some trouble now, as the wind has dropped. AVe are well ahead of the Xorseman, and in fact have lost sight of him. We are nearing Kintallen Bay — or some name like that — at a very slow pace, the men in the cutter rowing and singing. Oddly enough their selection of songs is not at all nautical. This present one is about " Bill was a hackney coachman rare," which is a peculiar favourite with the crew, on account of its offering nire opportunities for shouting out a rough and ready chorus at the end apparently of nearly every line, with an increased fortissimo chorus to mark the conclusion of each verse. The sails are of no use. We are being towed by the musical mariners towards the bay. "What dramatic changes there are at sea ! ScEXE I. {Afternoon up to Four.) Warm — sun — calm. Scene II. {Four and after.) Dark — cold — gusts of Ts-ind. We are in the darkness of Kintallen Bay. One light ashore ; probably cottage. We descend to dinner ; always a pleasant time. Dinner just finished ; noise on deck ; holloaing; shouting; up we go. The Xorsenian, forty tons bigger than our yacht, has arrived late, and is trying to crowd into this small bay, where we have settled for the night. Plenty of room without interfering with us or two other vessels whose lights are visible. Altercation between the Captain of oui-s and the Captain of theirs : Norseman rude, wc polite. Norseman swings round, and nearly bumps us in the most unmannerly fashion. The Norseman is not behaving well, and if it hits anything, ought to select a craft of its own size and weight, and not "A weaker vessel" like the Creusa. If Mr. Brush, R.A., is sailing himself, as I was informed, then I say, " Better throw the painter overboard," an old jest exactly suited to the occasion. But surely an artist ought to know all about canvas. Why doesn't he adorn his own sails with his own works ? On second thoughts he leaves that to the picture-dealers, who adom their sales with his works. The difficulties and dangers are overcome : it was an exciting moment ; and now we retui-n to the saloon and, oddly enough, talk about anything except nautical subjects. We discuss chiefly city matters, and financial affairs. We burst out into stories; Ford-Bamly tells some remarkable ones about America and Foreign travel ; the Composer tells his HG RAT HE B AT SEA. unique experiences of the Stock Exchange ; I narrate little anec- dotes of half-hours with the best Brokers; and Melleville enlightens us as to what it is to be a trustee. So we go on until I utterly and entirely forget that I am on board a yacht in a small bay, thousands of miles away from Piccadilly, and am only recalled to the fact that we are not in a club smoking-room by Melleville putting the end of his cigar into the ash-tray and saying, "Suppose we go on deck before we turn in." Go on deck from club smoking-room 1 No — surely — why, of course. So we go on deck, and have a last look at the Noraemajiy and wonder if Mr. Brusli, R.A., is taking it easel-y in his berth, and if he will get out before us to-morrow morning, and sincerely hope, as there appears to be rather a gale springing up, that neither of us will get loose, drag our anchors, and come whack one against the other. So hoping, we retire to bed. Night. Terrific noises. I pause in my reading — I listen — is it the anchor dragging? — if so — again — a pause — I listen intently — the noise repeated — no, it is not the anchor dragging — it is only Ford-Bamly in the next cabin to me, and he has gone to sleep immediately on getting into his berth. A Locse Sheet. A 6H0RT HOLIDAY CKUl^h. CHAPTER YI. DRAMATIC CHANGES WEATHER BALLACHULISH HOTEL — MISERY THE PASS THE DRIVER QUERIES LOCH LEVEN' STORM OFF CANNA BOCK AGEX LOLOMAX DIBDIN JUNIOR MUSIC— THE MULL — AWFUL SIGHTS — NIGHT AT SEA LAMLASH END OF CRUISE. PRAMATIC change of scene. Last night murky, this morning brilliant. We rise with the lark — or say the sea-gull — and leaving the yacht, Norseman^ R.A., in the bay, we are off to the Scotch place with the Irish name — Ballachulish. Scene I. — Fine breeze, lovely wea ther. Now we sail with the gale, &c. Scene II. — Weather beastly : gusts from the mountains. Loch Leven. — Pouring. Xo use stopping on board. " Let us land,'" Melleville proposes, '-interview the proprietor of the hotel, and get a trap to take us to see the Pass of Glencoe." By all means. Carried nem. con. Ford-Bamly says it is just'the very day for seeing the Pass of Glencoe, as it ought to be done— he speaks of doing the pass as if it were a conjuring trick —in the mist. He tells us that this is quite the rainiest part of Scotland. Does he think from his experience that there is any chance of its holding up ? No, he doesn't : in fact he is sure that the rain will get worse and worse. But what of that ? He, per- sonally, has waterproof hat, coat, and high fishing-boots, and is ready for everything. We land. The hotel may look lively in the finest weather, but now its appearance is that of highly repectable misery. A few elderly and feeble tourists are in the sitting-room, one asleep, another wandering sadly about, occasionally stopping to flatten nose acrainst the window pane, sighing wearily, while two his 88 BATHER AT SEA. elderly ladies and a very old gentleman, a party of three, are wrapped up and stowed away iu a corner, to be left there till called for, and, but for a vigilant landlord, running a considerable chance of being forgotten altogether. Patients waiting in a dentist's ante-room on a damp day present a cheering spectacle compared with the aspect of these miserable tourists. They seem to be the remains of a once large party, which had gradually dwindled away without paying the bill, leaving the feeblest, and probably the wealthiest, as security for the amount. One or two, here and there, like flies at the end of autumn, are doddering about the large sitting-room, to which not even a recently-lighted fire, struggling to look bright and cheerful in the most depressing circumstances, can impart any idea of warmth or comfort. There are also two young men in the hall, sitting mournfully among their luggage, and looking out with yearning gaze for the long-expected coach that is to take them away for ever. They are dressed in perfectly Scotch Tourist Suits, carrying plaids, water- proofs, umbrellas, and stout crooked-handled sticks for climbing. I expect to hear them say to one another, that is if they have the heart to talk at all, with rain pouring down on all sides, and everything and everybody cold, damp, and dreary, " Eh, Sandie mon, but it's jest a wee bit moist.'* So I am considerably sur- prised when the more Scotch, if possible, of the two says to his friend, in a subdued tone, " Dis done, Eugene, savez-vous a quelle heure part-il, le — comment s^appelle-t-il ? " "Ze Co-atch" suggests the other, which the first speaker accepts as coiTect, and con- tinues, " Oza' — le Coatch 2>our — " "Ze bateau?" says his friend mournfully, '^ Qui — "and then he gives him the required infor- mation. These two young Frenchmen, what could they have been when at home ? Gay Parisians ? What brought them here ? The love of travel, or the wish to ascertain for themselves if all they had heard about the Scotch climate was true ? Sad experience, Neither Eugene nor Anatole will come here again. They looked wretched enough in my eyes when I thought them Scotchmen on their own native heath, and their name Macgregor ; but now I know to what nationality they belong, they seem to me to be doubly, nay trebly miserable. Never did I see two such inilively Gauls. A SHORT HOLIDAY CBUISE. 89 Melleville informs us that the traps will return presently — ["Traps" sounds unpleasant. "Traps for Tourists" as most show-places are. But Melleville, of course, means " vehicles "1 — and that we shall have one to ourselves — not with other damp tourists — for visiting the Pass of Glencoe. The coach arrives. The two damp young Frenchmen show some signs of alacrity in climbing up on the roof. The other ^' dismal Jemmies " — I call the lot dismal Jemmies and Jemimas — come out slowly, as if suffering from cramp and rheumatism, and grumbling all the time (no wonder !) are, some of them, hidden away inside, while the weakest of all, physically unable to secure inside places, are hoisted up aloft, where the rain will finish them, I should say. Oh, the pleasures of touring ! We can have one open trap with two horses and driver. It is a waggonette ; and, wrapped up in waterproof capes, coats, and «aps, with a waterproof rug over our knees, we pack ourselves inside. Off" we go. What a day ! Rain pelting on us, and driv- ing at us ! Gusts of wind which threaten to stop the horses with a facer and to knock the driver backwards on to the rug that's over our knees. Ford-Bamly repeats, more than once, and quite pleasantly, that " This is the very sort of day for seeing the Pass." But he buries himself in his cape and sou'-wester, and not until there is a lull of five minutes does his head emerge. Melleville is the only one who braves the stoi*m, in a yachting cap, a high waterproof collar touching his ears, and his pmce-nez defying the elements. The Composer has disappeared, and admires as much as he can of the scenery through the top button-hole of his mackintosh. For my own protection I have a black waterproof, a cap of the •same material, with a curtain all round it, fastening under the chin. When thus arrayed, I look like the Black Knight (water- proofed) in Ivankoe. It is effective, theoretically ; but though it protects the ears, it strikes so intensely cold a-top, that I feel as if I were going about with a wet sponge on the crown of my head ; and as the wind will blow up between the fastenings of the cape, I find myself sitting in a system of thorough draughts ; while the stufl' being the most expensive and of the xerj lightest texture, so as to allow it to be called a " pocket waterproof," or some delusive 90 RATHER AT SEA, name of that sort, has invariably gone with a rent — like a Land- Leaguing tenant — whenever the sHghtest opposition has been offered by my accidentally treading on the skirt as I am mounting anywhere, or by my catching on something sharp — a very un- pleasant situation — as 1 am descending, say from the yacht into the gig, and so there are two or three fancy openings not included in the original bargain, and an aperture just below the middle of my back which takes in as much water as a portion of my under- coat can conveniently carry. However, we are all in the same boat — the only occasion when we are not in the same boat, by the way, but all in the same carriage — and we try to come out a» Marl' Tapleys, and be at our very best and jovialest. The driver keeps his head down, as if he were butting at the weather with his hat, and volunteers no information. Presumably, he is the guide, so being all pretty well up in our Murray's History of the Pass of Glencoe, we determine to obtain more precise details on the spot. The Composer, who thinks there is a fine subject here for a Dramatic Cantata, after carefully sheltering himself with his left arm holding a bit of his big cape as if he were afraid that the driver was going to turn round and hit him, looks up obliquely, and asks, "Isn't this where the Mac Ian? «tc." To' which the driver, slightly turning his head towards Cullins, only replies, quietly, "Aye, Sir." Mclleville sees a ruin, which must have had some connection with the awful story of Glencoe. " Is that," he asks the driver, " Is that where Hamilton, Arc, tfcc." And again the driver most civilly replies, "Aye, Sir, yes." He confirms all our guesses, which proves to us how thoroughly we have mastered the history of the place and its geography. "We drive on for some time ; asking various questions and receiving the same unvarying answer. At last it occurs to me that either the driver wants to get the journey over, and is therefore uncommunicative, or that he is not quite so well up in the subject as we are. So, when we arrive at the most desolate, and most awe-inspiring part of the Glen, I ask him, in quite a matter-of-fact tone, " Does the band play here every evening ? " He turns round sharply with a suspicious "Eh r' and I repeat the question gravely. " No," he answers, hesitatingly, regarding me askance, " No, there's no band A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 91 plays here." "But,"' I continue, as if astonished at his reply, '• how do they amuse themselves here, then 1 Aren't there any theatres, or concerts, or fireworks ? " He looks down at me over his shoulder, considei-^ awhile as if trvino- to remember whether he had ever heard of the existence of these entertainments in the Pass of Glencoe, and then he replies, slowlv, "Xo. There are no theayters ; no." Then, evidently Sir William Waterproof, the Black Knight. thinking it necessary to make a clean breast of it, and apologise for his ignorance, he turns quite round and says, ingenuously, " You see. Sir, I'm a stranger in these parts, and this is the fii-st time as ever I was here at all." He has appealed to our compassion ; he is only a servant : the hotel proprietor sent him with us, as vre wanted a carriage to our- selves. Melleville inquires, " Can you tell us whether we've seen the whole Pass, and ought to turn back ? "' " Xo," he sadly shakes his head, he had been rather trusting to us, as we seemed to know all about it. Does he know where we are now 1 Not a bit ; he ^2 RATHER AT ^EA. is humbled and cast down, and so to speak, tlirows himself on our mercy, and hopes we won't shoot him. "Has he never heard,"' iisks the Composer, coming right up on end, as it were, like a Jack-in-the-box, suddenly, and displaying the most vigorous indig- nation, " Has he never heard of the Massacre of Glencoe ? '"' No, the driver hasn't ; this is, he abjectly repeats, most abjectly, the first time he's ever been here ; but if we like he'll ask where it is (meaning the Massacre, ^vhich he probably thinks is the name of ii house of call on the road) as we go back. ^ * * ^ ^ ^ Storm increased. A heavy sea on in Loch Leven. The gig is pitched and tossed, so that we have to hold on tight when we get alongside the yacht, and the gig is shot up in the air high enough to bump against the other boat suspended on the davits, and then comes down again with a whop into the waves. We have each separately to choose our moment for being chucked up in turn on to the deck, where we are caught in the arms of the Cap- tain and First Mate. Dinner compensates for all ; and, full of Glencoe and its horrors, we drink confusion to the memory of William the Dutchman, and wish he had been the flying Dutchman, and confusion generally to the memory of everyone who had a hand in that diabolical work. Next Morning. — Another dramatic change. It is still pouring. We purpose fishing. All are dressed as Dirh Hatteraicks, when suddenly out comes sun, up dries deck, a fair wind, a lovely day. A SHORT HOLIDAY CBUISE. 93 off go waterproofs, and we are once more in ordinary costume and under weigh. To Canna, to shoot the seals. Progressing beautifully. Sud- denly the Composer comes below, and, with a disturbed expression of countenance, reports that the Captain, in reply to a question about Canna, has said that "he canna go." This is not a joke it appears, but a fact. There are nautical reasons which I am unable to comprehend ; but whatever they may be, they do not quite satisfy Melleville, who is clearly annoyed; Ford-Bamly looks- solemn, the Composer bewails his ill-luck in being a second time done out of shooting seals — by which sport I rather fancy he entertained some visionary hopes of making a large fortune, and retiring for life,— and I, taking it philosophically, begin to inspect my maps and see where I will go to instead of Canna for the re- mainder of a short holiday. The Yacht's course is altered, We are going South. I elect to be set down in Lamlash Bay, off Arran, thence by steamer to the mainland, then, via Kihnamock and Carlisle, up to London, and then by Dover and Calais to Mayence, to come down the Rhine and see how it looks immediately after a fortnight among the Scottish Isles. For one night we put up in Lowlander's Bay, pronounced Lolo- raan's Bay, which I well remember on a former occasion. The Composer had not yet T\Titten that song about Loloman's Bay, which was to have handed his name down to posterity, as Dibdin junior. He has chosen his beautiful subjects, " Loloinan's Bay,'' and the " Spinnaker Boom:' He says the sort of thing he wants — " Dibdin wrote his own words," he reminds me — is this : — "The Frenchmen {or any other people if this isn't popular) came down in terrific array, To fight with the British in Loloman's Bay— Loloman's Bay ; To fight oxu sea-dogs in Loloman's Bay." We none of us care about the introduction of "sea-dogs" and " British," but the Composer says it is only the idea of the sort oi thing required, and that the finish should be : — " The moon was full up when we got under weigh. And left all the Frenchmen in Loloman's Bay." He thinks it would do for Sims Beeves or Santley. More chance 4)4 BATHER AT SEA. fis a baritone for Santlev, as Sims Reeves seems to stick to •' 2'he Bay of Biscay " and '' Tom Boidiney The '' Sjnnnaker Boom" lie would treat heroically, thus : — He — anybody — a pirate or buccaneer, the Composer explains — " it doesn't matter who ' He ' is." "We agree that it doesn't, and the Composer recommences : — " He bounded on deck little knowing his doom, So I knocked him flat down with the Spinnaker Boom." " It couldn't be done," objects Ford-Bamly, in a matter-of-fact way. " I don't say it could," retorts the Composer. " Tm only giving you the idea of the sort of verses I want to compose for." Then he goes on : — " They buried him sadly, and wrote on his tomb, ' Just killed by a blow from the Spinnaker Boom.' " Cullins then gives us several specimens of the kind of music he will write for the song when finished. "We join in a chorus, and, having had a musical evening, all retire, humming. Sailiyig all Kight. — Beating about the Mull of Cantyre. At midnight I go on deck to see a phantom ship in full sail passing us. Strange and weird sight. It looks like three fiendish giants sailing along on the back of a monster duck, which had been badly wounded in the middle of the body, where it exhibited a bright red mark that seemed to tinge the sea as it went by slowly and silently. After this — and rather expecting the Sea Serpent to follow — I retire. But not to rest ; oh dear, no. The Mull of Cantyre says. Sleep no more ! Never was such a Mull ! No sooner am I dropping off than I hear the word "'Bout ! " — and about we go — flopping, rolling, then pitching, heaving, banging, whopping. I am nearly out of my berth : I clutch at the side. Just beginning to think that I can at last get some sleep, when 'bout we go again, and I am rolled over on to the other side. After four turns, I get up, fall out somehow, and attempt to re-make the bed. It is a struggle : but I think I have made a slight improvement. I bide my time, and then in again, holding on. No dist'.^ict notion till to-night of A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE. 95 what " taking forty winks "' meant. I never got more sleep than this graphically describes, for I never succeeded in keeping my eyes closed — the seconds of rest were literally " winks." " "Wink," I am aware, is the abbreviated form of "periwinkle," and just time to take forty winks might have come to mean, nautically, the time occupied in extracting that number of winks out of their shells with a pin — a tedious operation, which I should say would rather represent a period of forty minutes. I only wish that in this sense 1 could get forty winks. But it is impossible. We are on " short Phantom Shapes at Sea. tacks " all night, and each short tack is like a nail driven into my coffin. I make up my bed five times to-night, and on each occasion it is rather worse than it was before. I remember the proverb, " as you make your bed so you must lie on it," and appreciate it thoroughly. " Lie on it " I may, and must — but to sleep on it is an impossibility. Mull of Can tire, indeed ! It evidently can tire me ! At last, about seven a.m., I fell asleep, and dream that I am in an old-fashioned four-post bedstead : then, somehow, going through 96 BAT HEM AT SEA. no walls or doors, but merely " somehow," I am wafted through .the air, still in night-attire, among branches of trees, at which I clutch occasionally, until I find myself fluttering above the heads of some people on to an old-fashioned landing outside the room where I am supposed to be asleep in the old-fashioned four-poster. Then someone coming up-stairs, a chambermaid, I think, who holds her hands before her face, as if inexpressibly shocked, which quite astonishes me up in the air, exclaims, " How can you. Sir ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself ! " and I am about to explain tliat it is no fixult of mine that I am flying about in tliis costume, and that I wouldn't of my own accord oftend anyone's feelings for worlds, when somebody else says, " Half-past seven, hot-water, Sir," and opening my eyes, I see the Steward. He informs me that we are very much where we have been for the last five hours, but that breakfaot will be as usual. It isn't as usual, as we form acute angles to the table, and are in generally uncomfortalile and absurd positions. However, wind and tide serve our turn at last, and, about ten hours or so later than we had expected, we come to an anchor in Lamlash Bay, and go on shore to inspect that lively watering-place. Scotch weather set in : more rain, more Macintoshes, and more I^Iacmisery. The pier of Lamlash in the rain, with luggage, damp passengei-s, cattle, cattle-drivers, boat- men, and baggage, is a delightful place — specially for ladies. But, fiirewell, bonnie Scotland ! Avray to foreign shores ! >,^^_^.'. ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE, CHAPTER I. THE START— TRAINING NOTES INQUIRY MY COMPANION WAKING MOMENTS OBSERVATIONS STOPPAGE ACROSS THE BORDER EARLY WIT — SLOW PROGRESS AN OFFER — ARRIVAL EMBARKA- TION THE STEAMER LAUDATION EXPLANATION LIVE AND LARXE — THE QUAY— THE HARBOUR RECEPTION WELCOME OFF TO THE YACHT. W ITH what ail air of annoyance and reckless con- tempt one fellow- passenger always treats another fellow-passen- ger'sbag! Every man thinks that the whole carriage belongs to him, and looks upon every other per- son as a tres- passer and a nuisance. Awaking, or par- tially awaking, about 4.30 a.m. on a lovelv mornin-, I am informed, by a Guard or Porter, that we are stopping at a place called Penrith. This name having a decidedly 100 BATHER AT SEA. Welsh sound, it occurs to me suddenly that, in spite of all my precautions at starting (when, to begin with, the Station-Master's clerk, confidentially, and as a great piece of politeness, put me into the wrong carriage, from which the guard forcibly rescued me, thereby earning my gratitude and a couple of shillings), I have either made a mistake in the train, or that that part of it. in wliich I ought to have been, has gone on to my intended ilestination, and another part, with me in it, has turned up in Wales, where, as it seems to me, we are at this moment, when we should be in Scotland, or, at all events, at Carlisle. There is only one supposition, inadmissible, in all railway travelling, and that is, that the driver doesn't know his way, or has taken a wrong turning in the dark, and lost it. A stage- coach, handled by a coachman new to the road, might do this, but an engine-driver can't. We, my travelling companion and myself, examine Bradshaw. This process is always accompanied by a series of impatient ex- clamations varying in their intensity according to the difficulty of the inquiry. I cannot at a moment's notice define the precise meaning of "objurgations," — but as in the course of our Bradshaw Inquiry, we do not use very strong language, I am inclined to the opinion that, in this case, we use " objurgations," and while we are about it we objurgate freely. If objurgation doesn't mean this, it is such an ugly word in itself that it ought to. The result is that we find Penrith in something under ten minutes. Being perfectly satisfied that we are on the right route, my com- panion, who has kindly undertaken the inquiry, throws down the Railway Guide-Book with a " Confound Bradshaw .^" and reclines, with an air of utter exhaustion, at full length, on the seat. Certainly, the study of Bradshaw at 4 a.m., after a series of short snoozes, — say, as far as I am concerned, twenty spasmodic attempts at sleep, to be calculated at forty winks each, — is certainly very trying. My companion, who, like myself, is to be a guest on board our friend Melleville's yacht, and with whom I have a slight previous acquaintance, has commenced the journey by saying that "he never can sleep in a train, and hoping that, if I do, I won't snore." I assure him, of course, that I am never guilty of snoring, and should have prepared myself for a chat, with our AXOTBER LITTLE CBUISL. 101 cigar, had not my experience told me, with certainty, that, when- ever a man begins by informing me how he finds it impossible ever to sleep in a train, he is sure to snuggle himself into a com- fortable comer, gradually become huddled up all in a heap, so that at last he resembles a badly-stuffed dummy waiting to be carried about on the fifth of Xovember, the only indication of life being a persistent snore, which slowly increases in tone, until the noise, having prevented anyone else from getting a wink of sleep, suddenly reaches such a pitch of intensity as to wake the per- former himself, who, however, merely gives a discontented shrug, huddles himself up again into another helpless attitude, and in less than a minute is again sound asleep, and bringing out the second series of his highly unpopular snoring-entertainment. When he wakes for good, hours afterwards, he at once complains of the impossibility of getting to sleep when you (his unfortunately wakeful and long-suffering companion) "will make such a con- founded noise with your snoring." My companion is no exception to this i-ule, and so I try to get to sleep first ; but I make a false start, and he wins by three snores to nothing. At Carlisle, being late, — it is rarely my good fortune to travel by a train that keeps to its time, — we have only an eight minutes' wait. Evers'thing in the way of refreshment is at the other end of the platfo-m, a distance apparently of a quarter of a mile. Awaking to this fact, we run. Much can be done in eight minutes, but not everything when you have a considerable way to go there and back, when you are strange to the place, when you are on the alert to catch the slightest indication of a whistle or a bell, when you are imme- diately prepared to drop your hot coffee, cram your bread-and- butter in your mouth, chuck down any coin that comes first to hand without waiting for change, or, if engaged in a refi-eshing toilette, you will throw down the brush, put your travelling-cap on any- how (deranging your hair again), hustle on your coat, nearly assault the attendant who is civilly coming at you with a clothes- bru^h, but give him sixpence, and then, feeling as if you had brushed your hair the wrong way, and were dressed in somebody else's clothes, you run down the platform, the train having moved farther off than before, and anxiously visit eveiy carriage, until, 102 BATHER AT SEA. just as you are in utter despair of finding the right one, you see a friendly porter halloaing to you from afar off, or your travelling companion (though he is the very last person to afford you any assistance, having generally gone wrong himself, or, if right, having re-settled himself comfortably, and probably wondering what on earth can have become of you) signalling to you wildly to " come on," as if he were challenging you to a combat of two. By the way, aprojoos of "challenging," I do notice this in my travelling companion, that when he is awake there is a certain asperity in his manner as if he wanted to have a row with me. Seeing this, I prepare soft answers, and avoid any topics likely to lead to difference of opinion. In fact, not being at all certain of my man, I humour him on every point. *' Birds in their little nests agree," 8ays the poet, with remarkable poetic licence by the way, and two fellow-travellers in the same compartment ought to be unanimous. Ha2)py Thought. — Be unanimous. The consequence is that my companion appears to be better pleased, with himself, at all events, if not with me, and when once across the Border, we begin — I start it and he follows suit — with that fevered and unnatural jocosity that will exhibit itself at five A.M. — when you ought to be asleep, but can't — to attempt imitations of the Scotch brogue. We don't get much further than pointing out a labourer in the fields— (healthy work a labourer's in the fields at five a.m.— what's he doing? — probably like the early bird, catching the worm — or, still more probably, catching the early bird itself) — and saying, "Eh, Sirs, there's a mon!" or "There's a wee bit lassie ! " and we talk of a "drappit in the ee," but we don't risk taking it at five a.m. With the same forced gaiety we playfully point out to one another several Abbotsfords, a variety of imaginary birth-places of Robert Bruce ; of course we select a pig-stye, and ask " who was born there ? " the answer being '• Hogg;" and then we indicate several Burns' Monuments, and some hives as the place where the Bawbees dwell ; and then we inform each other (for les grands esprits, &c.) that a lot of natives in the field are Scots wha hay- making. After these feeble specimens of early wit and humour, the con- versation becomes desultory ; then we sleep alternately, each AyOTHEB LITTLE CRUISE. 103 waking up by turn fresh for a talk, only to find tlie other asleep, and to be annoyed with him. Gradually we feel the pangs of hunger. Then the train begins to dawdle. At the small stations they appear so pleased to see a train that they cannot make up their minds to part with it. Guard, Station-master, porters, all chatting pleasantly for awhile, and then dashing into business. The busi- ness seems generally to be suggested by the head official being suddenly struck by the idea that, as the visits of a train are few and far between, our engine, on the present occasion, may as well be utilized for the moving of a few coal-trucks. More delay. We seem to have got into a line of McDawdles. To give some sort of colour to the protracted stoppages, someone (if possible, in an official uniform, but anybody will do) opens the door, and requests to see the tickets. This process is repeated — sometimes twice over, by mistake, at the same station — once within every twenty minutes. At last a porter opens the door, and asks if w^e'U have breakfast on board the steamer (an hour hence), because, if so, he'll wire on. We hesitate. At least / do ; for, collapsing as I now am with hunger, I feel, from painful experience, that to order a breakfast beforehand on board a steamer which has to cross the sea to Ireland, may end in bitter disap- pointment, and be a waste of money. This last reason I think arises from the atmosphere of the country ; I am becoming accH- matized, anxi the first symptom is a partial exhibition of Scotch caution. It is veiy fine ; it is warm, scarcely a breath of air to move the trees ; but, as I point out to my travelling-companion, we are not going to have much to do with trees, and appearances inland are but veiy untrustworthy authority as to the real state of the case on the coast and on the sea, — and so, my companion being evidently of a hasty temperament, and the porter on the doorstep appearing impatient, the former decides, autocratically, -'Wn-e breakfast for two on board ^'— and I assent, hoping it will be for the best. At Stranraer. On board the steamer in correspondence with train,— a correspondence which, I am glad to say, is pubhshed in Bradshaw—^ljin^ between Scotland and Ireland. It is for the 104 RATH EH AT SEA. best. Excellent breakfast. First-rate lish, first-rate eggs, better toast was never crunched, and better marmalade couldn't be found anywhere in Scotland. Bravo, Steward and admirable Stewardess ! The latter when at work as stem as Lady Macbeth^ and with a brogue that absolutely so frightens me at first, that I refuse to let her take away my cup to fill it with coffee and milk ; but she insists, and I timidly yield, and she returns with it, made exactly as I want it, real cafe au lait. On no passenger-boat that I can remember have I ever met with such a possible breakfast. There is a choice of about half-a-dozen things in fish and meat — for the small sum of two shillings a head, cut and come again as often as you like. But to be just before I am generous, nay, lavish, ot praise, I should add that on no passenger-boat do I ever remember myself being so well, with such an appetite for breakfast, or (which is five points out of six in my favour) the sea so calm. I am therefore viewing the commissariat department under excep- tionally favourable conditions. One traveller, who looks like Rob Roy Macgregor badly dis- guised in a modem tourist suit, goes through the whole course, for, having to return to the saloon in the course of half-an-hour, I find him still at it in the most unabashed manner, evidently taking out his railway and boat-fare in a supply which would serve for three meals in one — tria juncta in tino — and last him the day. The Stewardess, Steward, and their assistant regard one another in an uncertain manner. He comes up on deck at last, but I don't think they can have made much out of Mr. Rob Roy Macgregor, who, I should say, doesn't often get such a chance when his foot "is on his native heath." By the way, why "foot?" Why not " feet " % The ^Macgregor was not noted for generally standing on one leg like the figure of Mercury ! And, if both feet were not on his " native heath," which one was? and where was the other? Solution of Difficulty. If one of Rob Roy's feet was in one county, perhaps the other was in Ayr. Ireland, bedad ! Ould Ireland 1 Lame Harbour. Happy Thought. — Arrange joke beforehand, to amuse them ou the yacht. My travelling-companion shall say, speaking of Lame, that he " didn't know there was such a place." To which, my reply will be, "Indeed! Well, you see you've got to Larne," or ANOTHEB LITTLE CRUISE. 105 " I always said you had a good deal to Lame," or simply " Live and Larne.'"' On second thoughts, I won't take my travelling-companion into partnership over thi^jeu de mot. From what I have seen of him when awake, I don't think he is the sort of man to be entrusted with a part in a joke. I will perfect it before dinner-time, and bring it oiit as an impromptu. This was Sheridan's plan. Histoiy repeats itself. That's why History is so dull. Some of the Yacht's crew are on Larne quay, and in a twinkling they have deposited our baggage in the gig, and in another few twinklings we have greeted our host, Melleville, the owner of the Creusa, — naturally, but unlearnedly, pronounced " Cruiser " — the men "give way" — [Hapj)y Thought. — That's why a boat's crew should be so obliging, because they're always "giving way"] — and we are now nearing the gallant schooner, Crev.sa. 106 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER 11. THE GIG — COMPANIONS DESCRIPTION — QUESTION — DISCUSSION — CAPTAIN THE MERRY ONE ON BOARD — CABIN — HARBOUR — SHEETS IN THE WIND PROPOSITION FOURTH PARTY OPPOSI- TION LUNCH — DISTURBANCE — ON DECK — ON ' SHORE — UP-HILL WORK LARNE. N THE Gig, voicing towards the Yacht Creusa. — Melleville steering, my travelling companion, whose name is Killick — I only recall it when lie is so ad- dressed by Melleville — sitting opposite to me. To put it sociably, Melleville. uur host, is in the chair, supported on either side by Kil- lick and myself. As I am imdecided whether to call him " Skipper " or '' Commodore " — an old difficulty with me — I, as a Happy Thought medium, decide to address him Ameri- canly as "Boss,"' and do so accordingly. "Boss" is an excel- lent word. This brings out my travelling-companion, Killick, of whom up to this moment I have had not much experi- ence, except when in a state of early semi-consciousness, and evincing a tendency to irritability, or hopelessly fast asleep and snoring, who has, I find, a sharp and nasty way of asserting as a positive fact anything of which he knows much, little, or nothing, which would be decidedly objectionable to strangers Avere it not for his readiness so to modify his original statement whatever it was, if either very politely questioned, or if left utterly uncontra- dicted, as to bring it into substantial accordance with the most opposite expression of opinion on the same subject. He at once ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 107 protests against my adoption of the term " Boss," and says, frown- ing, and in a hard, incisive tone, as if his voice were coming up through a nutmeg-grater — (I find afterwards that he is a sweet singer and excellent musician, and it is, I believe, proverbial that all sweet singers have bad speaking voices, though I am not sure whether the converse holds good — as if so, what a lot of undis- covered sweet singers there must be among costermongers, dust- men, cabmen, and, on the whole, practising barristers) — Killick says, shortly — "shortly" is the word, never was a happier descrip- tion of his usual manner — Killick says, shortly, " Pooh ! Not Mate and Vegetables. ' Boss ! ' He's the ' Governor.' " 1 reply, with quiet determina- tion, seeing the man I have to deal with — (how thankful I am now that he was asleep all the night when I was awake in the train!) — that "I personally prefer 'Boss.'" To which Killick replies, a trifle less shortly than before, " Well, / should say ' Governor.' " I feel it would be in bad taste, in presence of Melleville himself, to pursue the discussion further. It being a matter entirely unimportant, I yield, and address Melleville as Commodore, whereupon Killick immediately observes, as a concession, "that there is no real objection to 'Boss' — only that it is not a term used in the Navy." I agree with him again, which seems to make him quite fidgety. Five minutes' rowing brings us to the yacht. The Captain is ready to receive us. He is a stout, square-built, pleasant-looking man, with a mild-speaking voice (so many professional nautical 108 HAT HER AT SEA. men have mild persuasive voices when they are unprofessionally engaged, so that if it is characteristic of a sweet singer, — as in Killick's case, above-mentioned, which sounds like quoting a legal precedent, the well-known Killick's Case, — to have a bad-speaking voice, so it is evidently characteristic of a professional nautical person who can shout out " Belay ! " and, as the song says, " rant and roar like true British sailors," to have a peculiarly mild and pleasant-speaking voice for use in ordinary conversation. There is a bright-faced smiling young man — (he salutes us, and is as pleased to see us as is the Captain) — who at once possesses him- self of our luggage, and disappears below, whither we follow him. This bright young person is Steward, Butler, Valet, Chambermaid, all in one, equally obliging and ready in each capacity, and is the personification of the Happy Valet. We are shown to our cabins. Mine is palatial. It is situated "aft," and has the curious appearance of having been built in pei-spective. The cupboard-doors, the drawers, the lockers, and wash-stand are all slanting towards a point of sight. There is a sofa, arranged on the same principle — and everything in the cabin follows, so to speak, the same lines, so that the general arrange- ment is that of a scene on the stage, arranged to give an audience the effect of length and distance. There is a lofty skylight, and plenty of air. Each drawer is fitted with a small bolt outside, intended to be of service in rough weather, by preventing the drawer slipping out, but at present these bolts are only irritating, as they insist on slipping down just when you want to open the drawer, and, on being carefully replaced, immediately falling down again when you have got hold of the handles and have given the draw a first pull. I say "a first pull," because the drawers being, as I have observed, built in perspective, their peculiarities have to be considered. BafiSed in my first few attempts at opening one of them, I stop to consider which end is to come out first — the small or large. I try each alternately, when suddenly it startles me by coming out with a savage rush, as it were at me, when luckily it is caught by some ingeniously-contrived ledge within, and pre- vented from tumbling out altogether on to the floor, in which case I know that, unassisted, I should never get it into its place again. ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 109 The Happy Valet, or epitome of all that is useful in man, smilingly removes my bags, shows me where to put certain things in safety, where they won't fall about and be broken, " when the vessel's in motion, when it's at all rough. Sir," he adds, more smilingly than ever; and I reply, "Ah! true!" as certain remi- niscences occur to me, and I wonder if I am going to be a good sailor this time — or not ! I am sure that when everything goes wrong, when the Yacht is heeling over, when there's every chance of our all visiting the abode of that Welsh Mariner known as " Davy Jones's locker," this Young Steward, or Happy Yalet, will still be smiling and pleasant up to the last; and in fact, as a Rappy Thought^ I name him (to myself — not publicly) as Marh Tapley, Junior, and I should not be surprised at hearing that this is his real name. However, we are at anchor, and in Lame Harbour now, and it's luncheon-time, so away with morbid anticipations ! Let us eat and drink, and be happy while we can. But, dear me, these are not the sentiments with which to begin a holiday health-trip. No ! I am longing to be out to sea, to be sailing away, any number of sheets in the wind — [Query. — How did the expression arise ? Perhaps before sails were invented they used to use their sheets in this way by day, and sleep in 'em at night. But why does " three sheets in the wind " mean a state of intoxication ? Probably, because it is as much as he can carry. Then this would only apply to a comparatively small boat. This hundred-and-forty tonner can set six or eight sheets to the wind, for example. But I'll ask the Captain] — and to be going somewhere with a fair wind, a bright sky, and at the rate of so many knots an hour. My host asks me what I would like to do this afternoon ? My impulse is to reply at once, " ^Yhy, sail, of course. Start away, and sail away somewhere, anywhere, everywhere — till dinner-time, when I should like to be quiet." However, I don't say this, but suavely reply — for Melleville is himself the essence of courtesy, and a perfect host — " Oh, whatever you like — it's all the same to me " — which is a polite fiction on my part, as I am anything but indifferent on the subject. " Well," he says, pleasantly, " ^Yhat would you like to do, Crayley 1 " Crayley is the other passenger, our " Fourth Party," a thin, delicate-looking man, who changes in no BATHER AT SEA. different lights — [Happy Thought. — He might bring himself out as a natural entertainment, called " The Human Chamelion." Shan't suggest this to him, as, on a short acquaintance, he mightn't like it. Doubt if he would like it any better on a longer acquaintance] — and presents himself in various aspects, from twenty-seven up to fifty, and of whom no one ever sees more than half at a time, as he has a way of doing everything sideways, so that he is always in profile. He listens to you in profile, left or right as the case may be, as if he were perpetually trying his ears to find out which was the more useful of the two. His left eye has an easy time of it, as his right does all the work with the assistance of an eye-glass. He eyes everything sideways, screwing up the comer of his mouth, and frowning with his right eyebrow, which gives him a puzzled expression ; and when he drops his glass and gives his left eye a turn, he elevates the side of his face to which that eye belongs, and surveys everything with an air of wonderment, as though this eye was seeing it all for the first time, and was quite surprised, but still delighted with the treat. Our Fourth Party is very natt}' in dress, and very quiet in manner. Crayley says he would like to take a walk up to the Druid's Stone, or go into the town. Good gracious ! I haven't come on board the hundred-and- forty-four-tonner merely to go on shore again and take a walk to see a Druid's Stone, or visit a countrs' town. However, I am agreeable to an^-thing. Killick says, shortly, he " doesn't believe that there is a Druid's Stone." Killick is very short ; in fact, he gets shorter and shorter every moment. Crayley, examining him with a side-glance, replies quietly, "that this Druid's Stone is a celebrated one." With a view to sitting on and crushing Killick, I encoui'age Cniyley by inquiring, simply, "Is it?" *' yes," replies Crayley, turning his right ear towards me — (he is my vis-a-vis at table) — and scrutinising me naiTOwly through Ills glass in his right eye, as if he were assuring himself of my being peifectly in earnest — " yes : this Druid's Stone is men- tioned by — by — um ! " Here he drops his eye-glass for a second, and brings up his other ear to the point of attention, as though, like Joan of Arc, he were listening for " the voices " to AyOTHER LITTLE CBUISE. Ill remind him of what he is puzzling his brains to recollect. " Um !" — he goes on — "bless my soul ! — I was only reading the book the other day" — here he turns one side to Killick, then round to Melleville, and then again to me, as if he was quite astonished to find that none of us could tell him what he was reading the other day — " Dear me ! I do forget names so ! " — and here he is becoming quite annoyed with everybody — "Ah ! — um ! — well, I shall think of it presently " — as if he had given up all idea of consulting such ignoramuses as we seem to be, and was sroincr to trust to himself once more. Melleville, in order, as host, to show some sort of interest in the subject, asks, vaguely, but most courteously, " What sort of a book was it ? " " Oh," replies Crayley, with a half-turn towards him and his eye-glass up to " attention " again, " it was the well-known book by — bless my soul ! — 0, you know it." Melleville takes a small biscuit, and, out of compliment to his guest, assumes a meditative air, as if the name of the book and its author were at the present moment occupying his entire attention, Killick, who has been silent all the time, for the simple reason that he has been busy in helping himself to everything on the table, now pushes his plate away with the air of a man who is dis- gusted with life, and who, like an over-fed and rebellious Daddy Longlegs, will not say his grace after meals, rises from his chair, and says— shortly, of course—" Druids' Stones are all humbug." And with this contemptuous expression of opinion, he puts on his cap with a jerk, and struts out of the saloon ; then he is heard pacing the deck. He seems to have included us— our host and ^11 — in his sweeping assertion about the Druidical Stones. We decide, however, by three to one, KiUick yielding with a bad grace, on visiting the Druid^s Stone. We go ashore on the side opposite Lame Harbour. Our host, who seems a little nervous at this sudden disturbance, of which he had received no sort of forecast, threatening the quiet of his cruise — for he and Crayley have been yachting companions for six weeks previous to our niTival — now proposes a move on deck, to which we at once assent. So our host leads. I come next, and Crayley follows, 112 BAT HE B AT SEA. silent, thoiightfal, and with a sort of haughty bearing that clearly expresses his annoyance. He gives an occasional sniff of im- patience, as if Killick"s contradiction had got into his nose and stuck there on its way to his brain. From the summit of the hill, a gentle ascent made under a hot sun which has come out to remind us that Summer is not dead yet, we obtain a good bird's- eye view of Lai-ne itself, a veiy rising place, as every town ought to be when situated in a valley, if, that is, it has aspirations as lofty as its surroundings. In a few years' time Lame will be creeping up its own hills. On a strip of land near the harbour there are some very modem -looking villas, and a solemnly grand Hotel, which have the air of being a little in advance of their time, and to be patiently waiting the arrival of the residents and visitors, who so far h.ave disappointed them. But as the old song says, " There is a good time coming, boys," and our Lamed friends can afford to " "Wait a little lonerer." ==^>? ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 113 CHAPTER III. LARXE — ASHORE NOTES XAUTICL'MURE — CHARACTERISTIC — THE DRUIDICAL REMAINS DISCUSSION DISPUTATION DRUID'S ALTAR ALTARCATION PRIVATE INFORMATION DISQUISITION A NOD — CONSIDERATION CURIOUS TRADE RETURN — > RE-EMBARKATION. i T IS difficult to realise that we are in Ireland. The few natives we meet speak with a decidedly Scotch accent. They are politeness itself, and, judging from my very slight acquaint- ance (of twenty minutes' duration) Avith a resident former, I should say that each of the in- habitants, if they resemble this gentle- man, would leave even our host him- self very little chance of winning the prize for courtesy and hospitality. The superior residents on the coast here seem, as far as I can gather in the above- mentioned space of twenty minutes, to be partly engaged in farming, and partly interested in some sort of shipping trade. For example, this ftirmer, a considerable landed proprietor here, is walking about his fields, watching his men at work, and, at the same time, keep- ing a bright look out for one of his trading vessels which ought to have arrived by now. He tells us of other farmers in the district equally interested with himself in the shipping trade. From this 114 BATHER AT SEA, I expect to see other farmers posted about on the hills with telescopes, — a reaping-hook in one hand, and a binocular in the other. Their business is divided between sheep and ships, tilling and tillei-s ; in fact, they seem to be Nautical Agriculturists, or to coin a mixed term, " Xauticulturists." Happi/ Thought. — It was these people who invented the expres- sion "ploughing the seas." Occasionally, when a labourer comes up and addresses his master, always most respectfully, I remark a slight admixture of Irish brogue, as evident yet as subtle as the flavour of shalotte in a craftily-prepared salad. The man touches his forehead where the brim of his hat ought to be, and wants to know something about what's to be done to the walls of an outbuilding. " They're ju..: to be whitewashed," says our friend the farmer. "That's just what I told 'urn. Sir," returns the man, emphati- cally ; " but they're waiting to know what colour ye'll have it whitewashed." No one enjoys this more than the master himself. After a good deal of dawdling, we aiTive at the Druidical pile. This sounds like the name of a new sort of carpet. I say this to Crayley. He appears hurt, resenting the observation as a slight on himself and the Druids. Of coui-se, Killick laughs. If Killick had been annoyed, Crayley would have laughed. Our host pre- serves a placid expression of puzzled neutrality. The "pile" in question consists of one huge block of stone, supported by four huge blocks. That is all. Our host says, " There it is ? " as if he had expected it to have gone away before we came. Crayley puts up his eye-glass, and, with his head very much on one side, regards it with admiration and awe. " This," he says, speaking more to himself than to us, as if he were two members of an Archreological Society, and one was giving the other a confidential lecture on the subject — " This," he says, in a tone of melancholy reminiscence, " was an altar, on which the Druids used to offer up human sacrifices." He is very sad over it, as though he had been present under compulsion years ago at one of their festivities, and had regretted it ever since. We all regard the Druidical pile with pathetic interest. I feel ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 115 that if we only remain here long enough, we shall yield to a Druidical impulse, join hands, and gravely perform some solemn impromptu dance round the Druids' altar, which, by the way, is situated only a few yards from the drawing-room window of our friend the Nautical Farmer's house, a building quite in keeping- with the mixed character of the owner's business ; as, but for the undeniable farm-house surroundings, it might be easily mistaken for a Coast-Guard station, especially as there is an old painted hgure-head of a ship fixed up, as though keeping guard near a side-dcor. Killick breaks the silence. He simply says " Bosh ! " " What is ' bosh ' 1 " retorts Crayley, inquisitorially. He is looking away from Killick, and apparently addressing some being in the air who is not quite so invisible as to escape the penetrating power of his ej'e-glass. "Why, this," says Killick, nodding his head towards the Dniids' Stone. " It's no more a Druids' altar than I am." "It has been here for thousands of years," replies Crayley, more in anger than in sorrow, though there is just a tinge of the same sad, regretful tone which had characterised the first part of his archseological lecture ; " and how the stones could ever have been placed in that position, except by some superhuman force, is a puzzle to everyone." "Bah!" ejaculates Killick, sniffing disdainfully. "I dare say the farmer and his men placed them there themselves." " Oh ! I can hardly think that," says our host, in his most con- ciliatory manner. " You see they are exactly opposite his front- door." "No accounting for taste," returns Killick. " Why, he's got the old figure-head of a ship there ! Look ! " " There is a family history attached to that ; I heard it from the proprietor himself," observes our host, quietly, as if Killick was now venturing on delicate ground, and he, Melleville, was the Nautical Farmer's family solicitor, entrusted with aU his secrets. Our host informs us that there is more than meets the eye in this old figure-head. It reminds me of a timber-yard near either Vauxhall or the Suspension Bridge, I forget which, where there used to be, and perhaps where there still is, a collection of these I 2 116 HAT HER AT SEA. curious old figure-heads, secondhand, I believe, and I can't help wondering if the Nautical Farmer had fallen in love with one of them, and brought it away with him to Larne, as a memento of his first visit to Loudon. Happy Thought {for a ballad). — The Farmer and the Figure- head. Killick only sniffs, and I ask, being tired of shore, if it wouldn't be as well to return to the yacht ? When I come out to yacht for a few days, I count every moment on shore (except when in search of provender) as so much time wasted. I can always be on shore, but I can't always be at sea. Melle- ville can be where he likes, so can Cray ley. Killick is engaged in some mysterious business, the exact nature of which no one, not even his most intimate friends, has been able to ascertain ; but our host informs me, apart, that it is something that keeps him constantly going about in underground railways, and coming up suddenly, like a demon sprite in a Pantomime, out of various subways at diftercnt points of the London suburbs. Somehow, the Boss surmises, as Killick is specially busy just before Christ- mas time, that it is some trade connected with the manufacture of cracker-bonbons, and he is not quite sure that it isn't the printing of the mottoes to the crackers, and perhaps writing them, too. " It must, you know%" concludes Melleville, who was a Wrangler of his year at Cambridge, and a great hand at abstruse calculations — "It must be a very lucrative business, as, if you consider the population of London, and the demand for crackers and bonbons, each of which must have a motto, you can soon arrive at what his labour must be, what an industry it is, and what a fortune it ought to bring in." *'Then," I conclude, "Killick is very rich." " Well — not exactly very rich," replies our host, considering the problem, and pausing as he solves a few equations {x representing Killick's income) — " No," he goes on decisively, having evidently settled the equation to his own satisfaction — " Xo ; you see there's such a competition in crackers and motto bonbons. Still, he's very well off. A very nice fellow, — with his peculiarities," he adds kindly, to which I respond with a deliberate nod. Asking myself afterwards what this delil^erate nod meant, — for I was conscious ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 117 of meaning a great deal by it, if I could only put it into -^ords, as Fi(f did Lord Burleigh's, — I come to the conclusion that my nod was intended to express a compassionate feeling on my part for the unfortunate Killick's "peculiarities," which I take to be "failings." My nod implies a compliment also to Melleville as being free from Killick's peculiarities ; in fact it is complimenting him on nrA being Killick, while at the same time it recognises our own moral and intellectual position, Melleville's and mine, as superior to anything which anybody with Killick's feelings can attain . . . and so, on the whole, my nod of assent to Melleville's remarks must be the result either of idiotic self-complacency, or of the consciousness of moral superiority. Which? The latter for choice. " But," adds Melleville, after a short pause, as if he had been revising his opinions for publication, "he has a very nice voice, and understands music thoroughly." From either a self-complacent or morally superior point of view, I have no diffi- culty in admitting so much in Killick's favour, and again I assent with a deliberate nod. Melleville pauses a minute, and then, looking round to see if " the subject of the present memoir " is anywhere near, — but he isn't ; he is descending the hill and having a contradiction match with Crayley, — Melleville adds, " He writes the words of songs himself occasionally, and publishes them." " Good words ? " I ask, accidentally giving the name of a maga- zine. (Fancy a song of "bad words " only ! !) " Well — pretty well," replies our host, assuming an air of fairly indulgent criticism. " You know it doesn't much matter what the words are to songs, as one seldom hears them ; but it so happened that I read two or three, and I couldn't help being struck by their strong resemblance to the style of the mottoes in the Christmas crackers. And that's why " But here Killick and Crayley join us. They are serious and silent. Killick is whistling to himself, evidently for his own private delectation, and Crayley is humming. There has been evidently a difference of opinion. The drop-curtain, to put it dramatically, has descended on some sort of a situation, and this humming and whistling is the music in the entr'acte. We all proceed, over very slippery sea-weed, to re-embark in the gig. 118 BATHER AT i^EA. CHAPTER IV. STILL AT LARXE — DIFFICULTIES — HUMMERS GIVING WAY — SERMOX- ETTE— GALLANTRY — BATHING — DISCUSSION — SWIMMING ACRO- BATIC CARPET — CONSIDERATIONS— QUESTIONS — DECEPTION — IN THE VASTY DEEP — DOWN DOWN — UP — UP — ONCE MORE ON DECK — PROSPECTS — DINNER — EVENING — PROMISE OF A START — ANTICIPATING DELIGHT N C E ii- Liain ill the gig, beinj rowed from shore to the Creiisa. Killick ;iiid Crayley h:ive evidently not liad it out yet about the Druid ical Re- mains as they came down the hill. Killick, who is of a volatile turn, and to whom a jjcriod of more than three minutes of unbroken silence becomes irksome, begins humming. Perhaps it is the sequel to the air he was humming when we re-embarked. His hum has not about it the drone of contentment which makes some hums sound like a gentle purr, but it assumes an air of defiance as he gives it out with his lips closed, and with his nose in the air ; indeed, it strikes me that, as it is performed lovche ferme'e, somewhat after the manner of the Sailors' Chorus in L^ Africaine, it would be more correct to describe it as with the air in his nose, — and both descriptions are equally true. His chin is at a considerable elevation, so that, as he looks about him sharply, it seems as if he were challenging anybody within hail with a " Hum-if-you-dare " kind of tune. Crayley, AXOTHEB LITTLE CBUISE. 119 with his back turned to Killick, as much as his sitting position in the boat will permit, does not explicitly accept the challenge, but sets up, so to speak, a little quiet droning business, consisting of disjointed scraps of melodies, which he doesn't take the trouble to connect even as a medley. The effect is irritating. It is difficult to interfere and say, " Don't hum," and the only way appears to be to start an opposi- tion. If I do this, it occurs to me that our host will be tired of the whole lot of us, and will receive a telegram recalling him to town immediately on business, which will necessitate, so he will tell us, his giving up his yachting this season, and then, when the present party is broken up, he will start afresh with new and more p'iable materials. Happy Jliought. — Don't hum. Killick, stopping short, says decidedly, as if he had had a private and confidential inspiration on the subject, "We shall have a fine day to-morrow." " Why 1 " asks Crayley. At all events, the humming is over, but Cray ley's "Why?" is uttered in just the manner which Killick is sure to resent. "Well," replies Killick, in a tone implying that the meteoro- logical evidence for his previous statement is so clear as to be irresistible to any but a born fool, I feel that his tone does convey all this,— "Well, just look at the sky." Crayley is looking at the sky through his eyeglass sideways, and his other eye is round the corner, down indirectly, but certainly, on Killick. A guttural inarticulate ejaculation, which might be a compliment from a Fiji Islander, but is uncommonly like an insult from a member of a civilised society, is the only answer he deigns to give. I think if our host, who continues to appear entirely absorbed in his steering, could only pitch them both overboard to finish their differences in the water, he would gladly do so ; as it is, he only, shouts earnestly and cheerily to the crew, "Give way, my men !" as if encouraging them to reach the ^•acht as quickly as possible. But what excellent advice (which we are so constantly hearing, and on which I have before remarked) to both Killick and Crayley, and not only to them, but to all 120 RATHER AT SEA. obstinate argiiists, to " Give way, my men," — for the more you give way, the easier and the pleasanter and the quicker is the progress, each minding his own business, and all " giving way " together. Happy Thought. — The above is quite a little Sailors' Sermon. Good title for book, ^^ Sailors' Sunday Sermons. 2i'ow on Sail." " Safe to be fine," says Killick, shortly, apparently settling the weather, but really provoking further discussion. "Much more likely to rain," says Crayley, disdainfully. " Xot a chance of it," retorts Killick. Double retorts are dangerous things. " I should say it was sure," retorts Crayley. " Way enough ! " shouts our host to the crew, as we glide up alongside the Creusa, and then he adds, with an air of great relief, which, whether on account of having stopped his guests at a dangerous point, or of having brought us up safely without bumping the yacht, I can perfectly appreciate. " Now, then, take care how you get out." Killick is first up the companion, and quickly, too, as if he sus- pected some sinister intention on the part of Crayley, who, how- ever, waits till the last but one, the last being always the Com- modore himself, that is, Melleville, who always acts on the principle of sticking to the ship or the boat, whichever he may be in, until he has seen everybody safely ofl^". True gallantry is the mark of a British Sailor, whether professional or amateur. We are received by the Captain, who cheerfully salutes us individually, as much as to say, " Glad to see you back again, Gentlemen ; was afraid you wouldn't return safely." " Now," says the Commodore — it is settled that that is Melle- ville's title — " Now, what would you like to do 1 " I should not be surprised were Killick to take off his coat, and reply, "Fight ! " but he doesn't, and only says, " Bathe." As this will evidently be a cooling process, the Commodore assents at once. So do I. Crayley, however, remarks that it is not the sort of bathing he cai'es for, and therefore will not join us. ANOTHEB LITTLE CRUISE. 121 "Why," Killick remonstrates, but not gently, always prO' vokindy, "this is the very place." " I dare say it is, but not for 7?ze," answers Crayley, contemplat- ing the sky. *• He likes bathing at Boulogne," exclaims Killick, turning to us, " I know what he likes — beginning in two inches of water, and then boldly venturing out into a depth of at least four feet. Ugh ! " — and he pretends to shudder at the idea. " Well," replies Crayley. evidently nettled, " I don't see why I shouldn't prefer Boulogne — though you haven't got the right pro- nunciation, by the way — especially as I have not suflBcient con- fidence in my swimming to plunge into deep water." " What, can't swim ! Good Gracious ! fancy not being able to swim ! ! " and with this exclamation, which seems to express that this deficiency in Crayley's education makes any further conversation with him a condescension, Killick disappears below. Melleville pours oil on the troubled Crayley, and highly com- mends him for his prudence in not jumping into deep water, when he is uncertain as to whether he will ever come out again. " Exactlv so," says Crayley, quite pleased with himself. His estimation of Melleville as a clever man has evidently risen immensely in less than a minute. " What's the good of my drowning myself for the sake of a swim ? " We both agree that he is quite right, and that so, inferentially, Killick is absolutely wrong. This verdict of the Court, Melleville and myself, satisfies Crayley, who, as it were, gives us his blessing, and bids us bathe and be happy. We descend, and presently all, except Crayley, reappear as acrobats ready to perform the Bounding Brothers, an idea that is materially assisted by the Captain ordering one of the men to put down a square bit of cai-pet for us to stand on when we come out. Only drum and pandean pipes are wanted to complete the picture. Crayley is good enough to observe that he envies us ; " the water," he says, "looks so delicious, he wishes he were going in." " Do ! " says Killick, who at the last moment seems as if he were taking a view of the sea very different from what he did a quarter- 122 BATHER AT SEA. of-an-hoiir ago, or he would not suggest that his antagonist should do anything which would promote his enjoyment. The fact is, there is all the difference between the sort of dreamy meditation in which, when you have got your clothes on, you regard the delights of bathing from some such coign of 'vantage as the shore or a deck, and the contemplation of the same water when you have no clothes on, and are at such close quarters with it as to practically make your immediate plunge an imperious necessity. It doesn't look a half, nor a quarter so attractive to 3^ou when inidressed as it did before you took your things off. Tlicn the blue sea seems to invite you with a rippling smile, say- ing. " Come in I take your boots off, ]) " — which, as being personal, ho resents, and returns to his berth as if he had made a mistake in the day, and had determined to go to bed again, till things had taken a more favourable turn, and the world generally was read}'- to receive him. Subsequently, having finished my toilette, I open my door, and come suddenly and quite unexpectedly on Killick, or rather nearly over Killick, who appears to be rising out of the floor of the passage, as if he were a Merman who had worked his way np through the keel with a message from the sea. He cries out, in an angry but frightened tone, " Here I Hi ! Take care ! " as I exclaim simultaneously, " Why, what the " when I see what it is. He is taking a bath, and the baths on board the Creusa are not in the cabins, but in the passage ; I apologise, — which has no softening effect on him, as I hear him grumbling till he begins sluicing, sighing and groaning like a man under torture, — and then I step over him, and go up the companion and on deck. ^ ^ ^ -^ ^ It is lovely, and we are sailing gently along, with wind and tide I should say. Everybody is happy. The Captain salutes, and AX OTHER LITTLE CBUISE. 127 takes a very cheery prospect of the weather. The Man-at-the- Wheel is smiling ; the men in foke'sel are lounging and chatting. They have finished their morning's work, and so straight is to be our course that no tacking, no " going about " will be required. The Merry Young Steward comes up the companion to infirm me of the congenial readiness of breakfast. This information he- gives in his own peculiar way. The Merry Young Steward, or Mark Tapley Junior, as I have already christened him, is, when oa board, nothing if not nautical ; but being nautical, he is every- thing. Although only gifted by Nature with a pair of hands, he- is always ready to lend one of them whenever and wherever it is required. The more work he has to do the better he does every bit of it, the happier he appears, and the more time he seems to- have on his hands for fishing, pulling and hauling at the ropes, mending clothes, cleaning the rifle, attending to the lines, arranging- the flowers (he has a good eye for colour), polishing up everything, and coming out in several different costumes, Yalet, Cook's Assistant, Butler, Sailor, Waiter, Steward, in the course of the day. As the Jate Mr. Robson used to say, when, in the Farce of Catching a Mermaid, he sang ^^ The Country Fair,'' "Oh, he's a w-o-o-o-nderful b-o-o-oy I " He announces each meal with a cheery "Breakfast is under weigh. Sir," or " Dinner or Lunch " — as the case may be — " is under weigh. Sir ! "' This morning, at breakfast, he comes, with a beaming countenance, to inform his master that '* he must take in a reef in the butter," as from some accident or other, our supply of this article is limited. We don't grumble, we don't look serious, we don't complain, but- such is the eflect of Mark Tapley Junior's cheeriness, we all become- suddenly quite mirthful and ready to scream with laughter at the- prospect of short commons in this direction. If he had announced to us, on returning from some foraging expedition with an empty basket, that the island where he had been was a desert, that there was no land within three days' sail even with the most favourable breeze, and that our provisions were reduced to a backgammon board and a cruet-stand, and that starvation (he would put this, in his brightest and happiest manner) was imminent, we should all cheer up, and even feel that we had had rather a satisfactory 128 BATHER AT SEA. meal than otherwise. So we assist with a will " in taking in a reef in the butter," and make up for the deficiency with, as Tapley Junior suggests, "double rations of marmalade." If all meals on board a yacht, while in motion, could be like this, then yachting would be perfect. It is the very poetry of motion ; but oh, when the prose comes, or when the poetry becomes a little uneven, and then gradually eccentric ! The breakfast passes off pleasantly, all having been put into excellent spirits by the Men-y Young Steward, and Crayley doesn't •contradict Killick more than half a dozen times on as many rsubjects, and we saunter on to the deck to enjoy the morning, wliich we all agree is heavenly. Our host smiles benignly and ^vith becoming modesty, as if deprecating anything like a compli- ment on our part being addressed to himself in grateful acknow- ledgment of the magnificent state of the weather. Some hosts invariably take to themselves their guests' hearty commendation of the weather, and reply to any remark on the beauty of the day, in an off*-hand way, with " Yes, isn't it ! " their tone being that of men with special privileges who can afford to pity such ordinary people as are compelled to put up with any sort of weather they •can get. Yet even Melleville, seated rcposefully, admits that "it is certainly very pleasant," and evidently wishes us to understand that this is nothing to what can be done in the way of fine "w-eather when we're out yachting with him." "Where are we 1 Lame has vanished. But there are coasts left and right. The Commodore will explain. Tapley Junior brings on deck a chart, in which all the sea is marked like land in an ordinary map, so that, after sailing about with my index finger from point to point for ten minutes, I give it up in despair, and prefer being instructed by " One Who Knows." Killick and Crayley are at loggerheads already as to where we are. The former is positive that Ireland is on our left and Scotland on our right, while the latter is certain that the situation is exactly the reverse. We are perpetually referring to maps, and asking each other, " Where are we 1 " " Which is Ireland ? " " Which is Scotland ? " " Where's the Isle of" — whatever it may be, and so forth. This leads to discussion and contradiction. Xow, what a waste of time AXOTHEE LITTLE CEUISE. 129 and trial of temper would be avoided if along the shore, wherever practicable, notice boards were stuck up, with " Ireland," or "Scotland,"' or "England," as the case may be. How useful to ships from everywhere ! All the Islands should have boards up with their names on them. Railway Stations have the names up ; streets have ; why not bays and creeks, and gulfs and the entrances into seas ] Why not at the comer of an island have a board up, with " This way to the Atlantic ?" and so on. However, we take our information from Melleville, who, with- out the aid of the chart, knows all about it, — is acquainted with the names of the islands, the swifts, the shoals, the rocks, and so forth, but prefers to point them out on the chart, for the sake of practice, and for satisfactory corroboration, in order to prevent dispute. Killick and Crayley discover that they were both right, as each declares he had meant exactly what the chart shows is really the geography of the place. It is wonderful what a collection of books has been brought on board by everyone. The library is considerable and varied. To account for this we explain to one another that, as old hands at this sort of thing, we know how difficult it is to amuse oneself during a calm, and in general what a first-rate opportunity for getting through novels, or, in fact, any sort of literature yachting affords. Every morning after breakfiist, therefore, we appear on deck, each with his book. Our host has one of Daudet's novels, Crayley one of Boisgobey's, Killick has laid in a stock of cheap novels, bound in illustrated covers, evidently intended to attract the Public in the same way that a work of Art outside a booth at a fair, or a theatrical picture-poster on a wall is intended to attract, and with about as much truth. Killick doesn't profess to know the names of the books, or of the Authors ; he has gone entirely by the pictures, and has picked them out of a "job lot," marked "reduced to a shilling." One of these — a different one every morning — is always in his hand. His method of reading, when he does read at all, for he has a rifle by his side and a pouch of ammunition, and is perpetually on the look out for all sorts of sea- fowl, guillemots, divers, gulls, whales, and porpoises, all being game that comes in sight — his method of reading is to examine 130 BATHE B AT SB A. all his books — reviewing the outsides — in order to see which picture is the most sensational (he forgets them from day to day durino: the first part of our trip), and then, having made his selection, he appears on deck in a soft, shapeless, neutral-tinted hat, a retired Ulster of a curiously variegated pattern, showing three inches of flannel "trouserings," as the tailors call them professionally, a pair of deck-shoes, carrying the novel in one hand, the rifle in the other, and a pouch of cartridges slung over his shoulder. The next part of his performance, for he can't settle down to reading at once, is to look all round to see where we are — this we all do whenever we come on deck, no matter when it is, during the day, and no matter whether we are sailing, becalmed, or in harbour, there being always a sort of instinct, even in the two last-named cases, that we may have drifted, or got away somehow ; and, indeed, I notice that the Salts themselves, the very oldest and most experienced among them, invariably come on deck as if they'd just awoke from a long sleep, and look about with the puzzled air of men whose eyes are not yet accustomed to the light, and whose first words will be, if they speak, "Where are we now, eh?" — and Killick being no exception to the rule, though, of course, each man has his characteristic way of looking about him, and Killick's is one of annoyance, as he scans the scenery frown- ingly, with tightly-closed lips, and his hand clutching the rifle, as if ready to deal out destruction even to the landscape itself, and put a hole in it, as if it were a panorama painted on canvas, if it isn't exactl-y to his taste. Having expressed in a single grunt liis general dissatisfaction with everything, and, so to speak, turned up his nose at Nature for presenting herself under such an aspect to him on that morning when he had clearly expected her to have something quite diff'erent ready for him, — as, if it is nothing but sea, he wants land ; if in sight of land, he wants it to be all sea ; if we're among islands, he complains of the monotony of the view, and so forth, — he deposits his rifle and cartridge-pouch on the seat by his side, and then opens his novel. As he has by this time forgotten what the picture was, he has to refresh his memory and fiharpen his appetite for perusal by a reference to the cover, and then the fourth part of the process is to turn over the pages, one ANOTHEB LITTLE CRUISE. 131 nt a time at first, then three or four rapidly, then in handfuls, until his attention may be arrested by some description that tallies Avith the sensational situation depicted on the outside. If he succeeds in finding this within the first ten minutes, he will either settle down to that page, or he takes its number — treating it like a cabman with whom he has had a dispute — and, his attention perhaps being distracted by the harsh quack of a sea-fowl, or being impelled by a sudden impulse to kill something, or, at all events, to try to, he jumps up, seizes his rifle, loads it, and peers about to see on what object he can wreak his intentionally terrible, but practically impotent, vengeance. When I say " prac- tically impotent," this is only tme when he aims very carefully at anything; but if he takes a hap-hazard pot-shot, there is no knowing what, or whom, within a hundred yards, he may not kill Fortunately, in sailing among the northern islands we are never €0 close to shore as to render his shooting at a duck positively SA\4. stay here any time or not. Whereupon Killick describes this as ^' an Oban question." Crayley looks as disgusted as Dr. Johnson might have done if Boswell had ventured on such a, Jen de mot. AVith great alacrity we go ashore to take exercise, make in- quiries at the post-office, Avander about and look at the shops, and ^jubsequently dine at the hotel. It is quite a novel sensation to the toy-shop. There are dolls, carts, wooden soldiers, tin sailors, comic white rabbits playing tambourines, baits for fishing, conjuring tricks, tackle, walking-sticks, books, puzzles, stationery, magic-lantems. and nothing, except some toy musical instruments, such as drums, trumpets, and musical glass boxes, to suggest that a pianoforte- tuner is anywhere on the establishment, unless the man behind the counter is himself of that persuasion. But he doesn't look it. He hasn't got a tuning face. Ay OTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 145 Crayley undertakes to conduct the negotiation, on condition that Killick doesn't interfere. KilHck confides to me his opinion that Crayley is '• sure to make some muddle of it." Crayley commences the business he has in hand by inquiring the price of fishing-tackle. From this by easy stages up to musical toys, without buying anything, he is about to arrive at the inquiry as to a pianoforte-tuner, when Killick, no longer to be repressed, cuts in with the question point-blank. Crayley, thus intermpted, stares at him sideways, through his eyeglass, as if he had never seen him before in all his life, and were resenting the impertinent interference of an utter stranger. The Proprietor of the Shop doesn't know where the tuner is at present. As far as I can make out, he is either on a tuning voyage, calling in at the different islands and tuning the pianos of the inhabitants, or he is on the same errand inland, and is touring about tuning everywhere, and restoring harmony generally. When he will be back there is no knowing. He is absent at present, and it may be for years, or it may be for ever. There is not another pianoforte-tuner to be found at this minute. There may be others, but the Proprietor of the Shop, and, presumably, of the pianoforte-tuner, is not aware of their existence. However all that can be done, politely intimates the Shopkeeper, shall be done, and if, in the meantime, we can console ourselves with some newly-invented spinning-bait, or a book of views of the country (where the pianoforte-tuner has gone), or anything in the toy-line, — why, there is an almost inexhaustible store at our disposal. We thank him, linger over a few toys, inspect a brown horse on wheels dubiously, and gradually retire. That Toyman will not bless us : but perhaps he will make up for our want of enterprise in sticking it on to the Tuner's charge, should he ever appear, which is of all probabilities the most improbable. Further inquiiy is useless. We give up the pianoforte-tuner and return to the ship. Here we find Melleville. He has Pilot on the brain ; and he has rather a headache in consequence. He is evidently much bothered and anxious. The Captain seems a bit fidgety. So we say nothing L 146 RATHER AT SB A. about our search for a tuner, and, after sympathising with Melle- ville, we descend to our cabins. There is a gloom over us. If the Pilot doesn't appear, we shall remain here ever so long ; if he does, we are off at once. The Commodore has issued orders to this effect, and the Captain, who is a man of few words, and always ready to make himself agreeable and useful, cheerfully assents. The Captain, it appears, is not personally acquainted with the Pilot who is to come aboard at some time or other. Melleville has not seen him ; he is taking him on trust ; and, as he tells us, in all his experience of yachting, he has never yet had a Pilot on board. I am reading Clarissa Harlowe, Vol. 11. (latest edition), and beginning to think that that smug old Mr. Richardson, Author and Tunbridge-Wells Shopkeeper, must have had exceptional views on the best way of inculcating morality, when a noise attracts my attention. A boat is alongside ; and I catch the sound of Melle- ville's voice welcoming some new arrival. I tumble up the companion to see what is going on. The Commodore is speaking to a respectably-dressed man of a rather nautical appearance. He catches sight of my head, and beckons me to him. " Just pay the cab, — I mean the boat," he whispers to me ; " it's the Pilot. I'm going to have a talk with him." And so saving, he takes the nautical-looking person down the companion, showing him every possible attention ; for, as Melleville has explained to us all before, — and this is, now I come to think of it, what has contributed to his nervousness and anxiety on the subject, — a Pilot is a sort of Master of Arts, so to speak, of his craft. He is obliged to pass an examination, he has taken his degree, and he holds a rank which temporarily places him, when on board a ship delivered over to his control, above Owner, Cap- tain, Admiral, or anyone ; and of course, though paid by the week, and his fee or lionor avium, so Melleville politely puts it, being exceptionally high, he has to be treated as an Eminent Expert. Knowing that these are our Commodore's opinions as to the status of a Pilot, we all bow to his decision, and are prepared to imitate our host's example. First, then, I pay and dismiss the boatman who brought him. ANOTBER LITTLE CRUISE. 147 The Boatman asks if he sha'n't wait 1 " Certainly not ! " I reply, as I know that the Commodore's orders are to "sail at once," and already the Captain has given the word, and the anchor — only one out, and at no great depth — is being weighed. It is all being done with a will, and as we are taut and trim and "ready, aye ready!" for sailing, literally at a moment's notice, it will be less than half-an-hour before we are actually off. A nice breeze is springing up, which will take us away ; and the Pilot's duties will not begin until we are well outside, and shaping our course for Tobermory. "We enter the cabin one after the other. Melleville is talking with the nautical-looking man, and a decanter of sherry and glasses are on the table. "We have no formal introductions from Melleville to the nautical person, but the latter acknowledges each one of us with a sort of polite inclination as we drop into the conversation in turn. The introduction, of course would be impossible, as Melleville doesn't know the Pilot's name, and, as he is a person of *' some considera- tion " — (this is a bit of Richardsonian, but a student of Clarissa Harlowe must expect these words to crop up occasionally), — there may be a certain etiquette to be observed of which introduction forms no part. "We have among us impHcit confidence in Melle- ville, who, we suppose, has mastered all these details, and we tacitly form ourselves into a sort of committee of Lords of the Admiralty and Elder Trinity Brethren, for examining the Pilot to ascertain whether he knows more than we do, or, at all events more than the Connnodore does, and whether, on the whole, he is to be trusted. " A very nice boat indeed," the nautical person is saying, as we enter. " Thankye, Sir, I will take another glass," — and he does too, a bumper, which he sips with the air of a connoisseur, instead of drinking it off at a draught, as is popularly supposed to be the way with the old sea-dogs. He is weather-beaten certainly, but he is not by any means a sea-dog. He wears thickish serge, a waterproof (which he has just removed), and a tall hat, which he has placed on the table. The tall hat strikes me at once, as reminding me of the old prints of sailors at the commencement of this century, and of the queer old boatmen, Deal Pilots, for aught I know, who may be seen any day, with telescopes under their arms, on the beach at Deal. L 2 148 RATHER AT SEA. ** I suppose," says Melleville, nervously, but in his pleasantest manner, "you know this coast — I mean all about here — by heart ? " " Well, you see. Sir," replies the nautical individual, turning his glass about and scrutinising the sherrs', as if he had been tasting a sample before purchasing a quantity, — "you sec, Sir, I was born here, and I think I may say I know all this part — well — about as thoroughly as anyone." He speaks with a Scotch accent, rather narrow than broad. Melleville looks round at us approvingly. Hi", manner conveys exactly what he would say, which evidently is this : " This is the very man for us. Gentlemen — he knows his way about. First-rate fellow, this ! " I say to the Pilot diffidently, seeing that I know absolutely nothing about it, and am not even quite clear as to our geographi- cal position, " Is this a very dangerous coast ? " " In parts it is," replies our first-rate man — " in parts. At least, it is to those who don't know it." Obviously the inference is, that to those who do "know it" there is not the slightest danger ; and equally obvious is the next inference — that he is the man who does know. Again Melleville turns to us, and smiles complacently. "Is there good fishing about here ? " asks Killick. We all feel that this is unfair on the Pilot. Why should he be expected to know anything about fishing. He's not a fisherman. However, it turns out that he is a fisherman, that he kn(nvs a good deal about it, and can give his experience of several lochs. There is a pause, and Melleville presses upon him another glass of sherry. At this point we all join. I break through my otherwise invariable rule of " No sherry " in order to do special honour to the occasion. "A very fine wine this, Sir ; ver}'," says the Pilot, shaking his head, and smacking his lips. "Yes, it is," returns Melleville, and we all smack our lips more 3r less, having suddenly given up our roles as Elder Trinity Brethren and resolved ourselves into a tasting committee. " Very fine ! " repeats the Pilot, and again we all agree with liim. Then there is a pause. It is broken by the Pilot compli- ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 149 meriting Melleville on the yacht. "As handsome a vessel as he has ever seen — and he's seen lots of 'em here," says the Pilot. Melleville is highly pleased and gratified. We all take a little more sherry, and at this moment the Merry Young Steward appears with another bottle. "Whether Melleville has summoned him or not, I cannot say ; probably none of us could say if asked. The sherry is very good, and, having broken through my rule, — I believe we have all, except Crayley, whose rule is to do as he likes on all occasions, broken through some iTile on the subject of sherry, — I am inclined to go on at all hazards. So we become communicative, and the conversation becomes general. Somehow or another we get to talking about the Opera, — I don't know who started it, but here we are, with our Pilot, talking of the Opera and of Music generally, aud still shaking our heads as wisely as ever, and saying, " Yes, it is capital sherry." "A very pretty instrument you've got there, Sir," says the Pilot. He is praising everything. "Yes; it is," replies Melleville, aud opens it. Is he going to play the Pilot an air ? Xo : he is only explaining its mechanism. "You see it's a difiScult thing to get this sort of piano," says Melleville. " Tliis is specially made for a yacht." Yes, the Pilot is aware of that ; he has seen them before : he can tell Melleville of a better contrivance than this, of a new patent, and perhaps a less expensive article. " Very superior person, this Pilot 1 " we express by our looks to one another. What an education he has had ! Knows a little of everything. More sheny. Fine wine, very. The Pilot looks at his watch. Just as he does so there is an evident lurch, and we all stagger a bit ; it is very trifling, but there it was, and we were evidently moving, but so easily that no effect till now has been perceptible, and even now it is only very slight. The Pilot appears to hesitate a minute, as if he wasn't exactly certain what to do. The movement has entirely ceased, but from the gentle ripple which strikes my ear, I am sure we are going straight as an arrow before the wind. " I'd better get to work at once, Sir, if you please," says the Pilot, again consulting his watch. 150 RATHER AT SEA. " But there's no necessity vet 1 " asks Melleville, " is there ? " "Well, you see, Sir," says our superior nautical authority, "I've got a lot to do " " Which, of course," puts in Melleville, in his politest manner, " I don't understand. Would you like to see the Captain 1 " The Pilot looks a little astonished, and replies, hesitatingly, " Xo, Sir — I don't see any necessity — unless you " " Oh no ! Oh, certainly not," ^Melleville hastens to say, clearly fearful of having committed some breach of etiquette. " Of coui-se he doesn't want to see the Captain," we whisper to one another, and are rather surprised that a man of Melleville's tact and experience should have made the mistake. Melleville appears a bit nervous. He coughs two or three times, and then, drawing me on one side, he says, " I don't quite know where he'll sleep. I thought he would arrange with the Captain — but — eh ? Beg pardon. What ? " This addressed sud- denly to the Pilot, who has been understood to ask for a key. " Key 1 " repeats Melleville, puzzled. " Key of the piano, Sir. I think you just locked it up." " yes, I did— but " Here we have another lurch, which brings the Pilot sharply up against the further comer of the piano, which he seizes des- perately ; in fact, he would have fallen but for cannoning against Crayley, who, being of a slight and fragile build, staggers back- wards on to the sofa. A little sherry is spilt. Alone amongst us the swing-table, with the sherry decanter and one glass on it, preserves its equilibrium. It was apparently a sudden gust, for the effect has passed, and we are going along steadily once more. An expression of dismay is on our Pilot's face. " Is the vessel sailing, Sir ? " he asks, with a gasp. " Well, you see," Melleville nervously explains, fearful of having done something very wrong — " well, I told the Captain that as your duties wouldn t commence till we got outside " " Outside ! " exclaims the Pilot, convulsively. We are afraid he is going to have a fit. An epileptic Pilot ought not to be licensed. That is our one feeling on the subject. "Yes," continues Melleville, more and more nervous as the case of the Liveli/ occurs to him (he tells me this afterwards), ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 151 " I thought — that — your work would begin as we go up the Sound to Tobennorv '"" " Tobermory ! " shouts the man. " But I don't understand — why should I go to Tobermory ? " " Because," replies Melleville, suddenly pulling himself together, and, so to speak, dropping the Lamb to assume the Lion. " that is where we have arranged to go, and from there to Loch Scavaio- and '■' "Loch Scavaig I"' the Pilot almost screams. " Yes ! " thunders the Commodore, now thoroughly roused. " You said you knew all the Coast, and as I only want a Pilot " " Pilot ! '' cries the man in a frenzy. "I'm not a Pilot." " Xot a Pilot I '' we all echo, in different tones. " Xo 1 " he shrieks. ^' Tie come to tune the Piano I " -.r -^ -^ -7^ -^ * 152 RATHER AT SEA CHAPTER IX. TOBERMORY — A HURRICANE. FROM Oban to Toher- mr>rii. — Beautiful sail. Arrive here earlier ttian we had expected : we did this also at Oban. For- tunate, as scarcely are we in than a hurricane com- mences outside in the Atlantic. The Atlantic is scarcely two steps round the corner. Rain downpouring in buckets. Next day much the same, with lucid intervals of sun. "Walk on shore in morninfr, ditto in the afternoon. Haven't done so much walking for a long time as I have within the last few days since I came out sailing. We walked at Larne, we walked at Oban, we walk here. The Waterfalls are in Mr. Alexander's private grounds — from the extent of his property I should call him Alexander the Great— and there is no charge for admission as there is at some places where they've only got a twopenny waterfall to show for sixpence. Crayley, with his glass firmly screwed in his eye, and his head more on one side than ever, examines the grand Waterfall critically, as though to detect some flaw in it. Melleville regards it judicially, as if, with a perfectly unbiassed mind, he were ready to hear both sides of any question that may arise respecting the merits of the fall. (This sounds theological.) I — such is the philosophic attitude of my mind towards it — somehow seem to have seen it all before, and, AXOTHEE LITTLE CEUISE. 153 not being oyerpowered by it, begin, after a few seconds, to discover faces in stones, and fonny, more or less grotesque, in everything. Crayley, having gradually given up criticisru, is now lost in admiration. " And, like Niagara, Finds it a staggerer," says Killick, favouring us with an impromptu, for which he is instantly reproved by Crayley, who tells him that " really he (Killick) has no sort of reverence for the beauties of Nature." " It's nothing extraordinary," retorts Killick. "Tve seen better in Wales." " Xever ! " returns Crayley, warmly. " This is distinctively Scotch. You'll seldom see anything like it in Wales, and never in the South of England." " Xot in the South ? " exclaims Killick, as if he were aghast at what might be a daring imputation on his native place, which it isn't, and I very much doubt whether he has ever been there. " Why, in Devonshire and Cornwall the Waterfalls are magnificent, a.nd twice as fine as this." This is flatly contradicted by Crayley. If they were alone, I fancy it would end in a Sensation Scene, which could be thus described in the bill : — " The Howling Cataract — View of the Devil's Bridge — Moonlight — Killick meets Crayley — The Asser- tion : — The Contradiction ! ! — The Altercation ! ! ! — Feaeful Struggle 1 : 1 1 — Awful Fate of the Victim — (either Killick or Crayley) — Flight of the Assassin — The Brand of Cain ! : 1 ! " tire. As it is, however, this melodramatic termination to a pleasant outing does not come off, as Melleville interferes in his gentlest and most soothing tones. It is (reporting it legally) Killick v. Crayley^ Melleville intervening. I am watching the case in the interests of the general public. " There are," observes Melleville in a marginal-reference sort of manner, but speaking as an authority, — "There are some fine Vi'aterfalls in Devonshire and Cornwall, not unlike this, but perhaps there are finer in the North of England, and we " — (this brings us all into it) — " must remember we are seeing this on an exceptional day, after a very heavy rain, and, indeed, while it is still raining. I think we'd better get on.'' Both parties are silent before this 154 BATHER AT SEA. timely rebuke. It reminds me of the effect of one of J/r. Barlow's lectures to Sandford and Merton. Killick is Sandford, and Crayley Merton. So we move onwards, as the rain is falling heavily, and we should soon be under shelter, but for the irrepressible impulse which seizes upon every one of us to throw something into the torrent (we are now standing at the highest point of the fall) merely to see what becomes of it. If nothing else were obtainable, I believe we should recklessly throw in our sticks and umbrellas, and even our coats and hats, then laugh at them, and cheer idiotically. It strikes me (philosophically and reflectively) that on occasions like the present the savage nature of man has a fierce but momentary struggle with his civilisation, and that if the savage nature once got the upper hand, the result might take the form of the dreadful practical joke of pushing the man nearest to the Waterfall suddenly over, not exactly to procure his untimely end, but simply to take him by surprise, to see how he liked it, and what the torrent would do with him. I can perfectly imagine the Untutored Savage trying this sort of thing on another Untutored Savage not belonging to a hostile tribe, but one of his own set, with whom he might really be on such friendly terms as would warrant him in taking an occasional liberty. The Untutored Savage has, of course, a sense of humour; and if he is in the full enjoyment of the highest possible animal spirits, what shape would his practical joke take except one involving some sort of cruelty 1 The butter-slide, the treatment of a baby, and the red-hot poker in a pantomime, come into the Untutored Savage Practical Joke Category. (Note. — Rcserv^e this subject for Philosophical Treatise; pamphlet form; sixpence.) Still at Tobermory. — We are here to-day, and not gone to-morrow. We have buoyed one another up with the cheeriest hopes as to being able to sail to-morrow. Melleville, as an experienced yachts- man, has pointed out to us that when there are biggish waves in the bay, the wind is expending itself, and that probably there'll be a comparatively calm sea, with the wind directly in our favour, all ready for us to-morrow morning, as if it had been carefully ordered overnight. We fish at intervals. ^{ote. — There is all the difference between "fishing" and " catching." The men at the bows, when they let down their lines, " catch," but we at the stem only " fish." ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 156 Wind worse than ever in the night ; rain also. Outside, i.e,^ round the comer in the Atlantic, it is now " blowing a gale " — so the Captain says, and so also is the opinion of the Pilot. It must be, as even in Tobermory Bay we are rocking as if we were in a roughish sea. Xo chance of getting away. Books, the day before yesterday's papers, the piano, and writing materials are in requi- sition. We write telegrams and letters, and then wait to see when there is a chance of taking them to shore ourselves. About this time we try to think of any person to whom we owe a letter, or a list of persons to whom we haven't written for years, and who have almost cut us on account of our apparent neglect. Now is the moment to make up for lost time. Blessings on the clan Mcintosh ! We are waterproofed f/om head to foot, and get a little exercise on deck. Blessings on the proprietors, editors, and contributors to The Scotsman. We can get no London papers here except those of the day before yesterday ; but The Scotsman is brought on the evening of the day of its publication, by steamer, here at 5 p.m. — (but ordinarily half- an- hour or so late ; no matter, blessings on the steamer also) — and is equal to three London newspapers rolled into one. Herein we read last night's debate — (last night's !). ^ "*: * ^ ^ * * Wind and rain continuing. In the night other vessels have dragged their anchors. We are swaying as if at sea. Wind roaring always "round the comer," like Mr. Chevy Slyme in Martin Chuzzleu-it, and imitating the sound of several steamers all working their engines simultaneously. Yesterday's jDaper finished. I am working hard at Clarissa Harlowe. What a tediously told story, and how utterly improbable are the incidents and the method adopted for relating them. Lovelace is a tremendous cad and snob. He is, thank goodness, as impossible a creature as one of Ouida's burlesque heroes. Boswell's Tour of the Hebrides with Dr. Johnson in requisition. Just the same sort of weather — continuous rain and wind a hundred years ago in these parts. Another instance of History repeating itself. Locked up together in a yacht, we expend our temper — though there isn't much of it among us — on Dr. Johnson and Boswell. Cray ley says " he really doesn't see that Johnson said such very 156 RATHER AT SEA. clever things." I observe that he did " sometimes." Killick asks, " When, he should like to know." I tiy to remember an instance of a veri/ clever saying of the Doctor's ^vhich will settle the point in dispute at once, but I can only think of — *'Sir," said Dr. John- son, " let us walk down Fleet Street " — which he couldn't have been always saying, at all events not in Scotland. * * fr * ^ ^ On quietly, with a view to future discussion, searching the Tour of the Ilehrides, I find that, a propos of such weather as we are now having, Dr. Johnson did reply to Boswell, who had been complain- ing of it — " Sir, we have no one to blame but ourselves for starting to go from island to island under the impression that wherever ive were it must be summer." And in spite of any protestations I might at diftercnt times have made to the contrary, either out of compassion for my host's evident annoyance, or to show with what philosophic equanimity all variations of temperature and weather can be endured, I must say that I certainly held Dr. Johnson's conviction implicitly, if not explicitly, or I should never have been where I am now, i.e.^ on board, in harbour within easy sight but difficult reach of land, being rocked to and fro with a motion which is conducive neither to reading, writing, nor thinking, while the wind is blowing great guns, the rain absolutely cascading, and the vessel's timbers are literally shivering and creaking and cracking like old furniture in a bedroom in the small hours of the night. Our host is quite distressed. He feels inclined to apologise to his guests for the inclemency of the weather. Still, I would far rather be here than in one of those isolated whitewashed cottages on one of the deserted-looking islands which we have passed eii route. At all events, we have society, provisions, food, warm clothing, excellent drinks, are well furnished with cigars, tobacco, and pipes, have plenty of books, writing materials, sofas, rugs and wraps, games, cards, piano, and a sufficient supply of music. ***** -x- We actually are getting oat our Bradshaics, our Jfurra?/s, our Scotch Railway Guides, with pencil and paper, to see what is the Leot and shortest way back again to London 1 AIsOTEEIl LITTLE CEVLSE. 157 CHAPTER X. ox TO LOCK SCAVAIG. 3VENING of Third Day at Tohermory. — Melleville, our Com- modore, says that the glass is rismg, the wind abat- ing, and that we shall sail to-mon-ow. General ex- citement. " The wind," he explains, " will be freshish. I expect," he adds, " that Madame Crevsa will jump a bit outside." "We all saj, " Oh, never mind that," and determine that we are ready for all risks rather than remain inactive in harbour. We are ad- vised to " belay,'" and make everything " taut '"' in our cabins. Ominous, but exciting. Killick says he hopes he'll be all right. I join KilHck ; but some- how, though I wouldn't on any account remain in harbour any- longer, yet, to adapt the line from Sir John Moore's burial, I " doubtfully think of the morrow." ^ ^ -^r * ^ * The morrow. "Wake early with headache. The MeiTy Young Steward, entering with early coffee, says, '* "We're under weigh " — (on shore he is a young London valet, but here he is more nautical than any of the sailors)— so that I have slept through all the pre- paratory noises. " Scarcely any movement," I observe, hopefully. "Xot at present. Sir,"' replies the Merry Young Steward, "but 158 liATBER AT SEA. she'll jump a bit outside." I make up my mind to get up at once, before she does '"jump a bit outside," and complete my toilette while a perpendicular position is possible. I do so, as far as I can, but in a few minutes I am forming, with the floor of my cabin, an angle of seventy-five. Getting hungrier and hungrier. I foresee my fate. " Jump a bit outside ! " Oh dear ! Breakfast. — To my surprise I can cat a hearty breakfast, and feel much better, in spite of the table being one minute up to my chin, and the next touching my knees. In waterproofs (" Dressed ac-Cording-ly," the Commodore says, — hate jokes to-day) I struggle on deck. Here I manfully take my stand, holding on by a rope, and becoming more and more uncertain every quarter-of-an-hour. Killick has disappeared. Crayley, who is a frail creature, and generally sufi'ering from headaches, is exceptionally well, and sits in a chair perfectly cairn and happy, his head on one side, critically examining the waves (such waves 1) through his eye-glass. I envy him. I envy Melleville, who has a chart before him. I could no more examine that chart now than I could leave my rope, or take my gaze (I feel it is a glassy stare) off the sea. I am becoming fixed in one position, like one of Madame Tussaud's effigies. I should like a label up with " Please don't touch the figure." Also, " Don't speak to the figure." In general, I don't want any notice taken of me. Killick, after an hour s seclusion, comes up on deck as fresh as a lark — though I doubt whether a lark would find himself so very fresh when a yacht is "jumping a bit outside" in the Atlantic. Who said he was " disappointed with the Atlantic ? " I think it was Mr. Oscar Wilde when he was crossing over to America. I don't care, as far as the sea-voyage goes, to be any nearer America than I am at present ; but I certainly am not disappointed with as much as I have at present seen of the Atlantic. Its waves are magnificent. They may be bigger and grander elsewhere, but these will do for me. Yes, they will emphatically " do for me." I am only disappointed with myself. For two hours I stand expecting the worst, and hoping for the best. " To be, or not to be," that is the question. By twelve o'clock it is solved : it is " to be." With a sudden rush to leeward — which makes them think I am bent on suicide — I suiTcnder myself, cheerfully, to the consequences. I ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 159 comfort myself by saying, " It will do me good." And I devoutly hope it will, as it does me awfully bad at the moment. Then I retire. With difficulty I reach my cabin, with difficulty I lie down. And then — then ! it feels as if someone were taking me up by the heels, and jobbing my head downwards against the pillow. For the remainder of the day I lie here, vainly trying to sleep, and sincerely wishing I could gag Killick (whose getting well so quickly I secretly resent), whose speaking voice I hear every minute laughing, talking, asking inane questions, and pre- venting my going to sleep. If I could get at Kilhck, and strangle him, I might be better. But I can't shout, I can't get off my berth, and there is no bell. The Merry Young Steward has looked in once, has fastened the blind across the skylight to keep out the sun, and has not returned. At 5.30 I hear the welcome grating of the anchor-chains, and " the movement in sea " ceases. I prepare for dinner, by trying to part my hair and making myself look less " glazy." I appear as a convalescent. We are moored in Loch Scavaig, Isle of Skye, a fearfully wild spot, which might have been the country residence of the Three Witches in Macbeth. Just the place for their meeting here to-night, now that the " hurly-burly 's done." The guide-book writers exhaust the vocabulary of abusive admiration for Loch Scavaig, until one of them unable to hit on any more appropriate simile, calls it " The Avernus of the North." To-morrow we are to make a ^\facilis descensus " on the Avenius •'^ sed revocare gradum " — and how tired I shall be ! How tired I mn ! Like the lover in Lover's Irish baUad, " I am not myself at all ; " though it would be difficult to say who I am. I can't smoke : my favourite drinks are abhorrent to me : my •diet has been of the plainest. Messmates, good-night ! And so at an early hour I retire to my berth ; and as I undress, commune with myself somewhat to this effect : — " Would I buy a yacht if I had the money ? Would I hire one for a couple of months' holiday trip % Would it be the most satisfactory way of spending a vacation ? If tine, it is delightful — I mean if fine and fairly calm, and going before the breeze; but if not, if blowy, if "jump- ing a bit," or with a head- wind, or at sea quite out of reach of land, and unable to put in anywhere and come to an anchor for dinner — 160 EATRER AT SEA. how would that be for a holiday 1 Supposing, too, that all my companions were to suffer as I (evidently) should, why, it would be merelv a " floating hospital." However, before arriving gt our destination, I am likely to be sorely tried again, and so I will snatch a "fearful joy " to-morrow on shore by " doing "' Avernus, " and after " Now, bed. Of Avernus Loch Scavaig, Isle of SJcye.—^lcrrx Young Steward enters cabin at 6.45. Fine moniing. I am better, but only con- valescent. Vei-y cautious at breakfast. Roughish, wet on deck, and cold : bathing not enticing, " on account," tlie MeiTy Steward says, " of the dog-fish." The dog-fish, it appears, are of the Shark family, — young Scotch or Hebridean sharks — and if you bathe, but, in fact, nobody does bathe where the dog-fish are. No one feels better for yesterday's gale. With waterproofs on, we put off in gig. Avernus looks more Avernus than ever as we get nearer and nearer. Not a living soul to be seen ; not a sign of habitation. The tops of the mountains are enveloped in mist, which is slowly rising. This part of Skye can only be inhabited by ghosts of departed Scotchmen who have come " bock agen." I should not be in the least surprised were Locke's Witches' Ch^n-us in Macbeth to be heard behind those heavy mists, or were we actually to come upon the Weird Sisters out for a holiday — a Witches' Sabbath— picnicking around their cauldron, and rising to dance to a tune played by Tarn O'SJianter's goblin piper : In fact, nothing supernatural would astonish me here. I should be prepared for anything — except seeing Skye-terriers in Skye ! Don't believe there are any. Should say that they had all turned into dog-fish. It is not easy walking. Big black boulders, sometimes enormous,, presenting the appearance of buried elephants, their backs only being visible, petrified by time and exposure ; the devious tracks between the buried elephants' backs — which it would be flattery to call sheep-walks— are composed of bits of rock, shifty sand, heather- moss, and peat-bog of a very deceptive character. The Sun suddenly comes out, and, when it does so, it comes out very strong, so that we take off our waterproof-coats and caps, and breathe more freely. We have scarcely experienced this relief for thi-ee minutes, than down poiu's the rain, and on have to go our coverings again. AyOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 161 There is no faith to be placed in the climate of Scotland. Crayley, generally rather an invalid, and short-sighted, skips from rock to rock, — like a mountain-goat Avith a glass in its eye. Killick is in the height of good-humour because everyone else — even Crayley occasionally — is more or less in difficulties ; and he has managed to get well in front, and then asks the others " why we don't come on ? " Sun shining. Very hot as we re-embark in the gig. Happy Thought. — Bathe before lunch. Xo dog-fish close to shore. Xot deep enough for them, and they're too deep for it. For once, all agree to this. Yes, just the very time ! Xo sooner is this settled, than the winds begin to blow, the waves to rise, the spray to attack us, so that we have to resume our mackintoshes — and in another second we are all complaining of cold, and decide, nem. con., that we can't bathe with any sort of comfort to-day. Lunch. Directly the eating and drinking is finished, we are off. I am still cautious, and do not rush up on deck in too great a hurry. They tell me the wind will be with us the whole time. " Xow we sail ivith the gale "' — only, it is not, thank goodness ! a gale, merely a breeze. 162 BATHER AT SEA, CHAPTER XI. AWAY FROM LAKE SCAVAIG — PRACTICAL JOKE AT LOCH IIOURN — OX AGAIN' CRAYLEY'S PRACTICE — MAKING FOR KYLE AIKIN. NE of Crayley's idiosyn- sooii become palpable onboard a yacht — is to be quite de- lighted at having bought anything cheap. He lia-s ^ ^ ^^W-'-^"^^ ^^ '1 kJt I P^i''<^^^''^sed during the voyage (X^ '^^-^v SS fem W nr^ ^W (before our appearance on board) a box of Jersey cigars, one hundred for nine shil- lings. He says that they are really very good ; in fact, he prefers them to anything he has ever smoked (he deals in superlatives) at five times their price. He is most open- hearted with these treasures, pressing his host and our- selves to " just try one," but somehow we all seem to shrink from availing ourselves of his lavish generosity. Our host, who is so courteously good-natured that he would rather risk an irreparable injury to his constitution than seem by his refusal to imply a slight on his friend's perfect taste and judgment as evinced in his predilection for these Jersey Favourites, pretends to change his mind, and asks Crayley, in a way that makes it quite a favour on Crayley's part, to give him one ; which, of course, Crayley does with the greatest possible pleasure. The Jei*sey Favourite is a trifle recalcitrant on being lighted, and shows an inclination for burning on one side, with a dirty-coloured crumbling ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 163 ash. The conversation, whatever it was about (Dr. Johnson, I think), continues, but I notice that, within five minutes of the first lighting of that Jersey Favourite, our host has risen to look out of the port-hole to see what the weather is like, and has then, avowedly with the same object, gone up "the companion," and when he returns, with a hopeful report of the weather, — which is immediately dissipated by a sudden downpour, and a derisive howling of the wind, — the Jersey Favourite (the cigar merchant ought to have labelled them the Lilies, or the L-gtries) is burnt down to a stump, which our host places in the ash-tray. " It is impossible to smoke in the wind," he says, and somehow or other he skilfully manages not to give any decided opinion on the cigar ; at all events, he has committed himself to nothing which can hurt Crayley's feelings (we are all so tetchy about wine, cigars, and horses), and as he has smoked it, Cray ley, if he asks no questions, can afterwards quote Melleville (who is really a good judge of most things) as having smoked one of these, and liked it ; — the logical inference being from his having smoked it that he did like it. Crayley regrets not having bought five or six boxes of the Jersey Favourites. Killick observes that he's deuced glad, for the sake of his friends, he didn't, but Melleville, who occasionally visits Crayley at Crayley Court, Kent, only smiles, and saying dubiously, " Ah, well ! " retires drowsily to the saloon sofa. After a despairing glance upwards at the skylight on which the rain is still cascading and cataracting, we compose ourselves to sleep, with books in our hands, and our legs up on chairs. I take my scientific work to my own cabin, and retire till a cessation of rain may permit me to pace the deck ; but, as this is most un- likely, I get Clarissa Harlowe (that fearful example of the cacoethes scrihendi) by my side, with Dr. Johnson's Tour of the Hebrides, a few odd numbers of magazines, and a Spectator which I ought to have read a fortnight ago, but which, having been packed up by mistake, comes in quite fresh now, and with these and my note- books and my pencil all within my reach, so that I shall not have to disturb myself when I have once settled down comfortably, I prepare to spend so much of the afternoon as may remain between now and dinner-time. We give the weather another chance, which is returning good M 2 164 BATHER AT SEA. for evil, and determine to leave the " Avemus of the North," whatever happens, to-morrow morning. The weather takes onr courteous treatment into consideration, and limiting itself to a Scotch mist to begin with, but a real fine day and a pleasant breeze to finish v ith, away we go, " a-sail- ing, a-sailing " — and thoroughly enjoying the poetry of motion. We sail by Loch Xevis, Armadale, and arrive at Loch Hourn, vN'here, after a consultation between the Commodore, the Pilot, and the Captain, we anchor. In this part, at the entrance of the Loch, there is a good practical joke played by someone who has placed a stick with a square piece of something on it (which may be a notice-board when you get close enough to it), on the top of a submerged rock. The humour of this is, that in broad daylight it is scarcely visible, in twilight it may be just discerned with a strong glass when you are unpleasantly near it, and at night it can't be seen at all. Of course the practical fun of this is evident ♦ **♦♦* Killick and Crayley, who has developed a wonderful fiiculty for flat contradiction, have a lively argument as to the meaning of " Scavaig." It commences by Crayley informing the company generally that Loch Xevis is Lake Heaven. Killick says he knew this, and caps it by telling us that Loch Hourn is just the opposite. Then I ask, if the guide-books call Loch Scavaig the Avemus of the North, what is the meaning of Scavaig ? Killick thinks that it must mean something gloomy. Melleville observes, marginally, " probably." Crayley thinks it is the old Scotch for " Witch." " Gaelic," says Killick, majestically. " No ; not Gaelic," returns Crayley. " They don't speak Gaelic here." " They did 1 '" retorts Killick, shortly. "They did nothing of the sort," answers Crayley, with his head well on one side, his glass screwed in his eye, his face turned away from Killick, and towards Loch Nevis. " Oh, certainly ! " remarks our Commodore, intervening with A^OTHEB LITTLE CBUISL. 1G5 persuasive gentleness. "They certainly spoke Gaelic in these parts. Scavaig, Xevis, and Houni are all Gaelic names." "Armadale isn't," says Crayley, not thoroughly convinced. This is my opportunity. I am not well up in Gaelic, but now 1 feel my feet. "Armadale,'' I say, cleverly, "was a novel. Was it a story about this locality 1 " Nobody is positive on this point ; errfo, I suppose no one has read it. I haven't. Kilhck remembers it in the CornJiill Magazine. " By Wilkie Collins," he adds, as if he had only read the title, and stopped there. There are some people with great reputations for reading ever\-thing who never do more than this, and manage to pick up the chief points in the course of conversation. " It wasn't written by AVilkie Collins ! " replies Crayley, curtly. He evidently owes Killick one for the latter's recent victory on the Gaelic dispute. " It was ! " retorts Killick, sharply. " Nonsense," says Crayley. " It was Mi-s. Wood." "Oh! I don't think it was Mrs. Wood," I say, "because she has a magazine of her own, and why should she write in the Cornhill ? " Having given this bit of logical reasoning, it occurs to me that !Mrs. Wood hasn't a magazine of her own ; but keep the doubt to myself ''Armadale ivas by Mrs. Wood or Miss Braddon," says Crayley, returning to the subject. " Wasn't it ? " he asks, appealing to our Commodore. But Melleville will not commit himself to an opinion. Ht remembers that Armadale was the name of a novel ; nothing more. This neutrality decides Crayley, and he bears down on Killick with all his gims. " Of course," he says, decidedly, as if he had just that instant received private and positive intelligence from indisputable authority. " Of course Armadale was by Mrs. Wood or Miss Brought OE, and, at all events, it certainly was not by Wilkie Collins." "I'll bet you anything you like," says Killick, warmly, "that Armadale was by Wilkie Collins. I'll bet you five pounds. Come ! " clCG BATHER AT SEA. But Crayley won't " come." He simply replies, with a superb contempt for Killick's offer " I never bet," which provokes Killick into extravagant offers to back his own opinion, at twenty to one, thirty to one, fifty to one, anything, in fact, to one, that Wilkie Collins did write Armadale. But Crayley preserves a disdainful silence, which so irritates Killick that he says, "My dear fellow" — he is only affectionate when he means quite the contrary, for if his " My dear fellow " were translated, it would be literally, " You d— (not dear) fool (not fellow),"—" My dear fellow, you can't be certain, or you would back your opinion." "I never bet," repeats the inperturbable Crayley, still with his head on one side, his glass firmly screwed in his eye, and his gaze fiercely fixed on the opposite coast. He reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe's wearying Baven, with it's constant " Never more ! " Killick would have thrown his boots at that raven, and broken the bust of Pallas Athene over the Poet's door. As it is, if he rould chuck Crayley quietly into the water, he would do so, and, as the latter was sinking, he would ask him savagely, " Nou\ did AVilkie Collins write Armadale or not?" to which Crayley, rising for the third time, with the glass in his eye, and his head on one side gazing upwards, would serenely reply, " I never bet," and disappear for ever. Our Commodore goes below ; so do I ; and Killick crosses over to the other side of the vessel. Now, though at the commencement of this discussion I knew perfectly well, without having read the novel in question, who was the Author of Armadale, yet now I own to being a bit shaken by the decided tone and positive manner of Crayley. Positiveness is nine points of the law, if you happen to be " laying it down." "Dinner is under weigh, Sir," cries the Meriy Young Steward, and we descend silently. ■X- -i^- -x- * * ♦ We all meet at dinner as happily as possible, and hear no more oi Armadale. Crayley and Killick avoid discussion. It is a truce between them ; but when they recommence, the contest will be frightful. As neither Melleville nor myself will dispute with him, Crayley starts a new method and argues with himself. He contradicts ANOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. mH himself flatly, and finally brings himself as holding Opinion No. 1, over to the side of himself as representing Opinion Xo. 2, or he tries to bring one of us into this dual discussion. But as to cut in on such delicate ground would be like interfering between man and wife, we wisely hold aloof, and express no opinion either way. For example, he takes up a telescope, and, after a careful survey of the distant shores, he says, " There's a castle there. A splendid ruin." Then he hands the glass to me, and I agree with him, in much the same spirit as the old courtier Polonius did with Hamlet as to the camel-shaped cloud which was backed like a wea.sel and very like a whale. But this does not content Hamlet-Crayley. He looks at the object again, and then, in a voice which is quite loud enough for any bystander to catch and reply to (it is a bait thrown out to Killick, who won't bite, — or bark either, now), he says to himself, " No, it isn't a castle ; it's a rock." He turns to offer me the glass, but as I am with Clarissa Har- lowe in Bloomsbury, and cannot be disturbed, and as Melleville and Killick have gone below, he applies the telescope once more to his eye, and continues the argument entirely with himself *' Yes," he says, " it is a castle " — then, the next minute, he meets this statement with the flat and rude contradiction, " No, it isn't." Then he treats himself in the most cavalier manner, and quite turns up his nose at the idea of anyone ever having been so absurd as to think that eccentric-looking rock a castle. And here it would end, but that he takes one more look through the glass, which results in his saying positively, " Yes, it is a castle : I thought so from the first " — which concludes the controversy. It is a harmless amusement, and, so to speak, keeps his hand in for when he shall have a real opponent to contradict. We are now making for Kyle Aikin, and that is my last point before Strome Ferry. 168 BATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER XII. HERE BREAK WE OFF — RETLRX BV OVERLAND ROUTE. n EVER met ^ith such weather as in the Hebrides and in the Scotch Lochs. Xo knuwinjj: where to liave it. It pours, and you put on your mackintosh and \vateri)rouf cap and cape. "When carefully buttoned up in these, out comes the sun, and off come all the above-mentioned articles ex- cept the cap, luiless you have had sufficient forethought to have brought a lighter cap with you. Directly you row, or have been rowed, or, if on shore, you have walked a few yards, the rain re- commences, has a short struggle with the sun, conqners, and has the next half-hour all to itself a downpour in torrents, when, just as you have made up your mind to return to the Yacht, sunlight appears, as much as to say, *' Hold on I I'm coming to the rescue, more powerful than ever ! " You hesitate ; sun and rain have a struggle, sun getting stronger and stronger, rain weaker and weaker, until it disappears altogether, the mists roll away, the mountain-tops are visible, the sky is blue, the flies come out and bite fiercely to make up for lost time — (a Scotch fly is a most persistently irritating insect ; when it finds someone it really likes, it scarcely leaves him for a second, and if it does, it comes " bock agen " fresher than ever) — and in another moment the waterproofs are voted a nuisance, are carried over the arm, coat- collars nre turned down, some of the party complain of the close- ANOTHEB LITTLE CRUISE. 169 ness and heat of the weather, others prepare to strip off and carry their waistcoats ; and all, ^JCfce flies, are admiring the view, when somebody exclaims, " Hang it ! AVasn't that a drop of rain ? " Some hopeful person denies it. If Killick has asserted that he lias just felt a drop of rain, Crayley will immediately assure him that he must be mistaken, and that such a thing is impossible. Kilhck says he was not mistaken, and declares he has j ust felt another. " That time I admit," says Crayley, true to his colour of contra- diction, under which he would die sooner than yield, " I did, but not when you first spoke." And in another second the rain and sun drama is enacted all over again, and, tired of the monotony of the variety, we return to the Yacht, and — this is the nsual resource — ask at what hour dinner is ordered. Whatever the time mentioned, if Killick is pleased, Crayley sighs; or if Crayley is delighted, and says, "Ah! that exactly suits me ! " Killick wishes it were later, or earlier, or at any time, in fact, when Crayley doesn't want it. Crayley, however, is generally most pleased when it is at an hour which doesn't suit anyone — not even our host precisely. ^ ^ * ■*■ * * Strome Ferry. — Here my brief holiday comes to an end, and I quit the Creusa. My life on the ocean wave has been a short but merry one. Crayley also leaves. Other guests are coming to take our places. Killick is to remain for the whole voyage. The Merry Young Steward keeps up his 2Iark Tapley character to the last, and on the morning of my departure he enters the cabin with a radiant smile to inform the Commodore that "he's been ashore, and there's no meat to be got anywhere." What's to be done ? The Merry Steward, brighter than ever, makes a suggestion. " Wouldn't it be as well to telegraph to the Gentleman who is coming aboard to bring a round of beef with him ? " After all, even the pains of separation can be ameliorated by the consideration of the sufferings of others. I am going straight through to Town, and offer to send them any beef and mutton from there ; but at the same time suggest that, as Crayley is going "by easy stages" — as Cardinal AVolsey travelled — to his 170 RATHER AT SEA. destination, lie could send them provisions from Inverness, and, indeed, from various stations all along the line. Return " Through Journey" Express Notes. — Strome Ferry to Inverness. First part of scenery wild and wonderful. Panorama changes to low and lovely, with Ben somebody in the distance, and then at Inverness to lower and unlovely on the shore-side, and to bold and blusterous on the other, or sea-side, with Fort George at tlie farthest point, which I am informed is evidently a nice warm station for the soldiers, and on that account generally chosen by the Authorities as a depdt for any troops fresh from India, How tropical must be the situation anyone can judge for himself when informed that it is built on what Estate Agents call an eligible and picturesque site, commanding uninterrupted views of the river and mainland on one side, and of the German Ocean on the other. Inveimess—n\ time for the tahle dliote at all the hotels. Can only go to one. Fair tahle d'hote. Usual eccentric tourists, and wonderful females. Everybody making arrangements to be called early. Meet a shooting friend unexpectedly, who, having been forced to remain here alone for some houi*s, has read two three- volume novels, and, not liking to dine alone, has determined upon renewing reminiscences of his childhood by buying a sweet cake, which he intended to eat with his tea, — poor fellow ! — and so to bed about eight. I save him from this miserable fate, and in a burst of grateful hospitality he asks me to dine with him. Pommeiy sec instead of tea. I accept, and we foregather till nearly ten, when I have to continue my " through journey " to London vici Perth and Stirling. Having bespoken a berth in a sleeping-saloon — there's still some slight reminiscence of the Yacht about this — I dispose myself for the night. N.B. (North Britain.) This sleeping accommodation has not yet been brought within measurable distance of perfection. Eerth. — Perfectly fresh— as fresh as one ever can be during a night jouraey under the present conditions. I slip out, in full yachting costume, to breakfast at Perth. More nautical now, on shore, than I was at sea. . Perth Express Breakfast ! If there be an oasis in the dusty ANOTHER LITTLE CBUISE. Vll desert of the Railway Station Commissariat system, it is this ! it is this ! Cleanly, bright cold meats, hot drinks, tea and coffee, — I had some " grounds " for saying that the coffee was not perfect, — eggs and bacon, salmon, all on the "cut and come again " principle, hot rolls, toast-and-butter, real mac-marmalade and jam ad lib., what more could be desired by the most voracious and capacious traveller with a clear half-hour before him ? Then off by 7*30 train to Edinburgh via Stirling, with — and here is the gi*eat defect — no prospect of a wait of more than five or ten minutes anywhere, and not that, — should the train be un- punctual. We pass through pretty country highly cultivated, but the boldness has disappeared ; the wild has become tame ; the Avaters are no longer turbulent torrents, but placid streams, or rippling rivulets. The distant moors suggest grouse, the hillside cottages are neat and comfortable. The horses sleek and shining in the sunlight ; the cows, evidently accustomed to a regular life, repose luxuriously between business hours, while the sheep are contentedly grazing, never once lifting their heads at the sound of the train — unlike their rough-coated, twisted-homed cousins in the parts we've been visiting, which are ever on the alert, and dart away at the approach of any footstep, except that of their own particular attendant. The "storm-motive" is over, and the " pastorale " has commenced. Civilisation ! Boys begin to cry yesterday's London afternoon papers, but I have already got the Scotsmayi, with all the latest news of any importance from town. I read how pairing has begun, how everyone is off for a vacation, how the business of the nation is being humed through so that Legislators may be off — and " rogues are hung that jurymen may dine" — and I feel very much like the boy who has to remain in to do a task while all the others are off for their holiday, — for I am coming back to work. Stations en route — " Berwick-on-Tweed " — sounds like the work of an author on "Trouserings." Has a legal twang like "Byles on Bills." At Newcastle, — The fii-st thing to see in an Old Castle, prob- ably the residence of Old King Coal. The town is being vastly improved. 172' U AT HER AT SEA. Am told we shall have half-au-hoiir at York for refreshments. "York, you're wanted !" Don't know where this is from. Per- haps G. A. S. will respond. His " Echoes " always answer. York. Very good dinner — soup, fish, meat, pudding, cheese ;. the whole boiling and roasting at 25. GcZ. a head, to be taken in half-an-hour, which, deducting three minutes for the walk to and from the Refreshment-Room, is feeding at the rate of an infini- tesimal fraction over a penny a minute. One plateful of anything, however, if all eaten, will stodge the hungriest traveller unless he's a champion lunch-eater, and can do it against time. One shilling for a B.-and-S. is dear, but the profit must be made somewhere. We race through Doncaster — stop at Grantham for tickets — see Peterborough Cathedral, and think of Mr. Whalley — glimpse of Huntingdon race-course — St. Neot's, where, of course, a tidy lot of people live under the patronage of St. Neot. Flat country — pass small station, apparently called " London Xews," as that is all I can see, written up in white letters on a blue board — cultivation everywhere — good roads — country giving promise of good shooting- coverts for September — " every bird has his day " — new proverb — close fields — big hedges — brick-making — new division of panorama — high yellow banks — station called " Sandy " — remember a Clown of that name at Hengler's — a mound or two, mere molehills com- pared to the hills Pve left behind me — fine trees, meadow, grass- land — neat villages — gardens — shriek of engine — we whizzle past station — the only prominent name I can catch as we pass is " Somebody's Mustard," in yellow letters — corn-fields — gleaners — then a large field of some dry-looking stuff, which looks like some- body's light hair unbrushed — more covert — ricks — sheaves — fewer hedges — signal place labelled " Laugford Box " — big potatoe-fields — then banks — more brick-making — station called, I think, Marley, — pretty church — park-like grounds — inclosed fields and big hedges again — more signs of harvest — " Flying Scotchman " gives a whoop I as his countrymen do in the national dance, and we rush wildly by a station, the name of Avhich is " Arlesey Siding " — what party Arlesey is siding with I haven't time to guess — fields — high banks — reappearance of road — village — old houses — old trees — banks again — signal-box — more harvest — grass and clover-fields — hedges — falling oflf in trees — brook — through AXOTHER LITTLE CRUISE. 173 English landscape shut out — "Flying Scotchman" shriekincr again — '' Hitchin ! " — " Flying Scotchman " dashes past it, evidently calling out " Bless the Duke of Argyll ! " — then slacks off a bit — as if a trifle blown — scene changes to "Wymondeley — - veiy pretty — Birket Foster sort of English scenery — then changes to high reddish sand-banks — F. S. going steadily — hurries up a bit before Stevenage, which we pass in style — neat red-brick town — gardens — road — more bright-red houses, as if the builder had been a regular Paifus — Harvest not so forward — fields for miles — crowds of trees — more good coverts — undulating country — sheep. Harvest better than ever — absolutely " golden grains " — big banks — probably tunnels — no — more red bricks — extensive view of country — grazing-land — charming farm. Large village — two men — we go under bridge — country more undulating — F. S. tremendously elevated — decidedly, F. S. is a whiskey train — tunnel at last — shriek — in we go — darkness — lights — out we come — shriek — in we go again — out we come again — pass Welwyn — lovely wooded country — large fields — fine trees — banks — under bridge — big fields — small hedges — F. S. going it now — intends finishing well — only about twenty miles more to do — two more arches — wooded country — horses — cows — but nobody about anywhere the whole way along, except two men walking iu opposite directions — odd I — is it tea-time everj'where, or dinner- time, or have they all migrated for the holidays ? — shirk Hatfield — " Renowned Salisbury ! " — F. S. slacking off — wooded country — much the same as before — views shut out — meadow-land — • rabbits feeding outside plantation — hedges — ditches — woods — copses — an obelisk on bank, with City Arms (I fancy) on it — slight whistle for Potter's Bar — no one at the Bar — we don't stop — ■ F. S., the whiskey-er, is becoming temperate — whistle — tunnel — in for twenty seconds — out — sun setting — whistle — tunnel — seven seconds — short whistle — tunnel — ten seconds — people at last — suburbs of London really commencing — thrown out like skir- mishers to see what the countrv is like — F. S. o-oino: it ao:ain — must get it over quick now — short whistle — tunnel — ten seconds — more skirmishers — wall of advertisements — Station (what?) — houses — shorter whistle — tunnel — fifteen seconds — shorter whistle, 'cos F. S. can't waste breath — gas-works — London bursting out — 174 BATHER AT SEA. River Lea, or New River ? — views shut out — Station (what ?) — suburban London in force — boys — school playing — F. S. taking it leisurely — rather blown, — whistle — sun setting — moon rising red on the other side, to see the effect — sun hot and tired — moon chilly — want of circulation — town, town, town — smoke, smoke, smoke — churches — advertisements — Holloway Station — Petei* Robinson, Maple, Colman's Mustard to welcome us, — tunnel — going — low whistle — tunnel — in — out — ten seconds — tunnel again — that's it — F. S. ceases to fly — he's walking in — Init he buiTows into London through more tunnels, and here we are, King's Cross, 7 P.M. to the moment, after a splendid two hours' run with the " Flying Scotchman " without a check. As the Mohawk Minstrels sing, " Home Once More.''' MY HEALTH, MY HEALTH CHAPTER I. BIGSBY MY BOY — RETALIATION — CHEERINESS THE MOMPISONS MENTAL MEM AGATHA MOMPISON DANIEL LAMBERT A PICTURE ANALYTICAL HISTORY TORPIDITY COMMENCING FAT jI^^N jioRE MENTAL MEMS WINTON HIS CLUB AN INVITA- TION VAGUE — MORE OF THIS. w Y health has often been pro- posed, and I've returned thanks for it — such as it is. Can t make out what's the matter with me. Bigsby, meeting me in the street, ex- claims heartily — (just like Bigsby, by the way) — " Hallo, old fellow ! " — (everyone's an " old fellow ' with Bigsby, or, if not an " old fellow/' you're " his boy ")— " how deuced well you're looking ! " 178 RATHER AT SEA. I reply, " Am I ? " as if this was information coming from Bigsby, and look (I can't help it) as much as to say to him, " Bigsby, my boy " — (you fall at once into the habit of saying " My boy " when with Bigsby) — "you mustn't judge by appearances. The excite- ment of seeing you " — (I tumbled upon him round a corner ; he being, of course, the last man I'd expected to meet. Query : If Bigsby's the last, who was the first ? Make a note of this for my Theory of FrecognUances) — "has made me look healthy, has called up the hectic flush, Bigsby ; but no ! I am not the robust creature you imagine me to be." I do not say this to Bigsby. I look it at him. I only reply, "Am I?" and retaliate upon him with, "So are you : never saw you looking better." "Why!" cries Bigsby ("cries!" I should say "shouts!" for wherever Bigsby meets you, so remarkably cheery is he — " cheery " is his own word — that he must shout at you if he likes you, and the more he likes you the louder he shouts — "Why, my boy" — (I knew I should be "his boy" directly) — "you're getting horrid stout?" And he throws himself back, in a sort of artistic manner, as if to get a good light on me, and bring out my points. Of course Mrs. Gore Mompison and her two daughters issue at this moment from Fortnum & Mason's Hem. " Sweets to the Sweet." Good thing to say to the Mora- pisons when I meet them at a dinner-party, a propos of Fortnum's. Mustn't let Bigsby's shouting put it out of my head. This mem is a mental niem while Bigsby is shouting and I am raising my hat to the Mompisons. They look astonished. At least Agatha Mompison does, and elevates her eyebrows. If I was asked, I should at this moment like to be seen to advantage ; but one can't be with Bigsby. " 'Pon my word," he says, still shouting, and sticking to his subject, " You're regularly running into fat." The Mompisons, all of them, hear this, and I can't help noticing their heads pushed for^^ard slily, just to take a quiet glance at me from the carriage window, to see if I am "running to fat." I wonder what they decide. MY HEALTH. 179 If I ever (again) meet Agatha, and we sit out a dance or two in retirement, and if I commence to talk to her from the depths of my heart, won't Bigsbj's words recur to her mind suddenly (just as one suddenly thinks of funny things in church), and won't she say to herself " He's running to fat " ? Bother Bigsby — at the same time bless Bigsby. The truth is unpleasant, but if it is the truth ? Yes, I think it is. Perhaps Daniel Lambert was once thin. Everybody must have a beginning ; fat men must have a beginning. I remember smiling at an enormous man who showed me a picture of a slim young creature, " That, Sir," said he, " was I, years ago." I own I did not believe him. I see now it 25 possible. I am beginning to be fat. That's why I am melancholy, that's why I am out of spirits, that's why I sleep heavily, and that's why I can't get on with my scheme for my " Analytical History ofMotion,'' which is to commence with the First Revolution of the Earth, and then take everything in its turn. That's why — I see it now, hang and bless Bigsby ! — that's why I've stuck at the same line of Chapter the Second on " Elementary notation^''' and have gazed at the paper day after day, torpidly unable to write a single paragraph, and feeling only inclined to scribble occasional mems for future work, and generally ending with scrawling idiotic figures with thin legs, no bodies, and large noses on the very sheets which ought to have been devoted to the highest scientific purposes. Bigsby is right. I am, as it were, an infant Fat Man. There is such an academical existence as that of a " Commencing Bachelor." I don't know what it means, and it conveys no very distinct idea of a profession to my mind. But I see what a Commencing Fat Man is. I realise that. Mental Mem to be acted upon immediately. To go home and try all my clothes on. Give attention to waistcoats, itc. Particu larly "i-c." I have parted from Bigsby, and have taken my way, by bye- streets to my Club. I will not appear in the Park ; I will avoid the haunts of men. I wil] be a hennit — a Commencing Fat Hermit. N 2 180 HAT HER AT SEA. No. I slap my forehead. I liave it ! * * * I will be thin. Take Fat by the forelock. " A stitch in time," ic, and so forth. * * * Stay I * * ■^- Perhaps Bigsby's 'WTong. Perhaps it's only his fun. Having nothing particular to do, I'll call — no, I'll write to Bigsby, and ask him if it was only his fun. At this moment Winton walks in. Winton is sharp, short, and decisive, his hair curls crisply. His eyes are here, there, and everywhere. He rubs his hands briskly while talking, and smacks them with a sort of " flash " which a conjurer gives to a pack when he is going to show you the card you choose, when he delivers an oracular opinion. Winton is a great hand at health. He never (so I believe) overeats, never overdrinks, never oversleeps, is always well, lives a good deal " about," as he calls it, which means that no one is ever certain as to his address. " The Club," says he, " will always find me ; " and yet not once in twenty months will you find Winton at his Club. However, here he is. He is brown, sunburnt, not an ounce of flesh too much upon him. I envy Winton as I salute him, and congratulate him on his health. "Yes," he returns, "you ought to come with me" — (he never says where) — " and take regular exercise. Your sedentary work doesn't do. Go in for tennis, or riding, or a good stretch over the downs." I say, " What downs ? " expecting an invitation from him to his house somewhere by the sea. Pleasant. " 0," he replies, rubbing his hands, and chuckling, " Anywhere. You take a little place by the sea, and I'll come and stop with you, and put you through your paces." And he slaps his hands, and smiles amiably. I must hear more of this. MY HEALTH. 181 CHAPTER II. OLD BOOTS — OPINIONS — SMASHING — MEMS — VIDDLE — FLUTER — GILVER IN THE NORTH — COUSIN RICHARD — UNPROFESSIONAL OPINIONS — MULFER — DOCTOR'S SANCTUM MEM — ADVICE GRATIS — MY AUNT HENRIETTA LADY ABBESS — OUR PARTY TO RAMS- GATE MINSLEY — AN AFTER-DINNER PARTY WENSDAY WONDERS. ON COLLECTING the advice of my friends on this subject, I find it convenient to classify their opinions thus : — 1. To walk like old boots everyday for three hours. — Sympson's pillion. 2. That I ought to do. gymnastics everj^ morning for an hour, 182 RATHER AT SEA. and go in for a turn ^vith the gloves for two hours before dinner. — Muggeridge's Opinion. Mem. Notion of the gloves not bad, if I could find a professor who -would bind himself solemnly not to hit me on the nose. Somebody in great suffering once exclaimed, " All this to crush a worm ! " When a sort of muscular buffer comes with a deadened blovr on what the P. R. terms the " smeller," so that you feel that organ suddenly spread (as it were) over your face, and your eyes watering violently, then one is inclined to adopt the above, and cry, " All this to smash a nose ! " 2nd Mem on this Subject. The punishment of the nose because the hands are fighting, is a specimen of unevenhanded justice where the innocent suffers for the guilty. 3. To go in for the Cold Water Cure. — Viddle's Idea. 4. To get change of scene. Run about everywhere. — Fluter's Idea, accompanied hy a practical suggestion to the effect that, if III pay half his expenses, he'll travel with me anyichere. Mem. Fluter's not a bad fellow ; and if no one else will go, Query, is he worth it ? What's the proverb say ? " Better to be alone than to pay half of another fellow's travelling expenses," or something to that effect. 5. Go and stay with Gilver in the North. He'll be delighted to see you. — Richard's Opinion. Richard is a cousin of mine, and he thought I was going to propose coming to stop with him. Various Opinions (all unprofessional). Go in for diet. — Cut off lunch.— Get up early.— Go to bed early.— Get up late.— Take hot baths only. — Take nothing but cold •water. — Take a shower-bath before dinner. — Never take a shower-bath by any chance. — Walk before breakfast. — Never walk before breakfast, but immediately after. — Get the morning air. — Morning air worst thing for mo : death in fact.— Never go out until 2 p.m.— Hunt.— On no account venture to hunt. — Take medicine every other > day. — Rashest thing for me to take any medicine : play Old Gooseberry with me. — Live high. — Live low.— Walk. — Lie down. — Run. — Jump. — Shoot. — Box. — Drive.— , MY HEALTH. 183; Sing. — Dance. — Eat vegetables. — Never touch any green meat. — Take no pastry. — Take anything. — Never touch tea or coffee. — Never touch coffee: take tea. — Never touch either. — Take weak tea last thing at night. — Never at night, but first thing in the morning, (tc, (tc, &c. I sit in and consider the matter. I go out and consider the matter. I am restless. I can't work. I feel depressed. Coming events begin to cast their shadows hefore me, and, on c?eflexion, I feel sure that I am getting fat. Bigsby's awful words haunt me — " running to fat," just as weeds or strawberries s^pread out (awful simile !) and run to seed. It won't bear thinking of. I've a headache. It suddenly comes on at the corner of Sack- ville Street, where my friend Mulfer lives. Mulfer ? Odd it never occurred to me till this moment that Mulfer is the rising young Practitioner of the day. I'll consult Mulfer. He'll advise me as a friend and as a medical man ; or, seeing that I know beforehand his advice will be gratis, the characters will be amal- gamated, and he'll be my Medical Friend. I tell him (he's delighted to see me in his little back study with a case of the brightest surgical instruments on the table, a picture of Doctor Somebody on the wall, and a bookcase full of professional literature) that I have not called in professionally (this will remove all delicacy on his part and mine about a fee, and reduce the affair to a mere friendly visit), but just to see him, and ask him how he is. Mem. Not a bad idea for getting an opinion from a doctor. Call in and ask hiui how he is. Hint for conversation with doctor : — Friend. How d'ye do? How are you ? Doctor. Ah ! How d'ye do ? Hoiv are you ? Friend (seizes the opportunity for a ^^ full and particular,''^ and details all his symptoms). How am I ? Ah, that's it, &c. [Here follow the complaints.) I tell him how I am. I tell him how I have been. I tell him how my headache has just come on, taking me at the side of the nose, going up to the top of my head, round behind my ear, and down again to my jaw, until it seems to turn into a toothache. 184 MATHER AT SEA. I tell him that I am getting fat. I tell him that I feel generally speaking "anyhow." " You want a regular change," says Mulfer. " Go away for six months at least." After expressing this opinion, he looks at his watch, says he's rather pressed for time, will I excuse him ? rings a bell, then there's a knock at the front door, then his mysterious man enters to ask "if he shall show Lord Aubr " Mulfer stops him in the middle of his indiscretion, and tells him, "Up-stairs." " And Lady Court " (his mysterious man begins again). Once more Mulfer (who, I see, attends the aristocracy) stops him quickly, and tells him, "back room," then looks at me, as much as to say, "You see how busy I am." I do see how busy he is, I thank him very much, promise to " let him see me again soon." He replies, " Do," but not heartily, and I show myself out into the dark passage, and into the arms of the mysterious servitor, who lets me open the front door for myself (I'm evidently not worth half a-crown for future interviews, and he sees it with a practised eye), while he ushers a lady out of the front room into the sanctum. There are coronetcd carriages about the door. Mulfer is getting on, and I've been taking up his time. Mem {in pocket-look). To ask Mulfer to dinner when I come back. At present, to take his advice, and go away, for change. Where ? I am melancholy. As I think of going away for change, I am depressed. I will go and call on my Aunt. It's an odd thing that whenever I'm depressed I always feel I should like to go and call on my Aunt Henrietta, and I generally do. The idea of calling on my Aunt when miserable, originated (I can distinctly trace it) in an ancient and laudable custom of my boyhood. The occasions of gi-eatest depression to me, when a boy, were undoubtedly the days of my return to school, and these became to me " times of refreshening," as a lawyer might say, because I went the round of my relations in London, and made a JIY HEALTH. 185 collection to defray the expenses, or, as it were, encourage the per- formance, of mv going back to school. I knew, as well as a street musician, or a country tramp, the houses that were good for any- thing, and also could reckon beforehand, to a shilling, how much they were good for. My Aunt was uniformly one sovereign. I visited her, beaming, at half-past eleven, a.m., commencing my tour with her. We were delighted to see each other, she made inquiries about my progress at school, and fetched her pui*se out of her work-box ; I meantime, delicately pretending not to know what was going on. Then, after stopping there a quarter of an hour, I rose to leave, and she pressed a sovereign into my hand, for which I used to thank her heartily and blushingly, and then giving her a kiss (as a sort of set-off), bade her good-bye. Thus it happens that, whenever I'm in as low spirits as I used to be on going-back days, I always instinctively turn towards my Aunt. My Aunt Henrietta is of a sad temperament, and dresses (for no particular reason) something like a Lady Abbess, or, to give a better idea of her costume, as a Lady Abbess might appear in a brougham, and going out shopping in Regent Street. "Well, my dear," she says, after hearing my statement of suffer- ing, " I should say that quiet and repose would do all you want for you.'' I assent. " With, of course, a thorough change of scenery." I assent again. I fancy she contemplates making me a hand- some present (nothing like reviving good old customs), and paying my expenses for a continental trip. " Change of scene," she continues, meditatively, " and change of people.'"' Certainly ; quite my views on the subject. "You should have no anxiety or trouble for some time, for instance," she goes on, myself assenting to every particular ; " and so, I think " (she's adding up what she's going to '"' come down with ") " if you were to come down '" (ahem ! the coming down I'd expected from k€7') "with me to Eamsgate, you could" — in a burst of generosity — " stay there for a fortnight or three weeks." 186 BATHE B AT SEA. I am very much obliged. I accept. Eamsgate is near Dover Dover to Ostend, and so forth. A little diplomacy will manage it. Diplomacy says, " Cultivate your Aunt." I will. We go to-morrow. The party consists of my Aunt, her maid (a nice young girl of about fifty-three), a small King Charles (retained on the establishment for past services), and a melancholy turtle- dove in a wicker-cage. Our united ages amount to but no matter ; I foresee quiet, rest, aud irresponsibility. On looking over my Mems I find that I had set down, " Call on Minsley about certain commissions in town." As I shan't have any time to see him to-morrow, it occurs to me, after finishing my packing, that I'll look him up (10.30 p.m.) to-night. Minsley has something to do with looking up old records in a State Paper OflBce, and is generally considered a rising young man of strict business habits. I find Minsley at his Club. He has dined late with a friend, and they are the only persons in the large dining-room. I am announced, and shown in. I don't know the friend. They have two decanters on the table, one nearly empty, the other half full, and some legal-looking papers are lying between them. Minsley and friend have either had quite as much as is good for them, or have been both fiist asleep. Both attempt to be excessively polite. The friend smiles and bows, aud evidently would rise if he could only move his chair away from the table. Minsley says, " Aha ! " and looks at me as if trying to see me through a mist. I am introduced to his friend (who tries to rise again, and is puzzled by his chair), whose name seems to be, as pronounced by Minsley, Mr. "Wednesday. He says, " Let me in'duce Mis' Wens'day," and omits my name entirely. Mr. "Wensday smiles blandly, and in waving his hand (intending, I fancy, to motion me with the utmost politeness to a seat), upsets a wine-glass. At this they both laugh, though Wensday appears to be a little discomfited, and mutters something about " 'tis not being worth mentioning." I seat myself, and am about to address Minsley, when I notice that he is suddenly dozing, while Wensday is still bowing to me, and smiling. MY HEALTH. Wl I observe to Minslej that if he's too sleepy to attend to business now, I'll write to him, as I shan't have time to call before leaving town. He wakes up at the mention of business, and replies, " Cer- tainly. I can 'tend. Go on." Then, by a sudden inspiration, " Take something." Whereupon Wensday, who is helping him- self to claret (and pouring some on the law papers), " begs pardon, and hopes 111 join " — with which he knocks over his wine-glass, and looking angrily round, as if some one had jogged his elbow, says, "Wai'r, wine-glass to thisgen'man." Then he smiles upon me as before. "Whatever Minsley is, there is no doubt about Wensday's being very far gone. I find out afteru'ards that his name is Middleborough, but that before I came in, they'd been discussing something important to be done on Wednesday, and Minsley (so he says) had somehow got the word on his lips, and really was quite unaware he'd made the mistake. Jle/n. This explanation comes to me by post days after. I mention why I am forced to go away. My health. Wensday says, " By all means ; in a bumper," and is calling for another bottle of claret when I manage to make him understand that I am not proposing a toast. More smiles from Wensday. While this passage is occurring between us, Minsley goes beyond a doze, and fairly snores. As it is improbable I shall get him to attend to any business (and mine being important and pecuniary, requires a clear head), I rise to go. I leave Wensday — quite unable to get away from his chair, but polite to the last — smiling, bowing, and saying something in- distinctly, " Bett'rstop — fish it " — (he means "finish it," it being the bottle) — and Minsley fast asleep, with his chin hiding his white tie. Jlem. Not a good time to call on Minsley as a man of business. Wonder what those law papers were about that they'd got on the table between them ? Wonder when they got home, and how ? 188 MATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER Iir. DIFFICULTIES — CABMAN — LUGGAGE — MASTER GEORGE -DODDRIDGE AND nOVE— MV aunt's rOCKET-HANDKERCHIEF HIDE AND SEEK— IN THE TRAIN— " TELL ME, SHEPHERD "—OLD GUARD- PRIVATE CARRIAGE — NO SMOKE Y AUNT is of Opinion that I shall be the better for niY journey to Kanisgate : this she .says before starting, at the Railway Station. I never knew anv two people so difficult to find as my Aunt and her maid, or any things so difficult to keep in one place as my Aunt's and her maid's jjack- a^es. Of course (after an altercation with the Cabman in consequence of the number of parcels outside, in which he has the best of it), I have to take their tickets and look after the luggage. It requires a considerable amount of "looking after." I ask them in the meantime to step into a waiting-room : from that moment I experience the greatest trouble in what I may term marshalling my forces. After seeing the luggage labelled, and arranging for one porter to carry our wraps, nigs — we have as many as if we were going on an Arctic expedition — and umbrellas, and entrusting another porter with the turtle-dove in its wicker cage, I go in search of mv Aunt. -S^ 31 Y HEALTH. 189 Into one waiting-room — no. Somebody very like her, but that won't do. Into another waiting-room — no. Odd. Perhaps the refresh- ment room — no. Ah, there's Doddridge, her maid, by the book- stall. Doddridge has known me from infancy, and calls me Master George. She is a trifle more cheerful than my Aunt, there being, perhaps, just one smile to choose between them. You never know when either of them is going to cry. There are some subjects of conversation which, if anybody touches upon ever so lightly, set them off one after the other, as if by mechanism. Doddridge's sorrow is the memory of her great-grandfather, whom she supported for years (she's a kind soul) until there was nothino- left to support, except his loss, which appears to be still (and it happened twenty years ago at least), insupportable. Mem {always to he home in mind in taUcing uith Doddridge). Never mention any great-grandfather. Ignore such a being. My Aunt has a secret sorrow. There's the difiBculty with lier. No one can tell ivhy she chooses to dress like a Lady Abbess (with mod-ifications). No one can tell why she invariably retires for two hours during the afternoon, and will be at home to no one. You can avoid the pit-fall of Doddridge's grief, but you can't do the same with my Aunt's. You may step down on it suddenly if you're treading (conversationally) ever so lightly, and then — squish ! — out come the tears, not noisily, but with sufficient force to give you such a shock as you'd have if you'd pulled a shower- bath string, when you thought there was nothing in and the top turned out to be full. You never knew of what subject to steer clear with her. And then, when she cries, it is most embarrassing ; she weeps with her eyes wide open, not blinking for a second, and she never has a pocket-handkerchief to hand when wanted. If my Aunt is up- stairs, her pocket-handkerchief is down-stairs, and vice versd. I find Doddridge at the book-stall. Where is my Aunt ? " Lor, Master George," says this excellent woman, " how should I know? What with the bustle, and the whistling, and things going about, I really can't see no one nowhere, and where your Aunt has gone. Master George, is a misery " (she means " mystery ") " to me." I point to a waiting-room and tell her to %^o in there. She con- 190 RATHER AT SEA, tinues, " and then, Master George, there's poor Charlie (the King Charles, now in her arms, turning up his nose at me, and showing his teeth), I must take him with me in the carriage. Lor', if he was to go in the luggage place, or if I was to part company with him, Missus would never forgive me, for she says, just before you left us, says she," — — I pretend to see my Aunt in the distance and leave Doddridge. I find my Aunt at last, slowly walking up the Greenwich Train platform. I bring her back, and then go for Doddridge, in the waiting-room. Doddridge hfts vanished. I rush out, and to secure my Aunt, ask her to " wait there" (a seat under the clock) while I fetch Doddridge. I come upon Doddridge in the refreshment-room, feeding the dog. We've only got five minutes — she can't find her purse. I pay — sandwich for dog. Now then, back to my Aunt. No Aunt. Try for luggage. See Porter with turtle-dove, show- ing it to some other men. Don't see Porter with Arctic rugs. On my return, followed by Porter and dove, who sha'n't quit me any more, I miss Doddridge, and, beginning to lose my temper, suddenly encounter my Aunt coming out of waiting-room. " Oh," I exclaim, " here you are, at last." [^[em. On consideration (reviewing the day from a diary point of view) this was not exactly the tone in which to address her. Must be gentle with my Aunt.] Afraid I spoke roughly — shall I apologise? I see the tears gathering in her eye. Can't be brutal — can't say "only two minutes ; no time to cry ; come on ; cry when we're in the train." What can I do ? Porter does it. Porter says, " Only two minutes more, Sir." Then we hun-y on. That is, the Porter hurries first to say we're coming ; I hurry next, at only half the pace I could and should go if I were alone, and then comes my Aunt, whom at this moment, in my impetuosity (I am impetuous and hate missing a train) I should like either to carry down the platform, on a ti-uck, at a run, or (with another fellow) to take both hands and pull her along, somewhat after the country-dance style of " up the middle MY HEALTH. 191 and down again." I don't think this cmelly, but as mucli as to say (if I could say it to her), " You'll thank me for it when yoa'i^ seated." She is seated ; half a minute more. She's in the carriage — so's the turtle-dove. Where's the other porter? and Doddridge? Good Heavens ! Doddridge ! ! and Charlie !— a quarter of a minute. Stout old Guard, with ruddy face, says, " Now then, Sir," intimating that I must get in and let him shut the door. I say, " Tell me have you seen — " Quotation suggei^ts itself— ''TeW me. Shepherd (Guard of the Ramsgate train) have you seen my Doddridge pass this way ? " No. " With a dog 1 " shrieks my Aunt. " Got a ticket for it, M'm 1 " asks Guard. My Aunt turns tc me. " Yes," I reply ; luckily I have, at least, I know I received one, but can't find it, or any of them, now, of course; bother the things. "Yes, and for the maid — " Sharp Porter {suddenly). " Maid and little dog, I put 'em second." He rushes (for sixpence) wildly along the platform, tugs at a door, lugs out Doddridge (who thinks it's something to do with the police or train on fire) and the dog, brings 'em along, I beckoning (having come out of the carriage again), my Aunt waving her handkerchief from the window, the old Guard looking at his watch, and then opening the door with "Now then, Miss " — Miss to Doddridge which means a shilling prospectively from me — 1 jump in, Doddridge is bundled in and falls somewhere as the signal is given, the engine shrieks, and we are off. " 0, Mum ! " exclaims Doddridge, " the rugs and umbrellas ! ! They was put in with me, Mum, by the young man as showed me into the second-class, as I didn't know as Master George had took a first ticket for me. Mum, and I've left 'em there. Mum, in the *urry. Whatever shall we do. Mum ? There ! I wouldn't ha' had that t'appen for fifty pound. Mum, I wouldn't." I say, we shall get them on the first stoppage, and I wish we may. 192 BATHER AT SEA. Mem. What I am on all hands advised to get for My Health is, Quiet, Repose, and an absence of Responsibility. Fif'st stoppage. Old Guard (sounds like a Napoleonic title) looks in, brings rugs, tire. J oy of the party. Old Guard informs us through the window, pleasantly, that he's going through with us. I reply that I am glad to hear it. Mem. Politeness to a Guard, or from a Guard, costs something. Invariably. Old Guard, still looking in, says with a knowing look, " All right, you'd like this carriage to yourselves" — I, my Aunt and Doddridge, aged fifty-three if a day — " so I'll do my best to keep it for you," with wliich he nods, winks, smiles and locks the door. Does he think we're a bridal party ? two spoons and an old maid ? or can he imagine that my Aunt wants to smoke ? Smoke ! I should like a cigar now, while travelling. TJie time above all others. My Aunt hates it. Not to be thought of — or rather to he thought of as much as I like, but not to be tried on any account. To put it (as it flashes across me) in a nautical form, " No smoking abaft my Aunt." Mem. Absence of "Worry is essential to My Health. I feel 1 shall worry myself about not being able to smoke, while I'm at mv Aunt's. MY HEALTH. 193 CHAPTER IV. STILL IX THE TRAIN INCLINATION.-- PANKLIBANON MEM. — REFRESHMENTS UNCIAL CHARACTER— SYMPATHETIC NERVOUS- NESS — THE JOURNEY GUSHING ARRIVED NOBODY ANYWHERE DIET — QUIET — MUSIC THE DOVE BLIGHTED BEINGS — NINE- THIRTY AN APOLOGY FOR MELANCHOLY PECULIARITIES OF RAMSGATE — DOVE QUITE IN COO— MORNING DIARY NERVES. ;N THE traui. All thi'ee silent ; turtle-dove cooing ; melancholy noise. I feel inclined to say a lot of things, but don't. Must select my subjects care- fully, or else they'll both cry. Things I feel in- clined to say J hut don't — {keep 'em for another time). The noise made by the train fits any tune (hum one and try it — hum another. Can do this when with musical friend, but not now ; keep it). That we wriggle about a good deal in this train. That time soon passes while travelling. That Railway TravelUng is superior to Coaching. That it's delightful to get out of Town. That the Counti7 is looking veiy well. Mem. {to consider ivhat 1 mean hy this.) "Whatever anyone else may mean, I find, on analysis, that my notion is, that the Country 194 MATHER AT SEA. is different to Town ; that it is green ; that there are trees ; that there are fields ; that there are sheep and cows. That it is impossible to make out the name of a station from listening to the Porters. That we want a new Act requiring uniformity of pronunciation among Eailway Porters. That it's a great mistake to allow stupendous advertisements in stations. Foreigners might easily mistake " Panklibanon," or " Ozokerit," when in enormous letters on a large board, for the name of the place. 2Ie)n. PanlUhanon wouldn't be a bad title ; sounds eastern. "Cedars of Panklibanon," Arc. AVonder what Panklibanon really is. One thing I do know, that it is not another name for Canter- bury, where we are now halting, and I make this note. Mem. It is a pity, also, that Guards, Porters, and Officials generally differ as to the time the train is going to stop at an intermediate Station. One says, " Two minutes ; " another, "Hardly a minute;" a third, "Four minutes;" a fourth, "Off directly." Our own confidential Guard assures me that I shall have plenty of time for a cup of tea or coffee and a bun, and he will show me the refreshment-room. This results in his getting a glass of beer (from me), and in my ordering a cup of tea, and having it handed to me very hot, when I'm trying to swallow a sponge-cake. The bell rings, somebody outside cries sternly, " Any more going on ? " and our old Guard looks in to say, " Xow then, Sir, time's up." Continuing, on my resuming my seat (being received coldly by my Aunt), to "think," and to make occasional notes (which I manage by gTasping my pocket-book tightly in my left hand on my knee, and pressing down upon it heavily and slowly with my pencil, producing thereby a kind of uncial character which subse quently costs me some considerable time and trouble to decipher) would gradually send me to sleep, but for Doddi'idge, w^ho can't be persuaded that the wheel is not on fire, and my Aunt, who is sure we are going so unsteadily as to be certain of an accident. Mem. Sympathetic nerves. They make me quite uncomfortable. Doddridge sniffs, and is sure it's fire. My Aunt clutches the seat- J/r HEALTH. 195 arms convulsivelj every three minutes, and says, jerkily, " I can't stand this — I know I can't" — then she breathes, as if with difficulty, relaxing slightly her hold on the arm — three minutes of quiet travelling — when we come on to a decline, or an incline, or a beautiful bit of engineering, which takes us on to a curve, and nearly sends my Aunt into a fit. I tell her, cheeringly, that there's nothing to be frightened at, I beg her to think how many thousands travel and yet I've done it. Doddridge has begun to sob, and my Aunt is staring, in a three-quarter-face attitude, out of the window with the teai's gradually gathering in both eyes. What have I said ? ♦ * * * * ♦ Ramsgate. — My Aunt likes to take watering-places at a disadvan- tage, as it were. She is the guest who comes too early, and witnesses the preparations. February is not the season for Ramsgate. Ramsgate is "to let."' There is no one < m the pier. There is no one on the sands. There is no one in the street. There is no one on the promenade. My Aimt has very nice lodgings. There's a piano in the dining- drawing-room, which I am glad to see. After all, we shall manage to be cheeiful. Mem. With regard to My Health, go in for diet. Also for quiet Diet and Quiet. Just the opportunity here. Oppoi-tunity also for reading, not writing (except occasional notes ), but only reading. A httle music in the evening will be cheerful. I ask my Aunt, after dinner, to sing. She will. Her collection of songs is of a deeply melancholy character. She commences with " The For- saken,'' which makes Doddridge, who is in a corner knitting or doing something with a piece of green leather, a pattern, and a needle, snivel. On her finishing, I siiy, " Very pretty. What is it ? ■' and I examine the copy. Will she sing again ? Yes. She selects '• My Heart is Sore " — which is very depressing. The burden of this is, that the singer (my Aunt) complains of having been slighted and neglected for another (some other lady), after having trusted herself to the gentleman apostrophised in the ballad as "'Ah, ci-uel ! couldst thou" something or other, which he not o 2 196 RAT HE H AT SEA. only apparently could but would, and, for the matter of that, had done, and pretty effectually too. After this, we three sit thoughtfully (I don't know what I'm thinking about), and the Dove coos plaintively. I sleep next door to the Dove, and hate him. My Aunt now rises and examines her repertoire. She chooses another. It is " Blighted,'' which cheerful composition shuts up Doddridge entirely, and sets my Aunt gulping with emotion. She breaks down. They are both crying. What am I to do] I don't feel inclined to cry. I wish I did. I would willingly. My Aunt can't find her pocket-handkerchief, so, it being a lovely evening and warm for this time of year, she goes out of the open window, and sobs on the steps leading into the garden. Doddridge retires. I look at my watch. Nothing to do. No books. Forgot to buy papers. 9.30. Too early for bed. I wonder if this sort of thing will go on every night. My Aunt says (returning from window), *' I'm afraid you'll find it rather dull here." I reply, " Oh, no, not at all. It's just what I want. It'll do me good." My Aunt hopes it will, and taking her candlestick, goes to bed. Quarter to ten. Well, yes, I will go to bed. It's so calm and quiet here, I shall get a good night's rest. I might smoke out- side. No, it's getting cold, and above all things My Health requires me to be very particular about the night air. Daren't smoke in the house. Perhaps it will do me good to give it up gradually. Am restless. Bother my Aunt's songs, they've made me quite sad. In the front of the house it is a calm night : at the back, where my bedroom is, it is a rough night. Peculiarity perhaps of Pvamsgate. I've heard that the climate is different on both cliff's, but that there should be scarcely a breath of wind in front of the house and a hurricane at the back-door is a meteorological phenomenon. I am awake at midnight : I am more awake at one a.m. : I am hot and feverish at two. Window rattling, wind howling. I try several " good things for sending you to sleep." I count up to a hundred, and am more wide awake than ever. I try a hundred backwards and feel quite ready to dress (if they'd only MY HEALTH. 197 call me now) and go out for a walk. About 2.30 I begin to wander in my mind, then for a short time I am wakeful, then drowsy. I am saying to myself " Xow I'm going to sleep," wher the Dove in the next room commences cooing. I count his cooing He coos seven times and stops. Thank goodness. He recom- mences as I am beginning to doze. I count ten coos. I strike a light and look at my watch. 3.30 ! ! and My Health absolutely requires a great deal of sleep. The wind subsides. So does the Dove. I begin to wonder if ... to aiTange what I'll do to-morrow — I will — let me see — 111 — first Knock at door. Hot water. Ah, yes. 7.30, Sir. Quite so. All right. Feeble. To sleep again. Diary of Xext Day. Aunt the embodiment of the soul of punctu- ality at breakfast. I have to apologise. Storm : new bed : Dove — no, on second thoughts, I won't say anything about the Dove. Delicate ground — it's a pet. Love me, love my Dove. It is trying work for the nerves, living with my Aunt. She starts at the least thing. If I come into the room at all quietly, she jumps up, exclaiming, "Ah 1 I do wish you would knock, or cough before you come in." Tm now always knocking and coughing. I knock first, look in and then ccugh. This will become a habit, if I go on with it very long. Then, if I get tired of a book, and drop off to sleep, and the book falls, up jumps my Aunt and presses her hand to her heart, as if I'd shot her. She iiAll have the coalscuttle outside the room, so that my caiTying a scuttleful to put on the fire is a feat not unlike Blondin's walking on the tight-rope. It's most difficult to carry it without spilling a coal, specially while my Aunt is saying " Do take care," and I know that the fall of one lump will make her give such a jump as will be fatal to my steadiness. If I come upon her suddenly at a turn of the staii-s she clutches the banisters, she is so startled. I can't, as it were, accustom her to my appearance. I am the Skeleton popping out of the cupboard, the Ghost on the staircase, the Cuckoo in the clock, the Jack in the box, anything, in fact, sudden in its movement, and startling — that is, as regards my Aunt. I proposed in a satirical mood (of 198 BAT HE B AT SEA which I afterwards repent, but I 2vas worried) that I sliould be perpetually playing a trumpet, or have a bell round my neck like Charlie, the little dog. For me to come in by the window from the garden simply kills her. I never saw anybody so frightened in my life. I explain that I really did not know she was there. Doddridge, calming her, says, "0, Master George, you ouglit to be more considerate."' MY HEALTH. 199 CHAPTER Y. W'ALKIXG EXERCISE FLYING — RAJISGATE STREETS DESCENTS — ASCENTS — RIGHT ANGLES— MY HEALTH EDUCATION MEM. DE RAMSGATE A BROADSTAIRS — ALLER ET RETOUR INTERIOR OF SHOP JUMPS — NEW VERB DOG AND CAT — BUDD — A MEET- IXG PROPOSAL ENORMITIES A DEAD UN GASPIPES IN VIEW. -^V^HEN I am obliged to ask Aimt if she wouldn't like to go out for a walk. ^ly walk is a good three -and-a-half miles an hour for a genuine constitu- tional. My Aunt's is one mile in an hour and a half, with stoppages. Tremendous exer- cise for control of temper — that's the only exercise it gives me. I take my Aunt out in a fly — shopping, and to see Rams- gate. Ramsgate, for fly-driving, is a startling place for such a nervous system as my Aunt's. The place reminds me of the Centrifugal Railway where you went down a tremendous incline on the left, were whh-led round a circle (still in your car head- over-heels) and shot up another tremendous incline on the right. This is Ramsgate, only without the circle in the centre, its absence being compensated for by gutters, inequalities in the roads, and sharp right-angled corners, which the flys take with a bump that sets 'em all straight again, and puts you right for the next hill. Going doivn a BilL—Mj Aunt's teeth chatter— she is pale. She draws in her breath : she grasps the side convulsively with one hand, and Doddridge with the other. She is perpetually 200 RATHER AT SEA. worrying the driver to " go gently," which results at last in funeral pace. When we are bumped, which happens every other ten minutes, she shudders and grasps whatever is nearest to her. I protest, I am becoming fearfully nervous myself. The streets of Ramsgate were never meant to accommodate more than one carriage, and you have to go almost out of the town before you can get sufficient room to turn comfortably. When this critical moment arrives, my Aunt simply steps out and stands on the pavement, retiring subsequently within a shop-door, while the fly- man is executing this strategic movement. In passing another vehicle we have half an inch between its wheel and ours. It seems as if my Aunt's last moment had come. She clutches at her heart and gasps spasmodically. As to mrj Nerves and My Health — a few days more of this and I shall be a shattered invalid. Second Day of this Sort of Thing.— Qixxit stand it : the two old women, the dog growling, and the turtle-dove cooing will drive me wild. My Aunt has got an idea that a turtle-dove will talk if properly trained. Slie practises this for one hour a-day, and asks me to continue when she's tired. The lesson consists in sitting before the cage, and wagging your head from side to side, saying, " Pretty ! how d'ye do ? " Tends to lunacy. Mem. Surely this kind of life leads to drinking, or (as I look over the cliff and watch the waves) to but no, I can swim. This state is the woi-st possible thing for My Health — I feel it. I feel that I am heavy, that I have got a pain in my nose, and that I show signs of being, like Charlie, over-fed. Over-fed ! like Charlie ; yes, and growling. But I am out by myself, for the first time. Alone and free. In an East wind, that seems to cut right into you, and make a cold draught, a sort of Suez Canal, through your ribs. I wiU not return to ask my Aunt, but will go for a constitutional. Where ? Look at pocket-book, where I've previously noted what to do at Ramsgate. Mem. When at Ramsgate go to Broadstairs. Good — will look in at a tobacconist's shop and ask my way. I do so. The dramatis ;peroonce cf the shop on my entrance are — old man 31 Y HEALTH. 201 behind the counter (probably the proprietor), a customer (back view), a large shaggy dog on the floor (eyidently a visitor), a big cat on a cigar chest (evidently a resident). The dog is eyeing the cat wistfully, while the cat is lying with her legs comfortably tucked up under her, pretending to be more than half asleep, but n reality, very much awake. My appearance distracts the dog's attention, and offers him another subject for consideration, namely, my legs. Cat supremely indifferent. Proprietor attending to his business. Customer choosing a tobacco-pouch. Dog suspicious. Myself nervous. I cannot help it ; after such a turn as I have had of it with a Jumping Aunt — [Mem. Startling Name for a Sensational Kovel, J/y Jumping Aunt.]—Si ring-dove learning to talk, and a water-nymph (Doddridge, the Crying Maid) of uncertain age (i.e. after fifty). My nerves are quite out of order, and My Health, instead of being improved, is sensibly worsened. Mem. New verb. To be worsened, i.e., to be made woi-se. Wlij not 1 To be loosened, i.e., to be made loose. Note for book, i/i futuro. "Get away, you ruffian:"' says the Customer, opportunely interfering with the dog's proceedings, who won't allow me to advance another step. Dog retires (on receiving an admonitory kick from Customer) with a side glance at cat, conveying the idea that he'd very much hke to meet her by moonlight alone, and give her a bit of his mind, or rather a bite of it, at the same time sulkily protesting against such treatment before strangers. This action {i.e. the kick) brings Customer and self face to face, which, by tlie way, is not generally the result of a kick. "Why" — he exclaims, staring at me. ''"^Miy" — I exclaim, recognising him in two seconds. It is Budd. The very fellow of all others for me to meet at this crisis of My Health. Budd is a superlative. He is the jolliest, cheeriest, best looking, best hearted fellow possible. He is what is called a man with his heart in the right place. [Awkward, by the way, if he hasn't ; but there are occasions when hearts are not in the right place, as, for instance, in a panic, when someone's ''heart's in his mouth" (horrible 1), or, "sinks into his boots." But this never hajjpens to Budd. He doesn't know what nervous- 202 BATHER AT SEA. ness means, and as for ill health, he appeai-s simply unal>le to understand it] He is hearty. — I am delighted. AMiat has brought us both here 1 Health. I have come in search of it, he has brought it Mith him. " By Jove," he exclaims, after taking a good look at me, '' I hardly knew you at first, youve got so tremendombj siout." "Do you think so?" I ask, with an assumption of carelessness, as if it was, after all, only o matter of opinion, and that other people thought I was curiously thin. "Think so 1 " says he, "why look here '. " and he pinches my arm, and then prods me under (to put it neatly) my fifth rib. I wince. Budd, who was in the Army, has, I find, taken to farming and country pui-suits generally, and has an eye for fat, having exhibited pigs and got a medal. " He wants some of this off, eh, doesn't he?" he continues, appealing to the shopkeeper, who smiles, clearly afraid of offending two customers. " Come and take a Turkish Bath, that's your tip," ^:ays Budd ; " You'll lose ten pounds of this," another prod in a new place, and shopkeeper much amused, confound his impudence, " in a week, and at the end of a couple of months you'll be fit for a Derby winner." This view of the result of a course of Turkish Baths is encouraging, though my recollection of having taken one a long time ago in London, is that I was seriously ill for three days after. " Bosh ! " cries Budd, heartily ; " you come up with me, and I'll put you through your paces." I promise to join him in a bath to-morrow. Will he, for com- pany's sake, walk with me to-day ? He considers. " Xo," he replies ; " I can't, because I'm going to commit the enormity of going out fishing." Everything with him is an enormity. At one o'clock he is going to commit the enormity of taking a brandy and soda, and a biscuit. At this moment he is " going to commit the enormity of smoking a cigar." Falling into his way, I inform him that I propose com- mitting the enormity of walking to Broadstairs. "Do you good," says he ; "take a breather to-day, and go in or the enormity of a Turkish to-morrow, no beer or butter, and MY HEALTH. 203 you'll enter for the Gaspipe Stakes in a fortnight. Melt some of this off," another prod, " and choke off your nerves, or you're booked for a dead 'un before you know where you are." With this cheerful view of my case, given in the joUiest manner possible, he summons Growler, the dog, with a playful poke of his stick — very much like what he's been giving me — and marches out, Growler nodding to the cat, and expressing himself to the effect that it won't be long before he has the pleasure of seeing her again. I am determined. Xow I see my way. " Breathers " and Turkish Baths, versus " being a dead 'un before I know where I am." Subject of consideration to occupy time of walk will be, how can I manage to get quit of my Aunt, Doddridge, and the Dove, or, to put it in Budd's style, how can I commit the enormity of choking off my Aunt k Co. (representing my nervous system), train for a gaspipe match, and so avoid the melancholy contingency of being booked for a dead 'un. Think it over. 204 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER YI. TO BROADSTAIRS — THE WALK PROJECTS — SUDDEN SHOCKS — SOLITARY PROMENADE — DARWIN DONKEV MEM. TENNYSON NEW VIEWS — THOUGHTS ON WAVES — OBESITY NOTES ON BROADSTAIRS — RETURN OF THE WANDERER. COMING to Broad- Stairs from liamsgate. — Beautiful weather between Broadstairs and Kamsgate. Ramsgate has several sorts of weather all at once ; and having paid your money (for lodgings or hotel), you can take your choice. After meeting Budd I feel better. I am cheered by the prospect of Turkish Batlis and probable reduc- tion. Think, as I walk on, that on my return I will take a more decided line with my Aunt. What the decided line shall be I don't exactly see, but generally speaking I might alter my conduct towards her. For instance, when she's frightened, on meeting me suddenly on the stairs (we almost live on the stairs, as I am perpetually returning from going to fetch my Aunt's pocket - handkerchief, and she's as often coming up after me to tell me that she's found it in the piano), I can laugh boisterously, and pretend it's good fun. Laugh her out of her " nerves " as it were. "When she cries, instead of being too sympathetic, I can say, " "SATiat's the use of tears ! Why give way?" which latter arguing sounds like an advertisement, with an answer after it, telling you not to give way on the cheapest plan. MY HEALTH. 205 Sudden Shock to Nerimis System. — There are no railings or posts along the clifif between Broadstairs and Ramsgate. A meditative pei-son might easily step over the edge. Very dangerous. Find I've been following a path which actually has been made to lead to the very verge, and have luckily pulled up short. What pulled me up short ? Instinct ? * Mem. Write to }.Ir. Darwin on this subject. What I want to draw his attention to is that my mind was occupied with one line of thought — far away from cliffs and precipices— but that suddenly something pulled me up with a jerk and prevented me going over. I notice a donkey grazing within three inches of the edge. He is evidently thinking of his dinner. He moves on quietly and fear- lessly, vegetating. He doesn't even give a side glance at his danger. He is dining, like Damocles, with the sword over him. Change " o " into " a," and say sward under him — which sugges- tion turns the current of my thoughts. I rise (having seated myself to write this note for Darwin before I forget it), and leave Damocles the donkey. Mem. Before I move on again. People say that when at a dizzy height one feels an irresistible inclination to throw oneself over. I don't. Nothing like it. But approaching a trifle too near, I do feel a sort of vibration about the knees, something like the sensation in a nightmare when youre faUing down-stairs with- out your legs. Used I to experience this before living with my Aunt, Doddridge, Charhe, and the Turtle Dove ? Don't think so, Xot a soul to be met. Peacefully quiet. This is Puimsgate-cam- Broadstairs out of season. Sit down again and think. This process will restore nerves. But is sitting down good for exercise ? Yes ; and go on again, fresher. Melancholy is marking me for its own. I will sit and write Thoughts on Waves. Fancy there's some sort of poetic feeling in me — {Mem. Write to Mr. Darwin again. Think' I could support his theory with an argument. Work it out.) — latent, and to be developed by solitude. * Advice to tourists who may be taking this walk : Xei'erturn ymr hach to the sea. Never take your eyes off the footpath. 206 BATHER AT SEA. Thoughts on Waves {in Xote-hool; to he developer!). — The bold, blustering wave which froths and foams .... [Wonder how Tennyson would express this ? Can one take lessons in poetry 1 Might write and ask him. How much a lesson ? Mem. for Darwin and Tennyson. Not bad idea to ask them both to dinner. Literary party with Budd, and a sporting dash in it, to "commit the enormity " of taking a glass of wine, with pleasure, ttc, etc. Think it out.] . . . . and foams like a raving maniac, and being without a strait waistcoat ....[" "Wave in a strait waistcoat " — Que/'i/ for Tennyson, poetical idea, or not ?].... dashes itself upon the rocks and .... ami .... there's an end of it. [Mem. This wants finish.) Another Tliought on Another ^yal'e. — A feminine wave coming up with a slight rustle like the sound of a lady's dress— (material immaterial ; never know what ladies' dresses are made of, except silk). It curtseys, makes a slight advance, then bashfully retreats, and .... is seen no more. Wave Xuinher Three. — The cautious wave, which, knowing how thoroughly out of its element it will be on shore, joins two speculative friends who are making the expedition. The firm (unlimited liability) reaches the sands, and breaks. Names for Waves. — The Barber Waves. They get up a great lather, then leave the sand clear as a fresh-shaven f\\ce. Leapfrog Waves — which nisli after one another, jump on to each other's backs, fall together, and roll over and over on the shore. Notes finished. Bise : with difficulty. Bheumatism ? Or obesity? Horrid word, "obesity." Perhaps rheumatism and obesity. Take sharp walk on to Broadstairs. Very dull. Wish there was somebody to talk to. A walking-stick would be a com- panion. Will get one at Broadstaii-s. Begin to feel hungry. ^Mustn't eat anything between breakfast and dinner, if I want to get into good condition. Yet I should like to commit the enormity (can't help quoting Budd while I am alone — it seems sociable) of taking a little bread and cheese and a glass of beer. It ought to be water, not beer ; but it won't matter just for once, as to-morrow I begin Budd's plan, and take Turkish baths. MY HEALTH. 207 Broadstairs. — Viewed from cliff. Xot a soul visible anywhere, Broadstairs probably at luncheon, or taking a siesta. I feel almost afraid of stepping in, and disturbing it. Sit on bench, and watch for signs of life. . . . Two figures emerge from somewhere in the town. ... I am interested. . . . They disappear above . . . they re-appear below, on the sands, where they at once lie at full length. One is in a bright blue blouse, and the other in a whitish coat. Who ? ... On further inspection . . . there is no doubt of it . . . they are the butcher and the baker, of Broadstairs, and this is all they've got to do. I walk on. To the hotel. From the coffee-room window I have a full view of the Parade (?), and on the coffee-room walls I can amuse myself with prints of Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode. Children and nurses appear on Parade ; also two Bath-chairs with invalids. Plenty of invalids here, probably. Bantingising, or vegetarian- ising : which would account for the idleness of the butcher and baker, still lying at full length on the sands, where I view them again while luncheon is being prepared. It is quite refreshing to talk to anyone. To the barmaid, for example, after the silent walk. I say " Good day." So does she. I ask what there is for luncheon, as a sort o^ facon de j^arler. She shows me a glass-case with curiosities in beef, mutton, chicken, and something bony, vrith a good deal of fat, also a faded ham. I feel inclined to say, "Ah ! very interesting ! " as if I was examining a museum. " Any fish ? " Xo ; of course no fish, being at the sea- side. Well, then, I w411 commit the enormity of bread and cheese. .She retires, sulkily, I think, as much as to say, " Is that all you've come for ? " Really to oblige her, and get her to be chatty (merely for sociability's sake) I would willingly commit other enormities, such as chicken, salad, soup, and a bottle of the Best. Xo : will restrain myself: remember, a constitutional is my object, not luncheon. I ask her, pleasantly, "Many people here?" She replies, unpleasantly, "Yes," and I don't believe her. I say, more pleasantly . . . (Mern. Conversation is quite an art. Wasn't there someone called " Conversation Tommy ? " — friend of George the Foui'th's. Think so. . . . But vou must have two to a con- 208 BATHER AT SEA. versation as to a quarrel.) " You can't be doing much business now, out of the season 1 " which is intended to veil a complimentary allusion to their vast business in the season. She replies, curtly, "Quite as much as we want;" and resumes some knitting, or stitching. Ah ! Well . . . will go and buy a walking-stick. Noticeable features at Broadstairs. — All the shops do each other's business. An unsettled trade, as much as to say " We'll sde what sells best, and then stick to that." For instance, the tobacconist sells walking-sticks. At the photographer s you can get boots. At the bootmaker's there is a fine collection of photographs, chiefly of people celebrated at Broadstairs, or celebrated /or being at Broadstairs. Perhaps they'd be glad of mine as '* A Visitor to Broadstairs." At the hatter's they deal in petticoats and crino- lines. At the draper's there are valentines, music, and I think cheap toys. The only shop which appears to be doing a fixed business is a small sweet-shop, in a passage leading to and from the Parade. Passing on to the Parade, I look over on to the sands. Butcher and baker still at full length. Children are coming out in great numbers. This accounts for the thriving state of the sweet trade, and the indolence of the butcher and baker ; though, by the way, one cannot arrive at any definite conclusion from this, as it is probably, from their mode of doing things at Broadstairs, that when they're at home, the baker is a fishmonger, and the butcher deals in vegetables, and perha23s lets out Bath-chairs. Perhaps the butcher and baker, having nothing to do, are making arrange- ments for an amicable interchange of goods (on a Mutual Sub- sistence Company principle) until the return of the season. ZwncA.-:— Bread and cheese is simple and enticing. More children out. Three more Bath-chairs. Finished. Walk out. Look over cliff. Butcher and baker still there. Walk out of Broadstairs. Same sort of country as it was when walking into Broadstairs. Through Broadstairs once more. Children and invalids dis- appeared. Tea-time probably. Take same seat as before ; a bench commanding the to\\'n. Look on the sands. Butcher and baker there, still at full length. They came at two, it is now MY HEALTH. >09 4'30. I've got two hours before me to dinner-time. Wonder how long they (the butcher and baker) will stop on the sands. The Butcher and Baker were two pretty men, They lay on the sands till the clock struck ten. Up jumps the Baker, and looks at the sky, " brother Butcher, the moon's very high." Five (J dock. — Baker sitting up. Butcher sitting up, too, stretching. Both stretch : rise, and lounge off. Evidently tea- time. Perhaps (on the Mutual Subsistence Co. idea) the baker gives the butcher tea, finding muffins, crumpets, and toast, the grocer bringing in tea and sugar, and the milkman milk, as their share of the risk. Dinner arrangement would be butcher gives dinner (that is, meat) to the company, the greengrocer finding- potatoes, the baker bread, the publican beer, and the confectioner would come in with the tarts. I fancy that the greengrocer would get the best of it. I follow their example, and disappear. I return to Ramsgate, 210 HA THE B AT SEA. CHAPTER VII. THE CRAMVILLE HOTEL— NOVEL IDEAS — RAMSGATE BOULEVARDS — JOSLYN & BUDD — DINNER PROPOSITION THE SECRETARY — THE VERANDAH LETTER TO MY AUNT — WITTLES — MR. DAVATI HUNT S: WINLEY COZENS HOOKER THE CHEMIST — MISS PUFFHAM THE PRETTY IRISH WAITER TABLE d'hoTE SYSTEM PUBLIC AND PRIVATE DINNER THE IRATE MAN THE MODEST MAN THE DINNERLESS MAN " CHAIRMAN ! TO BILLIARDS." HAT a nuisance the walk Ixick again is ! I^rogress is the law of Nature. Becoming melancholy and nerv- ous once more. Pros- pect of dinner with my Aunt. What I slu)uld like would be a jovial party. Something to stir one up. That's wliat my health re- quires ; "stirring up." 1 pause in front of the new hotel, East Cliff. Striking. Handsome. First idea seems to be that a lot of people in a row of gothic private houses thought they'd knock down all the partition walls, and live happily to- gether. Second idea seems to have been, " Let's make it a hotel." Response, " Let's." Other subsequent ideas appear to have been, impulsively, " Let's build a smoking-room on the roof ! Let's put up a flag ' Then, rushing dowTi-stairs again, " Let's make a croquet-ground ! ! ! " Then, when out of doors, *' Let's have a MY HEALTH. 211 refreshment-room, to save going into the hotel again ! ! ! I '" Then, *' Let's have a tunnel under the clifif to the sands. let's ! I ! 1 ! " And, magnificent conception, '^ Lefs pull douni the cliff!.'!! I!" Apparently, carried nem. con. Then, being on the sands, " What a bore to go up to the hotel again, just when one's getting com- fortable. Let's have a restaurant on the sands, led up to by tunnel, and by carriage-road made in the cliff when they've nearly pulled down the cliff and built up a strong wall I '' Next Step. — Somebody who didn't play croquet and didn't care about walking, exclaims, " Let's have a Rotten Row ! ! " Resolu- tion, with amendment, of "With trees on either side, as on the Boulevards." Camed again, nem. con. Then somebody, an in- valid, who didn't want to cross the sea, suggested sulphur baths. So they all said " let's " again ; and Budd tells me that here are the Turkish, and the sulphurs (not yet finished), and the ozone baths (a new invention), and the secretary to explain everything generally, to whom and a friend he (Budd) is talking as they come up towards me, while I am standing surveying the mighty whole, admiringly, for in a very short time it will really be a beautiful place. Budd's friend is a sporting man of the tight trouser order. Budd tells me (privately afterwards, on my enquiring something about his friend, whom I think I know by sight) that " he " (his friend Joslyn) " is down there to keep quiet a bit, having blistered Ms fortune severely," from which (assisted by details in ordinary language) I gather that Joslyn's coui'se of '* blistering " has di-awn pretty well all his money out of him. Budd informs me that they (he and Joslyn) are going to commit the enormity of dining at the Craraville. Just what I should like. But the fact is — my Aunt — " ! " exclaims Budd, as if he'd known her for years, ''"' she won't mind. Say it's to meet Banting." Joslyn seconds the invitation, and the secretary (of coui'se quite an unbiassed individual) suggests in an offhand way, as if he was patronising the establishment out of kindness, that we might do worse. I make one difficulty hesitatingly, that is, I must let them know I'm not coming. " Send a boy," says Budd. The secretary is of opinion, doubtfully, and still only in the 212 RATHER AT SEA. character of a casual visitor and unconnected with the interior economy of the hotel, that "Yes — oh — there's some one you can send," and then resumes an explanation, which my appearance had interrupted, as to how a certain verandah had been put up in two weeks — a feat apparently unequalled in the annals of building, painting, and decorating, and which they'd never have done without hivi, the secretary, who kept 'em at it. We congratu- late him on the verandah. Budd observes that it " gives quite a " and finishes his sentence with a flourish of his stick, to which the secretary replies, "Yes, doesn't it?" and Joslyn, who has never set eyes on the place before, remarks that that's just what was wanted. I add, " Yes, decidedly ; " and to show that I have interested myself in tlie matter, turn to the secretary and inquire, "Only a fortnight ?" to wliicli he returns, " Only a fortnight," whereupon I say, " Indeed ! " and we all stand stock still, antl, having nothing better to do, stare at the verandah for about three minutes. Then Budd observes decisively, that " It's a great improvement," and the secretary, really pleased, says, " Yes, isn't it ? Only a fortnight ! " To which Joslyn, by way of variation, retunis, "But, I suppose you made 'em stick to it." This causes the secretary to shake his head knowingly, as much as to say, " Didn't I ? I should rather say I c?^c?," when Budd throws in, as if skilled in these matters, " Sharp work, a fortnight," and nods fiercely. The secretary answers interrogatively, " Yes, wasn't it ? " And 1 (feeling bound to join in, or he might think I differed with him, and wasn't pleased with his efforts) answer positively, and as sum- ming up the whole case, " Yes, it was." We spend about half an hour surveying the verandah, and playing this sort of languid conversational battledore and shuttle- cock always with the same shuttlecock, when I conclude that it is time to write to my Aunt. Daren't return home and say cheerfully, " Going to dine out to-night," as I know she'd shed floods of tears, and I should be upset for a week. No, in the interests of my health, I will dine with fresh companions and write (after some consideration) to my Aunt. Letter [carefully con? ILLIARDS. f^ — Budd asks Joslyn if he'll play a game. Joslyn will, but observes that* 'he hasn't touched a cue for years." Budd now tries to remember when it was that he last played a game. He de- cides that it was ever so long ago. Mem. — Good plan this ; be- cause, Istly, if you play badly^ why, it is evi- dently because you're out of practice. 2ndly, if you astonish yourself by making brilliant strokes, it will be clear to your friend that you used to be a first-rate player, and haven't forgotten your science. It is arranged that 1 am to play the winner. I only remark that it's getting very late. Budd answers carelessly that we shan't be more than twentv minutes. * "^ "^ 220 BATHER AT SEA. AVhether it's the dinner of yesterday, or the hite hours;, or the change of the weather, I don't know, but I am not so well this morning. It's true that Budd said, " Never mind what you do to-day (yesterday) because to-morrow (that's now to-day) you'll begin your Turkish Baths ; " but still it only shows me that I must be particular as to what I do. It is evident (if yesterday's doings were the cause of to-day's indisposition) that among the things I cannot do with impunity is a dinner given by Joslyn, billiards, champagne, sherry, various drinks afterwards, and to bed late. I write down my symptoms in a diary, so as to be able to refer to it afterwards when consulting a doctor. An excellent plan, and as the advertisement says of the Cocoa (which I mustn't touch) " highly recommended by the Faculty." Spnptoms of To-day. Diary of Health. — Hot nose I pause for awhile to think what else ! I have got a sort of headache but not quite a headache. I mean not a headache that makes you say, " do go away No, I don't want anything, thank you — " (" Thank you " being given very politely, and meaning "May the anathemas," &c., up, what's de good of coming to me ? " This is the fii*st time I"ve heard any- thing like a conundiiim from him. "Don't say, if you're ill afterwards, it's de bath ; don't blame Samuel. ZSTo ; it's de fault of de wrapping up. Dere, sar," he adds, with the air of putting a 236 BATHER AT SEA. thorough poser, and settling the question once and for ever, " Look at 7716 I '"' I do. '' Wa-al, where am I all de day ? " [Ah ! another conundrum.] " Ain"t I in bath, den out ? Do I wrap up?" [These have been, as it were, a series of conundrums.] Indignantly, " No ! " Pause. Then he calms down, and finishes up with his usual, " Well, den, you trust to Samuel (himself) and he see you all right." [Mem.: subsequently. Another day I ask liim — "Bad day, Samuel, for bath, so cold, north wind too." He replies, " Dere ! hear dat ! "Well," as if in utter amazement at the absurdity of my objection, " Well, I am astonished ! An' you an eddicated gen'leman ! Why de north wind 1 ! ! Why, it de very day for a TurJcish Batli^^ and he seemed to be so shocked and hurt that one feels compelled to take a bath in order to console him. But he can't get over it all the time I'm there, until he's finished with me, and I tell him I feel better, when he brightens up, and says, *' Dere ! didn't I tell you so. Trust Samuel, he never tell a lie — it just de very day for a bath." And so on, whatever the weather may be.] Samuel retires. We are in a light and airy room of Gothic style, with a plunge sea-water bath at one side of it under a sky- light. There are several neat-looking beds, or rather pallets, ranged lengthways on either side, giving the room a sort of private hospital appearance, or perhaps (taking the Gothic cha- racter into consideration) the infirmatorial department of a some- what luxui'ious monastery. The religious tone of the place is heightened by the introduction of stained glass, and by the little dressing cabins for the '• plungers," which remind one of the open confessionals seen in Catholic churches. Quite primitive notion. Confession first, and baptism by immersion afterwards, with a swim. Growler has followed Budd into the room, and sulkily takes up a position under a bed. We prepare for the bath. First stage, the acrobatic. Hot Roorn^ Xumler One. Flash of Thought ; take care of Ximaber One. I will. Red brick walls. Stained glass windows of a kaleidoscopic pattern, very dangerous to biliousness and head- MY HEALTH. 237 aches. There is a large marble slab, like the front of a fish- monger's shop, only not sloping on one side, where Budd says, " the patients can lie." Somehow his use of the word " patient " grates upon me. The marble slab, too, suggests but, no— this must be repressed. I am simply nervous, the effects of my Aunt, Doddridge, Turtle-dove, & Co. I feel that my head is getting hot and dry, and my feet cold. I mention this to Budd, as an experienced man. He replies, " Ah ! yes ! they do sometimes." " But," I ask, " is that right ? " being anxious. He answers in an off-hand manner (not being the least nervous or unwell himself), that he doesn't think it matters. It suddenly occurs to Budd that he oughtn't to have left Growler in the first room under the bed, because of people coming in. " Why 1 what would he do ? " I ask, having hitherto looked upon Growler as harmless, only of a sulky demeanour. " Why," he answers ruminatingly, " he's inclined to be stupid with strangers." I inquire in what way he shows his " stupidity 1 " It appears from Budd's reply, that Growler's " stupidity with strangers '' developes itself in a tendency towards strangei-s' calves. I inquire,, in case I have to go into the room alone, whether there is any chance of Growler being " stupid '' with me. " Well," Budd says, "in that undress I don't know." He alludes- to my present acrobatic appearance. " He mightn't make you quite out." Then I won't go in there alone. " No," returns Budd ; " I wouldn't if I were you — better not." "But," I add, " those sort of dogs are so intelligent ; he's seen me often with you, and he'd probably know my voice." " Yes," returns Budd, standing in the doorway which leads to Hotter Room, "he'd know your voice if he could hear it, but the old boy's as deaf as a post, and, you see, it's that maTces him rather stupid with stj-angers." With which he disappears into Hot Room, Number Two. I am gradually becoming accustomed to the atmosphere : being '' acclimatised," as it were. My hair feels to my touch like grass after thi-ee weeks scorching sun in July. I wish Samuel would come and watch me to see how I'm getting on. Being all alone 'is unpleasant and a trifle dangerous. I might frizzle up suddenly or 238 BATHER AT SEA. faint. Budd is, as far as I know, out of call, and I couldn't run into the hot room for help, which would be out of the frying-pan (first room) into the fire (second room), and in the only cool room, where w^e commenced, is Growler, who, being deaf, won't " quite make me out," and will probably be "stupid" with me, as a stranger. Whatever may be the ultimate result, at present I am •drying up. I feel dry all over ; parched. I want my pocket-handkerchief- It is in the first room. Let me see, if I go back into the first room without medical advice, or Samuel's advice, I may, perhaps, get a -chill and send myself all wrong. And again recurs to me— only more strongly — the just-mentioned want of intellect on the part of that Beast. On the whole better stay where I am. Why doesn't Samuel come and see how I am getting on 1 A novice oughtn't to be left alone. Supposing I was to faint suddenly, or Ah ! here is Samuel. How does he think I am getting on ? He is in ecstacy with my progress. He spreads out his hands and opens his eyes. "0, beautiful!" he exclaims; "beautiful! -dat," he says, alluding to my present state, "dat's what I call Naytchar." So do I to a certain extent. I complain of being dry, generally ; of my hair being dry particularly. Samuel is quite annoyed ; for a few seconds he really can't speak. He is, apparently, so very much put out by my evident ingratitude towards " Naytchar," and himself. "Why," he says, when he has recovered himself, "Gracious Goodness ! " rolling his head from side to side, and as usual extend- ing his hands, palms flat out, like fins, " Ain't dat de veny ting you come 'ere for ? Yoa leave it to me ; " then, appealingly, to my common sense, " 'taint no good for me to tell you a lie, sar, is it ? " Being rather afraid of making him angry, though I think if I was in full dress, I shouldn't be in the least nervous, but, as I am, I feel as it were out of my element (clothes being, when I consider it, my element), and that he'd have the advantage of me — I admit that he is right, and that to tell me, or any one else, in my present helpless condition, a lie, would not only be of no use to him, but rrould (/ feel and hope he does so, too) be an act of positive cruelty. [Me7n. Wonder if Shakspeare drew his Othello from a Samuel of MY HEALTH. 239 his time. Quotation. " I took the Turk by the throat " — no, not exactly — but head not clear just at present.] Samuel tells me to wait a few minutes longer here, and then I can join the Captain (Budd) who is, he says, "gettin' on, 0, beautiful, beautiful, in de hot room. Why de Captain get on beautiful 1 " he asks suddenly, as a conundrum. I don't know. I give it up. " Wa-al," he replies, laying down the moral with his right hand, "Wa-al, 'cos de Captain do jist 'zactly what I tell him. You trust to Samuel, 'an he won't tell you a lie." He really appears so hurt that I feel as if I'd been doing nothing else but accusing him of mendacity since I came here. A knock at the outer door ! ^^^^ BATHER AT SEA. CHAPTEK XII. MORE OF SAMUEL — A SHOW — SIMILES — MORE OR LESS UNPLEASANT DARWINISM CAMBRIDGE HERMIT LE MASQUE DE FER SOCRATES — THE FATAL DRAUGHT CURRENT THOUGHTS — MORE NAYTCHAR TORTURE CHA3IBER MATTRASSES PILLOWS HEAT EARLY CHRISTIANS SOUVENIRS D'aNVERS SHAMPOO WANDERING MIND VAGUE RHYME PANTOMIME TIME OP REFRESHING — SOAPY SAMUEL LATHERY SAMUEL NIAGARA THE NEEDLE GUN — PROCEDURE — RUBBING DOWN — THE FINISH - — SO FAR SO GOOD. A M U E L summoned. Short conversation with- out. Ke-cnter Samuel. He comes up to me per- suasively. '' You won't mind, sar, two genelmen seeing over dis place ? " I reply (being in his hands), " no, certainly not ; " though I don't feel that I'm precisely in the state in which I should like to receive visitors. It appears, however, that the Turkish Baths are a novelty here, and strangers, or residents, are admitted to view them. Samuel explains the room to them, and takes me as part of it. I re- member going over a Lunatic Asylum once, and a gaol, and wondering how the comparatively-sensible lunatics and the prisoners liked being shown off. I fancy that I MY HEALTH. 241 experience their sensation now. Rather I should say the lunatic's sensation, — one who has destroyed all his clothes, and has been placed in a room by himself. I don't experience shyness exactly, but feel sulkily resentful at this intrusion. They don't quite ignore me ; on the contrary, they stand near the door, hardly going away from it, as if afraid of my making a sudden dart at them, perhaps for the sake of their clothes and boots, when Samuel isn't looking, and, at this respectful distance, they give a sort of half bow to me, as if they were calling upon a gentlemanly maniac of uncertain temper, or had been admitted by Samuel, into the den of a par- tially-tamed animal, unsafe except under the keeper's eye. Mem. The idea occurs to me, perhaps one of these visitors is Mr. Darwin in search of evidence corroborative of his theory. Unpleasant. Mem. Think I've read of a hermit, near Cambridge, who had to be "interviewed '"' in this way. There seems, too, to be the ingre- dients for a Historical Romance in this situation. " The Man in the Turkish Bath," like " The Man in the Iron Mask." Head very hot. Wish I could get my note-book in here. Left it in first room — can't return for it, on account of Growler's " stupidity with strangers." The "Genelmen" retire, inclining towards me very civilly on their exit. I do the honours of the first hot-room as well as I can. Samuel returns, and brings me a glass of mineral water. Iron. "Is that a good thing T' I inquire. " De best thing possible," answers Samuel. " What's its effect T' I ask, holding the glass in my hand. Mem. Simile: Socrates putting a few scientific quest'oiis to the gaoler before taking the fatal draught. "You drink that, sar," replies Samuel, "and it make you all fresh for the next room, den you go in and jist do what I tell you, and take your time over it, 'cos, dat's what I say, you genelmeu do what you like, 3'ou need not hurry ; you enjoy," he pronounces " enjy,^ " de bath. You put yourself in de state for Naytchar to act ; you give Naytchar a chance, and you bless Providence you come 'ere. You take my word for it, sar — now, sar," says he, drawing back a red- baize curtain, as if he was going to show me a real chef d'oeuvre, " You walk in dere ! pro-ceed I " I enter the hotter room : it nearly knocks me down at first. On recovering myself a little, I find it is like a veiy clean wine-cellar, K 242 BATHER AT SEA. without bins, having a sort of opaque Gothic screen, with intervals of kaleidoscope-coloured glass on one side, and fitted (the collar, not the screen) with a narrow sort of dresser fixed against the side walls. Here in a corner lies Budd on a mattrass, prostrate, an appalling figure at first (reminding me of Cruikshank's illustrations to the Tower of London — " Somebody, as he appeared after the rack ") until one gets accustomed to him, and then I begin to understand that he is enjoying himself, tropically. Samuel places a mattrass and a pillow for me ; motions me statuesquely to my place. Budd, without moving in the least, utters a sort of pleased sound ; implying, I fancy, that in spite of his present condition he recognises us and appreciates my progress. Samuel approaches him ; he regards him as a work of his own hands with profound admiration, nay even with an appearance of religious veneration for " Naytchar " in a Paradise of 160 degrees, and drawing a deep breath, exclaims, " Ah, beautiful ! " Budd appears pleased, and intimates briefly his intention of re- maining where he is, until inclined to take the douche or the needle. I am reclining now, and feel that I am all Head. Or perhaps — if I can exert myself to think at all about it — that my head is Central Africa under a burning sun, and my feet are the North Pole at night. . . . Too languid to ask about needles or douches. . . . Lie on my back — look at ceiling. . . . Thoughts, or beginnings of trains of thoughts (ivhile recumbent at 160 in the shade). Early Christian Martyrs. ... I hear a noise and a roaring — Christianos ad leones ! . . . (Budd says, " They're making up the furnace ") . . . Saint Lawrence on gridiron . . . B^member picture in Antwerp Gallery — torture — wonder how I should stand it. . . . Good practice here for beginners. . . . Noise of engine, as if it were going somewhere by steam. . . . Wonder if I shall be ill. . . . Wonder why I am not in a profuse perspiration. . . . Shall I mention it ? . . . no. . . . Hair brittle. . . . Enter Samuel, with more water. ... I drink. . . . Samuel only says, " beautiful ! it's NaytcAar .^ "... I complain of my feet being cold. "I wouldn't hab it no oderwise," replies Samuel, seriously, waving his right hand as if to dissipate any other notions on the MY HEALTH. 243 subject that may De floating about in the air, " Wait till I come to shampoo, den you'll know what de beauty of it is." He retires. Thoughts. My Aunt . . . Doddridge ... the Dove . . . Will recommend them a Turkish Bath . . . Might do little dog's leg good . . . take the affectation out of him . . . Must manage to get away. . . . Look at Budd. . . . He smiles and I smile. . . . Think of when I knew him years ago as a boy. . . . Think of the ceiling . . . the bricks . . . how impossible it is to do any- thing in this state. . . . Query, is it a waste of time, or not? . . . Can't I think out something ? . . . Bruce and spider ... a poem ... a play ... an invention to ... to ... do something wonderful . . . thoughts chiefly on ceiling . . . engine hard at work . . . more furnace . . . Samuel and shampoo . . . what rhymes to Shampoo 1 . . , ivoo — Jew ... a rhyme occurs to me (vaguely) Would you shampoo The Wandering Jew ] Nothing more occurs to me . . . then round of thought all over again about martyrs, St. Lawrence, (kc, kc. Wonder if Budd feels this ? I mean feels that he can't concentrate his thoughts on any one thing now ? I ask him. He answers, "Don't know — don't try," and seems, on the whole, perfectly satisfied with inanition. I will do the same. ... I am doing the same. . . . Enter Samuel, without his bed-curtain dress, and in an acrobatic costume, like ours. He carries a little bowl of water, and evidently means business. He approaches me. He refreshes me with a bowl of water, emptying it over my head. Delicious. He jerks my arms, cracks my joints. I am helpless. He plays tunes with his fists all over me. When sufficiently pum- melled and jerked, I am led out tenderly, by Samuel, into another room. I remember (at this instant) having heard the Clown say to the Pantaloon in the pantomime, "Hallo, here ! hi ! I say ! come and be washed ! " This is what, in action, Samuel says to me. Then follows a charmingly refreshing process, managed ex- quisitely, and scientifically, by Samuel. I sit on a chair and have water dashed over me. I am soaped and lathered, and while I am K 2 244 HAT HUB AT SEA. trying to open my eyes, down come the contents of another bowl of water right over me. " Naytchar " is gasping. I am put into a soi-t of cage, standing, and am enervated by a shower of tepid water, revived by an avalanche of cold water from above, braced up by cold water from the sides, from round the corner, from in fact all sorts of places whence you'd least expect it. I clutch the rails of my cage, convulsively ; more gasping. Through the mist of the spray I see Samuel with a hose, as if he were putting me out. I try to say, " Hi ! that's enough ! " But I can't, and, as he thinks I am enjoying myself immensely, he gives me some more. Niagara all over, and round and round. ... He stops ... I recover, my breath . . . gasping over ... I feel invigorated, inclined to shout, to spring up, to dance. One more turn, a thousand watering-pots are pointing their very small bore roses at me, and, as it were, pricking me all over. This is the Needle. Then I am told to " pro-ceed " by Samuel, and am directed to step under a round iron ring. More cold water. A chest expander. Here I could stop for some time longer, but Samuel won't hear of it. So I am hurried away by Samuel, rubbed over, wrapped up in a sheet, which he pictu- resquely folds over my shoulders, and am finished off ("This style complete ") with a turban, which he skilfully winds round my head. He leads me to Room No. 1, shows me a pallet, places rac comfortably, leaves me to the most soothing influences of a semi- dozing state and a cigarette, and returns in about five minutes, or more (but time does go at such a pace in a Turkish Bath), with Budd costumed in the same style — Mahommedans both. Samuel is right, so far, at all events. I do thank him ; I haven't felt so well for an age as I do now. I experience a sort of buoyant feeling, so that, if I could be transported to our house, at once, I could dance round my Aunt, kick the bird-cage into a corner, pull the dog's tail, and do a polka with Doddridge. Mem. ^^ So ivellnow.^^ As I made this note in my pocket-book, I am lying on the pallet and gradually becoming so hungry that I w^ould dine here, on the spot, at once, but for the shock my absence would cause my Aunt. Samuel is right when he exclaims, " Beautiful ! Beautiful ! " MY HEALTH. 245 CHAPTER Xin. BENEFITS FROM TURKISH BATHS COMPARISONS DOSES APPETITE A STARTLER AN ENORMITY AFFECTATION DIAGNOSIS ANALYSIS MELANCHOLY BLANK LOOKS BLANK VERSE— MY AUNT IS SAD DOVE COOS WANT OF SYMPATHY KETZLER's GREAT WORK A DIVIDED DUTY DODDRIDGE DEEPLY AFFECTED DEPTH OF WOE HOUSEMAID LETTER ANNOUNCEMENT WE EXPECT COUSIN JOHN— THOUGHTS AND ANTICIPATIONS. DN the whole, I am much benefited by Turkish Baths. How much 1 To the extent, at present, of one sovereign. The way to value the amount of good done, is to compare in parallel lines the number of Turkish Baths taken in a week, with the quantity of medicine I might have had for the same money. Say, on one side, one pound's worth of Turkish B's. On the other side, one pound's worth of medicines. There can be no doubt that four Turkish Baths repre- senting twelve day s, Icouldn't, unless the doses had been very expensive,— old, dry, for example, twenty years in bottle, and "round in the ^louth,"-! couldn't have had my mc^ey's worth out of them m the same time. Probably, if I'd ventured upon that enormity, I should have been, as Budd puts it, a dead 'un. Mv appetite and drinkatite are, comparatively, enoi-mous. lam cx)nskntly apologising to my Aunt for keeping her so long at dinner or luncheon. 246 BATHER AT SEA. Her observation to-day struck me as having something in it. It was — " In some people a large appetite is a most unhealthy sign." Question. Have I suddenly gone to an extreme ? Diagnosis. Tuesday. Headache slight. Hot nose ; and, un- doubtedly, slightly red. Appetite up to (as it were) 190 in the shade, i.e., without exercise. My Aunt sighs and shakes her head. She is of opinion that my coming with an apology three times for roast mutton is unnatural. At first she was inclined to set it down to " affectation." Fourth Diagnosis. Wednesday. Intense sleepiness. Loss of appetite between breakfast and luncheon, but sudden return of same, with increased power, at 1.30. Mustn't take anything now, as it's T. B. day. Pouring wet. Samuel says, " Just the day for a Bath ; couldn't be better." Evening. Faint with himger before dinner. Sleepiness after dinner, when my Aunt is uncommonly lively in her own way ; i.e., she sings three of hei- most melancholy songs — do not Leave me ! My Heart is Weary.' let vie Die ! and thoroughly wakes me up by bursting into tears over the last-mentioned, when I have to ring for Doddridge to bring my Aunt's pocket-handkerchief, which is almost immediately afterwards discovered behind the sofa-cushion. Then, when my Aunt is going to retire for the night, irre- pressible wakefulness sets in with me, which she remarking, more in soitow than in anger, cannot help observing, that " she is but dull company for me ; " to which politeness requires me to answer, " no, not at all," and that she is afraid she depresses me ; to which again politeness and a certain amount of policy compel me to reply that '' On the contrary, I " when I finish, feeling that my acting is not up to the occasion. She continues that she is sure I must be glad to get rid of her ; whereupon I try to return with effusion, as the French say, " Get rid of you, my dear Aunt, why I'm sure that " But once again I come to a standstill by the ingenuousness of my nature, which is at this moment a nuisance, as I should like to be sympathetic, and — if one could in private life— deliver a speech in blank verse, expressive of how much I dorit want to get rid of my Aunt, MY HEALTH. 247 and how immensely her songs, her presence, and her manner generally are calculated to cheer me. I think I manage to look hurt at her imputation, but, somehow or another, I equally feel that a smile is pulling up one corner of my mouth, as Doddridge enters with the candle, and exclaims (the toadie !) " 0, Master George ! how can you ! " as if I'd hit my Aunt, or been rude to her. And so she leads her up-stairs to bed. When they've gone I find myself clenching my fist and saying, " Confound it ! I never " and here the Dove in her cage says Coo-coo-oo exactly nine times, very slowly, and bowing to me each repetition. I do not get on with my Aunt. I really should like to for various reasons, some being of genuine importance. I cannot. I've tried it, and failed, and am still trying it. I cannot sympa- thise with the little snappish King Charles and the monotonous Dove. Perhaps a return of health, through the agency of the Turkish Baths at the Cramville, makes me irritable, or, more properly speaking, impatient. I know I should please my Aunt immensely — at least, I believe so — if I nursed Charlie for two hours regularly, and said that I liked his new collar with six bells all tinkling at once. I object, too, to being obliged, as it were, to share my meals with Charlie. His dinner-hour is our dinner-hour, his breakfast- time is our breakfast-time, and so on. From the moment we sit down he commences a series of spasmodic yelps, enough to derange the stoutest nerves ; though my Aunt and Doddridge only allude to the homd noise with rapture, as " almost speaking, isn't it 1 Dear little Char' ! " " He's quite like a child, ain't he Mum ?" exclaims Doddridge, admiringly. " Do give him that little bit on your plate, Master George." All my little bits go to Charlie. I like little bits myself; keeping a reserve of them. My Aunt has discovered that Charlie has an ear for music. Doddridge (the sycophant I) exclaims, rapturously, *' He almost sings to you, don't he. Mum ? Don't he, Master George ?" I say (being disturbed in reading Ketzler On Idiosyncratic In- duction), "Yes, almost sings," and wish that he'd quite sing 248 RATHE E AT SEA. instead of setting up the most dismal howl I ever heard, as an accompaniment to my Aunt's most cheerful ballad, Lonc/ing to Die. Keeping mv eyes on my book (like " the good St. Anthony," only for a different reason), I meditate upon the quickest and best means of getting away from my Aunt and Ramsgate. Let me see, or rather, let me consider — while pretending to read — Pliihsophiral and Psychological Sote. — Complex faculties, negative and positive. (a) I am reading with my eyes, and a few sentences dis- jointedly get mixed up with my (6) thoughts on quite a different subject, namely, how to break off (as it were) my connection with my Aunt, while (c) my ears are trying to close themselves to the sounds of my Aunt's singing, Charlie's howling, and the piano, and Doddridge's laudatory ejaculations. I have heard of a philosophical writer who could compose his most serious and most successful essays while the junior members of his family were blowing trumpets, beating drums, and fighting, the elder branches talking and laughing, and his wife bothering him about what he'd like for dinner. "Wonderful. I recollect mentioning this to a Thinker of my acquaintance, who replied, " Concentrate yourself. You'll soon get accustomed to it." I am now trying to concentrate myself. Note result for future psycho- logical analysis. [Also, Note hij the ivay. What a fine profession a Thinheys might be. Say two thousand a year to Think, only to Think, not to speak, or write, or to do anything. And then at the end of a term, say three years, see what came of it. Your employers could then decide upon retaining you or not.] My Thoughts. If I could only get some one to send me a line — Lines in hook that come in here — " The desolating system of em- piricism "... {eyes wander) ..." innate a priori perceptions " (thoughts continued) — some one might send me a pressing invitation. My Aunt's voice {plaintively) — Weary, so weary I so weary ! Break ! break my heart with a s\^. MY HEALTH. 249 " Sigh " is a very high note ; dog howls ; Aunt prolongs note ! dog prolongs howl. Doddridge {rapiuronsit/). Ain't he wonderful, Mum ? Piano accompaniment— chords. (Thoughts) I wish that dog was— I wish that Doddridge— no— let me concentrate myself— let me sec— if somebody sends me an invitation to say— (600^ again) — " synthetical judgments ... as deducible ... and cognisable . \ . entities "—dear me— this will never do— I really must concentrate . . . J/y Amit, in a broken voice, being much touched by her own rendering of the song — Dreary I so dreary I so dreary ! [Doddridge shrikes her head sympathetically ; suhdued howl from dog. My Aunt {gulpingly) — Dreary ! so {very feelinghj) dreary ! so {most feelingly) dreary ! I know this will end in tears ... I wish I could thoroughly concentrate myself now, and pretend to be absorbed. [Fiano. Foi'cible chord. Waiting ! O wai— ting Here my Aunt (I can't help attending to her) goes down several steps (so to speak) in a minor key, evidently feeling the sentiment more and more deeply, so that one almost expects her to turn to Doddridge, and exclaim with the last note, " Plunge a Dagger into me ; I don't want to live any more after this song : please do it, and oblige yours truly, &c." My Aunt is now joined by Cbarhe with his nose in the air — Waiting, O waiting ! and weary ! Longing— (ifi^/i fervour)— longing . . . to . . . {long note, as if to make the next word, when it does conie at last, an agreeable siayrise) ... . . . . [Same note. Dog and Aunt both hold it. . . o . . die ! ! ! Result. Doddridge weeps, my Aunt catches Charlie in her arms, and sobs convulsively. 250 BATHER AT i^EA What can I say ? What can I do ? I feel that, to sit still, is almost brutal. I am hot, uncomfortable, feverish. This sort of thing will quite counteract all the good of the Turkish Baths. I must say something . . I do. I say, in as gentle a tone as •possible, "Aunt, shall I get your pocket-handkerchief?" No answer. I rise. Knock at door. Enormous Housemaid (the third new one since we've been here, each one bigger than the former, and all quite Life Guardsmen in petticoats) brings a letter for my Aunt. Perhaps this will assist me, and I shall be able to leave. Letter to inform my Aunt that my Cousin John, from sea, has got a few days' leave, and is coming to see her. Then I can go. 1 wull just stop to meet him and then go. Note in Valetudinarian Diary. I think I am thinner. Some- times I fancy I'm not. It seems to me that I vary with the day. Last Monday I seemed to be stouter than usual. On Tuesday I seem to have gone down again. Odd. " Here to-day, and gone to-morrow." Night. As I am lying awake — (somehow I do a great deal of lying awake now — when I tell Samuel this, and attribute it to the Turkish Baths, he exclaims, with open eyes and hands, " Well, Sar, why not ? " and as I have no answer to this form of conun- drum, he continues, almost angrily, " You don't want so much sleep — it's not Naytchar" — but I don't think I quite agree with Samuel on this point) — I think why it is I don't get on bettei with my Aunt? Also wonder how my Cousin John from sea will get on with her. Shall see. MY HEALTH. 251 CHAPTER XIV. ARRIVAL OF COUSIN JOHN— FROM SEA— SUCCESS -BOISTEROSITY— MY REWARD— UNSELFISHNESS— UN-NAVAL CHARACTER— SEA AND SHORE — JOHN'S STORIES— WHAT RESULTS — SUGGESTION FOR JOHN— DRAWING OUT— HE COMPLAINS OF THE MEDITERRANEAN —HIS HUNTING— A SAILOR WHO DRIVES—HOP PROPOSED — JOHN S LARKS— HIS SONG AND CHORUS— HIS ENORMITIES GENE- RALLY—HIS LIVELINESS APPRECIATED— THE " OLD GALS "— BEAUTY OF RAMSGATE — THE LIFE-BOAT— MY FRIEND WETHERBY A RELIEF IN TIME. Y COUSIN John From Sea has ar- rived, and we've had a day of him. I re- tire to my room to meditate, principally on Cousin John From Sea, and make this note. John is, undoubt- edly, I am obliged to own it, a success. I mean as regards my Aunt and Dod- dridge. Not with me; because, though I admit that he is tall, handsome, with I do 7iot like bois- a genial manner, yet terosity, by which I mean a person's being perpetually boisterous. This is the very last thing / should have tried with my Aunt. John doesn't try it : he comes, does it, and conquers. Here have I been with mv Aunt for weeks at P.amsgate, dunng the most 252 RATHER AT SEA. unfashionable and unseasonable time, adapting myself not only to her peculiarities, but to those of Doddridge, her maid, her ring- dove and her lap-dog with bells, listening sympathetically to her music, trying to weep, nay, sometimes weejjing when she wept, controlling my temper and reducin^^ myself to a fearfully nervous state of repressed irritabilit}-, refusing to drive out with Budd (except once), and, in fact, making myself in a general way, as it were, " one of themselves," and at the end of the time I feel that there is a gulf between my Aunt and myself; that we, as it were, form two comparatively hostile camps, one containing my Aunt (generalissimo), Doddridge, Dove and Dog ; and the other myself, in anything but full force. I have tried to suit my con- versation to my company ; I have been mildly cheerful, I have been serious, 1 have been quakerishly gay, I have suppressed anything like untimely mirth, and am evidently quite unappre- ciated, perhaps regarded as a nuisance. John arrives. Tremen- dous knock. Hushes down the passage. Runs into sitting-room, gives my Aunt a slap on the back and a kiss, and says " Hallo, old gal ! " She doesn't jump, scream, kick, nor indeed appear the least surprised. If / had done such a thing, she'd have burst into lavish tears and but there 1 couldn't have done it. Query. Shall I begin a new line now and try ? " Hallo, old Doddy ! " he cries, on the appearance of that respectable maiden, Doddridge, who quite beams under the salu- tation and replies, "0, Master John, you're just as bad as ever, I do declare." My Cousin John From Sea addresses both my Aunt and Doddridge as " old gal," and has a great deal to say about flag- ships, the Mediterranean, Gibraltar, the fellows at mess, and has apparently endless stories of the fun they had wherever they were stationed. (Jetting John quiet, I tried to obtain from him some information as to naval matters, as for instance, watches at sea, keeping look- out, to what rank in the Army a boatswain is equivalent, ako questions concerning hammocks, cabooses, and the general domestic economy of a ship, with which as a landsman I confess myself totally unacquainted. HY BEALTU. 253 Strange to say that if there is one thing about which Cousin John From Sea appears to know nothing, it is about ships, ship- ping, and naval and marine affairs generally. He has no stories about Saturday night at sea, and how they sit round the galley fire and sing and dance to the music of the black cook's fiddle. He (Cousin John, I mean) has not been all over the world, and lived a roving seafaring life, but, on the contrary, all his stories of the fun he has had might be told by a country squire who has never gone out of his own inland county, or by a Londoner who has invariably kept within hearing of Bow Bells. {Querij. Can Bow bells be heard in St. James's-street, Bond Street, orBelgravia? If not, what are the exact limits 1) Cousin John's being at sea is, to my mind, a humbug. He's always been, by his own showing, on shore. He begins a story with, " When we were in the Mediterranean." Then he turns towards me and explains, "We were in the Medi- terranean for three years "—and I nod encouragingly, as much as to say, "Proceed; your story interests me much;" for I am expecting to hear some fearful tale of shipwreck, or some gallant adventure with pirates, or large fish, or whatever there may be unusual or startling during a three years' cruise about the Mediterranean. But not a bit of it. His story (addressed to my Aunt, who is much interested, and quite sprightly; generally con- tinues in this style : " I met the Curzons." Not shot an alba- tross, or engaged with buccaneers, or suppressed a mutiny by craftily securing all the mffians under hatches, and then steering the ship by himself for nights and days, until she came safely into port, where he had all the crew hung. No, nothing of that sort, but simply, "When he (Cousin John From Sea) was in the Mediterranean ... he met the Curzons ! ! " Just as he might have done in Hyde Park or Pall Mall on any one day, that is, provided always that the Curzons were there, and not in the Mediterraneam My Aunt is, however, quite delighted, and im- mediately asks after various members of the Curzon family. As I can't believe that this sums up the entire events of three years in the Mediterranean— (A'^.^f', because, if so, Cousin John iiad better write Anvah of cm Uneventful Life, in one very small volume, price sixpence at most)— I try to draw him out, when my 254 BATHER AT SEA. Aunt has finished her examination about the Curzons, and remhid him that " he was saying ' When he was in the Mediterranean ' —well, what then ? '' " It became rather slow at last," he replies, " but we had some good fun. Of course we were rather hard up for hunting in the winter, but we got some good shooting, and there were dinners and balls and parties every day in the week, until one was really quite sick of them." " You hunt much ? " I hazard, because I had always thought that a sailor on horseback was an impossibility or an utter absurdity. "Yes," he replies, in an offhand way, " I had a bud time of it last season, because I'd sold Old Tantrum. You recollect Old Tantrum ? " he says, turning to my Aunt. She does, and smiles as if much gratified at being appealed to on such a question. " I say, old gal," he suddenly exclaims, jumping up, "let's have a drive this afternoon. I'll get a trap and take 3'ou out. You want a jolt, it'll do you good. We'll have a dog-cart, and you" (to me) " can hold Doddy on behind." Whereat Doddy simpers, and says, " Lor ! how you do go on, Master John ! " The next thing John wants to know is, " If there ain't any nice young women — present company always excepted," he says, winking at me (more simpers from my Aunt this time, and Doddridge chuckling) — " who'd like to have a hop in the evening ? I say, old gal," he continues, sitting down on the sofa, and putting his arm round my Aunt, " we must have a hop," and he actually induces my Aunt to enter into a discussion on the subject. I notice that he uses the word Iiop to my Aunt, who shows no signs of fainting. So that not all words that end in " op " affect her, as I had begun to think they did. But really it seems that Cousin John, because he's come from sea, may say anything. He pretends to run upstairs after Doddridge in order to give her a kiss. He asks my Aunt for a song, and she " obliges " with Longing to Die, which Cousin John immediately characterises as '' a cheery sort of ditty," and asks her if she doesn't know anything a trifle more dismal. She is not in the least annoyed ; on the MY BE ALT n. 255 contrary, she tries to recollect something lively, but fails. He asks her to accompany him in a nigger song with some such inane chorus as " Flip up in de Skidamajink, jube up in de juben jube," and proposes to teach Doddridge the bones. Charlie, hearing the music, begins howling, whereupon Cousin John's attention being thus attracted to him, he takes him suddenly up by the tail, to see, he says, if he's thoroughbred ; as if he is he won't squeal. He is evidently not thoroughbred. All my Aunt says to him is, " 0, John, you'll hurt him," whereas if Fd touched a hair of his tail, or had refused to give him a tit-bit, my Aunt would have burst into tears, perhaps had a fit, Doddridge would have sobbingly reproached me with unkindness to my Aunt, and I should have been made nervous and wretched for an hour at least, but Cousin John From Sea may smoke, vault over the table (he actually does so), play leapfrog over the chairs (which he also does whenever he says he thinks we're a little dull, and want waking up, generally inviting Doddridge to give him a back), smack my Aunt, punch my Aunt, laugh at her songs, make her pet dog squeak with rage, let the dove out of the cage to walk about (when it flies to the mantel-piece and breaks an ornament), and not only is nothing said to him by way of remonstrance, but he is absolutely en- couraged by my Aunt's smiles, and Doddridge's admiring exclama- tions of "Ain't he lively, Mum?" "0, Master John, how vou do go on ! " I am certainly in the background. I at once take rank as it were after — or rather some way below — Cousin John, and begin looking up to him. He is bent upon taking the " old gals" out for a drive, and so I accompany him into the town to the Livery Stables, to ask for a trap and two ponies. Thoughts as I walk alone/ ly the side of Cousin John. — Odd. He was so noisy in the house, that I thought he'd be a charming companion here, when he had dropped his nonsensical humour, which I take for granted he has assumed just to enliven my Aunt with a little buffoonery. Now we are alone, he will be sensible. He can inform me what the ships are out at sea. [X.B. That's the beauty of Ramsgate, such a heap of shipping. There's always a steamer or two going out or coming in on its own account, or assisting other vessels to come in or get out ; then there's the 256 HAT HER AT SEA. Life Boat, gallantly manned, and always ready for action in the direction of the fatal Goodwins : also fishing boats and yachts, and little boats for rowing, or little boats for sailing, and so on. But it greatly adds to the interest if you've got some one to explain all this to you, — like, for instance, my Cousin John, who, beinir from sea, I may look upon as a professional person with peculiar knowledge.] He is quite silent. I ask him, "^\liat is that?" pointing to a vessel which has just come in. He doesn't know what she is. He can't make her out, he says, and then relapses into silence, and we walk on. " I suppose," I say presently, " that the Mediterranean is very beautiful ? " " Yes," he replies, doubtfully, as if he'd never considered it in this light before, and hadn't made up his mind. [By the way, I can't help remarking that he is dressed in the heif^ht of tiie present fashion, and isn't one bit like any sailor I ever saw.] I tell him I want to go to the library to order a book " Ah ! " he says. " you're always i eading, ain't you ? " To which I reply, modestly, " No, not always." I suppose this is the character he's'heard of me. He continues " I'm not much of a bookist, so I'll just pop into the stables close by, and you come on." We part. On the steps of the library I suddenly feel a sort of shooting pain from my shoulder to my elbow, and an ache in my knee. By the way, Cousin Jack's visit has brought under my notice something which I have not remarked in myself before. He can run up the steps of our cliff without stopping once, and then walk briskly on. I can't. I have to pause three times (generally on pretence of admiring the view), and rather feel as if I'd swallowed a new loaf whole when I got to the top. And yeli I am thinner — I must be thinner. At this moment somebody below me calls me by name. I turn,, and meet Wetherby. " Thin ! " he exclaims, in answer to my inquuj upon that point. " No, I don't notice it. But you're not looking well." In ten minutes it is settled that change of air will do me good —that a blow on "the briny" will be the thing forme, in Wether- by's yacht. An opportunity for gracefully taking leave of my Aunt and Ramsgate, and leaving her and Doddridge— the " old. gals," — to My Cousin John From Sea. 21 Y HEALTH. 257 CHAPTER XV. WETHERBY PROPOSES — I ACCEPT— PAINFUL PROSPECT— CHARLIE's SERIOUS INDISPOSITION ENTREE OF COUSIN JOHN " TWO twos" THE FAREWELL ARRANGEMENTS FOR GAIETIES — SPEEDING THE PARTING AMUSEMENTS IN VIEW REVELRY IMAGINATION COUSIN JOHN's WRAPS OUR NAVY NO SEA PHRASES THE WAGGONETTE JOHN's BRUTALITY UNSYMPA- THETIC AUNT SNEAK DODDRIDGE 1 AM ALONE THE DOVE's FAREWELL — LEAVING RAMSGATE ONCE MORE ON THE LINE TO wetherby's. TH P E time a p - proaches when I must take leave of my Aunt. I regret this, as Samuel informs me that "Now* de season come on, sar, it just de very weather for a bath. Never is such a time for Xaytchar as de summar, sar. But, dar," he adds, re- signedly, " dat's just de way wid you genel- men — eddicated genel- men, as Td ha' thought 'ad kno^^'n better — they go away just when de bath begin to do 'em good. Don't say," he con- cludes, with most impressive earnestness, " don't say when you go away and get ill, and have de cold and de cramp and de rheumatiz — don't say that it's Samuel's fault ; that's all." This condition is a sort of stipulation which he insists upon, in order to 258 BATHER AT SEA. bring himself, as it were, to even the most imwiUing agreement to my departure. I foresee that saying farewell to my Aunt will be painful. There will be a scene. Perhaps she'll regret me when I'm away. If Cousin John From Sea only stops long enough, and slaps her suffi- ciently on the back, I'm sure she will. To be slapped on the back may be all very well for a few days, as a novelty, but I think she'll tire of it in a fortnight. I am particularly kind — making a point of it — to Charlie the lap-dog, during my last hours here. I give him almond-biscuits and cream. He immediately acquires a taste for these luxuries, and in our absence he makes himself master of the contents of the biscuit-tin and cream-jug on the table. The consequence is, that he is seized with a dreadful attack of biliousness ; lie lies on the sofa (when I enter to say good-bye) gasping, and my Aunt and Doddridge are kneeling by his side. " Master George ! " exclaims the handmaiden — I swear there never was such a sycophant as Old Doddridge, for I believe she really hates the dog, as her rival in my Aunt's aftections, and I dare say she is now secretly hoping that she is witnessing the last of Charlie — " How could you be so cruel 1 " Cousin John coming in by the window— (A^o^e on Cousin John — if there is any mode of entrance except the door, I observe he will fdways enter by it — here he's got a choice of three windows, and my Aunt is never startled by his unexpected appearance, as she would be by 7)ii}ie) — has a remedy for Charlie at once. He'll "set him all right," he says, "in two twos. Come up, you little warmint ! " With which he takes up the little " warmint '^ by the scruff of his neck (which must be most unpleasant, yet neither of the " Old Gals " remonstrate), and carries him out on to the lawn. I take this opportunity to observe that I am sorrj to say my train goes in an hour's time, and that I've sent for a fly. "0 ! " says my Aunt, quite cheerfully, smiling (a week ago she would have cried), " we're going out for a drive with John in a quarter of an hour, so perhaps we shan't be here when you start." This grates upon me ; yes, although I don't want a scene (because it would be so trying for my nerves, and make me so foverish for travelhng), yet this does grate on me. 21 Y HEALTH. 259 1 tell her I'm going yachting with Wetherby. The word "yachting," besides having an aristocratic smack about it, must bring to the mind of any old lady who lives " at home at ease " (as the song says) the fact that she is accustomed to trouble herself very little about the dangers incuiTed by those who venture upon the seas, " when the stormy winds do blow." [It occurs to my mind, for one second, to wonder whether Wetherby goes to sea in such a state of things, or not. Xot, I should say.] My Aunt is impassive. She is not a good sailor herself, but hopes that I am. Have I ever been to sea before ? No, I've not- Oh ! End of that topic. Charlie brought in quite lively and frisky, but very damp. The means resorted to appear to have been very simple. John, by his own account "held the little beggar by the tail and dipped him in the sea." Result satisfactory, with a craving for more biscuits apparently. Doddridge embraces him, " 0, de poo little Charlywarley, then ! did they (meaning me — so kind of her, just as I'm going away) give it nasty almond- biscuits and cream, a little mannikin, then ! " Doddridge is ordered off to dry him. I look at my watch — so does John. " I say. Old Gal," this to my Aunt from John, " it's time for you to get on your go-to-meeting bonnet, as the one-horse shay will be round here before you've cleaned yourself," and he finishes off with a wink at me, as if I had suggested this style of address, and was quietly entering into the spirit of the thing. My Aunt, who has sat herself down at her writing-table, only remarks, " How absurd you are, John," and then asks him " Who's coming here to-morrow ? " " 0," he replies, " there are the Tinton girls and Wayde." " WiU they come to the pic-nic on Thursday ? " asks my Aunt. (My Aunt going to a pic-nic ! !) John isn't quite certain, but he hopes so, and he adds, "I've got Judkin to bring his drag for Saturday, when we can all drive over in it to Canterbury ; only he wants to know, if he comes back with us, can you bed him ? " My Aunt pauses for an instant, then quietly answers, " Of course we can, as George will be away then, and he can have his room." Now I should like — for this has roused me — I should like to dash my hat down, jump up, hit the table with my clenched fist, and exclaim, " No, confound it, I'm not going." But I don't, I merely s 2 260 BATHER AT SEA. smile, and reply upon the observation with assumed indifference, " Yes, I shall be away then," for I'm not going to flatter my Aunt and John, who is almost a bully in his manner, by showing any sort of desire to stay. Why should they have put off all their amusements until mv departure ? True that I have said to my Aunt how much I love quiet, how I prefer Ramsgate, at her un-seasonable time, to Rams- gate in full bloom ; but, hang it, I do like to be asked. There's something so melancholy, too, in hearing arrangements made in one's presence for gaieties to come off when (it's a sad phrase) one will be no longer here to witness them. It makes one feel as if the future were a blank. It seems to me (for having nothing to do with them while they are still continuing their conversation on the same subject, I can only sit and think) suddenly, a melancholy notion that Ramsgate will wake up to-morrow morning and I shan't be there. That my Aunt and John and their party will be gay, and not so much as a reference made to my&elf. Will any of them say, will either of these two here say, at the height of their revelry (fancy my Aunt and Doddridge's revelry, bah !), "I wish George were here ? " Xo, they won't, I feel they won't, and that's what touches me, and almost brings tears into my eyes. At this instant the grenadier in petticoats announces "The carriage, mum I " and Doddridge appears with my Aunt's bonnet and shawl, which she puts on before the glass, while my Cousin John bustles into the hall, and I hear him ordering the grenadier to take heaps of rugs and wraps to the trap. Another Xote. — I thought a sailor was always a rough, hardy sort of chap, ready for all weathers, and rather preferring bad to good. But Cousin John From Sea (if he's a specimen, and not an exception) seldom goes out without a greatcoat, never walks a step farther than he can help, always carries an umbrella, never appears Avithout the latest invented scent on his pocket handker- chief, and the best-fitting gloves ; and if there's the slightest sign of rain, or if it's blowing ever so little, catch him going out % Not a bit of it. He has -s^Taps on his bed, a wadded dressing-gown, a fijre in his bed-room nearly all day, and seldom gets up till past ten, my Aunt allowing him to breakfast at whatever time he MY HEALTH. 261 chooses. If our Xavy is composed of Cousin Johns, then I don't believe in our Xavy. He hasn't got a single sea-phrase — not a word about marling-spikes, buntings gaffs, belay, and so forth. While I'm away out yachting, I shau be able to compare him, in my mind's eye,Vith rea^ sailors, and shall write to my Aunt about him, and expose him as a naval impostor. While I am thinking this out, my Aunt is getting herself ready. She is ready. Quite. So " Good-bye ! " to me, from her. Nothing more. Not a purse of gold — the tip that I used to receive from her on my going to school multiplied now by as many times as I have increased in years. No— no memento. No hope expressed of ever seeing me again. I venture to throw this in, on my own account, in an off-hand manner, thus : " I'll try and run down during the season." My Aunt to this only replies, " You will no doubt find us here." Cousin John puts her into the wagonette, and muffles her up with tiger skins, rough rugs, and a big cloak. To all intents and purposes, as far as I am conceraed, he has buried my Aunt away out of my sight. That's what I've got to thank him for at present. An impostor sailor ! He is going to drive ! A sailor going to drive ! My Aunt, who clutches at my arm spasmodically, and squeaks and screams, in a fly with ?/ie, sees him take the reins un- moved. "Good-bye, George, old boy," says he to me from the box; "keep yourself dry, and don't get very sick when you're out on the ocean wave." I do believe my Aunt, under her covers, is laughing at this brutality ; and as to Doddridge— upon my word and honour, I'm not a vindictive man, but if I could just put Doddridge into a pantomime scene with the Cloioi and Pantaloon to make love to her after their peculiar fashion, ending with knocking her into a flour-tub, or waking her up with a hot poker, I should— I really should— like to see it done, and assist in doing it myself. So they drive away. I turn back to the hall. " Coo-coo-giTr ; coo-coo-giTr ! " says the Gentle Dove, bowing at me ten times to half a minute. I wish my fly would come. I feel moped, wretched, hipped. Why? Such small thino-s oughtn't to affect a good constitution. No. 262 HAT HER AT SEA. Then is it the fact that I've got a bad constitution ? Is it the .... From a dreamy state I am aroused. The fly ! Once more over the uneven roads, once more down Ramsgate's narrow streets (built for sociability's sake, probably, and with the smallest possible amount of pavement, suggesting tight-rope practice for beginners) towards the Station on the sands. Of course, a waggon, large enoiigh to make ten of my fly (fly-horse included), meets us at the narrowest part ; of course my flyman wanted to pass it, and failed ; of course the waggon-driver is obstinate, and won't back ; of course my driver won't be outdone by the waggon-driver ; of course other carts are behind the waggon, and other flys and carts behind us, and all trade in this, one of the main streets, is suddenly paralysed. Of course all the drivers of all the carts and flys are excessively polite and civil to one another. Foot-passengers retire into shops on either side, and watch the proceedings, or, rather, as we don't proceed at all, the dead-lock. I explain that I must be at the Station at such and such a time exactly ; that it only wants two minutes ; that it's most important I should catch the train ; that I won't pay him if he doesn't ; that .... Shouts from behind .... Waggoner gives way to the extent of about a quarter of an inch, by nearly emptying his load into a fishmonger's window. The quarter of an inch does it ; released, we rush by him — Mazeppa, in a fly tied to time, catching the train — imperfect simile, but thought of hurriedly, in connection with " Again he urges on his wild," ii:c. "We round the market- place — the flyman defying the laws of centrifugal force by trying to keep himself straight on the box — down High Street, in sight of the sea, — On ! On I — The train starts at three — my watch is just three — The bell! . . . "Now, sir!" I feel it's an aff'air of shillings. . . . Shilling to Porter. He flies away with trunk— myself after him, giving directions . . . Shilling to Guard, to get my ticket (which will delay him, too — Aha I) . . . Shilling to Railway-Book-Stall Man — I could give a shilling to anyone now who'd guarantee me in time for train. Any papers ? Quick 1 All papers ! . . . Just one second — shilling to refreshment girl . . . What 1 Quick ! Buns % — Xo. Sponge-cakes — sherry in a flask. . . . "Another sixpence, sir, please." . . . Xo time to argue MY HEALTH. 263 ..." Take shilling." . . . Away I — Carriage. Another shilling to Porter who opens door . . . Flyman is pursuing me. " Will I . . . Shall he . . ." We are off. Flyman trots along, with hand on carriage-door. Xo change. Flash of thought, sudden, decisive, and satisfactory for all parties : — " The lady at the house will pay you. Drive back, and ask her. It's all right." Ha I ha ! The lady of the house is my Aunt. I shall be recalled to her memory. In carriage. After excitement — Pieaction, 264 RATHEE AT SEA. CHAPTER X"\^. IN A TRAIN OF THOUGHT NOTIONS — SLEEPINESS — STATIONS— BIR- CHINGTON WESTGATE WHITSTABLE A COMPANION LITERARY PROJECT — OYSTER QUESTIONS — QUESTIONS OF HEALTH — FACTS FATALITIES INSTANCES WANDERINGS SLEEP TICKETS RESULTS — NOTES — IN LONDON ONCE AGAIN THROUGH THE METROPOLIS — READY TO START. HOUGHTS m the Train. — How very soon one gets through three newspapers ? Having got through them, how curiously interesting the small paragraphs are, which one never notices on ordinary occasions. The same remark applies to the advertisements. I suppose it must be on some oppor- tunity similar to the present (that is, that of being in a train alone on a longish journey), that a next of kin finds he's been advertised for, or somebody or other discovers that he will hear something to his advantage by calling on So-and-So. I wonder, as I look at these advertise- ments, whether my name will be there to-day. It would be, to say the least of it, such a subject for conversation afterwards, commencing, "I was looking at the front sheet of the Times, quite accidentally, for it's a thing I hardly ever do — perhaps not once in a year — when I suddenly hit upon my name," (tc, kc. Mem. for future 2^ertisals. — Never omit looking at this column ; it onlv takes a minute, and it mi»ht turn out to be worth MY EEALTH. 265 thousands. Perhaps an inquiry for next of kin, or an "If this catches the Eye," may have been in, and I've missed it simply by not reading the front sheet of the Times. Perhaps some one is now enjoying a fortune that ought to have been mine ; and if I found him out, and claimed it, the only answer would be, " Too late now : you were advertised for, for months, in the Times and other newspapers, and you didn't turn up. It's your own fault : better luck next time," and so on. After reading it carefully to-day. — There's nothing in about me. An Idea. — File the Times in future. Buy the back numbers for the last six months. I say six months, because I have some sort of notion that that's the legal time given for heirs, or next of kin, to turn up. And yet how would a next of kin in Central Africa manage ! How, also, would he be affected by an adver- tisement commencing, " Pursuant to an Order from the Court of Chancery," and going on to say that if he didn't do something or other within the next two weeks, he'd never hear of any- thing more to his advantage as long as he lived ? A difficult question. Still in Train.— S^me train of thought. Sleepy. Very sleepy. Westgate-on-Sea. New station. Xew place, too, apparently con- sisting of a block of houses recently built, and two sets of clothes- lines, on a sort of desolate common, with a fine view of the sea. Birchington. Good name for a place full of boys' schools. Whit- stahle, where the people live on oysters, and, when there are no oysters, on other fish, until the oysters appear again. A gentle- man who gets into the carriage here, teUs me that it is a channing place to stay at, if you want to be perfectly quiet, and are fond of fish. Mem. — Whitstable for quiet. When I am well enough to resume my Analytical History of Motion, wiU try Whitstable. In answer to further inquiries, the gentleman says (that is, I understand him to say) that the largest oyster-bed owners are solicitors in London. I half smile, supposing him to be hiding some deep satire under this sentiment. He doesn't smile at all. I cease to smile, look sui-prised (as I am), and say, " Indeed ! " 266 BAT HE B AT SEA. After this, he takes a lot of papers out of a Hack bag, and begins to be, apparently, deeply interested in them. Mte in Travelling. — Use of little black bags with papers in them. It looks so business-like to take papers out. Peruse them always frowningly, then turn aside to look out of window, as if getting that last sentence quite clear before you go on again. Wish I had my MS., as far as I've gone, of Analytical History of Motion. It would puzzle him to know what I'd got. I am not inquisitive, and abominate impertinent curiosity, but I should like to know what he's reading up (or pretending to read up, for I don't believe in him a bit) in those papers. It might furnish matter for pleasant conversation while travelling. Perhaps he is one of the Oyster Solicitors getting up some case. Right of pearls found iu bad oysters. The civilised world was at one time nearly being embroiled in a universal war on account of oysters. Am very sleepy. Sure it's unhealthy to be so sleepy. A sleepy pear, for example, is an unhealthy pear. It's strange, now I think of it, that all my symptoms lately have shown themselves in some connection with my nose. It is strange, as showing what force there is in presentiments, or prosentimental aversions. Ptcmember stories (facts) of people who dreaded fire, and took every pre- caution against accidents by fire ; result (by fatality) a Fire, and disastrous consequences. Remember similar example about old lady who hated crossing a thoroughfare — always avoided it. One day she was carefully avoiding it, and was run over. Remember a friend telling me that he had a horror of falling over a cliff : he said that he felt that if he did fall over a cliff, it would be, (so to speak, and to put it in his words, as lightly as possible) " rather more than he'd bargained for." He meant that he'd be killed. He is alive now ; but still there is the aversion for cliffs, and he wouldn't come down to Ramsgate, for example, on any account. It's al] what Samuel would call " Naytchar." It is the " Naytchar " of some men to have presentiments and aversions. I have both. I hate the idea of a red nose in the future. Yet everything seems to tend towcuds my nose. This drowsiness shows itself there. Note. — I really think I mitst mention this to my medical man, personally or by letter.) I get sleepy, as it were, in my nose, MY H HALTS. 267 somewhere about the bridge. I drop off to sleep without any sort of notice, without knowing it ; in fact, it seems to me as if I was thinking deeply, pursuing one subject through a confused crowd of ideas, like looking for some important slip of paper (which is indelibly fixed on the retina of your mind's eye) in a bureau full of documents, old MSS., forgotten receipts, bits of red tape, and odds and ends. And then . . . you take up something which has nothing to do with the object you're in search of. ... It interests you . . . and then . . . something else you've lost sight of for ages . . . then . . . everything. . . . " Tickets ! Tickets, please ! " I wake up. Oyster Solicitor, bag, and papers vanished, perhaps long ago. To sleep so heavily, and so early in the day, must be bad. I make this note (for my doctor's benefit, and my own) after arousing myself. Being aroused, I feel sticky all over, as if some one had been gumming me together. Note. — Another curious effect. I go to sleep in a train, clean, neat, and tidy. I awake exactly the reverse — i.e., dirty, slovenly, and untidy— and as if I'd turned a dull yellow colour during sleep. My clothes, too, have a sort of second-hand, ready-made look, and appear to have gone back in their cut to a distant period when the fashion wasn't the same as now. I come out of the train at the London terminus like a Mp Van Winkle of three hours' drowsiness. I was quite fresh when I got in at Ramsgate, I am quite stale at Victoria. Sudden Thought. — How fish must suffer in transmission ! Yes, that's my sensation after a sleepy journey — flabbiness. Thank goodness, I am looking forward to a real good blow on the sea in Wetherby's yacht. Shall be aboard to-night or to-morrow morn- ing early, and shall soon be looking as healthy as possible ; that is, as sunburnt as possible. Question, Is to be sunburnt to be healthy ? {Mem. Consult a physician.) People say of a sunburnt person, "he looks the picture of health." Logically, the picture of a thing is not the thing itself The boy who is the very picture of his mother is, clearly, not his mother. Ergo, a person who appears to be the picture of health is not health itself, but, at best, very like health. 268 RATHER AT SEA. I do believe I am going to sleep, standing up, on the platform of the station. This is serious. A porter rouses me about my luggage and a cab. Where shall he tell the man to drive tol I have actually seated myself in the cab, still dreamily, without saying a word on the subject. These mental phenomena must be noted down. Also that my nose appears to have become rather thicker than usual about the bridge. Every man ought to be brought up to learn something of medicine and anatomy. It should be part of his education. Instead of being nervous now about this nasal development, I should be perfectly happy (perhaps), if I only knew what connection the bridge of my nose had with other portions of the human frame. JJem. To get up anatomy, with special attention to ?«y ow)i. Send for a book ; capital opportunity for studying it on board Wetherby's yacht. Driving through Town to the Other Station. Feeling of loneli- ness. See nobody I know. My best friends, if in London, are utterly ignorant of my passing through. Wish I was out of it again. Melancholy. Perhaps melancholy is a part of sleepiness. Am sti-uck by the heartlessness of London. The phrase "the heart of London " is an impossibility. Wonder what my Aunt & Co. are doing now ? At Next Terminus. Find that I shan't be at Wetherby's until late at night. His invitation was, "Come down any time this week, ask for my yacht, and they (who ?) will put you on board." I have three-quarters of an houi' before starting. Better dine. MY HEALTH. 269 CHAPTER XYII. DINNER AT A STATION — ITS DISCOMFORT — THOUGHTS ON EATABLES- ENGLISH CONTINENTAL INFERIORITY SUPERIORITY HINTS MESSRS. STEEPLES AND LAKE ADVISED A BOOKSTALL OFFERS OFF AGAIN TRAVELLING MAXIMS — THROUGH DEVONSHIRE — FORWARD. ONCERNING Dinner at Rail- vjay Station. As a rule, a most uncomfortable thing. First, one knows the dinner is only a make- shift. Secondly — it's not the hour you're accus- tomed to dine, which is enough to upset you at once. Thirdly — there's a certain amount of excite- ment about it, because you are, as it were, dining against time, and excitement is bad for digestion. Fourthly. The consciousness that you won't be able to lounge after dinner, but must see after your ticket and luggage, is yery prejudicial to health. I determine upon dining. I will " commit the enormity " of having a httle dinner. "Wonder how Budd is. Perhaps com- mitting the enormity of having a Turkish Bath. To avoid objec- 270 RATHER AT SEA. tions number three and four, I find an Official, who says, " yes, he'll be about the place," and give him half-a-cro\vn for himself on condition that he gets my ticket for me. So much trouble oflf my hands. I find a Porter, who appears to me (and who sa^-s he is) to be stationary by the Luggage Label Department. I give him a shilling to guard my "things." A Porter standing by him, but not stationary, I also invest in, to the same amount. His duties (towards me) are to secure me a seat in a carriage, and take thither my great-coat and portable things, including my umbrella. It suddenly occurs to me that it's rather out of character to take an umbrella on board a yacht. Still, can't leave it behind in charge of Porter, to be left from now till called for. Go to dinner in Refreshment Room. Brilliant Barmaiden standing out against a background of brilliant and variegated bottles, like what a fancy chemist's shop might be. Valuahle Note " to the Faculty." Why not a Fancy Chemist as well as a Fancy Baker ? It might be quite an attractive place, with a sort of bar, where medicines could be on tap. Powders and pills might be done up in a fanciful manner, say as crackers and bonbons, with mottoes. Healthy Ilottoes, not the nonsense one sees at Christmas time. Ideas, for instance, for simple and healthy mottoes at Fancy Chemists : — In a cracker. He who feels that he is ill. Will do well to take this pilL In a Nut scooped out, with Powder and Motto inside. You've a headache got, my love, Which this powder will remove. In a Bonbon, in one end of which is a miniature bottle. — To an over-danced Young Lady who can't sleep. If your orbs you bright would keep, Take these chloral drops and sleep. And so on. Haven't time for further consideration of the sub- ject, as I've only got three-quarters of an hour for dinner. Railway station vegetables. Steamed. Greens of bright colour, 31 Y HEALTH. 271- lukewarm. Potatoes hard at the edges, as if discoloured parts had been cut ofiF, or large potatoes had been pared down to resemble the delicacy of little new potatoes. Ingenious, if so, but failure. Everything served up with as much electroplate as pos- sible, probably (in the proprietor's idea) to give the visitor a reminiscence of the comforts of his own aristocratic home. The vegetables are kept warm (not hot) in a sort of banker's safe. I protest. Waiter replies, that, they can't be any warmer, and seems at my expression of dissatisfaction, as much as to say, " Well, these vegetables have been served up lots of times to-day, and no one's grumbled. If you'd come earlier, vou'd have had 'em hot'' 1 feel that if he did say so, there'd be tmth in this remark, but not reason. There are forced flies on the table. It's only May, and cold, too. Waiter says, " Yes, sir, they're here pretty weU all the year round." They're accustomed to him, and he to them. The flies probably don't touch him. He can go into this den of flies uninjured, like Van Amburgh among the lions. The mutton is chilly. The gravy is of a higher temperature than the mutton. It seems as if my slice had caught cold and was taking a warm bath in the gravy. But this heat is deceptive, as while I am meditating upon it, it becomes suddenly cold. It's a sort of gravy that is evidently injured by exposure to the air. A mountain of cheese with a broken ridge is brought me, and some rocky geological bread. ''Pulled " they call it. Who pulls it? I say to the waiter (by way of aiding digestion by any kind of conversation), " The proprietor, I suppose, gets the pull of it," alluding to the bread. Waiter smiles, and moves a spoon from my table to next table. Familiarity with waiter must result in sixpence. Ptcserve with a waiter may be set down at threepence — the extra money being three-penn'orth of conversation. Time to finish. The only approach to comfort in railway station dining rooms is in those of Messrs. Steeples and Lake (which is Twt their name, but very like it), who do manage very well, and might manage much better if they'd only take the trouble to adopt the Continental system of huffet-mg and Restau- ration. The feeding provided for us poor English is so gross here. 272 BAT HUB AT SEA. while that provided for us by our lively neighbours, or our serious neighbours, is light, wholesome, good, cheap, and just exactly enough. May Messrs. Steeples aud Lake take the hint. They can do the thing well if they will. Big man enters, and commences a similar dinner to mine, only he's got to . do it in ten minutes, and evidently is accustomed to gorging at a great pace, and getting all he can for his money in a short time. Note. — Head hot — mi/ head, I mean. Sleepy. Drowsy. I feel that I have committed the enormity of dinner. Hardly ten minutes more. "Where's Official who was to save me trouble by getting my ticket 1 Don't see him. "WTien I employed him he was the only official visible in the Station, which was otherwise empty. Now the train is here, about to start, and there are crowds of people, passengers and officials. "Where's my stationary Porter 1 He is here : good. Sixpence. My unstationary Porter ? He's taken my things to a carriage. "Which carriage 1 Can't find him. Hurry, bustle, and anxiety directly after this dinner at an unseasonable hour. 0, My Health ! I wish I hadn't taken that beer, too, with the cheese. It seems to be weighing on my brain. I wish I knew the Official's number whom I charged with getting my ticket. And where's the Porter ? What's his number? The jive minutes^ hell ! The Porter — my Porter — has kept me a place. All to myself. Extra shilling to Official to keep it. He knows the Guard, or whatever he was, who was charged with getting my ticket. Three minutes more. Plenty of time to pick up useful infor- mation. Ergo, go to the bookstall. Mem. for the future. — To save time, always want one book at least, then you'll know what to ask for at a railway stall when you've only got three minutes to spare. Also, always arrange beforehand exactly what refreshments you'll take when you stop for ten minutes en route. I find myself staring at a sort of kaleidoscope of book-covers. Boy oflers me Love's Trials, in yellow and red, for two shillings : then, on my abi-upt refusal, he recommends (as having read it) MY HEALTH. 273 DarTc Deeds of Detectives, with a picture outside of a saffron-faced man, in a green coat, with blue tie and a red waistcoat, firing a tremendous pistol at a girl in a dress of faded blue, some of which colour has got into her hair. I hesitate. I shDuld like to ask the boY to open the book precisely at the page where the thrilling incident occurs (which evidently must be the point of the story), just to let me read that one passage, see how I like it, and then decide upon purchase or not. Probably not ; but it's not worth giving two shillings on the chance of it's turning out good, and, after all, perhaps, getting so tired of it, after the first ten pages, that I shall never reach the situation described in the picture. Besides, to all intents and purposes, I now hioiv what is the leading featm-e of this particular book. For instance, if any one asks me hereafter "Have you read Dark Deeds, ic. ?" I can answer, "Ah, you mean with that story in it about the fellow shooting at the girl," and then I can add that I don't remember much about it. At all events this will be sufficient to lead to conversation. I believe "well-read men" who talk, get up their reputation in this way. If not, good notion. Time to start. Result of inspection of bookstall is that I buy no books. Altercation betw'een my tipped Guard and a stout Superintendent, who has put three old ladies and two children into my carriage. They are going to Bath. Let them. There's only half a minute. Heavens ! my ticket ! . . . . Official sud- denly appeal's with it. My tipped Guard has got one seat for me in smoking carriage full. Rush from one carriage to the other, with bags, rugs, and coat. People in smoking carriage evidently look upon my coming at the last moment as an intinision. The best thing to do {note) under these circumstances is to be excessively polite. Thus, Somebody's bag and coat incommode me. Politely find out owner. " Is this yours 1 " very sweetly, and always smiling, more or less. It is owned. "Permit me to" — then, when he sees you going to stuff" it away Eomewhere, or put it up above insecurely over his head, he will take it and bestow it away himself, to the corafoit of all parties concerned. Maxim for travelling. — A soft manner deprecates wrath, and a smile in time saves frowns. T 274 BATHE B AT SEA. }f€m. {in train). Might make a series of maxims for travellers on the above model very useful. Dedicate them to The Travellers. Call the volume Passengers' Proverbs. Travelling Maxim iVo. 2.— The Early Passenger catches the train. Maxim 3rd. — An Unprotected First-ck\ss Female is a Crown to her Guard (or half-a-crown at least). Maxim \th (for Guards and Eaihcay Officials general It/). — Look after the First Class, and the rest can take care of tliemselves. Maxim 6tk. — One Sandwich does not make a luncheon. Maxim Qtk (for Train Guides, new montJdy). — Tempora miitantiu\ the Times are changed. Maxim 7th. — The Luggage that is unlabclled is lost. Maxim Sth. — The Universal liailway Key that locks all carriages is a silver one. Special Remark on the Pailicay in Devonshire. — These lines are fallen in pleasant places. MY HEALTH. 275 CHAPTER XYIII. RAILWAY BATH RACES — SPORTING CONVERSATION- PRUDENT COURSE DYSPEPSIA EXETER THOUGHTS IN THE DARK TRACTS THOUSANDS OF POUNDS PROBABILITIES OF ELECTION A friend's case— his friend— a story OF AN' ELECTION REMARKABLE INSTANCE ARRIVAL — TORQUAY. ^TILL in aD the Car- riage.. — Quite full. "We are all settling down, and making oiu-- selves gradu- ally less dis- agreeable to one another. Everyone has brought into the carriage a bag, a great coat, a rug, and an um- brella, each person appa- rently under the impression that the same original idea would occur to no other passenger except himself. A gentleman in the next seat presently asks me, "How Bath races went oft this year?" He has not led up to this inquiiy, and I feel somewhat taken aback. I reply that " I do not know, as I have not been there this year," Avhich, without committing me to anything, leads him to suppose that my absence from this Spring Meeting (if it is a Spring Meetin.fr ) is a solitary exception to my general practice. T 1 276 RATHER AT SEA. He has evidently made up his mind that 1 am a sporthig character, and have got information on various " events," which I am slyly keeping to myself, as his next question, with an apology for his own ignorance, as he has not been long in England, is, " whether I don't think that Scavenger's safe for the Two Thousand ? " Note. Sporting amusements are part of oar national character. Every Englishman is born a Sailor and a Sportsman. Of course, if he doesn't keep it up after being born with these advantages, that's his fault. Odd that it should never have struck me till now ! Mem. One really ought to read sporting papers once a week : it wouldn't take more than a quarter of an hour to get up the names of a few leading horses. Some men are equally ready on all subjects : these are men who do not waste their club subscriptions. Mem. Next to being rich, the best thing is to have the credit for being so. Ergo, the next best thing to knowing all about every thing is to look as if you knew it. To say, at once, "Sir, I do not know," or, " Sir, I am utterly and totally ignorant of the subject you have started," would (Johnsonianly) put an end to all such casual convei-sation as might beguile a journey. I reply, with some hesitation, that " I do not feel quite certain as to what Scavenger may do ; " which is strictly true, as I've never even heard the animal's name before. I believe my answer will cost this gentleman some anxious consideration, and perhaps bring about an entire change in the betting. He apologises again for having been absent in India for some time, and I smile, as much as to say, " 0, don't mention it ! " and then he asks me who are considered the best "boys to put up" now 1 A searching question. Luckily, I've heard the phrase " boy to put up ■' before, or might have thought he alluded (having been absent in India for some time) to the obsolete climbing boys. I've an idea that the other passengers are furtively listening. I feel that, as an Englishman, I ought to know the names of the jockeys, and particularly as I have not the excuse to offer of having been out of England for a long time. I cautiously reply, '' Well ' and consider. A name suddenly occurs to me, as if by inspiration. I come out with it,— I say, that, " I suppose Grimstone's not a bad one." MY HEALTH. 277 I have scarcely uttered this opinion before I feel I've made a false step. Firsthj, it occurs to me that Grimstone is not a jockey, but a prizefighter ; secondly, that I don't think he's a prizefighter, but a cricketer ; thirdly, that, if so, he's an amateur cricketer ; and, fourtJdy, that he's an eminent Chancery ban-ister. I wait an instant, expecting my neighbour, or some one in the carriage, to say, " Grimstone ! "Who's Grimstone ? What did he ride ? When did he ride ? " lirc, kc. In which case I should give up Grimstone, and suppose that I am thinking of somebody else. My sporting inquirer appeared impressed by my reply, and merely observes, "Ah!" then, after looking at nothing in par- ticular out of the left window, and after tinning his attention to something of equal importance out of the right window, he evi- dently determines upon not " asking his witness (myself) any further questions," and gradually subsides into a newspaper. Dysjjeijtic SymjAoms consequent iqjon the early dinner enormity. — Indigestion from now to Exeter. Drowsiness. After Exeter darkness. Xear the Sea. Rain. Passengers have dropped out one by one. Sense of loneliness. Thoughts in the Dark: — ^'^ote in pocket-hool; ivith the idea of ** writing to the Times " on the subject. (a.) Why are there no lights in the carriages between Exeter and Torquay 1 (b.) To find out if there isn't an Act of Parliament compelling Railway Companies to put lights in carriages. Jlein. Does this Act only apply to ships? If so, suggest to some one (find an M.P. and suggest it to him) to bring in a Bill for the purpose. By the Way. First find your M.P., and then might suggest plenty of Bills and Measures. With a view to My Health, I wonder how a Parliamentary Life would suit me ? Think it over If my Doctor says it's just the thing, I might go in for somewhere Where? As what? How much? If much, would My Aunt advance the money? She might for the honour of th2 family. :Might give her an I. 0. U., payable on my becoming a Cabinet Minister. One never knows what may eventuate. These are Thoughts in the Larlc. Good title for a Religious Tract. Might suggest it to Rev. J. C. Ryle. Hear he makes thousands by a 278 BATHER AT SEA. Tract of only four pages. Nothing easier than to write a Tract, or any number of Tracts. Feel I could do it. Why not ? If I was a Clergyman, I might. Why not write as a Clergyman, say, " Thovrjiits in the Dark, by the Rev. J. A. B. H. L. K." Miglit ad- 1 (to puzzle the Public) " c^'Y'o." New Tract (Fifty Thousandth, this Day), by the Rev. .J. A. B. H. L. K. .V: Co. Or really start a Tract Company (Limited). This money (out of the tracts) would defray election expenses. Some one told me once that he was travelling in a train (as I am now), and happened to say to a casual acquaintance (but I am all alone now in the dark) that he intended going in for Parliament. Whereupon the Casual Acquaintance said, " Are you, "by Jingo ! " or words to that effect ; adding, " Then you're the man for mc. Will you come back to (I forget where), and stand for the County (or Borough, I don't remember which) 1 " My friend said, " Yes, certainly," but expressing at the same time a wish to go home and get another pair of trousers (I think it was), as he had not intended being away more than a day when he started. The Casual Acquaintance wouldn't let him do it, but jumped out at the next station, took my friend with him, telegraphed back to somewhere, where he'd come from, to say, " Found a man to stand for the place : will be amongst you {i.e., the Electors) in an hour." And a telegram to agent, " Issue Address at once." By the time that they reached the town the Addresses were out, and my friend told me that he was received by Deputations at the station, cheered all over the place, carried in triumph to his hotel, presided at a public dinner, addressed crowds from the balcony, wore colours, presented colours, was serenaded at night, went to church next day with a band playing, and listened to an election seniion, with an appro- priate election hymn afterwards ; that, being short of stature, he had consented to stand upon three hassocks in his pew, in order to show himself to the people ; that, in order to secure the votes of the Churchmen, he went to service three times that day in three .different places, never closed his eyes once through any of the sermons, and stood on four hassocks in the evening because of the gaslight being bad, and never once took his eyes off his book ; that henceforth, not only was he the Popular Candidate (as his Casual Aquaintance informed him), but the only Candidate, until the very last day but one, when a meeting was held in which lie was de- MY HEALTH. 279 noiinced as an adventurer bv all parties, and some one ^hose name had never been mentioned, suddenly issued an address ; and that, upon this, his Casual Acquaintance took hiui aside, and advised him that the best course he could pursue would be to retire at once, before the Mob became very violent, in which case he (my friend) might be held legally responsible for the damage done to the Hotel, and perhaps for the desti-uction of half of the public buildings in the town ; that, hearing this, my friend went off by the very next train, disguised as a bricklayer, but was recognised by the roughs, hooted at, and pelted before he got to the station, into which he was dragged by the police. That, before he was allowed to go, he was obliged to pay his hotel bill of about five hundred pounds, besides drawing cheques for printing, treating, and a tailor's and haberdasher's bill for several entire new suits (shirts and ties in election colours, and trousei-s with election stripes down the sides) made in a hurry, in consequence of having come off without his portmanteau, and which were of no sort of use to him afterwards; and that, finally, he read of the new Candidate's unopposed retuni, but never again fell in with his Casual Acquaintance, nor heard a word about him, except from one man, who told him, confidentially, that the less he saw of him the better. That his family (my friend's family) had him (my friend) watched by a detective, and once his relations clubbed together to pay a mad doctor to visit him. All this occurs to me in the dark, between Exeter and Torquay, and (to trace the stream of ideas back to their source,) it all arose out of the Company having supplied no light to the first-class carriage. Cheer myself up. Directly I arrive at Torquay, will go on board. Perhaps "Wetherby's steward or pilot or captain will meet me. If the Station is (as one is at Eamsgate) on the sands, I shall be able to take a boat instead of a fly, and be on deck in a few minutes. It 2vill be a change. I feel that early, unseasonable, and hurried dining would, if persisted in, end in unnatural stoutness. Torquay. — Here I am. The only first-class passenger. Xo one is waiting to receive me. I feel so lonely that I should like to go back again in the same train. Note. — Sudden and causeless depression is an unhealthy sign. Ptouse myself. 280 RATHEB AT SEA. CHAPTER XIX TORQUAY STATION WETHERBY NOWHERE BILL INQUIRIES SATIS- FACTORY YACHTING IN VIEW NAUTICAL DIALECT — NOVELTY —HEALTH SEA-BREEZES 14, FIRKIN TERRACE INDECISION " MY LADY '■■ — Where's my lord ] — a difficulty — sir some- body query 1 WALK IN FROPOSAL FOR A SERVANT'S college THE DOMESTIC MY FIRST APPEARANCE — SENSATION — MUSLIN CONVULSED — BRILLL\NT FL.\.SH— PRESENCE OF MIND CLASPER— BANG — SAVED ! AUTIOUSLY, I ask the Station- Master, iu return for giving him mv ticket, if he knows Mr. Wetherby. Briefly, he doesn't. I men- tion Mr. Wetlierby's yacht. No, he doesn't know Mr. "Wetherby, or his yacht, but dares say Flyman may be able to inform me. Then he shouts out, " Bill : " to some one in the distance, to which some one in the dis tance answers, whereupon Station-Master walks to the end of the platform, and I walk out of the Station. Flyman, waiting for the chance of a fare, knows, or thinks he knows, Mr. Wetherby. As he may only sai/ this from an interested motive, I question him as to his feeling of confidence in his own assertion. " 0, yes, sir," he answei-s ; " Mr. Wetherby, as lives at Firkin Terrace." MY HEALTH. 281 " Xo," I sav, impressively, "he has a vacht. He is only in harbour — I mean in port — here." I am "uncertain whether I should say "harbour' or "port," but as he's only a flyman (perhaps the most un-nautical calling in existence), correctness in terms won't be of any consequence. I've not come to see a man living like anybody else could do, in a teiTace, but a yachtsman, sleeping on board, merely " putting in " to take provisions — to " ship cargo '"' is nearer the expression, I fancy, but will ask Wetherby — and then ''putting out" or "putting off" again in the morning with a fair wind and the stud-sails set. Jlem. Coming upon yachting suddenly, I seem to know much more about it than I had imagined. Can't think where I got the term "stud-sails" from. It flashed on me suddenly, and I note it down, while I think of it, in the fly, on my way to Firkin Terrace to begin with, where it certainly appears, from the Fly- man's description of him, that Wetherby has at some time or other resided. Anticipations. To have met at the Station a pilot-looking man with a gold band round his cap. That he would salute me, and to my question as to whether he was from Wetherby's yacht, he would have replied, " Aye, aye, your honour ! " That then we should have heaved ahead in a fly, with this seaman steering, on the box, directing, as it were, the wheels of the vehicle. That we should have been driven to some gateway leading to a port, or the docks, or the harbour. That, then, a sailor would have met us to carry lugg-age. That then we should have got into a small boat — "jolly boat," I think — if dark, one sailor in the bows with a torch, — that lights should have been hoisted from the Eljin Qzteen (or whatever Wetherby's yacht's name is), and that he himself should have been standing at the gangway — the gangway being where one goes on board — to welcome me. In fact, novelty : novelty in surroundings, in atmosphere, in everything, m fact^ being the very best thing for my Health. Bealisation. — Xumber 14, Firkin Terrace. Seaside-looking house, apparently. Flyman rings bell. Man-servant answers it. Mr. AVetherby's ? Yes, sir. At home? Xo, sir. Onboard? 0, no, sir. (This decisively, as if such a proceeding was quite out 282 BAT HE E AT SEA. of the question.) He expects me ? Yes, sir, he said a gentleman was coming, (This undecidedly, rather guardedly.) Pause What next ? Flyman looks at me, as much as to say, " Well, now then, after all your fuss Fm right, and here's Wetherby's ; what are you going to do next?" I decide promptly. I say authoritatively, " Take down my luggage." I descend. Flyman paid. Luggage in the passage. Alone with servant. One question with a tinge of uncertainty, and a feeling that I am exactly 350 miles away from my own bed, "' I suppose you've got a room for me here, eh?" "Well, sir," the servant, a most respectful and evidently obliging man, in undress, replies, " My lady didn't know whether you'd prefer sleeping at the hotel, or not." [Eapid thoughts during the ixmse hetween his question and my ansiver. My Lady ! who's she ? I don't ask, as I evidently ought to know. Always thought Wetherby was a bachelor. But if he isn't, how can his wife be " My Lady," unless he's Lord Wetherby, or Sir Something Wetherby 1 and I've only heard him spoken to and spoken of by his friends as "Wetherby." Very awkward this. It now strikes me, for the first time, that Wetherby is, after all, only an acquaintance ; but whenever I've met him he's been one of those hearty men whom one seems, from their manner, to have known for years. Strictly speaking, I have only met him three times, but then on the very first occasion he in- vited me to come out yachting with him. I fancy, though, that that was in December. However, whenever it was, or whatever he is, it's done now. Last Thought. If I go to Hotel will Lord, or Sir Something, Wetherby, pay my bill there. If not, and sup- posing, after all, he doesn't yacht, the whole thing's an imposition. I decide.] My reply. " 0, no ; I prefer stopping here, certainly." Very well, then, he'll take my things up. My Lady, he adds, is in the drawing-room. A bell rings. That, says the servant, is for the chamber-candle. He'll show me up. What name shall he say ? I tell him. We commence mounting the stairs. I wish he'd inform me who My Lady is. I should like to see Wetherby first ; but if his wife — or whatever relation My Lady may be— is at 31 Y HEALTH. 28^ home, it won't look well for me to avoid her, and sneak up to bed Wish I could go back again, even 350 miles, or wish I'd said rd choose the Hotel. Too late now. The drawing-room door. The butler, or servant of some sort, not m livery, but, on second thoughts, not old enough for a butler . . . r Yote —Why isn't there a Servants' College, with " Butler " for a degree? B.A., Aged Butler. M.D., Major Domo. The Under- graduates in buttons : additional buttons being, somewhat alter the manner of Mandarins, a sign of superior rank or reward of merit. Culminating point of buttons in a Bachelor. Bachelor's Buttons. Bachelor to be Footman in liveiy. There's evidently a sort of idea in this, which I jot down on retiring for the night at Wetherby's. Might obtain a Government subsidy to provide lecturers. Think it out, and suggest it to somebody interested in the Educational movement. The idea to include female educa- tion for cooks, housemaids, ladies'-maids, scullery-maids, dairy- maids, S:c., vtc, and nurses and nursemaids. Lectures to the latter given, practically, with dummy babies in perambulators cradles, and so forth. Think it out.] The domestic . . . when in doubt speak of a servant as a " domestic "... opens the drawing-room door, first-floor. He, on his side of the door, takes it for granted, evidently, that I am intimate with Lady Wetherby (that is, if it is Lady Wetherby), and Ladv Wetherby, on her side of the door, as evidently takes it for granted that I am the chamber-candlestick for which she has rung. The domestic announces my name wrongly, and I am there to explain at once who I am, and also who I am not, which is awkward to begin with. There are two ladies ; one dark, undeniably handsome, and, so to speak, massively dressed ; the other, very tall, golden-haired, and, also so to speak, atmospherically dressed. The first all velvet, real lace, and splendid jewellery : the second all gauzes, suo-o-estive of either being wafted away in a cloud, or requiring an attendant to be always on the watch with a hearthrug, in case of her getting too near a fire. The former the substance, the latter, taking into account height and general flimsiness, the shadow. 284 RATHER AT SEA. Substance is so clearly Lady "Wetherby, that I have no doubt ou the subject. As clearly, too, it flashes upon me that Wetherby is only J/r. "Wetherby, but has married a Lady Somebody in her own right. Another Flash. It occurs to me suddenly and momentarily, that the picture at present is something like what I've seen on the first page of a story in the London Journal, with description underneath to this effect: " Lady Wetherby and her companion receive the Mysterious Stranger." " Lady Wetherby," I say, with a feeling that it will be all right presently, and that in a few minutes we shall be sitting down and chatting together as if we'd known one another for years ; " I must apologise for disturbing you at this late hour." So f\\r 'the Court is with me,' and I continue; "but the fact is," [if I'd thought twice I shouldn't have used this phrase, it seems always to mean so exactly the opposite, and to create antagonism and doubt, but not being able to revise the sentence, I go on] — "that when I last met your husband" — she seems interested in my " fact " — great point to interest your audience at the outset — " about three weeks or so ago " — the ladies look at one another with a sort of glance which seems to ask each other, " Shall we scream or ring?" — being accustomed to nervous people, (my Aunt, for example, would have shrieked, or been in tears before this — I suppose that they have both been reading closely, or been fast asleep, and my unexpected appearance has discomposed them,) I continue quietly — "he told me to come down, and he'd be sure to be here, and so " Heavens I What's the matter ? Lady Wetherby literally staggers back against the mantelpiece —she hasn't far to stagger having been standing on the hearth- rug—and the Muslin Shadow dashes at her, convulsively. Brilliant Flash {to evince yresence of mind), I say "Perhaps it's the heat," and I run to open the middle window, with the air of a medical man whose superior knowledge, on being called in at a crisis, suggests an immediate and certain remedv. "Xo! No!" cries the Muslin Shadow, "it's some mistake. Please open the door, and call Clasper." This is addressed to me. Attempt opening the door fi'om within at the same instant as the MY HEALTH. 285 domestic with chamber candles opens it from without. Anvthim more painful than Another Flash. To show my chivalry, by ignoring the agony from the bridge of my nose across my forehead upwards to the roots of my hair, and addressing the man as Clasper. " Clasper," I say, anxiously, " Lady Wetherby wants " In a second he puts down the candlesticks, and goes to the head of the staircase. He calls out " Clasper 1 " Unless they are all mad, and I've come to the wrong house (which can't be), he, at all events, is not Clasper. A voice (soprano) from above replies, " Yes," and a light footstep brings Clasper, the Lady's-maid, a very pretty, elegant gu*l — (sort of person my Aunt ought to have instead of Doddridge) — into the room. The street-door bangs. A voice — Wetherby "s — Heaven be thanked ! — shouts out, "Here, Eobert ! "—then bustle, bustle below—" Tell Bill to—" bustle, bustle below, and sound of steps on stairs. I don't think I ever was more glad to see any one than I am now to welcome Wetherby. 286 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER XX. WETHERBY AT HOME MISTAKE EXPLAINED MISS STRAITHMERE JAXE— GOLDEN HAIR— LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT— OR NOT ?— BETTY CARELESSNESS WETHERBY ASTONISHES ME — MY BED-ROOM THE sun's MISTAKE — EARLY BIRD — RE-SLEEPING— RE-AWAKING —ROBERT WHAT ART THOU ? PROSPECTIVE CRUISE — THE CAPTAIN MENTIONED TORPOR THE KNIGHTS OF OLD COS- TUME FOR YACHTING ? BREAKFAST ON TABLE— FINE DAY HEALTH GENERALLY BETTER. ETHERBY in his full yachting cos- tume, which is the first sign of the fulfilment of what I've come down here for that I've as yet seen. Up to this moment there's not been a nauti- cal symptom about the place. Wetherby is about one- eighth (taking him to scale roughly) big- ger than myself eveiy way, and immensely hearty. " Hallo ! " he shouts, bursting upon the scene " Here you are 1 Capital. Only got a bedroom top of the house to give you, because MY HEALTH, 287 Miss " — here it occurs to him that we are not alone and he turns brusquely — " let me introduce you to Miss Straithmere, Miss Janie Straithmere," — Here it strikes him that something is the matter somewhere, but Lady "Wetherby is now again erect, and Clasper is holding her candle for her. My friend is puzzled. "Eh?" he says, " Not well, Betty ] " This to Lady Wetherby, who smiles and observes that it was nothing of any consequence, and fears (to me) that I must have been verv, etc., &c., to which I reply that I beg she won't, (tc, (tc, and Wetherby then introduces me to his Sister-in-Laiv, Lady Wetherby, wherewith she gives me her hand gracefully, begs me to excuse her, as she is rather, kc, itc, where- upon I murmur something about being myself also rather, mumble mumble to the end of some sentence (not complete in my mind) which she doesn't stop for, but ascends the stairs followed by Clasper and candle, and then (at a summons from my Lady) by Miss Janie, who bows to me with her head well forward, as if going full butt at the door, and shooting at me such a telling glance from under her eyelashes as I feel is equal to an hour's conversation with her tete-d-tete. " Good night. Miss Straithmere," I say with polished courtesv, inclining my head slowly at an acute angle to the top of my spine disguising the sudden impulse brought about by her name being Janie, her golden hair, and that Parthian shot from under her eve- lids, which would lead me, but for the usages of Society, to put my arm round her, and say " Janie, be mine ! " \_Note at Night, on consideration. Is this love at first sight, or is it merely the effect of the sudden contrast between what is, at AVetherby's, and what was; viz., My Aunt, Doddridge & Co., united ages amounting to a hundred and twenty, including Charley, the lap-dog and the Dove 1 Perhaps so. Sleep on it.] " Janie," says Wetherby to me (and somehow I don't like his calling her Janie ; in fact, I feel inclined to take him to task for it as a liberty, only that it occurs to me that I am not yet in a position to do so, — still, if there is one thing that I at this moment object to in Wetherby, it is the familiar terms he is evidently on with Miss Straithmere) — " Janie," Wetherby tells me, " has explained the mistake you made. Betty — Lady Wetherby — and her two boys, always live with me now, as I'm the children's guardian, and she keeps house, and so forth.' 288 BATHER AT SEA. I express my regret at the contretemps, occasioned, I put it modestly, by my stupidity, whatever it was, but Wetherby takes the greater part of the blame to himself, as he says he ought to have told me, and the smaller part of it he puts on the shoulders of the ladies, who, he says, had been readhig some horrible stories of ghosts and spirits just before my arrival ; and so when I came in with my announcement it startled Lady Wetherby considerably. It appears that Lady Wetherby is the widow of Sir James Wetherby, my friend's stepbrother, who was knighted in India for doing something, or not doing something, with the Government stores and the Rajah of somewhere. Mem for the Future. When in doubt as to relationships merely, if absolutely necessary to speak at all, mention surnames. For instance if I had spoken to Lady Wetherby only of her brother-in- law as Wetherby no harm would have been done, but to tell her that I had lately seen her husband and had come down by his invitation. ... It was very careless. I am glad, on thinking over it, that at all events I said that I had come cloivn at the late Sir Something Wetherby's request. Take care in futuro. Up to this moment Wetherby hasn't said a word about yachting. Odd. He suddenly takes up a candlestick, shouts " Robert ! " then adds, "he'll show you your room. Good night," and disappears. At Night. The nearest approach to yachting, at present, is my room at the top of the house, which is uncommonly like a cabin in point of size and inconvenience ; but fitted up with a bedstead much too large and high for the place. Into this I climb and then creep. If called suddenly, and startled into a sitting position, I shall knock my head against the ceiling. Must impress this well on my memory before dropping off to sleep. Wonder if I shall hear anything of the yacht to-mon'ow. Wetherby can't have given it up. . . . Miss Janie Straithmere . . . Good eyes knock my head .... ceiling .... pretty name — Janie . . . elections . . . Sir James Wetherby . . . candlesticks . . . think I'm . . . then if . . . Sleep. Awoke early by the sun, which streams in through the attic xindow, evidently mistaking it for a cucumber frame, and me perhaps for the vegetable itself, curled up on its bed. There is no MY HEALTH. 289 blind. I foresee biliousness and headache for the day if the sun goes on like this. Time 6.30. Three flies, suddenly warmed into life, commence a spasmodic buzzino-. One of them makes pertinacious darts, buzzing viciously (what ?s more irritating than a fly's buzz ?) at my forehead and my ear. Flash of Thought Fly caught in my hair, sure of it . . . slap ... no ... he is gone. I don't want to get up till called. Flash of Genius. Put my head under the sheet. Do so, ar.d puzzle the flies. Snooze. 7..30. Entrance of Robert. Robert the domestic, with clothes. Robert's costume strikes me. Boating or yachting costume, with cricketing shoes. This looks like the sea ! the sea ! " ^Fr. Wetherby," he says, " breakfasts at eight exactly." I ask, with some little doubt as to even the existence of the yacht, " If we are going out yachting to day 1 " " Yes, sir," answers Robert ; " I've just been on board to tell the Captain to be ready for eleven." Ha! Good. Now, then, for a cruise. Just what I want. Whether it's the sun this morning, or the journey yesterday, and the Railway-station dinner in the middle of the day, I don't know, but I feel drowsy, heavy, and I've got a sort of tightness about the bridge of the nose which I had before the Turkish Baths. Also (which is what I've been struggling with for months) I feel fat. I feel it : I don't know whether it is outwardly observable, but there is more in me, so to speak, than meets the eye, and I have a sense of fatness about me which is depressing. I experience (and note it in My Health's diary) torpor while dressing. " To spring from the couch and don his suit of mail," instead of being with me, as with the Knights of old, the work of a few minutes, occupies more than half an hour. Also I remark in myself signs of indecision as to costume, which are consequent upon this feeling of languor, tightness of nose (above bridge), and general fatness. It seems to me that for yachting one ought to observe an easy and neghge costume. My idea of this, after much thought, during which I nearly fell asleep again on a chair is No Waistcoat. But Miss Janie and Lady Wetherby Queiy. Won't The No Waist- coat Costume be disrespectful 1 •290 BATHEK AT SEA. • Decision. Dress as in ordinary life for breakfast, see how other people are got up, then, if necessary, return to attic and omit •waistcoat. Carried. Go down. Dining-Room. Only "Wetherby breakfasting alone, apparently in 41 great hurry. Windows open. Full view of sea, ships, boats, pier, harbour. Very pretty place, apparently, Torquay. Fine •day, too. Wetherby (in full yachting costume with brass buttons) answers, "Yes. Help yourself." The Ladies, he informs me, will loe ready to go on board about Eleven. MY HEALTH. 291 CHAPTER XXL w TVHERE TO? WETHERBY S MERRY MEX — BILL THE BOATMAN ROBERT THE STEWARD-BUTLER ARABL^N NIGHTS' LUXURY BUNTER BUNTER's EY'E — THE BOY JERKIXESS — THE CAPTAIX THE WIND S.E. OR HOW ? — TOP-BOOTS — THE TRAP — PUZZLED DUCKS AND GREEX-PEAS — PROVISIOXS — ROBERT AXD RAXGER THE ATALAXTA-MAX SOU'-EAST — FAIRISH LOPS — UXPLEASAXT WORD CHOP LOP — ' OP ' AGAIX — THOUGHT OX THIS BRIL- LIAXT FLASH DETERillXATIOX — AXTICIPATIOX HOPE — PREPA- RATIOX. ONDER to myself wliere WQ are goino: to for a cruise ] Wether- by rings a bell hurriedly. Robert appears. Wetherby asks Robert where Bill is. [Bill This sounds nautically rough. Perhaps the Pilot. If a Pilot, this promises well for a lengthened cruise. Icebergs, Xorth Pole in view. Also Esquimaux. Wonder how my Aunt would like to be among the Es- quimaux. How an Esquimaux seen for the first time, would make her jump.] g told to come in, T Bill, it appears, is in the passage, and bein 292 BATHER AT SEA. does so. He too is in nautical dress of a roughish cliaracter [Just what I expected, but looking too young for a Pilot.] AYetherby is brisk and sharp in his questions. " Has Bill seen to the boat ? Was she painted ? " He has seen to her, and yes she was. Whereupon Robert is summoned suddenly. Being only outside the door, [Note. I find that Wetherby's servants, as a rule, never go much farther than outside the door, being liable to be summoned at any moment, sharply, and it being as much as their place is worth to be out of the way when called. On the whole, quite right ; reminding one, however, of the Arabian Nights, where somebody Easteni claps his hands and a hundred ebon slaves instantly appeiu'. By the way, how large the doors must have been] he reappears instantly. " Send for the Boy," is the order he receives. Bill remains silent, and evidently waiting ordei*s. Wetherby looks out of window. "Wind, S. by S.E.," says Wetherby, after a while, to which Bill wisely assents. Is the boat ready] Yes, it is. "Hey, what?'' says Wetherby, and Bill repeats his information. " I shall want both the boats," says Wetherby. \_Mental Observation. Both boats. Then putting this and that together, and considering that Robert has told the Captain, and that we shall want tivo boats, it does look like a cruise. Perhaps to the Coast of France or Spain. So glad. To either for nothing.] " Is Banter there ? " asks Wetherby, quickly. Yes, Bunter had just come in. " Tell Bunter, then, I want him." Bill is. going, but stopped by Wetherby continuing, " And don't you go" — hurriedly again to him — " don't you go," as if he's still got something of the last importance to say to Bill, which he must not come out with before Bunter or perhaps before me. Weatherby walks up the room — I'm breakfasting quietly — and then walks down the room. Then he looks out of window; then he pulk his head in, and asks, always sharply and bi-usquely, if I'm a good sailor. Thut's just what I asked myself when I first thought of accept- ing his invitation. If I say I am, it may turn out I'm not (for I haven't been to sea in a sailing-vessel for years, and foro^et the MY HEALTH. 293 effect), and if I say I'm not, it mayn't be true, and perhaps lie won't take me. Safe to reply, " Well, I'm not quite certain. It depends." Wetherby looks at me, and says, inquiringly, " Hey % What?" and I repeat, smilingly, "Well, it depends." Upon which he repeats, "Hey? What?" again, as if my answer had slightly irritated him"; and at tliis juncture enters Bunter. Bimter is a biggish, broadish man, also in nautical costume, but of a rougher de^scription than Bill's, who has returned, and is now standing behind him. Bunter has a shy way of looking at you as if he was intensely enjoying some private joke of his own which he Nvon't tell, and is apparently always restraining himself by a great effort from winking at you, to intimate that he knows all about it whatever it is, and sees through it with half an eye. At first sight I like Bunter, and wouldn't mind going with him to the North Pole. Bunter, I feel sure, wouldn't speak, but he'd bring you safely out somewhere. If ever a first lord of the admiralty is wanted as a practical man, my lords have only got to come down to the Sylphide, and select Bunter. Note of Observation.— \\et\ievhy must have a quantity of re- tainers. I've seen Robert, Bill, Bunter, and heard of " The Boy " and " The Captain " up to the present moment. "0 Bunter— ah— yes," says Wetherby, disjointedly, as if he hadn't expected his arrival, and was, on the whole, rather taken aback by it. Bunters right eye is on me, as much as to say, "Ain't this fun? Ain't this here a good lark?" but not a wink, not a sign from this admirable sailor. " Yes— let me see"— Wetherby considers for half a minute or so, and then asks, " Wind S. by S.E., eh?" Bunter replies humorously, at least one can't help"^ feeling that everything he says is humorous, "Yes, he should think there was some east in it." Whereupon Wetherby returns " Hey, what ? " and Bunter, after repeating his observation, look, at me, as much as to say, always with a strong sense of the humour of the situation, " Have I committed myself, eh ? Ain't this a real good joke ? " but he doesn't go into convulsions of laughter ove^' it, in fact, he scarcely smiles, except with his eyes and^ I notice that it's the right eye he generiilly uses for the 294 RATHER AT SEA. purpose. On considering this by myself, I find that the right eye is easier to wink, and therefore there's more credit to Bunter in keeping it so well under control. Give Bunter a holiday and he'd wink for six weeks. Some men have the habit of talking to themselves without knowing it. Bunter's habit must be winking to himself, knowingly, and thoroughly enjoying it. Up to this moment I am unable to sec what particular object has been gained by this review of nautical strength, and I can't make out to wliat departments they each severally belong. Bunter has something of a man-at-the- wheel or a stokerish look about him. If it's a steam yacht I'm finished off at once. Robert returns. "With the boy. The boy is about eighteen (I should say), and each comes in looking very serious, as if he expected to receive his instant dismissal. The boy is not in nautical dress, being in top-boots. Bunter's left eye takes in the top-boots, and his right is simply in ecstacies of laughter (directed towards me) as if Bunter was shouting out, " Ha ! ha ! ha ! Top-boots at sea ! Ha ! ha \ 0, ain't this a real prime joke I " but not a word, not a movement from Bunter. The introduction of this new element, i.e. the top-boots, seems to change the current of Wetherby's thoughts. " Bring the trap round," says Wetherby. Exit boy, respited. This almost looks as if we are going out driving, not yachting? I haven't come three hundred miles to take a drive in a trap, with a boy ! He is called back sharply by Wetherby. He returns. " In half an hour," says Wetherby to the Boy. " Yes, sir," says the Boy, going. " Hey, what ? " shouts Wetherby. Boy returns and replies that he luidei^stands perfectly, and will have the trap round in half an hour. Pause after the departure of the Boy. Wetherby impulsively hails a sailorly-looking man from the window. ''Jim!" Jim, in reply to questions rapidly put, informs him that he has got the mutton and the ducks, and that altogether he has enough to last. Bunter's right eye catches mine (for I can't help looking at him with an implied confidence in his opinion) at the mention of Ducks, and says as plainly as an eye can say anything, "Capital! good cook on board! Ducks and green peas ! Ain't this a game ! Hooray for Wetherby ! For myself, I now see before me exactly what my Health requires MY HEALTH. 29& a good sea- voyage. Wetherbv suddenly asks Eobert, " Where's Ranger?" And being informed that he is np-stairs, orders. Eobert to order Ranger to bring his (Wetherby's) cigar-case. Bunter now requests to know if he's wanted any more. -STo, not now, but will be. " What time, sir ? " asks Bunter respectfully (but always humorously). Wetherby doesn't know— will send. Bill is to have the boat ready, and to tell Robert something which Robert is to tell Ranger. So the retainers leave us. Wetherby lights a cigar. A fresh-coloured person, with light hair and a straw hat the same colour as his hair, looks in at the open window. The new-comer observes that he is going out in the Atalanta, and wants to know what ice are going to do. Wetherby replies, briefly, " Trawl *' and introduces me. (It sounds like, " You see, my dear sir, he (myself) is here, and that's why I'm going to- trawl.'-) Mental Note. — Trawl? Something in the fishing Hue, I think. But if so, then we are not going for a cruise. If not, why all these preparations 1 why this summoning of retainers 1 why the- boats 1 why the mutton and the ducks 1 Conversation continued at ivindoir, "Youll have a little breeze- for that," light-haired man opines. He has the word Atalanta oii his hat-riband, and is evidently an authority. "Not much," says Wetherby, shortly; then adds, "south by sou'-east." "Yes," replies the Atalanta man, promptly but vaguely, and evidently intending to give the subject his consideration, "there is some east in it." Xote. — This appears to be quite a regular nautical phrase. It's safe, as an opinion, committing you to very little, and quite con- sistent with an entire change of weather. The Atalanta man looks out to sea, looks in at the window, then observes, " There's a fairish lop outside." Fla^h of Thought. A lop. By this expression I am, as it were, brought for the first time really face to face with the sea prac- ticallv. I almost feel inclined to say, " If there's a lop, Wetherby, we'd better not go." But I remember that I have come down. 29G MA THEE AT SEA. for my Health, and a " Fairish Lop outside " may be exactly the remedy I want. The word " outside " reminds me that there are tu'O sides to every question. If there's a " Fairish Lop " outside, what will be the effect ? . . . Xo, I must remember I am here for my Health. Wetherby replies that he supposes there is a fairish lop, but doesn't seem to have any great opinion of it, either on its own account, as a lop, or on anybody else's. Pause. Wetherby observes to Atalanta man, "I hear you were all ill the other da3\ Hey? What ?" and then shakes with laughter. Laughter not loud but deep, and shaking upwards. Second Flash of Thoiujld on this sidjject. These are regular yachting men, with hats and ribands, and belonging to yachts, and yachts to them ; yet " they were all ill," Wetherby has heard. I listen to this with interest. Wonder if I've eaten enough breakfixst ? or too mucli ? Another chop ? Ahem ! " Lop out- side." Lop rliymes with chop. Lop outside, chop . . . but . . . no ; I'll leave it to chance. Odd though that the word lojy should have struck me so much, because it was a word terminating in ^^op" that upset my Aunt. It is possible that this antipathy runs in the family after a certain age. Think it out. Conversation continued. Atalanta looks sheepish, and then explains that only one of his party had been ill, and as for him- self, he {Atalanta' s owner probably) had been unwell before he icent on hoard. Third Flash. Excellent notion. To com] (lain of heing unwell before I go on board. Then if I turn out to be a good sailor why the sea will have cured me. If the discover}- is forced upon me that I am a bad sailor, then I can refer every one to the fact of my having complained of being unwell before I came on board. MY HEALTH. 297 CHAPTER XXII. 3IISS JAXIE — CO.STOIE RAVLSSAXTE — SULPHIDE AND SYREX — NIGHTIN- GALE — XOTE A CREATURE OF IMPULSE — HEXAMETER EYES AXD MY' EYES FLASHES — SYMPATHIES ANALYSIS RESOLUTIOX — E3IPHASIS A WALK THOUGHTFULX'ESS — SILENCE — SPEECH THE SEA SUBJECT OF CONVERSATION — COMMENCEMENT OF FLIRTATION — THE BROTHER — RELATIONS — DIPLOiLlCY. PNTE R 1^ MissJanie S t r a i t k- mere. Yacht- ing dress, blue serge, sailor's collar, sailor's knot, nauti- cally- coloured shirt, very much en evi- dence at the wristbands. Fair hair Stacked on the top of her head, relieved, artistically, as to colour, by the occasional appearance of a black hair-pin, and on the top of the hair-stack, a small thatching of straw in the shape of an inverted cheese-plate, with a wide blue riband round it, with two silver-trinmied ends ■flying, the whole being labelled, in front of the hat, S?/Ijjhuk, I am so taken aback by this vision of light that I have nothing to say. Thinking of it afterwards, I perceive that I missed an opportunity of making a complimentary allusion to ^iylpldde and Syren, aU in one. On second thoughts glad I didn't say it, as it 298 BATHER AT SEA. might have sounded like comparing her to the Double-hCxadecJ Nightingale.* She is enthusiastic on the subject of the weatlier, and has some twenty inquiries to make about all sorts of things of Wetherby. She is most impulsively playful, and, when in a room (unless engaged deeply in a novel or a letter), is either rushing to the window to look at something, patting refractory hair-pins which won't stay in the stack, or regarding herself in the glass to see if something or other (Heaven knows what or where) is all right, rushing out and up-stairs to get something, or preparing, having just come in, to go out again immediately /o?" something else which is apparently of the utmost importance. " ! " she exclaims, suddenly. " I rmist get a pair of gloves." Here she opens her eyes archly, and looks at me. " I've got no gloves. Isn't it dreadful ? " She has a way of saying " Isn't it," which arrests my attention. It is a pretty way. [Note. Con- sidering this afterwards coolly, I repeat that it is a pretty way at Jirst, but a trifle irritating after a week of it.] She seems to take a low note to commence with, then ascends in the scale in a sort of triple time, intensifying the question. To put it as a versi- fier, I should say that her " Isn't it dreadful," forms the last two feet of a hexameter, dactyl and spondee, thus — isu'"t It dreadful ? And then she throws her eyes gradually up and then lets them fall on mine, as if she was adding each time, Am I not an an Ai'ch Thing ? Don't I look you through and through ? Ain't I fasci- nating 1 Ain't I all your fancy painted me 1 Can you resist my Archness ? It occurs to me that if Bunter's eye were here, wouldn't it enjoy this 1 "Wouldn't it say to me, " Isn't this a game, eh ? Ain't this here no end of a lark 1 " Meni. I recollect a mysterious story of Lord Lytton's (I think)^ ■where a man is pursued by Eyes, which eventually wither him up. Bunter's eye wouldn't, but Miss Janie's — ah 1 . . . * At that time exhibiting in London. As the "Nightingale" was a young lady '• of colour," the simile would have been, on the whole, the revei-se of complimentary. Sometimes Second Thoughts are best. MY HEALTH. 299 Flash {quite a lightning Flash.) Am I the fascinator? Or are we both fascinators. Sympathetic Fascinators meeting for the first time. This is a sort of experience one would not meet with while staying merely with my Old Aunt and Doddridge. Flashes leading to sudden impidsive resolution. Been too much of a Hermit lately. Cultivate female society more. Thinking of Xotes for my History of Motion and Theory of Precognisancesy has made me too much of a thinker. By comparison with Miss Janie, I find how very grave I must have become. She appears to me to be a trifle too volatile. Perhaps frivolous people have spoilt her with compliments and vapid conversation. To make an impression on her . . . (Ah ! do I already detect myself wanting to make an impression ? No, I don't like this) ... I mean to try and give more weight to her character, which I am sure is all she needs ; I will converse with her as with a sensible man. She is as flighty and jerky as a kite ; to steady her she only requires a tail. I will be, as it were, the tail. To myself while getting my hat in the hall. Why all this nterest 'I Do I . . . Miss Straithmere wishes to know if there is time for her to go and buy some gloves 1 Wetherby says there is. " Is there 1 " asks Miss Janie, " really ? " " Is there really time 1 " She puts this question so touchingly, as implying that her experience of men has taught her to repose no confidence in them, even in the most ordinary dealings. Wetherby replies, "plenty," and asks me, " Will I go with Miss Janie to the glove shop, and then see her safely on board." She turns at once to me, and throws the full light of her eyes on me as she says, " Will you be so good ? Are you quite sure it doesn't bore you % " with a great emphasis on ' quite,' and in- creased emphasis on ' hove.'' I reply, restraining my feelings, that to be her escort will give me the greatest possible pleasure. And we go out together. I and this ftiir-haired enthusiast. Xote. — It comes to me that her conversation consists chiefly of interroga- tories pathetically emphasized, or to put it in a more intelligible fomi, it consists of sentimental conundrums. jSTote. — Is she like this (I mean all eyes and emphasis) with 500 BATHER AT i^EA. everyone, or is it only with me, and this for the first time. The eyes of passers-by are upon us. On her and me. And her eyes. . . . Un regard incendiaire. . . . The passers-by, having passed by, seem to turn, and say, " What a fine girl ! . . . A well- matched pair ! . . . What a happy fellow ! . . . She is going on board his {my) yacht . . . "Who is she 1 . . . Who is he ? " . . . I feel that I could stop to puncii all heads with eye-glasses. I feel that to start a subject of conversation which shall at once lift me above the level of all her former admirers, is not easy, but ought to be done. If I remain silent, she'll think me stupid, and if I don't interest her, she'll become interested in the young yachtsmen (puppies !) who are lounging about in all sorts of fancy costumes. I feel that not only she, but everyone else, is listening to me. Odd : I can't fish up an abstruse subject ; and to plunge abruptly into politics, by asking her, suddenly, " What's your opinion on the Corn Laws ? " or, " Do you think the Ballot Bill will be passed this Session ?" might lead her to imagine that I was laughing at her. And then she might cvy. And in the street, too ! ^ly xA.unt would, I know. While I am thinking, as we walk along, I'm almost sure I saw her catch some young man's admiring gaze (I never saw such staring, impudent, conceited ... I believe it's the yachting dress does it), and then half-glance at me — then Ljuk down at the pavement ; the glance at me im- plying, "If you don't talk, I must find some one wlio \\ill!" I must speak ! About what 1 No matter. I plunge in. Flash of Thought suggesting a Suhjed. — The Sea. I observe, "How l)eautiful the sea looks this morning, doesn't it ? " She returns, "Yes. Isnt it Bcriutlfal?" I reply, "Yes, it is." Then, with a slight reflection of her enthusiasm, and having nearly exhausted the subject, that is, without bringing poetry in, I add, " It is Lovely ? " {Evident Continuation of Dialogue). — "You're fond of yachting, Miss Straithmere ? " "0, I think it too charaiing ! quite too charming I Don't you ?" I reply, with enthusiasm slightly toned down in conse- quence of not yet clearly knowing what sort of a sailor I may MY HEALTH. 301 turn out to be, that "I do : yes, it 2.^-deliglitful," and I hope I shall find it so. She then goes on, " My brother has a boat at Cowes." Sot..— Her brother. This, as it Avere, chills my ardour. I notice that, if you are anything of a lover, the meniion of a Brother does chill your ardour. He immediately becomes some- thin- to be got rid of. I feel inclined to reply, "I really don't care^Avhat Tour Brother has. "Don't bring in your Brother to me as a threat, as much as to say, ' If you go too far, Sir, there s mv Brother ' '" Not being tall myself (tall enough though, and some people I have known have said that they preferred-far preferred-my height to any other)-not being tall myself, for Mi^s Straithmere to mention her Brother at the outset, sounds as if .he ^vished to twit me with my stature. I don't exactly know ^-hv except that intuitively I feel that if he is mentioned as a warning, he must be (to have a deterrent effect) six feet high, and strong in proportion. I disguise my feelings, and reply, carelessly, "Indeed. Do vou often go out with him ? " xt • -u ' - no. Though I should like to, very much. He s such a nic€ fellow. He's in the Fusileers. I'm sure you'd like him very much." . , She divines my instinctive enmity to all her race who might come between her and me. ^ , , , I can only say that "I'm sure I shall j'' feeling that I should hate the very sight of him, and rather hoping to hear of some accident to him out at sea, or that he'd been ordered off (he and his confounded Fusileers) to the Cape of Good Hope. Keeping up this interesting topic, I remark that it s a pity, as her broth'ers got a boat, that she can't go out oftener. She can't, she answers, because of Grandmamma, who always wants her to be with her. The mention of Grandmamma softens me. I feel more kindly towards her relations ; because, if she has to attend to Grandmamma, like little Bed Riding Hood, only without the wolf, of coui'se, she must be more or less an orphan, [^ote. Odd too, I never can think of orphans without fitting them (m ima<^ination) with white caps and blue dresses, and mittens, and 302 BATHER AT SEA. connecting them Mith singing loud in church and an asyhim. AVhat the association of ideas is I don't know, but it seems to me, on analysis, to be a notion between Hanwell and the Foundling.] I don't like to put this question at once, "Are you an orphan ? " nor do I like to sav, " Tliere — tell me all about your family at once, and have done with it. Only don't keep on bringing 'cm out one by one, and surprising me." Jf(7ital Jfe?n. — To get Lady AVetherby alone, and ask her. Diplomatic and delicate. This I decide while she is within, pur- chasing her gloves. MY HEALTH. 303 CHAPTER XXIII. CONVERSATION CONTINUED — DANGEROUS — ON THE BRINK — THE FIRST ""WHY?" ROBERT — PREPARATIONS FOR VOYAGE — UMBRELI^ AND " THINGS " — FAREWELL — A JEU DE MOT THE MAN AT THE HELM FLASH— THE RECLUSE — NOTION FOR MY AUNT— ALSO FOR BARNUM — THE CREW CONUNDRUM PUT IT DOWN TO SOMEBODY THE SYLPHIDE — APPROACHING — STRANGERS — ON BOARD ANCHOR WEIGHED — RULE BRITANNIA. THERE is "Wetherby on the quay, beckoning to us. As we return, I venture a deeper subject — something that will lead up to — Well, I don't exactly know what. 304 RATHER AT SEA. I say, with just a soiiproji of bitterness in my tone, as of one who had tested the emptiness of all earthly enjoyment and was giving it up gradually, '• I suppose, Miss Straithmere, you are very fond of gaiety ? " Half turning her head towards me under her parasol, looking at me archly (always archly), and with an inquiring sort of glance out of one eye that reminds me of the knowing, sideways look of a parrot when he's puzzled by a new tune you're whistling to him, she replies, " Why ?" I am posed. I admit to myself that my question was too general, but I had expected it to serve the purpose by leading her on to say where she'd been lately, what she'd been doing, with whom she'd danced, what sort of things and people she liked, and so forth. I did not expect " Why 1 " " Why ? " I return, and can't help being a little annoyed, because to ask " Why ? " in this manner does seem to me sucli frivolity, as if she didn't want the trouble of talking, but wanted me to go on, and amuse her. Her " Why " is the abbreviated form of the sentimental conundrum. " Why?" I return — " Well " Then I decide upon framing my reply thus, and do so : "Do you mean, ' Wliy do I suppose that you are fond of gaiety 1 ' " " Yes. Why ? " " Well " I consider. I don't like to say, " Well, because your hair, your manner of using your eyes, because your walk ; because, in fiict, I feel that " At this moment Robert runs up to us. " Mr. Wetherby says, Sir, he can't wait any longer. The boat's alongside." But for the voyage ! . . . Good gracious ! I am not prepared. I say to Kobert, hurriedly, " Are my things " " All on board, Sir. I've taken them." It flashes across me suddenly to ask, " Is my umbrella there 1" but I don't, because he might laugh, or being too well trained for that (first-rate servant in everything is Robert, except that he will fold my dress things inside out, and so make me late for dinner), he might tell the other sailors quietly, and they'd invent some nickname for me among themselves — "Mr. Umbrella," perhaps. Eunter's eye w^ould enjoy the joke. MY HEALTH. 305 We get into the boat, and are on our war to the Si/Iphide, " Farewell, England I "' I say, merrily : whereat Wetherby frowns. I look round, to catch Bunters eye : he is not there. The men are paying no attention to anything except their stroke ; and Robert is in the bows with some rugs, also looking serious. I have a mind to whisper to Miss Straithmere, "He is in the hoif's, looking sfei^ti ; '*' but if she doesn't understand the nautical terms, it will be thrown away. Better keep it, and put it down to Sydney Smith or Sheridan, or why not to my Aunt ? Flash of Ileal Genius. — Put everything down to my Aunt. Make her out the wittiest, funniest, cleverest woman ever met with by anyone anywhere. I can be constantly regretting that she u'rm't publish her witticisms, and her cynicisms. People will say, " What a clever person she must be," and how they'd like to meet her. Then I'll make her out to be quite a Pvccluse, The Recluse of Eamsgate. At this point, perhaps, I'd better stop, or else everyone would be going to Eamsgate to get a look at her. All the same if done quietly at so much a head it might be a fortune. Flys, omnibuses, and cabs from the station up to the Crescent where she lodges. People standing on the roofs of the vehicles to get a look at her, othei-^ hanging on by the railings in front of the garden on the chance of hearing something funny or witty from her as she walks round. A sharp man like Bamum would have done this and realised thousands. I can't. But still 111 stick to the idea of talking of her as the wittiest, cleverest, (ire, because it will, I see, reflect favourably on myself. In the Boat, Wetherby steering. The men seem to j^lace infinite confidence in Wetherby, as they never look a-head to see where they're going. I notice that they are evidently remarkably fond of Wetherby, and when they " give way," as he tells them to do, they " give way with a will." [Conundrum to jjid hy and Iceep for future use, 'perJia'ps to cheer tliem on a Saturday night at sea during the voyage, or if w^re becalmed. " When is a " (on second thoughts I'll put it, " Why is a ") — Why is a Sailor a most self-sacrificing person ? Because he's alyxajs giving icay. On further consideration alter ^^ always" to " so often.'' Turning it over once more in my mind, I ask myself 306 RATHER AT SEA, is it good ? Because a sailor, except when rowing in a small boat, does 7iot " give way." The point of the conundrum being, afte; all, a matter of fact, personal observation during our cruise will settle this. If I think there's any risk about it, I can always put it down to the Bishop of Oxford, or give it out as " one of my Aunt's latest witticisms."] In view of the Syljjhide. Very pretty vessel. Awkward word *' vessel." Sounds like cant. Before I express my opinion aloud, decide whether to use vessel or ship. Neither. Yacht, of course. Will make a quotation later on, " She walks the waters like a thing of life." Anything more unlike walking than the move- ment of a ship I can't imagine. Skims is better, and would be perfect, if it didn't suggest milk. She (the ship) skims the water. But milk is skimmed, not water. On the whole, keep the quota- tion to myself, and object to it if said by anyone else. Near the Yacht. — Somebody in a puggaree on board waving his handkerchief. Miss Straithmere returns it with her hand, and looks sprightly and pleased. Hate the puggaree man on the spot. AVish I had one on, as it strikes me that the puggaree has a great deal to do with his effect on Miss Straithmere. She exclaims joyfully, " ! there's Captain Dawson ! I'm so glad he's coming. He is so nice. Do 3'ou know him? " Xo, I don't. I reply wit!) what I may term studied carelessness, implying that whether I ever do know him or not is a matter of the most perfect indiffer- ence to me. I class him there and then with Miss Straithmere'^ brothers, itc, and hate the lot, instinctively. She asks Wetherby, in a tone of much interest, if Major Felton is with him ? No, he's not, Wetherby answers. This is a relief: I don't know exactly why ; but I feel that Major Felton would have been in the way. Alongside. — Sailors and Captain in waiting. Puggaree there in readiness to assist Miss Straithmere. Pretty flattering agitation on her part. " Will somebody " — a sailor in the boat tenders his shoulder as a support, and she accepts it. The man is stolid, apparently, but thrilled. Too well drilled (under his Captain's eye too) to show emotion. 31 Y SEALTH. 2Kfl Rhyming Insjyiration : — He's too Trell drilled To sho^ that he's thrilled. She has not yet finished her preparation for getting out. *' Will somebody ? '' Yes, I am there. I will— whatever it is. Take her cloak and sunshade. I do so crloomily, while Puggaree above gives his, and takes her, hand. Is ^here a pressure? Is there a "Xow then!*' says Wetherby, ^'look alive !'■' I hand Miss Straithmere's impedimenta to the Captain, and step up the ladder, refusing proffered assistance. On Board— Lady Wetherby, another lady, and a tall gentle- man, the Captain, the Crew, and Bunter, with his eye wide open, •and saying expressively, "Ain't this a Life on the Ocean Wave, -eh? Rule Britannia, and Hooray for Wetherby ! " Beautifully- appointed yacht. Everything white, bright, and shining. The spirit of Hornpipes seems to be upon me as I stand on the deck. For a moment I forget myhates and likings, give up Miss Janie to Puggaree, or anybody, and enjoy the novelty, not as a novelty, but as if it were a return to a previous state of enjoyable existence. Yes ! here is health at last. Xo doubt of it. And really— not the slightest motion. But then, on second thoughts, I suppose we are still at anchor. I feel that I could do all the steps without a master. It seems, at the first moment, that a sailor's life is the life for me ; that I have wasted my life hitherto, and ought always to have been on board something or other. I now calf to mind, how, in my childhood, I was fond of pirates and buccaneers [we played at being these, somehow, with hoops, which, I rather fancv, were intended to represent our ships], a calling which, at nine years old, I should have liked (I recollect) to have followed pro- fessionally, but I think my Aunt was against it. As no one seems exhilarated except myself, I retire to the side ("bulwarks," I thmk), lay hold of a rope, and hum, in an under-tone, as much of the Sailor's Hoi^npipe as I can remember. '' Rule, Britannia ! " to follow. We are starting. X 2 308 RATHEE AT SEA. CHAPTER XXIV. COMMENCEMENT OF CRUISE — A NOTE — ON THE STORMY SEA — BELOW ON DECK FURNITURE HARDY NORSEMAN NOWHERE ANOTHER NOTE SUGGESTION TO IMPECUNIOUS YACHTSMEN OFF TORQUAY SOME LITTLE WAY OFF EPIGRAM THE BULWARKS — COSTUME DES MAHINS— RED CAPS — MOTTO FOR A FLAG — TO STEEPLES AND LAKE BARGE-SHEES MY EYE — THE CAPTAIN — PUGGAREE CONVERSATION — ALONE. E ARE on Board the Gallant Sylphide. — AVe have every- thiiiLi* that can possibly be desired. Still I do not see, and remark this instantly to myself, such prcpai'ations for a sort of Hardy Norseman's cruise as I had expected. Note. — The instance of the Hardy Norseman occurs to me because, as the song says, "his House of yore was on the rolling sea," with every kind, therefore, of residential accommodation in a roughish Avay. There are on deck the most comfortable chairs, the thickest rugs, the softest cushions, and everyone can be provided with a footstool and a sunshade if they want it. My umbrella is on board. Thoughtful Robert has brought it -as a sunshade. Bah ! no shades for me : let me be browned — done ou both sides, from the shirt-collar line upwards. There are 21 Y HEALTH. 309 wraps, coats, and waterproofs. Xothing has been forgotten. We are, apparently, ready for the Tropics, or the Xorth Pole. Down-stau's — I mean "below" — there are a ladies' cabin, a gentleman's cabin, a dining saloon, a piano, a fire-place, and the brightest possible fire-irons, all complete ; a luxurious hearth-rug, book-cases, highly polished lamps on swivels, sofas, lounges, and chairs of all shapes and sizes. The floor is beautifully carpeted, and, on the whole, it is the nearest approach to being in your own drawing-room on shore that any arrangement can be, out of it. The Hardy Norseman would be evidently quite out of his element here : his element being the stormy deep, and no carpets. Note. — After a little experience (this note being intei'polated later on) it occurs to me that the chief aim and object in going out yachting is to remain as much like being on shore as possible, with the advantage of having it in your power, when you are tired of the imitation, to return to the genuine article at a minute's notice. Except for the look of the thing, and, occasionally, the feel of the thing, I could, without any great effort of imagination, fancy myself in Xumber Something Firkin Terrace, Torquay. To a person who was fond of yachting luxuriantly but unable to afford the amusement, I should recommend sitting at the end of some pier in an arm-chair, and dressed of com'se (this is absolutely indispensable) in a nautical costume. If the arm-chair is im- practicable, a bath-chair can be obtained, and he would enjoy all the pleasure with the minimum of internal discomfort ; though, if of a very delicate make, he can experience even this. On Board, off Torquay. — A lovely day, bright blue sky, Prussian blue sea, red cliffs, white houses of the very plainest possible design, as if a lot of semi-detached Cockney villas and " Eligible Residences " had, with a view to getting a breath of fresh air, broken loose from the builder's hands, got down somehow to the coast of Devon, and, having started for a race up the heights, had stopped, in a white heat, to rest themselves on various jDoints of the ascent, and, not having felt inclined to move up any higher, had allowed the highest of the party to win the race, and perch itself on the top. Fla^h across my mind of adaptalle and oppoHune quotation. — ■ 310 BATHER AT SEA. "Heayen made the South Coast, Man made Torquay." Thiuk this out, and arrange it epigrammatically. Something in it, like lead in an uncut pencil, but the point, as yet, not clear. All this, as I stand alone by the bulwarks, and begin to feel that if there is no more motion than this (and Torquay is fast receding from sight), I shall be all right, and shall be able to get on without calculating every step on the deck, and stand by the bulwarks^ without laying hold of a rope. Another large yacht is alongside. The crew are all in blue, with red woollen caps (or red sofnething caps), like draymen. Perhaps one of Barclay and Perkins's yachts going out with beer. Flash of Invention. — Why not start such a company? A Floating Brewery ! ! Bass's Barque ! Lots of people must get thirsty at sea. Say that ships' stores run short, then imagine their dehght, when, with a loud cry, they hail the well-known flag of Barclay and Perkins's ship — a two-hundred casker — and coming alongside, broach kegs of single, double, and treble X, pay four times the amount for it, as a luxury, to what the charge would have been on shore, and then away to the Southern Seas, or wherever they're going, refreshed and happy, and blessing the good stout craft of Barclay and Perkins's Entire ! Motto for B. & P.'s Flag : " The Sailor's Necessity is B. k P.'s Opportunity." More Flashes.— The idea doesn't stop here. Why not suggest it to those enterprising caterers, Steeples and Lake, and let them start a navy. A Fleet of Piefreshment Ships. With Barmaids on board, and the colours flying. Instead of Barmaids, they might be known by some new nautical name : say, e.g. the feminine of Bargee, Bargeshe. Steeples A: Co. could then announce their fine sea-going first-class Piefreshment Ship, The Sponge-Cahe, manned, or rather womaned, by able Bargeshees. Also Refreshment Vessels like Lightships, at moorings, and marked in the Admiralty charts. The idea of the Honourable East India Company's constitution AiY health: Mi was not grander in its original concej^tion than this. I tnrn to tell "Wetherby what I've hit on. He is talking to his Captain and the sailors. Bunter is sitting loungingly against the side. Bunter wonld see this idea of Bar- clay and Perkins, Tm sure, and be first mate. His Eve is taking: everything in. Perhaps for some future Book of Xautical Obser- vations, to be entitled, "My Eye." j^^ote. — Good title, " My Eye, and what I saw with it." "SVetherby is talking to his Captain. I see Captain Puggaree talking and laughing with Miss Straithmere. She is sitting in a low easy-chair flirting with her parasol and with Puggaree, who is stretched on a rug at her feet. I dare say he thinks he looks picturesque. I feel that they are, so to speak, beneath my notice, and that being at sea I shall enlarge mv ideas by thoroucrhlv ofoino^ in for nautical matters. Effeminacy on the one hand is repre- sented to me by Puggarree and Miss Straithmere in the stern ; Hough and Eeady Seamanship by the Captain, Bunter, and Wetherby, in the bows. As to Lady Wetherby and the other lady, they are on the opposite side of the stern ("starboard side," I think, but won't venture to say so except as a joke), and are talking quietly on some evidently interesting topic. The choice is between effieminacy at the stem and the Hardy Norseman at the prow. I notice that the Captain and sailors appear decidedly attached to Wetherby. Perhaps they have seen hardships together. He is brusque and quick with them, but I can't help observing that they seem to like it. Bunter's Eye is taking in the entire conversation between Wetherby and the Captain, and enjoying it. 312 II A THEE AT SEA. CHAPTER XXY. FOR THE VOYAGE THE CHART WETHERBY's KINDNESS A PRESENT .^lORE EYE CRIPP LITTLE BILLEE DELIBERATION THE WIND S. BY S.E. BUNTER's ENJOYMENT HIS DUTIES CRIPP's LITTLE STORY MY HEALTH — HUNGER — FAT DAY THIN DAY FLASHES MISS STRAITHMERE — PUGGAREE GAIETY SHE SUM- MONS ME "won't I "and "aVHY?" ANOTHER CONUNDRUM WHY ? ENCORE WHY ? COQUETRY ABOARD. I N ORDER to catch some de- tails about our projected voyage (for I suppose it will be a " voyage," and has been " projected "), I go forward and overhear a j^art of their conversation. "Wetherby (who has a large chart rolled up in his hand) is saying, "Hey, what?" to the Captain, who, having probably made the same an- swer once before, replies, " Yes, Sir, Tom's still very bad, in hospital ; " then he adds, in a sort of bashful way, " He told me to say as and ." Here Wetherby puts his glass in his eye, and inteiTupts him almost roughly. "Ah— urn— well."' Then, very quickly, "Tell him he's very thankful for your kind ness, Sir, MY HEALTH. 313 lie's to have whateyer he wants ; I've ordered 'em to send the bill in to me . . . and— and "—as if with an air of thought "give his wife that." — What? The Captain touches his cap, and Bunters Eve seems to be aware of a haziness coming over it, which it tries to wink away, while Wetherby continues — '' thatll buy something for the children— and— Lady Wetherby says she can come up and do some work for her — and tell her that the doctor says he'll be all right very soon . . ." Here he breaks off and asks "^ sharply enough, "Where's Cripp ? " The Captain replies by looking down into the men's cabin below, and calling "Cripp!" whereupon a small boy in sailor's dress and a round rough cap tumbles up and stands before Wetherby, looking about as startled as if his master and the Captain were " going to kill and eat him," being short of provisions. Bunter's Eye, being once more clear, is regarding the boy severely, but always humorously, so as tc convey the meaning that Wetherby and the Captain were "only purtendin'," and that he (Bunter) knew it, and could quite enter into the spirit of the thing. "Well," says Wetherby, frowning, "what are you doirg, hey?" The boy fumbles with his cap, and looks up at the Captain, then down at his boots, then (he is a bright little fellow) up again, and replies, "Helping, Sir," with a touch of his forelock. "Hey? What?" asks Wetherby, who never seems to catch a reply the first time. "He's lending a hand," says the Captain, good-naturedly; " and if he only keeps out o' mischief, we'll make something of him." " D"ye hear that, hey ? " asks Wetherby, of the boy. The boy replies that his present intention is to avoid mischief and to allow himself to be made something of Wetherby surveys the lad for a minute Avith such a severe frown as suggests to a looker-on that he is debating whether he shall flog him and try him once more, or throw him overboard and have done with him for ever. I conclude that the boy has been (as Budd would say) guilty of some enormity, and am anxiously awaiting his sentence, when Wetherby turns away from him abruptly, looks out to sea, and asks the Captain, " Wind East by 314 RATHER AT SEA. South-East, eh 1 " The Captain returns that " he should say there is a little East in it," and goes to the helm. The boy disappears. Bunter's Eye is lighted up with real enjoyment, and seems to say to me, "Ain't Wetherby a good chap? Eh? Ain't it real fun seeing him purtendin' to be severe ? Ain't it all right 1 Ducks and green peas below ! Hooray for Wetherby ! " but he does not say a word, and has apparently nothing whatever to do with the working of the ship. I have two things to find out — What has the boy done 1 What are Bunter's duties ] "Boy]" exclaims Wetherby in answer to the former of these inquiries, " ! Ah ! Yes ; sharp chap, ain't he 1 Found him wandering about the quay, idle, so gave him some work to do." And, dismissing the case, as if the boy were a sore subject with him, he goes to the Captain, at the helm, probably to get a further opinion from him as to the amount of East in the wind at that moment. ]}fote. — I subsequently ascertain from Lady Wetherby that the boy Cripp was found by Wetherby, crying, having lost his way, and whatever money he had had in his pocket : that AVetherby, understanding from him that he was an orphan, without friends in the world, or a soul to speak to (except a casual acquaintance, a travelling tinker, I think, who had robbed him of his few pence first, and beaten him afterwards), had furnished him with clothes, and delivered him over to his Captain, to be educated for a sailor, and that Cripp was, up to this moment, giving great promise of repaying his benefactor, by turning out quite a nautical Whitting- ton, without the Cat ; the Cat, by the way, having been abolished in the Xavy. Good Sign for my Health. — I am getting hungry — xerj hungry. I notice that, with me, hunger seems to show itself in my chest ; perhaps where the chest notes and the id de poitrine come from. Note this in my Health Diary, because odd. While noting, it occurs to me that this is not one of my Fat Days. I should call it with me a Thin Day. On a Fat Day I feel as if Fd been dining for years on dumplings, and occasional cannon-balls. At these times I love solitude, and such an easy freedom in dress as we see in the pictures of South American MY HE ALTS. 315 planters. Then Buttons are tyranny. That there should be this difference between one day and another, is clearly riot a good condition of existence. A Flash of Memory. — I met a man in some train, somewhere,, who told me that it had been ascertained scientifically or prophesied problematically, I forget which, but hope the latter, that there would be "an entirely new illness in the autumn." I fancy I heard this from some one in the carriage when I was going to- sleep, or just awaking, during my journey from London to Torquay. Mustn't think of it again, because nervousness might .... No . . . Miss Straithmere is turning towards me ; she seems to say,. " Why so unsociable ! why so mute % Ive had enough of Puggaree. Come. Yours truly, Janie." I respond to her tacit invitation with a slight smile. If I wa-* asked now what I meant by that smile, I shouldn't know. It seems to mean (this occurs to me as I approach her) that I am pleased at being summoned. If so, it is simply equivalent to a dog wagging its tail when it catches its master's benevolent eye. Am I at her beck and call ] Xo. Yet — Bah ! I am too serious, too much en philosophe. Puggaree would not be angry with himself for smiling feebly, for, as it were, wagging his tail with pleasure at being noticed. He would not writhe mentally, as I do, to find myself (with aspirations) on an equality with a toy terrier. All this is unhealthy. I will be gay. I approach her. " Why don't you come and talk ]" she says lightly, lowering her sunshade for a second, so as just to fire at me one glance from under it, unseen by the Puggaree. Talk ! ! If I could talk as I like at this moment, I would be an energetic ascetic, and deliver a crushing sermon against flirting, frivolity, and fools. Ah ! " You must come and amuse us," she continues, in the same arch way, and adds with her usual inflexion of tone, " Won't you ? " I am bitter ; for a moment, I am bitter. I feel that I don't want to be trifled with. That Puggaree should look at me and smile, seems to me to be a confounded liberty. I shouldn't 316 BATHER AT SEA. smile at a man (at least so I tliink at this moment) unless T knew him. Subsequent Note on considering Symptoms. — Perhaps incipient or progressive biliousness. So intimate is the connection between mind and matter that a word, out of season, like fruit, also when out of season, produces biliousness. \Flasli in PocJcet-hooh. — Fix this flash of ideas about Words and Fi^uit. Good simile or parallel in futuro. "Words drop ; Fruit drops — question of ripeness. A man of " ripe learning." Conun- drum in prospect — When ought a student to be lAucl'.cd ? When he's a ripe scholar. Keep this, and ask it when the opportunity aiTives. As conversation, now-a-days, turns so much on educa- tion, I can, by joining in it, diplomatically, lead it round to my conundrum.] In answer to !Miss Straithmere I can't soy " I wonH amuse you," brusquely, but should like to, adding, *'/'hile that ass Puggaree is here." Miss Straithmere looks down at the tips of her coquettish little boots peeping from beneath her dress, then looks up, then puts her head on one side, brings her eyes to bear on me with a depth of unfathomable meaning, and asks, "Why?" MY HEALTH. 317 Simply, most irritating. I should like to retort, " Why ivhat ? "What do you mean by why ? " but I resume my former method "with her as quietly as I can, and re-state my own question, as if it had been put by her to me, thus, " Do you mean ' Why didn't I think that you couldn't want amusement ? ' " " Yes," she replies, always archly, " Why ? " Then she changes the position of her parasol by lowering it over her right shoulder^ and looks straight before her out to sea, at nothing in particular, with the air either of being careless as to whether I continue the conversation or not, or of having entirely forgotten her own. question. 318 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER XXYI. 3IY HEALTH AND HAPPINESS YACHT AHOY ,' t THE OSPREY SPEAKING TRUMPET WANTED JOKES THE BURGEE LIKE WINKING DAWSON MEMORIES OF MY NURSE THEORY — PIXLEY's — MENTAL WINKS BROWN BOY DAWSON'S BETTER HALF — PORTLY HEALTH SUBJECT UP AGAIN BUDD AND SASrUEL CRAMVILLE TURKISH BATH — OLD CLOTHES — FISHING COMMENCES HUNGER NETS TRAWLING BREEZES BLOW VALETUDINARIAN RULE — TIME OF DAY. ACHT sailing swiftly. I will not waste words. I stand by ^liss Straithmcre and look out over the sea, in the same direction. [" In the same direction" put nautically would be, I take it, ''port side of the ofHng."] So does Puggaree. Presently Puggaree observes something, between us and the offing, and asks Wetherby, " Isn't that the Iris ? '' This causes Lady Wetherby and her friend to turn ; the Captain at the wheel to shade his eyes with his right hand, and regard the object earnestly, as if our existence depended upon her, and she was bringing us water, biscuits, and news of home ; home being Torquay indistinguishable now in detail. AVetherby comes up a step higher on the companion, to reconnoitre with opera-glasses. The Captain decides that it isn't the Iris, but doesn't know what it is. Incident in the voyage. Presently we meet her ; she is a small sailing-boat making for shore, and going at a good pace. The Captain says it's the Osprey."^ * This name sabseqiiently became very celebrated in 1871, during the Tichborne Trial." This note is here added in order to assure the reader MY HEALTH. 319 Wetherby suddenly remembers something that he -wants to say to the owner of the Osprei/, so he shouts out, "How did you manage about that burgee, eh 1 " All of us interested deeply, wondering what the O^-prey will say to that. It seems as if the Osprey had got a home-thrust on this question. Voix^e from Osprey {coming from a mnan ivaving his hat). — Aw — awly — aw — (or any sounds equally intelligible). Wetherby and Puggaree (who thinks he must help him, and really only confuses the voices), shout out between their hands, ^' How about that Bur-GEE ? "' The voice from the Osjjrey {\qy\ much fainter, in fact the Ospjrey herself is fast disappearing) replies — "^w — ly — avj — aiu — aio " We have been all much excited by this interchange of ideas, and now calm down again. Wetherby laughs, and says to the Oaptain that he supposes that he (the owner of the Osprey) didn't like it. Whereupon the Captain, keeping a look-out well over Wetherby's head, but smiling as if he didn't mind slightly attending to a passing joke replies, that he, too, " thinks he " (the Osprey man) " didn't much like it, after what was said o' Monday." At this Wetherby laughs heartily, and we all smile good- humouredly and sympathetically, though I am convinced that none of us know what the story of the Burgee is. Puggaree is looking knowing. Miss Straithmere inquires what Mr. Wetherby was talking about ? "0," says Puggaree, as if he was fencing her question, "it was only something about the other day," and looks more knowing than ever, insomuch that I find myself looking also knowingly at him, and smiling, as much as to say, " This is a subject for us men, ha ! ha ! I understand." We don't wink at one another, but we mean winking. I am under the impression, until Puggaree removes it, that there is some queer story about a Bargee, called at sea a Bwrgee. Subsequent explanation shows me that " Burgee " is a flao;. that the vessel mentioned here had no sort of connection with the other Osprey, and that this chapter of " My Health " will not be brought in ad evidence on either side during the next stage of the Tichborne Case. 320 BATHE E AT SEA. " I don't think you remember me," says Puggaree, evidently inclined to be quite friendly. " My name's Dawson." "Dawson?" I think to myself, and look at him in bits, as if he was a puzzle, put together wrongly, perhaps, to see if there's any portion of him that calls to mind Dawson. No. I don't recognise him in parts, or as a whole. Oddly enough it flashes across me, in the thousandth part of a second, that my fathers washerwoman's second husband was named Dawson (so my nurse, or the Cook, had told me), and he'd gone away to sea, and returned very much tanned, with a velvet waistcoat and glass buttons. [I note this flash, as a flash, showing how a name brings back old memories of things long forgotten. Of course Captain Dawson has nothing to do with this revived fact.] No; I don't remember anywhere a Dawson. Except a small brown boy, with black eyes (generally natural, but sometimes artificial) and a bad hat. Beginninjr from boots upwards, nothing about him recalls a Dawson. If he'd relied upon me as a witness to his identity, I should have entirely upset his case, or should have fixed him as something to do with the washerwoman. Take him for all in all, I've never looked Quotation adapted. Flash mental. — Take him for all in all, I've never looked upon his like before. He tells me my own name in a rather injured tone, as much as to convey, " Hang it ! I remember j/ou)- name. I think you might remember something of me." Flash. The Dawsonian Theory. I soften down my utter ignorance of anything Dawsonian by admitting that " I have some sort of recollection ..." ""WTiy," says he, reproachfully, "I was at Pixley's with you." Pixley, a private tutor's. 0, of course. "We shake hands heartily, as if we'd made it up. Our shake of the hands seems to mean, " My dear fellow (mentally), I won't interfere between you and Miss .... Don't mind me {mentalhj), old boy — No jealousy — Old schoolfellows — All right — Larks." {2[ental uinlcs.) I really like him : on the spot I could embrace him. I don't know why. I suppose it is that when I left him at Pixley's I snid good-bye to him as a lad for ever, and he passed out of my mind ; so there's a sort of pleasant surprise in finding that, after a lapse MY HEALTH. 321 of years, he's managed to come safely out of Pixley's, and appear on board the Sylphide. In answer to my inquiry, he says he was not the brown boy with a bad hat. Wonder if I shall ever meet him / He is a bright, tall, good-looking fellow. " I must introduce you to my wife," says he, motioning towards the lady with Lady Wetherby. Married ! With the greatest pleasure will I be introduced to Mrs. Dawsoru " It's years since we met," says he ; " and I should hardly have known him now," he adds, turning to Miss Straithmere, " he's got so round and portly." I could have liked this man immensely, and now I hate a fellow that hasn't got more tact. I reply that I don't think I am portly — a word hitherto only associated in my mind with Deans, Bishops, Farmers, and Gaiters — " and that," I add, seeing him disposed to smile ironically, " when I tried on my " (I substitute " waistcoats " for what I was going to say.) " Waistcoats of last summer, I found that they would fit me perfectly." He is still ironical ; but I am on my defence, as it were, before Miss Straithmere, and I continue : "I admit," I say, " that I am veiy much increased in size round the chests (Here I hold myself en militaire^ to show him how easily he has been deceived by appearances.) Do I deceive myself ^ Where are those .... waistcoats ? and those . . . waistbands ? Did I find one pair I could wear ? I'm sure I have got them somewhere, and I'm almost sure that I tried them on with the result just mentioned. Or was it Budd who told me, at Eamsgate, that, after a series of the Cramvuie's Turkish Baths and Samuel's rubbings, I should be so considerably taken in at the waist as to be of no value to my tailor for the next two years, if sufficiently stocked with old clothes ? The subject is suddenly changed by A Noise on Board. — They are getting out a long pole, irons and nets. Discussion as to suitable place. The spot settled by the dis- cussionists — that is, Wetherby and Captam — to he suiiable. Crea- Y 322 RAT HE B AT SEA. interest. I begin to be more hungry. Mentioning this, casually to Dawson, I hear that we don't lunch until half-past one. It is now twelve. I ask Wetherby, "Could I have a biscuit?" " Certainly. Robert ! Biscuits aft ! " Biscuits come aft, in a can, and Lady Wetherby thinks it a good idea. She is very pleasant, stately, rather more than usual, and does not move from her chair unnecessarily ; from which I conclude that her stately bearing has something to do with her not being a very good sailor. Everyone eats biscuits. AVith a good deal of struggling and belaying, the weights and the pole and the nets are sent, over the side, into the sea. Miss Straithmere says to me, "Aren't you veri/ foud of fishing?" I should like to answer, "Yes, very— anything with you." I do answer, " Yes," and our eyes meet, mine from below, hers from above, and both shaded from the others by the parasol. "Will you," she says, "Will you ask for a line for me ?" I will. Whom shall I ask ? Before I can comply with her request she has impulsively lowered her parasol, and is enthusiastically addressing Lady Wetherby. " 0, Lady Wetherby, do let me have a line here ! I do so want to fish ! ' Lady Wetherby, smiling, sees no objection, if it won't interfere with the trawling on the other side. What we're doing now, then, is " trawling." It seems to have checked our pace, and there's a slight breeze blowing at ns. I fancy, too, that the motion has increased. Perhaps I am a little hungiy, and the void . . . There's one thing my medical man, and every^ medical man I ever consulted, has always told me—" Never f/o too long ivithout eating.'' If it was my yacht, I'd order up my dinner now, at once, immediately. It is only 12*15. It seems an hour instead of only fifteen minutes since Dawson said it was mid-day. I feel, too, a sleepiness. Nobody is watching the trawling nets, which, being once overboard, apparently take care of themselves. MY HEALTH. CHAPTER XXYII. JANIE AND THE FISH — SMILES AND WILES LINE, HOOK, AND BAIT SAUVE DO I MIND 1 WON't I ? REYNOLDS BUNTER's EYE HIS IN-SPOKEN OPINION THOUGHTS FLIRTS AND FISHES HAULING UP — PAYING OUT INTERNAL PAIN MOMENTUM UNDE PENDET FEEBLENESS — SOMETHING WRONG SOMEWHERE UNSOCIABILITY OF QUALMISHNESS QUOTATION MELANCHOLY LUNCHEON ANNOUNCED GOING BELOW LOP BEGINNING LOP- SIDED AND LOP-INSIDED — THIS COMES LOPPING — NOT HOMEO- PATHY THE TEETH OF THE WIND NOT A GOOD DAY — WHY? NOTE TRAWL AWFUL SENSATION — ^WHEN THE WIND BLOWS, THEN THE SHIP GOES WHEN THE WIND STOPS, THEN THE SHIP LOPS TABLE-TURNING ROAST AND BOILED CHAMPAGNE QUALMISH "POOR LITTLE ME " LOPPETY THE FINISHER RETIREMENT. DO LET me have a line — ^just a little one,'' says Miss Straithniere to Wetherby, putting on an infantine way, as if a refusal would send her into tears. " I'll drop it on this side, and be so quiet." To me, "You'll fish, too, won't you ? 0, do ask ! Mr. Wetherby won't refuse you." This at Wetherby. Wetherby says he doesn't think there are lines ready. The other two ladies continue their conversation. " 0, yes ! " returns the fair-haired enthusiast, perse veringly, 'Tm sure, Robert " (hitting him with a shot from her eyes, as he comes aft, bringing a stool for Captain Dawson), " I'm sure Bobert will get me one." Wetherby objects that it will interfere with the trawling. Kobert irresolute. Y 2 324 BATHER AT SEA. " no, it won't," she cries, impulsively ; then, appealingly, to the Captain at the helm, " Will it, Reynolds 1 " Reynolds smiles, and looking out to sea, so as to avoid the eyes of the syren, is understood to answer that it won't make any difference ; where- upon she is off, ecstatically, " There ! you hear Reynolds says so. I 7na7/ have one," coaxingly to Wetherby, " mayn't I ? " Dawson smiles, Wetherby smiles, I smile. Then she continues, " Robert will fetch it." Robert smiles. Robert does fetch it. A long line with hook and bait. " it's gone ! " she exclaims, with a little scream, as it passes rapidly through her hand and I stop it, triumphantly. I feel as if I'd been overboard and saved her. " Will you hold it ? " she asks in her italicised manner. " Tr?7^you]" Of course I will, it needs no answer: I do. T am holding it, and it is rather cutting my fingers. As I do not reply, she goes on, poutingly, " Don't do it if it bores you ? Doea it bore you '? Do you mind holding it — only a minute — for me ?'* For her ! Doesn't she see that I am holding it 1 Doesn't she see from my way of grasping it and concealing the pain which the sharp cord gives me, that I would hold it against twenty whales at the other end if necessary? I merely reply "I will." " And do catch a fish," she continues. " You luill^ icoiit you f Reynolds and I caught a fish the other day, didn't we 1 " This at, more than to Reynolds, w^ho clings to his helm and smiles in a visionary way. He seems to say, " I'm at my duty, Miss, I am : do not, do not speak to the man at the wheel : it's not fair, it ain t really." For one moment I turn, and catch Bunter's eye. It says, with contemptuous humour, " Well, I never see such a gal as that. If she was Mrs. Bunter, I'd let her know . ." But here he is told off to his department in the trawling business. Bunter's is a rough nature. He has not lived in drawing-rooms. Thoughts while Fishing.— V^ould she flirt with anyone, even a man at the wheel ? Why does she talk at servants. Can't she get on without admiration from some one, from everyone, from anvone ? [I think there is a bite. I haul up. A wet process. Nothing. I let it go again. A wetter process. The sea seems to have: MY BE ALT H. 325 sharpened the line as it runs through my hand. It hurts.] If Miss Janie ... I mean if such a person as Miss Janie was my wife should I like to see her eyes going up at the butler, or seeking for admiration, or approbation, from the buttons ? * * * * Perhaps if sobered down she wouldn't do it . . perhaps ... I am getting vfiry hungry . . . and, it seems to me, a trifle faint. . . . Don't like to ask for more biscuits. I think standing in one position with my eye on the line is not good. To compare "hunger" to "a sharp thorn " is not a happy simile. You feel hunger all over you. This is not the case with thorns. ... A bite . .. No ... I am painfully hungry . . . Miss Straithmere is talking to Lady Wetherby on the other side. Why couldn't she stay here I After fehe's made use of me to hold her fishino:-line she leaves me. I will fasten it to the side and sit down. Captain Dawson offers me a cigar. No, thank you. Somehow I don't fancy a cigar. Hunger detests smoking. I say to him sadly, " I shall be so glad when luncheon's ready." He laughs. A smell of cooking is wafted towards us. It seems out of place at sea I wish we could have the luncheon without the cooking. Only half an hour more, he says. I feel that, somehow, on that half hour hangs my fate -k * ^ * ;^xigs Straithmere crosses to us. •' ! " she exclaims, ^' There is a fish ! I'm mre there's a fish ! Lo pull it up ! Won't you?" I can't rise from my chair to do it. Hunger seems to have suddenly enfeebled me. Captain Dawson will lug the bothering thing up. I don't say this, only " No, there isn't," rather shortly (really, hungrily), while the Captain operates. Miss Janie goes on, to me, " ! you iwomised you'd get me a fish ! " Then turning round to Lady Wetberby, "0 isn't it unkind of him. Lady ^yetherby ? He " (meaning me) " ivoirt get me a fish." The two ladies smile, and I can't help replying petulantly, "I didn't promise." How^ could I have promised such a thing ? It's too bad of her. I should like to add, " don't bother,"— even to her—'' I am so hungry * * and I feel so * * queer." But no, she doesn't see that I am really unwell, but goes on, archly prattling ... I begin to hate prattling. " You don't talk 1 " she says. " Why ? " then seating herself, as Captain Dawson turns to Wetherby, and getting, as it were, undei- her pai-asol, but not in the least lowering 326 BATHER AT SEA. her voice, so that any one may hear, " Why dou't you talk to me ? Why not to poor Httle me ? Why ? " I can't stand it any longer. " Because," I blurt out, " I'm sr> • . .*' — no, it's rude. I am going to say, " confoundedly hungry, but restrain myself. I substitute, wearily, " I didn't know you wanted me to talk." She returns simply, " Win/ ? " Pause. " Whi/ ? Do tell n:e u'h?/?" I feel that I am being soured. *' Why ? " I demand, bitterly " Why ? Because — don't you see, why / " I ask, meaning that my face ought to express hunger, misery, emptiness, and * * * all uncomfortableness. Strange Symptom. — I am gradually ceasing to be positively hungry, and am becoming negatively empty. " Being hungry '^ means that one can actively eat. "Being empty," means, I fear, that one is collapsing, and must be passively filled. " See why ? " she repeats, but not in a soft, gentle one, inaudible to others, as / should like to hear, and to reply in. " Xo, do tell me why ? Why ought I to see ? " I can only express, by a sort of impatient wag of my head, and a roll of my eyes, that it is im- possible to explain. I am so hungry, and so empty, and so . . . but if I could only be fed, at once, I should be all right. She continues, just as loud as before, " If you don't want me to sit here, I'll go. Say do you want me to sit here?" Wetherby is looking at us. I remark this to her in an undertone. She replies quite loudly, " It doesn't matter." I say, still in an undertone (and I really do wish she'd go away and leave me quite alone — / donH want anyone), " It looks so odd for us to be together so much." She returns, " nViy r' Why!! Good heavens ! " Xow," she says, "you're angry. look ! " suddenly. "I'm sure there's a fish. Why don't you pull it up ? Why ? " Mental Flash of Quotation adapted — " woman ! in our hour of ease. Capricious, coy, and hard to please, When pain and anguish rack our brow — I wish YOU wouldn't bother nou:." But I keep this to myself. In fact, I have no words. My MY HEALTH. 327 mouth is too dry for words. Robert announces luncheon. Lady Wetherby will not go below, she observes, smiling, being afraid of the cabin. The fact is, there is a sort of motion. Isn't there ? I ask Reynolds. Reynolds replies that there is a slightish lop. "Lop/" That was the word the Atalanta man used this morning on shore. I never experienced a lop before. It's not a roU, and it's not a pitch ; it's concentrated essence of every unpleasant motion on board ship. " If I could only have lunched an hour ago," I say to Lady Wetherby as I commence descending. She smiles. Accustomed to the sea, and perpetually yachting, as sho is, I am sure she is affected by this infernal lop. In the Cabin. — Still lopping. Lopping peculiarly noticeable here. Flash of Miserahle Jest. — Suffering fi'om Lop — aVo/;athy. They are at luncheon in the saloon. Wetherby is saying, as I enter, that when in the teeth of the wind, and there's a little Sist in it, there's always a lop out trawling. In fact, it's not a good day for trawling. Ah ! thought so. Miss Straithmere is not at table, she is in the ladies' cabin, re-stacking her hair, probably. I feel that her absence, and the absence of the ladies (Mrs. Dawson has not come in yet), is a relief. I shall get helped at once, and noc have to wait. I remember suddenly the expression " lack-histrc eyes." Mine, now. Note. — Trawliug is the test of good sailorship. Dawson asks me, *• TMaat will I have ? " Now I see it, I don't want anything. " If I could only have lunched an hour ago ! " I recommence plaintively. The table, being scientifically poised, does not move, but we do on either side of it. We are, as it were, arranged on a sea-saw with our dinner between us in the centre of gravity. Sometimes Captain Dawson rises gently a little way above his plate, then he is lowered gradually, and it's my turn to go up, / give it six turns more for loth of us, alteimately, to settle my doubts — and unsettle Xo ; one great point is TWt to think of it. Roast mutton, boiled chicken (I feel my nose instinctively turning up at the white sauce), Bacoji . . . and Peas. The bright green look of the peas is revolting. It recalls fresh paint on 328 BATHE B AT SEA. country pailings. And the smell. I remark that all the windows are not open. It turns out that they are. My head ! " Mutton ! " I gasp, shortly, meaning that I'll take some. I think I am wrong. "Have some champagne," says Wetherby, heartily. I press my lips together. I don't want to be talked to for a minute. / a7n going gently v.p, on my side. " Champagne " — says Captain Dawson, enjoying himself, and going gently down^ on liis side — "is a first-rate thing if you feel qualmish." Is it ? Give me — only give me quickly — champagne. I should like a draught. I can only sip it. Xow / am going doum. I try a bit of muttoru My jaws seem to have become suddenly stiff. My throat closes at the top. At least that's the sensation. The Captain is floating upwards. I feel just the slightest bit better — just the slightest bit (as it were) of mutton, better. The Ladies ! Miss Straithmere dives at my sofa. I am going up again slowly. This is part of the Lop. I can't rise to make room for anyone. " Will I give her some," — I can't, whatever it is. And I can't explain. Please don't talk to me . ... Better soon. "0 do take some champagne? TFo^'f you?" she goes on archly, and firing glances at this poor enfeebled wreck (myself). \Flash., mental. Idea for Cartoon. Dying Mariner tickled by Mermaids.] I reply in a voice intended to touch her heart, " I don't feel well." She returns briskly " Xo ? No more do I ! I am so ill. Oyou don't pity me — poor little me." Ill ! She's well — very well — and heartless, selfish ; she's helping herself to peas. " May I have your bread ? " she asks. Again to me (why on earth can't she bother somebody else ?) " You won't mind my taking it ? " I shake my head — I mind nothing. No one, now. I am past hope. I am going do-uTi, with the Lop, for the last time, I think. StiU if I can hold out .... I might. Enter Robert from kitchen . . . with A sweet Omelette ! ! Bright yellow, and red jam, all hot ! I I'll go . . . I'll . . . Don't move — any . . . body . . . for . . . To the Captain's cabin . . . Alas ! poor Captain ! . . , Alone. Lopped effectually. Lopped. Lojjijed. MY HEALTH, CHAPTEE XXYIII. AFTER A TIME — STAGGERS — HELPLESSNESS — FLASH — FLASHES- RHYTHMICAL— HISTORICAL — SMILES — SPARKLERS — DARKLERS — FISHIXG — CATCHI.XG — THE PHAXTOM — BUXTERS CRAFTI- NESS— EPICUREANISM ROBINSON CRUSOE— JOY HOME. EANWHILE m Captain^s Cabin. Uncertainty. Am I well enough to go up-stairs, I mean on deck, now ? . . , Yes; I tJiinJc so. I hear the ladies laughing and talk ing, above. I hear the sailors hauling up the infernal Trawl. Wetherbj' above sings out to me — I suppose it's to me — " Come up and see the fish we've caught." T can't answer, and I don't care about fish, — but I am better. It will be my best plan to go on deck, and make the best of it. I ascend. Very , /. . staggery and weak in the knees, resultmg m a desire to catch at anything handv for support. My Manreuvres m the Boirs.—limen from general gaze by the mamsail. Under cover of this, and protected by their all being engaged in examining the fish, I advance cautiously. Flash of Thought— ^^Qomez i,p gi^oggy, but smiling,"— quota- tion from sporting accounts of prize-fights, now out of date ^^o one notices me. Lady Wetherby and Mrs. Dawson are quite at the stern, well wrapped up, and their feet on stools, to be out of the way of the mess. Deck sloppy on account of the fish. Rhyth- mical Flash.— Dec\ sloppy, I'm loppy. Wetherbv and Captain Dawson deeply interested in the mess on deck. Miss Straithmere 330 BATHER Ji'f SEA. trying to stand on a chair near Captain Dawijon, and holding on by rope. " 0," she is saying, as I approach ; " I must hold on by you (i.e. Dawson), or I shall fall." Then turning round towards Mrs. Dawson, as much as to say, " Don't be jealous, I'm but a childish skittish thing, it's only my way," she laughs playfully, and cries out, " do come and stand here, Mrs. Dawson ; icon't you, do. Wo7i't you. Lady Wetherby ? It's quite safe." "Xo, thank you," returns Lady Wetherby, quietly smiling; "I prefer being here," and the two ladies, sitting together, exchange one glance only, and then they both smile at Miss Straithmerc. I think to myself, what do they mean by that smile ? Elash. — Note it down. A work on " Smiles." A Series. Next volume, "Frowns," to be followed by Winks, Xods. But stay . . . isn't this the History of the World ? Wonder how a man feels who's going to write a History of the World ? W^heu the first idea strikes him, say on waking in the morning, how it must make him jump out of bed. He'd rush at his pens and his paper under boiling inspiration, and commence . . . Title, " The History . . . " — then, perhaps, it would occur to him whether it shoidd be a History of the World ... or not ? If he didn't do much of it before breakfast, he might decide in the negative. Anotlier Flash — Ajrropos of " Smiles," I remember a work called Self-Help, by Smiles. Mr. Samuel Smiles. There might be a Life of Smiles, by Thiers, i.e. if pronounced Tears. This to be said as a " sparkler," Arrange it when I feel better. No more sparklers. I am mooning, and holding on by a rope. Feeble, but observant. Live things are sprawling about and making a mess on deck with sand and mud, and sea-water. Star- fish by hundreds. Dogfish. Fish without names, unknown even to Bunter, who has an eye for everything that looks at all Hke a savoury morsel. A large sort of oyster, a mild pantomimic oyster, ivith a name that Bunter knows and mentions. " Is it good to eat 1 " asks Captain Dawson. " Well, Sir," replies Bunter, with a twinkle in his eye expressive of his own enjoyment of the humour in his answer, ^^ you wouldn't care about it. But there's worse things than them kind of oysters," with which he puts it aside, furtively, for his own private meal. MY HEALTH. 331 " ! " cries Miss Straithmere, in view of a flat fish, with a mouth capable of putting an end to his own existence by swallowing him- self at one gulp, " ! what a horrid thing ! do look, Lady "Wetherby ! : clutching at Captain Dawson's shoulder, " will it bite me ? 0, how dreadful ! " I smile, sarcastically ; that is, I mean it to convey sarcasm. 1 feel that I am pale, that I am, as it were, a shadow, a mournful ghost, revisiting the deck, and taking a passive pleasure where T was once so actively happy. Bunter takes the fish by the tail and holds it up. " ! " cries Miss Straithmere, and Dawson doesn't move away, but let's her clutch him when she's frightened (or pretending to be frightened — bah ! she's no more frightened than I am . . . I look on, still as the Ghost, but in the character of an ironical Pliantom, who sees the hoUowness of everything that once took him in). Wonder how Mrs. Dawson likes it ? and whether Captain Dawson will be called upon for an explanation when he gets home ? If so, will ready wit supply him with a " sparkler " ? " ! " she cries, " it will bite me. Do throw it away, Buuter." Bunter's eye smiles craftily. "Bunter doesn't throw away this fish" (says Bunter's Eye) "if he knows it." Bunter (his Eye further explains) being up to one or two tricks worth at least half-a-dozen of throwing it away. No, he holds it up, fondly, by the tail, perhaps to judge of its breeding, as he would of a terrier's, by its not squeaking when in this position, and is evidently satisfied with the catch, so far. Then Miss Straithmere appeals to me. " Do tell him to throw it away ! Won't you ? "' A pause. Then her eyes come down at me from high up above (she's still on a chair), intending, as it were, to scoop my tenderest feelings up and out of ms, hke the inside of a pomegranate. Xo, no ! I am the shadow of my former self. She is a dream of the past. The Fascination has gone. I am clear-headed, clear-hearted, and sad ; which, on consideration, means that I have sufi'ered severely from the Lop, in the Captain's Cabin. Bunter puts the fish on one side as another delicate morsel. Bunter is regarding a small heap of sandy, dirty, ugly-looking marine creatures with the eye of an epicurean ogre. There are some of peculiarly hard and unwholesome appearance, which 332 BATHER AT SEA. Bunter gives me to understand are "aneniminies," and which, for eating purposes, might be put down as sea maiTOwbones, — without the marrow. Am'thing hideously ugly in the fish line Bunter knows all about, knows exactly how to cook him, where to cut him, what to eat and avoid, end evidently favours the idea in conversation, and in theory, of these things being totally unfit for ordinary human food. I should not like to join Bunter at dinner. Sjiecially after a Lop. Flash. — And yet of this stuff (Bunter's stuff", not the fish) Robinson Cr usees are made. If he were on a desert island, he would never be at a loss for food. I imagine Bunter's diary as I watch the clearance of the net. I suppose Bunter on a desert island. First Day of Robinson Bunter's Diary. — Boiled some seaweed. My eye ! ain't sea-weed good. Better nor greens, no end. Cook some more. Caught for breakfast a large sort of a kind of a crab, something between a crab and an oyster. Cracked him, and cooked him in his own shell. 0, my ! Bootiful ! Hope there are lots more on 'em. Saw a dog-fish. It being dinner-time, I said grace afore meals, and then stuff"ed the dog-fish with sea-weed, and cooked him in the crab-shell, and ate him hot. Fust rate / Thought I'd like some sweets after dinner, regular swell style. Found a jellyfish. Ate him. Any Pastrycook might be proud oil him. Supper. — More sea-weed. Made pancakes of starfish. k.ie five or six sea anemminies. Little too much sand in 'em. Ate also the last of the large oyster I caught three days ago. "While bathing, met a large conger-eel. Conger-eel tried to eat me. Conger got the worst o' that game. Ate him. Werry good. Pickled his head in sea-water. Take him with meals, as a relish. Note, next morning, hy Bunter {still as Robinson Crusoe). — Didn't sleep well. Nightmare. Dreamt as I was being roasted by them sea anemminies, and dogfish barking at me. 'Orrid ! Flash of Joy. — Thank Goodness ! Xets up. Xo more trawl- ing. We are making rapidly for shore. Torquay is reappearing. Land in sight. MY HEALTH. 333 CHAPTER XXIX. PLEASURES OF YACHTING — NELSON HIS NOBILITY OF MIND BOLD YACHTSMAN GEOGRAPHICAL RESEARCH NOMENCLATURE ON LAND AMERICANISMS ICES WHY ? OH, WHY ? RESIGNATION DETERMINATION ABSTRACTION LA MITRAILLEUSE DES YEUX WHY ? SERIOUS INTENTIONS. OORED.— J/w.szVoZ Flash {Adapted qiiotatioji) — " WLen I beheld theanclior weighed, Sweet was the rattling chain, To stay on board I -was afraid, But Avhy — I won't ex- plain." Strange, with all mv yearnings for the sea, I feel, now, a certain sort of insecurity until I am once more on shore. The sea's very well to look at, and the sea side is charming, but once get ofl' the side and on to the sea, the only pleasure is in the Minimum of Discomfort. [Flash of Discovery. — Now I know exactly what Lop-sided means.] The best appointed yacht can but attain to this, i.e. the Mini- mum of Discomfort. It can give you a bed so scientifically poised as to be motionless, like Mahomet's coffin, in mid-air. But then everything around you is moving. You're as likely as not to see the floor of your cabin at your right elbow, then down again, and 334 BAT HE II AT SEA. up at your left elbow. What's the comfort (I don't say use) . . what's the comfort of having a table immoveable, if you are some- times hovering over your plate like a nervous hawk, and the next instant sucked, as it were, right underneath it, legs first, as if you were being suddenly dragged away to the lower regions, like Don Giovanni, after supper ? What's the comfort of having a fixed lamp, which no motion of the ship can alter, if you yourself, book in hand, are at one minute over it, at another by its side, at another two feet under it? Standing on deck, and seeing the Dawsons, Miss Straithmere and Lady Wetherby go off in a little boat, I put these (as they appear to me) posers to Wetherby. He replies, " Eh ? What ? " I repeat my posers. Wetherby observes that after two or three trips I shall be all right : that Nelson was always ill at sea. And then he goes aft. Tlwugldful Flash. — I certainly have read Nelson's history, ar»d never noticed this. It must have been suppressed. Idea for new nautical book, History of the Suppressed Ilhiess of Nelson. How this doubles the nobility of his conduct ! England expected him to do his duty. His duty was on board ship, where, as Wetherby says, he was always ill. Yet he did all that England expected, and more, for England didn't expect him to be unwell at sea. I imagine to myself, for one minute, a nautical hero Lopped ! He is in the cabin ; first mate, second mate, kc. ic, waiting with- out to receive his orders as to how they are to deal with the enemy's fleet. From within issue the orders, at intervals. Sudden Flash. — But did Nelson ever go out Trawling ? The boat comes back for me. We take a circuitous course, in and out amongst the yachts, in order to enable Wetherby to make a few calls on some friends in various crafts, who have come in since the morning. Most of them have come from Dartmouth, which is, so to speak, just round the comer. "Roughish round the Point," says Wetherby, "Eh?" " Ah ! " says the brave yachtsman, " I came by train, and got on board here." Wetherby takes this as quite a matter of course. One owner says he's going to "The Island." MY HEALTH. 335 ^Vell, that sounds like a voyage. I make this remark. " Yes," he returns, " it's nice enough if you have a fair wind. I shall take the train to Portsmouth, and then cross to 'The Island ' in the boat. . I shall meet the yacht there." It strikes me that this sort of amusement is like swimming in shallow water, where you can feel your feet at any moment. There's nothing of " the Bay of Biscay, ! " in it. How ill I should be in the Bay of Biscay ! Double-lopped. The Island he alludes to is that of Wight. Query. — Who was Wight 1 Recollect the word in old poetry, "Unhappy wight." Same person, perhaps. Must look into this. EeaUy, too, must get to work again. On the first Landing Step. — After all, there is nothing like land. I feel I must get restored. I am not exactly himgry, and I am not exactly thirsty. Lady Wetherby and Miss Straithmere are on the quay talking to a tall gentleman, of a rather foreign mili- taiy appearance, a short gentleman, of a decidedly foreign, but (mmilitary, appearance, and a very fresh-looking, bright, pretty girl. Though I should prefer solitude, I can't avoid the party. Might bow, and go to Firkin Terrace, where I propose the first two of nature's restoratives, cold water and hair -brushes. Lady Wetherby sees me, and smiles in a sort of cheerful way, as one does vaguely on any perfectly uninteresting person, of whom you are uncertain as to whether you had met him the day before yesterday some- where, or had thought (in a general way) that he'd been dead for years. I respond to the smile, as much as to say, " X07 not dead yet," and approach as if prepared to interest myself in their con- versation, and solve a difficulty if necessary. I am introduced. Colonel Blancourt and daughter. American. At least the Colonel is, but his daughter has nothing of what the English consider peculiarly American, except the most sparkling eyes, the most beautiful complexion, and the pearliest teeth. 1 except these as being (I fancy) peculiarly American. I seem to throw a damper — perhaps it's my jaundiced appeal 336 RATHER AT SEA. ance does it — over the party. I feel yellow and sticky, and still a shadow of myself. Flash of Idea. — A Gummy Ghost. I do not, I am aware, shine. I mentally compare (it is all I can do) Miss Blancourt (if she is Miss Blancoui't) with Miss Straithmere, who is two shades lighter than usual, owing to the salt water. I think, in colour, at this moment, she is the reflection of myself, only fainter. There is, I imagine, a sort of green haze about us both, as if we were neither of us, as yet, quite fit for shore life. I notice, how- ever, that the little Frenchman (Count de Something — couldn't catch the name) is struck, chancele, by Miss Straithmere. I can see it at once. I know, and recognise the symptoms. Colonel remarks, with a touch of nasality, or nationality, not unpleasant, rather the contrary, considered as a change, " I've suffered myself. You " (to me) " want something to pick you up and set you on end again." I admit it. "What shall I take ] "Well," he says, "I speak from experience, and know the whole thing down to dots. You'd better soup. And if you feel like brandy cold with a lump of ice in it— that's," turning to Lady Wetherby, " the best thing for your friend, 7iia'am." I don't "feel like soup," nor "like brandy iced." I observe that if I feel like anything, I " feel like " ice. " Well," says the Colonel, " you can't do much better than ice. Only don't wait. There's the bar — the Confectioner's — round the corner." I bow, and am going. Advice and ice. " O, 77/ take an ice!" cries Miss Straithmere. "You won't mind my going with you, vAll you ] I may go, mayn't I, Lady Wetherby 1 " Then to me, archly, and sending an eye-shot right into the Count's heart [his eyes return imploringly, "Ask 77ie. Si lu savais que je t'a{me/"'\ — "You won't mind me coming with you, will you?" Of course not, I say. I can't help catching Miss Blan court's look of infinite amusement. What does she think? Does it strike her, from this irrepressible style, that we are .... that v/e — I mean Miss Straithmere and I — are more to one anothei than .... 31 Y HEALTH. 337 No ; I hope not. " Ha ha," to myself, bitterly, "does not Miss Blancouii; see that / am only being played ofif against the Frenchman." And I . . On my honour, if Miss Straithmere will only take me into her confidence, I would help her to secure this distinguished foreigner. / could give her away with pleasure. 1 feel that the Frenchman must have no time allowed him for thoiight. He sees her ... is knocked over by her . . . and does not recover his senses until he's married to her. That's my plan. Suivez nous, J/ le Comte, i'hez Confectioner. He does not follow. We go off together, to " ice," — I and Miss Janie. Thoughts as we ivalJc. — There are several feet between us. This morning we were close together. Since then, though .... Flash of TJmight {leading to suggestion to her).—'' Wouldn't you like to go to the house first ? " She looks at me, using one of her piercing, fascinating glances (but with point blunted, and the glitter dulled now), and she replies, " Xo, u:hy ? " Why ? Always lohy. Why on earth (this all to myself) will she always say "why?" Why! Doesn't she understand that 1 want to be alone ? Second Flash {leading to ratlier a sulJcy tone). — "Ah ! . . . then ... I think I'll go to the house first." ... I turn and pause. She turns, and pauses. I add, politely, " I'm sure you must be tired." "No. Whyl" Why again. I can't conceal my impatience. "We will go in first," I say; and add, "I'll go up to my room." " Very well," she returns, " I'll wait : down here " — that is, on the promenade before the door. I wish it were not rude or brutal to say, "Miss Straithmere, you waste your time with me. Go to the Frenchman. I want to be alone." Would she cry or faint, or what ] Flash.— Is there a hack-door? Can't I perform the swindlers 338 RATHER AT SEA. Burlington Arcade trick of being set down at the Piccadilly end, and then bolting out at the other 1 No. There is no back-door, I recollect. I resign myself. Determination. — I leave this to-morrow. Decidedly. Sorry not to be able to try more yachting. But this sort of thing on shore would worry me to death. To pine mentally, and grow stout physically, would be the worst state of existence possible (to me) to conceive. I say, " Very well, then," cheerfully. " I won't go in. We'll ice.' More Thoughts as we ivalh. — Let me abstract myself. (I will to-morrow, bodily.) Abstract myself as I used to when my Aunt was playing and singing, and I wanted to read. I must take to my work again. I've done nothing for my Analytical History of Motioji for weeks. . . . Good idea that of Americans making sub- stantives do the duty of verbs. So expressive. . . . "What a pretty girl she was ... I wish she'd said that she '' felt like soup." / should then, and we might have souped together. " You don't speak to me," observes my companion, using as much of the eje-mitrailleuse as she can manage under the circuin stances. ''Why?" No . . I could have begun talking . . . but the " H7/ // ? " prevents me. I shrug my shoulders. I tell her that one cannot really be always talking, and that one ought to think, and think deeply, sometimes. She looks inquiringly at me for an instant, and then savs, ''Why?" I swear I could dance with vexation. If it wouldn't have an absurd effect, and be utterly out of keeping with the gravity of the occasion, I would dance, and relieve my feelings. I " feel like dancing." I " feel like stamps." I remonstrate with myself. This is childish. There is only one way of repressing this enfantillage^ by over-weighting it with the (as it were) Johnsonian. We enter the Confectioner's ; I am preparing a weighty and severe speech for her. All for her benefit. Tlte Ices. I shall now address her seriously. MY HEALTH, 339 CHAPTER XXX. JOHNSONIAN CONVERSATION — ICE — MORE " WHT's " A STARTLING COMMUNICATION LAW GLADNESS BEFORE DINNER MEDITA- TION ECCLESIASTICAL INSPIRATION THE LOP BALLAD THE LETTER EXCITEMENT THE HARNESS CASE MORNING FURTHER PREPARATIONS READY FOR SOMETHING WHAT? Y DEAR Miss Straithmere,"' I com- mence, quietly and solemnly, " When you ask ivhy is it necessary to think deeply sometimes, I can only reply," — the slightest pause merely to collect a pailful of the heaviest three syl- lables, and crush her, like Tarpeia, under the golden words of Wisdom. She takes advantage of it, and says, " 0, you're angry with me . . . with poor little me ! " Poor Httle me ! — she really is half a head taller, — a whole head, taking in the appendage, — than I am. It does irritate me. I make a false step, and allow myself to deny the charge. I say, "Angiw I No ! I'm not angry,'' which only means that I am not ragingly furious. She continues, "I'm sure you're angry with me. Why?'' Why ? TlV^y ! Why ! \ \ ! z 2 340 BATHER AT SEA. The Confectioner's. I change the subject. I say gaily, quoting our American friend, "Now, let's feel like ice." Then I artfully lead up to the idea which struck me a short time since. I say, " You've made a conquest of the French Count." " Why ? " A pause. " Please, tell me, why ? Won't you ? " I attempt a parable, as a mode of explanation new to me, and not altogether unpoetical. I say, "You know how the snake charms the bird." "No," she replies ingenuously. " TPA^ does it?" I can't descend from parable into mere natural history. I like a person to seize on a simile at once, and to see what you mean, if anything, rather better tlian you do yourself. Enter the ices. She persists, " Why do you call me a snake ? " I beg her pardon, I didn't. Enter Kobert, hurriedly. " Lady Wetherby thought it might be important, sir," he says, and hands me a telegram. I open it — from Doddridge. For Doddridge to telegraph means something serious. " Tour Aunt wishes to see you. Some laiv business. Captain Budd has 2:>romised to write.'' Law" business ? " I didn't know you were a barrister ! " observes Miss Straithmere. "No?" I reply carelessly, as much as to intimate that that is her fault. " You are glad to go ?" says Miss Straithmere, looking up from her ice, and then looking down again immediately. Then she adds, " Why are you glad to go?" [Real Amiver. Because you go on saying, " why ? "] Sliam answer, for external applicatio7i. — " No, I'm sorry to leave Torquay ; I'm only glad because Law business means actual work to do — perhaps ; and though My Health wouldn't stand being cooped up in Courts for long, yet an occasional case with a brief marked with a fifty, or a hundred, guineas, -would be," (I put it pleasantly,) "a very nice thing." We rise, and return quickly to Firkin Terrace. Dress for Dinner — Thoughts while Dressing. — Perhaps a real chance at tlie Bar. After all, the question is whether hard work at the Bai' wouldn't be better for My Health, with an occasional MY HEALTH. 341 holiday, than any other course. "May it please your Lordship, Gentlemen of the Jury," I commence while washing my hands, and somehow having no case to continue upon, I seem to quote as following naturally, " the Scripture moveth us in sundry places " when it suddenly occurs to me that this is 7iot what 1 meant. Idea suggested hy the lapsus linguce^ though. — Why not oe a clergyman ? There's health ! Beautiful country. Happy Pastor with his simple flock. Goes about patting children's heads, and smiling on everybody. Everybody smiling in return, and touch- ing hats, and curtseying. General serenity. Sits in his chair in the garden on a summer's evening, his wife (the beloved and good angel of the village) beside him. . . . Why not a young American wife ? . . . or why not . . . All loppiness gone off now. Sudden Inspiration ! To write a Xautical Ballad. The Lop, or Gaily goes the ship. What rhymes to Lop 1 Shop, not ship. When the wind drops — then the — 1 have it. « THE LOP : " A Nautical Ballad. {To the air of the first chorus of "ie Meunier et ses Eommes.'') 1st Verse. When the wind blows, Then the ship goes, Our hearts are all blithe and merry ; When the wind drops, Then the ship " lops," — Can we laugh and sing hey doAvn deny ? 2nd Verse. When a breeze blows, Then the yacht goes As easily as a wherry ; When the breeze drops, Then the yacht lops. And we call for a brandy-cherry.* * Brandy-cherry, an excellent remedy against the mal-de-mer. Try it. If not found efficacious, the dose need not be repeated. 0-L2 II AT HUB AT SEA. 3rd Verse. When the tide flow.<, Then the yacht goes As easily as a wherry ; "When the sea chops, Then the yacht lops, And we feel ill and queer— oh, very ! 4.th Verse. '\Mien the wind blows, Tlien the ship goes If it likes to the Head of Berry ; * But fearing " lops,"' I know who stops At liome t and is hapi»y very. Excitement of probable legal career and proposed sudden de- parture has done me good. Dimier. Last Post. — Letter from Budd. He says : — " I met your Aunt. She explained to me that your Cousin, I think, she said, had bought some harness for a basket-chaise for her when he was in the Mediterranean, and that this has somehow been partly de- tained at Florence, and partly at Paris, from which place it seems (or from Milan), it was originally stolen. Hence, there are several claimants. The French Government, besides having committed the enormity of purchasing a whole heap of something of the sort, says that this is ]>art of it. That's one claim. The Emperor of Russia is somehow mixed up in it on account of the Imperial Arms being on the breast-plates. But it had been twice sold in England previously, and, I believe, pawned in Florence, though the man who did this has been traced to Norway, I don't quite understand it. But your Aunt said she'd paid for you, years ago, to be a barrister, and she didn't see why you shouldn't undertake the work. The Solicitor says it'll be worth ten guineas a day and all expenses paid, with refreshers of fifty. It entails going to Paris and Florence, and all sorts of places, examining the Frenchies and the t'others. So get up your ' parleyvoo,' and go in for the enormity of ten guineas a day, ojid send it to me to keep for you. "Henry Caduggin Budd. * Berry-head, a celebrated promontory visible to the naked eye from the shores of Torquay. t The author of the ballad here probably alludes to himself. Xnsce te-ipsum. MY HEALTH. 343 " P.S. — You'll have to start to-morrow if the Solicitor decides upon piviug you the brief ; and, from what your Aunt says, I'm almost sure he will. You see it doesn't depend solely upon her, as she is only one of live claimants in England alone. Your cousin seems to have made a nice mess of it. Samuel from the Baths sends his love, and photograph. Adoo ! " PP.S. — I was just sealing this up when your Aunt's maid came in. You are to wait a day." It is arranged that I stop to-morrow. Lady Wetherby says, cheerfully, that she's made out a little plan for our to-morrow. Mght. — In my room. Early. Think I am very much better. Decidedly tired, but comparatively well. Hope it will last. If this case of my Aunt's comes off, it would open a new career to me. Read Budd's letter again. He doesn't put it quite clearly. How shall I manage if I have to go abroad and examine wit- nesses in France, Spain, and Italy ; i.e. in French, Spanish, and Italian ? Suppose I shall travel with an Interpreter. Good thing for My Health. Must get up the Law on Harness. . . . After all, yachting is a lazy life, and tends to stoutness. ... I should only be unhealthy, and, perhaps, unwieldy, if I continued yacht- ing. ... To bed . . . Morning. — Robert an-anges my things for my getting up. That is, he turns everything inside out. Can't understand why. ["TF/i^" reminds me of Miss Straithmere. "If she wasn't so' . . . {here I 2mll on my hoots) . . . " I think I might" . . . (braces) . . . "but she is really so " . . . (buttoning collar, head well up). . . . ^yhat a lot of force it requires to button a collar. Painful too. Agonising expression; spasmodic twist of the mouth. The Tortures of Dressing. — I know a man who, so to speak, is spikes and mechanism all over. Buckles with sharp points to his waistcoat and trousers. Buckles with sharper points on his shoes. His tie an ingenious mechanical contrivance made of silk, iron, and a strong hand pulley. When hoisted, as it were, it forms a sailor's knot. His studs cut his fingers and his shirt front, and make him positively dance with pain when dressing in a hurry for 344 BATHER AT SEA, dinner. The great invention of the age would be a buttonless costume entire. Flash. — Kemember a weird German story called Tlie Shadowles-^ Man. Adapt and adopt title, The Buttonless Man. Companion to the former volume that occurred to me about the Bijinerlc-s^ Man. Dovm to Breali'fast — Fine day. AVetherby says, capital day for Trawling. I do not reply. " Silence," as some advertisements say, " to be considered a respectful negative." No one takes t(» the notion of trawling. The Retainers are sent for as usual. Bunter is told to be in readiness with the Launch. Has said, ' Yes, sir," and disappeared. The Boy in Tops has been ordered to bring round the ponies immediately. Robert has been ordered, in a general way, to be ready for anything that may happen. Ranger, the butler, has been sent to get everything that Wetherby may have forgotten. The Captain is under command to be withi.. hail at a moment's notice, and if we don't go out by twelve, he is to spend the rest of his day in superintending somebody who has to do something, with putty, to the deck. Jim is told off to assist in packing some boxes, and bringing 'em down-stairs ; and little Cripp is sent to fetch a fly with a good horse, and Bill and Harry (from yacht) are summoned. " Got the tackle ? " asks Wetherby. Bill looks at Harry, and HaiTy at him back again. Then Bill replies that he has. " Hey ? what ? " asks Wetherby. Bill, assisted by Harry, repeats that the tackle is ready. "Then," after some consideration, Wetherby savs, quickly, " Put it on the Launch." Exeunt Bill and Harry. Thoughts. — V>liat are we going to do ? Sail in the yacht % drive in a fly ? fish in the Launch ? go about in the pony-carriage \ It is evident we are ready for anything. MY HEALTH. 345 CHAPTER XXXI. TO DARTMOUTH THE STEA3I LAUNCH THE BUOY BUXTER SCREWS ENGINES WORKS MECHANIQUE POLYTECHNIC REMINIS- CENCES TAPS COALS FIRES SEAS ON MACHINES NUTS SENSATIONS FLASHES PROBABILITIES HERE TO-DAY, AND WHERE TO-MORROW ? KNOBS PIPES VALVES DONKEY ROCKS COMPASS-BOX NOUS VERRONS— SUSPENSE. THE result of all Wetherby's ar- rangements is, that the ladies go by train to Dartmouth. AVetherby asks me, if I'll accompany him in the Steam Launch. Xever having been in a Steam Launch, I say, "Yes." I don't know why, but up to this minute I had sup- posed that a Launch was something like a magnificent pleasure barge, only sea going, instead of for river. The yacht-boat is in waiting at the stairs. We are rowed away from the large vessels, and towards an enormous buoy. A pantomimic buoy. "^Ve pass the buoy, and I see nothing like a Launch before us. There's a small boat in the distance. Coming nearer I perceive Bunter in it. He is apparently sitting in the boat, with a steam-engine, all to him- self. I remember having seen, somewhere, the title of a play which struck me very much ; it was " The Lonely Man of the Ocean." At this minute, evidently Bunter. 34G BATHER AT SEA. Alongside the Launch. — This is tlie Launch, The steam-engine works a screw, and the screw works the boat, undemeatli, anyhow. The Launch is like nothing that I had imagined. It is a sort of steam-gondola. On the whole, an adaptation, for sea purposes, of the covered cart, the washing-tub, the lifeboat, and a floating coal-cellar. The neatness, brightness, and diminu- tive size of the machinery, remind me of the show-models at the Polytechnic. Now I know Bunter's department. Of this vessel he is Captain and Crew. We go along at a great pace. " We " means "Wetherby, steer- ing, and myself in the stern, and Bunter astride the centre seat, raking up the fire, and doing something with a tap, or a screw, every other minute. The action of the machinery makes me feel a sort of sharp, short, thudding motion internally, as if one's heart was working by steam. The Launch grunts and groans, like an old gentleman troubled with an asthmatic cold, when in anything like "rougl> water," or what Bunter calls a " bit of a sea on." Bunter has his way of managing the Laimch. Wetherby has his, which is not, it appears, though it ought to be, Bunter's; or Bunter's ought to be his. At all events, I wish they'd agree. Flash. — Afraid I've chosen wrongly in not going by train. I don't feel that there'll be any repetition of the lop, but nervoiisn^ss might upset me to-day. Going in, as it were, an open boat alone, with a fierce model steam engine, and at the mercy of two men, differing essentially as to how the infernal machine is to be worked, is certainly calculated to make one uncommonly nervous. Wetherby suddenly exclaims, " I'nscrew the nut ! " or some mechanical term. Bunter returns, with a sulky humour in his Eye, that " The nut is all right." Wetherby insists that it is nothing of the sort. Turning to me, lie informs me, that, if the nut is not unscrewed, we might be all blown up in a second. MY HEALTH. 347 [Fla.?Ji. — Situation sensational — Dramatic. Suppose myself a prisoner-of-war being taken off by two guards to a fortress. The two guai'ds disagree as to the management of the Launch. One says, " Turn the nut ! " the other insists upon doing something to the screw. Consequence : Explosion. Two guards blown to bits. Prisoner saved — picked up by a slaver — sold — falls in love with I lis master's daughter. Romance. Quite Victor-Hugoish. Brilliant Flash. — Write it.] To this Bunter replies, that " There's no danger." Still I do wish that he'd mind what "Wetherby says, and unscrew the nut. A.t last he does so. A whistle of steam escapes. Wetherby says, " There ! " and then adds, sotto voce, to me, as Bunter goes for'ard for coal, " He tvoji't do what he's told at once — it's deuced annoy- ing." I admit that it is confoundedly annoying. Because, con- sidering that the result of his not doing what he's told at once^ would be simply fatal, his disobedience is, I feel, rather more than merely " ayinoyingJ' It's wicked. It's like going about with a Xautical Guy Fawkes, ready to blow the Government and himself up at any minute. Wetherby, immediately after this, exclaims, in a sharp, com- manding tone that startles any qualmishness out of me, " Bunter, put the valve up ! " No, Bunter ivon't. I feel inclined to say, " i)o, Bunter, there's a good soul, do put the valve up." Bunter replies, that " If it's put up, we shan't go half speed." Wetherby says, "Yes, we shall, if he keeps the [something or other] unscrewed." Bunter's Eye smiles, as if saying, "Well, have it your o\4Ti way," and complies. Great relief. At least, as a respite : not blown up yet. " Bunter ! " exclaims Wetherby (his style of starting a question is really frightening, and you can't help listening to it with intense interest ; because here you are out at sea, floating about with a steam-engine, which, " if not managed properly," he says, " may explode any moment — there, he adds, is the danger "), " Bunter ! " he exclaims, hurriedly, and as if he himself was frightened to death, "you've not got any water in." Another second, and if the water is not in, we shall — Heavens ! why doesn't Bunter do it at once ? 348 BATHER AT SEA. Bunter makes no reply. Most irritating. There he sits, with a sort of leer on his countenance, blinking at the engine. " Hey ! what ? " asks Wetherby, quickly, while I observe every movement anxiously ; for our lives (as far as I see) depend upon Banter's having water in. Bunter growls that " It doesn't want it yet." Wetherby says, " Yes, it does." Well, why can't Bunter look to see if Wetherby or he is right ? Slowly Bunter does open the boiler (or some secret recess) and looks in. Water is wanted. Bunter admits it now, but sticks to it that it wasn't when Wetherby first spoke. Respited again. Not blown up yet. Where is the land 1 Now one sees exactly how accidents happen. But wiiy should / suffer because they have a difference of opinion on the management of the steamer 1 " Don't do that ! " almost screams out Wetherby. On my word, I feel inclined to throw myself on Bunter, and pitch him overboard, if possible. He is simply playing with our lives. Bunter looks up in the act of putting some little brass regulator (Heaven knows what !) two pegs lower than it was. " Must do that," he replies, sulkily, but always with a stroni; sense of the humour of the situation in his right Eye. He must possess a very fine appreciation of grim humour. "Not a bit of it," returns Wetherby, hurriedly, and in evident trepidation. " It will blow the chimney off, if you lower it. Keep it up, and fix the knob." (Do, Bunter, do ! Don't be an idiot, and play with steam !) He obeys orders slowly. Third respite. We go on right enough for five minutes more. Suddenly something occurs to Wetherby. "Bunter!" he almost screams, " you haven't got the safety-pipe eased ! " " It's all right, Sir," says Bunter. " Hey ! All right ? No, it isn't," returns Wetherby, excitedly. " If we get it a bit rough round the point, it'll burst, and blow the bottom of the Launch right out." Really, it occurs to me what a fool Bunter is to come out without having seen to the safety-pipe. And what a name, " the Safety- MY HEALTH, 349 pipe^" The Unsafety-pipe. He does something to it, ^-hich I suppose saves us, as Wetherby nods at me with the air of a man who feels that he has just given the right order at the right time, but doesn't wish to boast of it. I return Wetherby's nod. My nod implies a vote of entire confidence in Wetherby, and none whatever in Bunter and all his works-I mean his steam- mechanism. However, we are going on quietly now. Respited once more. Where is the land ] We proceed, suspiciously. That ^ Bunter is watching the engine, Wetherby is watching Bunter >nd the engine, and I'm watching Wetherby, Bunter, and the cncrine, with an intensity of interest almost painful. I ask how long we shall be before getting to Dartmouth. Answer, " Not long." This question of mine seems to arouse AVeth-rby to a sense of (apparently) some new danger. " Have you got the donkey working?" he asks, frowning. Bunter replies, doggedly, that "The donkey ain't not much use ' "Not much use!" exclaims Wetherby, "why that's what we want. That's what I got it for." ^ This, he explains to me, is a donkey-engine. I don t exactly catch from what he says, whether we shall blow up u'lth, or with- out it ; but what I do ascertain is, that, on board the Launch, we are in a state of perpetual and uncommon danger, owm? to an, •mparentlv, complicated arrangement of screws, nuts, valves, donkev-eno-ine, and Bunter into the bargain. The only variety is in the sort of danger. In one case we may be blown iip, m the other (namely, the bottom of the Launch coming out) we shall be blown down. Rocks ^^eari.— "Must go outside these," says Wetherby. *' Go inside. Sir," replies Bunter, pointing out a narrow strait between two of the largest rocks. Crisis. " You haven't got any water in the boiler ! " says \\ etherby, v^ith his eve fixed on the course right ahead. Bunter Vags his head, as much as to convey that "He knows better than that," implying thereby that he has got water m the boiler I wish he'd look. He can't hioiv. Wetherby continues, quickly, "Ease her a bit!" Then, seeing him touching some 350 EAT HE E AT SEA. brass knob, he exclaims, " Doi't do that .' I "' Buiiter looks u(), as if he was hurt at this tone. Better that he should be hurt in his feelings, than that we should be blown up, or blown down. We are approaching the strait. T don't think the sea does agi-ee with me. When once on shore, I shan't try it again. We are nearing the rocks. It looks rough. The Launch is plunging and groaning. Wetherbj is, I think, agitated. He says, he can't see clearly whether that's a rock sticking up just out of the water right before us, or not. We shall soon know. MY HEALTH. 351 CIL\PTER XXXn. CLEAR — BUT NEAR BUXTERS EYE XO REPLY THE TOILER THE BOn.ER XO LOPPIXG BUT POPPING SEXTIMEXTAL COXTI- XEXTAL YES, I SEE WHO's OX THE QUAY 1 LITTLE TUBBY NOT A HUBBY IX' THE THROXG GOMTE MELLOXG MEXTAL WREXCH GET UP FREXCH QUITE AU FAIT AT .s"lL VOUS PLaIt SO SHALL SAY QUE JE SUIS DESOLE AXOTHER TRY WITH "WHY?-' AWAY WE HIE ALL IX A FLY THIXK BY STEALTH — OXLY OF HEALTH 1 AM ILL — XOW UP HILL. N — no ; off the rogks. Clear.' I feel now that it has been a " near thing." Dartmouth in view. Lovely. Most pic- turesque. " Quite, I say to "Wetherby, "like the entrance to some foreign to^^Ti I "' Pause. Xo reply from "Wetherby, who has one eye for what Bun ter's doing (which is to me apparently nothing), and another for the steering. 1 ask Wetherby if he does'nt think this like the entrance to a foreign Before I can finish my question he is down on Bunter in an excited and hurried tone, boiler ! " You haven't srot anv water in the 352 RAT REE AT SEA. [The result of this negligence on the part of Bunter is, Wetherby has already said, explosion. And in sight of land, too !] Bunter returns, quietly, " Ain't there, Sir? " His air of repose ins[)ires me with no sort of confidence. He is dozing, with a humorous smile in his half-open eyes, on a volcano. Presence of mind on my part. To say calmly, *' Hadn't you better look and see if there's any water, Bunter 1 " He lifts up the top of something, and peeps in, as he would do into a saucepan when an egg was being boiled. He makes no remark, but quits his seat phlegmatically, and puts water into the boiler. Wetherby looks at me and winks, as much as to say, " You sec what an obstinate fellow he is. I knew I was right ; and, if I hadn't spoken in time, 'pop,' to speak lightly, 'would have gone our weasel,' or, rather, our wessel." Wetherby being now able to attend, it occurs to me that I will observe, for the third time, that the approach to Darmouth by sea is quite Continental. Wetherby replies shortly, that he doesn't see anything Con- tinental about it. On reconsidering my remark, I am inclined to agree with him. I've approached several places abroad from the sea : viz., Antwerp, Boulogne, Dieppe, Havre, Calais, Ostend, and Dartmouth isn't a bit like any of these. "Yet there's a touch of Ilhine scenery in it," I say. Wetherby replies, "Eh! What?" and is keeping a sharp look-out. On reconsideration there is not a touch of Rhine scenery about it. The Houses of Dartmouth on either side of the river seem to me as if they had all been coming down the slopes to bathe, but liad stopped short, at various distances from the brink, to de- liberate on the next step. Safe at the landing-place at last. We get out. Bunter retires to some moorings where he may put coal on, or leave water out, or unscrew a nut, or play with the donkey-engine, or do, in fact, just what he pleases, as he is alone. Lady Wetherby and Miss Straithmere are on the quay. Two gentlemen are talking to them. One is tall and thin, with MY HEALTH. 353 a blonde moustache and cavalry whiskers. He is dressed in a sort of shooting costume. I set him down at once as Captain Some- body, of the Something Hussars. The other is a httle round tubby man, with a small head. Flash of simile. — Like a turtle standing upright. Wetherby had expected them, it appears, but had been un- certain, or perhaps the excitement of the Launch had put them out of his head. There are also two lads with the party, of about ten and twelve years of age. Behind them is the pony-carriage, and a dog-cart and small groom, new to me. It is comparatively early in the morning, and we have the whole day before us for our excursion. On the whole, glad it's inland, and not yachting. Wetherby says, "Ah! there's Vicomte Mellong" (or some French name, something like that). I wonder who is the Yicomte. Little Tubby or the Hussar. The Hussar is so decidedly English, that it must be Tubby, who is in a sort of yachting costume. Sudden Fhuh {icliile nxdking up towards thein.) — Get up some French for the Yicomte. Take care to have something ready to say to him. Excellent thing to practise a foreign language on every opportunity. Capital thing, too, to have a Vicomte to talk to, because it makes you au fait at how to put a title gracefully ill French. AVonder if "Wetherby is also preparing sentences. Useful Flash of Thought {more presence of mind). — One great rule of conversation with a foreigner, when you're not quite easy (to put it pleasantly) in the language, is to take the initiative vourself. In a street fight, the First Blow decides the battle. The question, Who's to give it ? is the one you must always decide in your own favour, and, evidenti}, before it occurs to the other fellow, your opponent. The rule is simply this : you tread on some one's toes, or insult him accidentally ; he turns upon you threateningly. Knock him doiDn. Xo indecision : knock him down. Don't say, "If you do that again, I'll, tfcc." A cabman growls, " Whv, Id punch your 'ed for fourpence ! '"' Knock Idni down., out of hand. And so on. Same in convei-sation in a foreign language — say, as in this case, in French. Don't wait for the distinguished alien to open upon you with the hitherto masked battery of a S54 BATHER AT SEA. long rattling sentence, which will probably blow you into syllables, but fire upon him, with a sentence to which the answer, if it requires one, can be anticipated. Then you work easily. Flash. We are just upon them, and I haven't arranged a single phrase. Stop for one second to tie my shoe. Gain time. What shall I say? How shall I put it? Let me see. '' Est-ce que Monsieur le Vicomte aime yachting ? " On this might follow, " M. le Vicomte, je suis enchant^ de faire voire connaissance'' and then come out with the question about yachting. If the worst comes to the worst, I can adapt commonplace? thus : " II fait beau temj^s pour yachting, n'est-ce pas ? " Also, '^ Est-ce que vous etes long-temps en Angleterre ?" Mem. {ivhile tying my shoe.) Must take care not to make long- temjys sound exactly like "Long Tom." Also mind my "u"s and "r"s. Also, "- Est-ce que'' (always begin with ^^ Est-ce ^-we " whenever you possibly can) " M. le Vicomte aim la campagne 2>lus que la vie en ville ? " Once more. " Je stds enchant^ d'apprendre que M. le Vicomte viendra avec nous pour faire line 2yic-}iic." And, if he can't come ''Ah, M. le Vicomte, que je suis desole que rous ne pouvez pas aller avec nous pour faire un pic-7iic." Shoe-tie settled. I am prepared. Wetherby calls. They are ready to start. I am introduced to the little man first. I am prepared with '' Je suis enchante,'' &c. He is merely Mr. Durlej, Lieutenant Durley, of some ship, somewhere. The other is the Vicomte. His name does sound like Mellong. Wonder how it is spelt. I bow politely, most politely. Always like to impress on foreigners that w^e are neither bears, nor shopkeepers. [On second thought, shopkeepers do bow most politely. In fact, shopkeepers, are always bov\-ing.] Now to commence, " Je suis enchante." . . . AVhether the Vicomte hears this, or not, I don't know ; but while just returning my salute, he says to Wetherby, in the plainest possible English, " We're all here, now ; how shall we divide the party 1 " Not a bit of a Frenchman about him : not in dress, manner, speech, or anything. MY HEALTH. 355 The two boys (they are Lady "Wetherby's, who Wetherby men- tioned to me when I first arrived) beg to go on the Vicomte's dog- cart (it's his dog-cart, too, and his groom; all as English as possible), when he makes himself responsible for their safety. " Oh, I should like to go on the dog-cart," exclaims Miss Straith- luere, and gives the Yicomte " one " in his eyes with hers. The Vicomte offers to take her. " I may go, mayn't I ? " she asks, in a playfully entreating manner, of Lady Wetherby : then she adds, "I won't fall off." Then, turning to me, "You will come, and hold me on, won't you ? " I reply, that this an'angement is impossible, as the dog-cart won't hold the Vicomte, her, me, two boys, and a groom. Where- upon she pouts, and says to me (of course always to me, and before the tubby Lieutenant and the Vicomte), "You don't want to come, ^hy 1 " VHiy ? Upon my Lady Wetherby, smiling good-humouredly, thinks that Janie had better go with her, one of her boys with M. Mellong, the other with Wetherby, and the tubby Lieutenant and myself in the two- horse fly with Bunter on the box beside the coachman. Bunter, Wetherby says, had better come, in case of acci- dents. Why Bunter is chosen as being mixed up with accidents (except on account of his conduct on board the Launch), I don't know. '' You see," explains Lady Wetherby, " M. Mellong is taking our hampers, so that it would not be fair to overload his trap. And it's a long day for the ponies ; so I thought that " (with a pleasant smile) " as the fly had two strong horses, the heaviest load had better go in it." Meditations after this, ivhile hi the Fly. — The heaviest load means Tubby, Bunter, and me. This remark saddens me. Notes for a Letter to my Doctor — I begin to foresee my fate. Coming events forecast their shadows. The coming event for me, is stoutness — stoutness of a peculiar kind. I used to have fat days, now I have fat hours and fat minutes. I have had change of air, quiet, rest, walks, Turkish Baths, sea-breezes, sea-sickness, yachting, driving. Still I don't see any permanent change for the better. A A 2 356 BATHER AT SEA. Sometimes in the morning I observe with satisfaction that I can buckle my waistband tight, and like it. I am light, airy, can walk along with an elastic step. I have an excellent appetite. I partake of a moderate lunch. Immediately, 1 feel myself over- burdened. I can no more move without puffing, than a steam- engine. A dulness comes over me. "Whatever I have taken, I seem to have soused myself in (so to express myself, my dear Doctor), and absorbed it, like a sponge, specially if it has gravy. After that meal I am all gravy. Do you know, my dear Doctor, what it is to tumble into ten feet of sea-water, and come up again with it in your nose, ears, and mouth ? Imagine the same, only in gravy. Whatever I take seems to cling to me. My dear Doctor, what does all this mean ? Sneezing is a relief to me, and my sneezes are painful to beholdeni and agonising to myself. Sometimes they almost strangle me, and my nose goes off, after a desperate struggle, like the report of a pistol. After a sneeze I detect myself wheezing ; vheezing^ dear Doctor, absolutely that. Do send me your advice. My own idea is exercise, but now ? We are going up a hill. SJ^ MY HEALTH, m CHAPTER XXXIII. NOTES SILEXCE DACTYLLIC EXCLAMATIOX A CHEYILD OF NATUBE THE LIEUTENANT PULPINESS ACTIVE SERVICE VALUABLE CONSIDERATIONS SKITTISHNESS PLAYFUL GLUMMY SHOOT- ING GLANCES "WHY, WHY?" COQUETTE BUNTER FLOWER- GATHERING A COMPACT DANDELION RASH PROMISE A DASHING CHARGE — BAFFLED KRANTON CASTLE. EAR Miss Straith- mere, sitting near, asks, "Why don't you talk?" JCI^ Then, seeing me writing my notes, "Are you writing something nice about me ? Do let me see it — won't you ? " I tell herthat it'snothing for her to see. She replies, " Whi/ ? Why mayn't I see it?" Then suddenly. " 0, Lady Wetherby, do look what beautiful " (" beau " is a low note, " ti " is one note higher, and " full " is raised a little, but dropped im- mediately) " flowers. " I should like to have Aren't they too lovely ? ! " ecstatically some of those ! " with a look at me. Flash of Intelligence. — She wants me to get out, rush up the bank, five feet at least, almost perpendicular, a wall of brambles and prickles, and make a dash at these idiotic flowers. I won't take the hint. Tubby may. I won't. The Fly is now walking up a hill. She cries out suddenly, " ! what lovely flowers ! ! 358 BATHEB AT SEA. I must have some." I can only see a few daisies running to seed, a cluster of bright yellow, coarse-looking flowers, and some few very common ferns. A farthing for the lot would be dear. Lieutenant Durley smiles. She has impressed him. He is young, and fat. Xote. — There is some consolation to me in seeing him. He's a Lieutenant : a sailor. Therefore, he must have to get up ropes^ and be engaged on " active service." How can he, being so fat ? Yet if he can, I can. On inspection, I should describe him as — as — ha ! 4 Flash (of description). Pulpy. Yes, I should certainly - call him more " pulpy " than fat. The latter implies weight and a certain amount of solidity : the other doesn't. Miss Straithmere begs the coachman to stop. She will jump out, climb the banks, and get them herself. The Lieutenant in evident admiration. Lady Wetherby thinks that perhaps it would be as well if we walked going up the hilL Bunter is already down. So is the driver. We all descend except Lady Wetherby, who regards us placidly, as much as to say, "I hope you're enjoying yourselves ; / am." Ifote for Doctor. — Xoio I notice my wheeziness. Up a hill. Miss Straithmere flops down by the roadside, and begins tearing up handfuls of flowers ; then she see some up above, and addresses me appealingly, " AVon't you get those for me ? Only just a little flower ? Why won't you ? " {JReal Answer. — Because I'm wheezy, and can't scramble.) Answer for all practical purposes, " I don't think they're worth getting." " But," she says, appealingly, " If / want them. Won't you ? " Pause. " Why won't you ? " Lieutenant Durley has craftily stopped behind. He comes u]> now radiant with a whole handful of flowei^s for her. " Oh, how bz^tiful. Oh, thank you so much ! Oh, I must wear this in my hair ! " Then she runs after the carriage, and cries out to Lady Wetherby, with an arch look over her shoulder at we, "Isn't it kind of Lieutenant Durley ? Look — aren't these beautiful ? Aren't they too lovely ! Do have some, Lady Wetherby, won't you] Oh, do!" MY HEALTH. 359 Lady Wetherby, who has seen daisies, ferns, and buttercups before in her life (I am bitter, I feel it, over this egregious folly ; and then for Mr. Durley, a Lieutenant in the Navy, to be taken in . . . bah !), selects two, smiling cheerfully, as if taking them is part of some game. "You'll have one?" she says to me. The Lieutenant looks glum. I decline to receive it. " Not if / give you one ? " shot at me from under her eye-lashes. Almost at the same time, she, somehow, manages to fire another ban-el at the Lieutenant, who receives his wound gratefully. Flash of Idea. — Her eyes are Straithmere revolvers. Always loaded — eye-lashes, hair triggers. Xo answer. "Why — whi/ won't you ? " "Because," pettishly — I feel it's pettish, but I can't help it, specially going up hill — " I can't put it in my button-hole. Give it," I suggest, somewhat maliciously, "to Lieutenant Durley." I mean by this, "Farewell for ever, Coquette. Go to your Durley, or to whomsoever you like to victimise." Bunter comes up, and offers her flowers, shyly. His Eye says, " Here's a lark ! I see through it, you know ! Fancy me a hofferin' flowers to a gal. Luncheon's comin' ! Hooray for Wetherby I " She thanks him enthusiastically. Then we re-seat ourselves in our vehicle. We are the last of the party on the road. More flowers. More ejaculations of delight. Lieutenant Durley gets down, and scales a hedge to procure a thing like a convolvulus, "0, thank you!" she cries, thanking him, but shooting a glance at 77ie, as much as to say, " See what some people will do for me.'' Then looking up at the other bank, she cries to me, " 0, do get me that, won't you ? Or help me up, and I'll get it ? May I, Lady Wetherby 1 " Lady Wetherby replies, that if the flower is neces- sary to her existence, that she had better let me get it for her. Let me ! I'd never off'ered. " K you'll only get that one," says Miss Straithmere, leaning weU forward at me, " I'll promise I'll never ask you again." Lady Wetherby smiles. I fancy, from her hint just now, she is beginning to think me disagreeable. Perhaps she is comparing 360 BATHE B AT SEA. me with Durley, who jumps down and jumps up, and picks flowei*s for anybody. She doesn't know how I am being soured by the state of my health and Miss Janie's enfantillage. But I see an opportunity now to show how obliging my real nature is. " Never "^I " " Never ! " she answers. A bargain. I'll do it. It's only a dandelion, I know, and the bank is, perhaps, not so difficult as it looks. It looks a wall of blackberry bushes, brambles, and wild somethings which catch hold of your clothes and stop you while other wild somethings scratch you. I have a great mind to seize the opportunity, and say, " Look here, promise me you'll never say ' Why ' again, and I'll get any- thing you want for you." I get down. The middle of the hill. Durley is on the other side of the carriage. Bunter is on a-head. I am alone. I make a dash at the bank. I stop short of it, and consider. Hope no one saw me make this abortive dash. I look at the bank, to see where's the best place to begin climbing. Confound her, what nonsense this is. If it hadn't been for Lady Wetherby, I wouldn't have got down. No, I'd have said, "If you want 'em, get 'em yourself." I do not see how to get up this bank. Five feet high — it's ten feet, if an inch. And not meant to be climbed up. Wish I'd got gloves with me. I have. In my pocket. Just the pair. Old. I try to beat down some brambles with my feet, then by laying hold of others with my hands I shaU gradually arrive at the stupid idiot of a wild flower. Flash. — Can't do it in cold blood. Do it in hot. I mean, take a run from the other side of the road, and crash into it. The carriage has reached the top of the hill, and they are waiting for me. Everybody is looking. A country boy with a pudding face, and a mouth large enough to swallow his own head stands to gawk at me. One minute. I make my run, and jump at the bank : on it, exactly where I was before, without the slightest impetus. Some prickly things [exactly as I had expected] catch hold of MY HEALTH. 361 my coat affectionately. I try to pull away from them. I see something just beyond me, a little higher up, which apparently has no thorns. That might assist me. I grasp it. Ah ! ! It startles me so (being studded Tvith strong thorns, like hard nails, point outwards) that I lose my balance. Staggering down- wards, somehow I am slightly stopped by a family of brambles, which are so unwiUing to part with me (as if they hadn't seen me Cor years), that jumping violently on to my feet into the road (an inspiration which saves me from falling on my head), I bring most < .f the members of the bramble family with me. The idiot plough- boy grins, and says something which sounds like " Yer garnt gurr- gurr." I ask him "What?" sharply, and he replies, "Yer garnt gurr-gurr," much the same as before. I fancy he i;s giving me advice. FUuh of IiKjenuity. — To return to the carriage and say I would have got the flower, but the boy told me I was trespassing. Per- haps he 18 saying that. My coat is quite roughed by thorns. Threads out, all over it. I stop to pick sharp points out of my trousers, and find that my gloves have not been much protection. Bunter comes down the hill from the carnage, and says, " Lady Wetherby's compliments. Sir, and would you mind coming on a^; quickly as possible, as they can't stop any longer." No, I don't try any more wild-flower hunting again for Miss Straithmere. To-day's Pic-nic is the last of her^ for me, and then Ah 1 Kranton Castle in view, where we're going to pic-nic. 3G2 BATHE B AT SEA. CHAPTER XXXIV. A RUIN AND LAKE A WALK WE TAKE ARRANGEMENTS — ESTRANGE- MENTS WE WAIT AND BAIT WHEN SHE LOOKED TUBBY WAS HOOKED WETHERBY's CRY — HI, HI, HI ! — WHO D LIKE CATCH- ING PIKE DUCK MUCK — DURLEY STUCK — RUSH AND REED WHERE WILD DUCKS FEED THERE's A LILY OH. THE SILLY — UP BY THE ROOTS — DONT WET YOUR BOOTS WHERE's A RAKE — TO DRAG THE LAKE — DID SHE EVER — OH ! HOW CLEVER NOW I MAKE A SLIGHT MISTAKE. K R ANTON Castle. —A magnificent ruin. About ten minutes' walk froni this is the celebrated Fishing Lake. Bunter now appears with three sorts of rods and several kinds of lines. The boy, too, with nets. Wethcrb}^ says, eagerly, " We'll go down to the Lake first, and then come back to the Castle." We are to catch something tremendous in the way of fish, and to return triumphant. Is Bunter sure that he's got the reel all right? and the line Xo. 2 ? and the double-bait 1 Bunter's Eye winks in reply, as much as to say, "Do you think this 'ere's the fust time as I've been out fresh-water fishin ' ? I've got 'em all right. Wc'/l catch 'em, and eat 'em. Hooray for Wetherby : " A melancholy looking place, the Lake. The greater part being taken up by reeds and rushes. Lady Wetherby and Miss Straithmere walk down with us. That MY HEALTH. 36^ is, Lady Wetherby walks, and Miss Straithmere alternates between a slide, a skip, and a pounce. The slide takes her along with a sort of skating action. As she does this, she seems to be looking round archly at Lieutenant Durley and myself, and saying, " Am I not swan-like ? am I not a sylph 1 Isn't it what you naughty, naughty boys call ' fetching,' to see me sail before you like this 1 Don't you feel like following me Anywhere ? Can you Just catch a twinkle of a provoking pair of boots ? Caii you ? ! fie I Don't I know how to manage a parasol, so that from under its shelter I can fire my eye-revolvers with killing efifect 1 I'm aware that you're observing my glove too, my right hand one, that's nipping the jDarasol-handle . . . doesn't it look as if it fitted the plumpest, softest, firmest hand in the world, not too small, not too large ? ... 0, of course I'm not thinking this. 0, no, I'm only a gay, thoughtless, skittish young thing (I've been so some time, perhaps) frisking about by the side of my chaperon, Lady Wetherby." I don't think these are my friend Tubby's ideas. By " Tubby " I mean Lieutenant Durley. He seems to be lost in genuine admiration of Miss Janie. She has insisted upon coming out fishing with us, and she has caught the largest and the fattest here. Tubby's booked. Xo snake, charmed by the charmer's song, ever looked half so stupid as Tubby does now. He is walk- ing about, mesmerised. Flash of Thought as we Walk hy the Lake. — "When I first saw the charmer, was I like this ? Did I suddenly appear, to observant folks, as if my faculties had been suddenly dulled % In short, did I wear the same stupid, heavy look as now distinguishes (or extinguishes) Tubby the Fascinated ? If so ... if I looked like this . . . Vll never he caught again. This I swear to myself, mentally, in the presence of two pigs foraging, an old hen excited about her adopted ducklings, and a small dog, by the side of the Lake, standing meditatively alone, our party being several yards ahead of me. Wetherby "Hi! hi ! 's " to me. I come up with the party. The rods and nets are all ready. There is no boat, and no one of whom to inquire about one. 364 RAT SEE AT SEA. The Boy spies a man in the distance. Boy sent on to fetch him. Wetherby and Bunter commence arranging tackle. They've got enough, apparently, to catch all the fish in several lakes, with hooks nearly as big as those used in butchers' shops, where they look as if they'd been baited, fresh that morning, to take any strong sharks that might be about the streets. " What are they going to catch ? " I ask. " Hey ! what ? " asks Wetherby. When, in reply to a repetition of my question, he says, " Pike." I ask of anybody who likes to answer me, "Are pike good to eat ? " I receive no answer except from Banter's Eye, which, being towards me in profile, says, with the air of a gourmet, " 0, ain't they, just ! Wetherb}' won't eat 'em I I ivilL Baked and stuffed ! Hooray for Wetherby ! " It is a lovely mid-day, autumnally hot. Tliere are no otlier signs of inhabiting life about the Lake than a few poor cottages, to wliich, probably, the old hen, ducklings, dog, and foraging pigs belong. They are, none of them, frightened of us ; but, on the contraiy, seem inclined towards friendliness. The old hen runs along the edge of the shelving bank, and vainly endeavours to recall the venturesome ducklings, who, in their native element, won't listen to her querulous scoldings for a moment. Miss Straithmere, having been silent — a rare thing with her — for at least ten minutes, now gives vent to her pent-up enthusiasm, Durley watching. I watching Tubby, with malicious satisfaction. " 0, look ! " she exclaims, " did you ever see such beautiful dacks ! 0, Mr. Durley, arn't they lovelt/ ? " She flops down, as if to catch one (the playful child of nature !) but the]/ are not to be taken in, and the hen puts herself, in- stinctively, on the defensive. Durley in admiration. A Studi/ of Durley. — Is he thinking of giving up the sea, retiring on half-pay, and living in a little cottage by a lake, with a fair-haired, child-like wife, who loves the quiet of the country, and its simple pleasures ! Does he see, in his mind's eye, (if at this moment Tubby has an eye open in his mind), a rustic porch, early morning, a Janie coming home with a fresh-kiUed duckling MY HE ALT B. 365 for breakfast, while he puts his nose over the top of the snow- white window-blind up-stairs, and says, "I'll be down directly, dear ; I'm just finishing my shaving." Does he see this in a Flash ? Or does he see nothing — in the present or in the future — except her 1 "They woiit come ! " she cries out, plaintively, poutingly, and still on the ground, hke Queen Constance in King John, or a fancy pen- wiper in bright colours. " Why won't they come ? " she asks me. I reply that I really don't know why they won't come. " Don't you ? " she returns, looking up at me with intensity from under her parasol, the fringe of which cuts off Durley's legs by the knees, and makes a vignette of them. " Don't joii know?'' she continues, with a tinge of sadness in her voice, and then a slight pause, as if for a hushed sigh, before she asks me, " Why don't you know ? " I shrug my shoulders. Her tone is softer, more touching, more beseechingly tender, as she continues, " Why won't you tell me 1 Why ? . . . Won't you ! " I am beginning to pity Durley, when, without a quarter of a bar's rest she has- taken up, as it were a tune in another key, jumping from rallen- tando to adagio with the skill of Xenida, the female fiddle-player. Flash. — Happy simile. She is mistress of her instrument. But Durley may dance to her tunes, not I. " My dancing days. Miss Straithmere " (I say to myself all in the flash), "as far as you're concerned, are over." " Oh ! " she bursts out, " did you ever see such beautiful scenery ? " Durley looks about him, and murmurs something vaguely. The picturesque is evidently not his strong point. " 0, Lady Wetherby ! " she exclaims. " How delightful ! 1 could live here for ever I !" Lady AVetherby smiles — I smile. A cherub-like smile illuminates Tubby's fiice. Flash. — If he only had wings instead of shirt- collars, he'd make his fortune by sitting to sculptors for "any ornaments for your tombstones." ... He looks out towards the distant hills beyond the far side of the Lake, and says, " Yes, it's a aiceish sort of place." 36G RATHER AT SEA. ^^ IsnH it?" Miss Straitlimere goes on. *' look at the reeds I and the rushes ! and, 0, I'm sure, I saw a fish jump. 0, Mr. Durley, was it a fish ? — a large fish ! 0, I should be so frightened if it was a very large fish ! " and she starts up, on to her feet. I have no doubt that Durley is feeling in his heart that ho would dare all the fish in the Lake for her, but she doesn't give him time (Tubby is a little slow) to formulate his ideas on the subject, as she sees something yellow about a foot or so from shore. "0, a lily! "she cries. "I'm sure it's a lily! 0, Mr. Durley, will you get it for me ?" " My dear Janie," says Lady Wetherby, laughingly, " Mr. Durley can't go in there without getting wet." " 0, you wouldn't get wet ? Would jow ? " she says, inquiringly, turning to the Lieutenant, who, I am sure, is debating whethei- it's delicate to take off" his boots and stockings before ladies or not. " Would you ? Why would you get wet ? Why ? tell me 1 " " I'll fetch it for you," says the Lieutenant, sturdily, defying his boots. She restrains him. " No," she murmurs, " don't get wet for nie. I can reach it with my parasol, if you'll hold my hand." Wetherby, who has been seated for the last quarter of an hour with a rod in his hand, and the line in the water, fishing for anything, so as not to lose time, here requests Miss Janie, rather grumpih', not to disturb the water. « Why ? " she asks. " Can't fish, if you do," returns Wetherby. " Why can't you fish ? " she asks. No answer. At this moment — I have also seated myself, and have com- menced doing nothing with a line in the Lake — the hen perches quietly on my rod. " 0, isnH that clever ? " exclaims Miss Janie. Did you ever see anything so clever ? " Durley is evidently turning the matter over in his mind, ta find out if for the sake of conversation, he can produce an instance of parallel talent on the part of a hen. He strokes his chin and meditates. Bunter offers him a rod. ''0 do fish ! " cries his enslaver, as if he'd positively refused. He takes the rod. He is dreaming, I see he is — he sees a MY HEALTH. 367 happy rustic cottage, himself supplying the second course, from the Lake, for the evening meal, and his playful wife welcoming the tired fisherman at the door. That's his dream. He can't speak. Tubby's hooked. Eough-looking Man comes up, followed by the Boy. *' We want a boat," says Wetherby. " Ain't none," replies the Man. "No boat?" " Xo." " Hum 1 " says Wetherby, evidently meditating bribery and corruption. There's lots of pike here, I suppose. Eh?" "A goodish few. In the middle and thereabouts. Sees "m playing like children. But you can't catch 'em." '•' Can't ? " exclaims Wetherby, looking at his preparations. " Why ? " asks Miss Straithmere, leveUing her glance at the poor Fisherman, to catch him. " Acos no fishin' ain't allowed 'ere now. It's all preserved." "But my card '" suggests Wetherby. "Couldn't let you do it, sir. Much as my place's worth."' Then, as if he felt he'd been too stem, he adds, "You can fi^h from the bank as much as you like." "But I can't catch anything there," says Wetherby, grumpily. "Xo," returns the Fisherman; " except dace and perch." Bunter commences packing up the tackle. The Fisherman begins to be communicative. He points in the direction of the rushes and reeds. " There's Couttses there ; they comes from and to the bank, but they're mostly there. All preserved." I say, " 0, indeed ! " Our party is going on, and the Man has singled me out for this infonnation. Flash of Enormous Importance. — It suddenly occurs to me that he is pointing not to the reeds, but to a small house in the dis- tance ] and his meaning is, that this place belongs to Coutts's, the bankers, and that they preserve it strictly. I run on to Wetherby. " I say to him, " You know the Coutts's 1 " He does. Very well. Breathless I indicate what I suppose to be their 3(58 RATHER AT SEA. fisbing-lodge on the other side of the Lake. I repeat the Fisher- man's information ; namely that the Coutts's go up and down from the Bank (this is my version), but are mostly there — that is, at the fishing-lodge. " If so," says Wetherby, " it will be worth while calling. Won't it, Betty ? " turning to Lady AVetherby^ who answers, " Decidedly ; " that " it will be an excellent plan, as it will ensure him the fishing, if not for to-day, at all events for the future." We return to the Fisherman, who is still standing contem- plating us. " Are the family at home ? '"' asks Wetherby. The Man doesn't seem to understand. Wetherby repeats his question. " There's only my Missus,'"' the Man replies, evidently puzzled by our coming back so interested in his domestic affairs. *•■ No," says Wetherby, " I mean Mr. Coutts." The Man looks at me for an explanation. I remind him that he has just informed me how there are Couttses over there ; and I point in the direction already indi- cated by him. " So there are," he replies, rather sulkily, as if we were either making fun of him, or didn't believe his statement. I nod at Wetherby, as much as to say, " There — you hear Vm right ! " The Man continues, " Hundreds of 'em." " Hundreds of Coutts's ! " exclaims Wetherby. " Perhaps he means at Coutts's." "Ay," returns the Man, rather nettled, and eyeing Wetherby in anything but a friendly manner, "hundreds — thousands of 'em. There's one of 'em now " — we are both deeply interested, and follow the line of his finger — " he's sitting in among the rushes." " Sitting in the rushes ! " says Wetherby. I begin to think that Somebody's been mistaken. A harsh croak, like that of a frog in summer time, diverts our attention. " That's him ! " cries the Man. *' Him 1 " I can't help repeating, " Who ? " MY HEALTH. 369 " Vi'hv' — ^jiist at this instant a small bird, like a moorhen, rises from the rushes and flies to a distant part of the Lake — " There he goes!" cries our Fisherman. "That's a Coot/ Bless you! there are hundreds o' them Coofses about here."' AVetherby doesn't stay for any further explanation. He runs (I have never seen him run before) to Lady Wetherby and our party, and tells them the joke. They laugh. I know Wetherby can't keep it to himself, and it will be all oveir Torquay to- morrow. ir/^^/i._To-moiTOw 1 Off by first train. Town and my Aunt. AVe walk up to Kranton Castle. [-^ 370 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER XXXY. AMONG THE RUIN'S ROMAXCE — THE LOVER's LEAP — GIGGLING — COOTSES FLASHES — CORRESPONDENCE — THE HARNESS CASE EXCUSES — FAREWELL ! AND IF FOR EVER MUST SEE DOCTOR MY HEALTH ONCE MORE IN TRAIN AFFECTING PARTLNG JOURNEYING — ONWARDS OPINIONS OF MESSIEURS LES VOY- AGEURS — FLASH — THOUGHTS ON LEAVE-TAKLVGS — AT STATIONS TO EXETER — A NEW FACE^OLD FRIEND — PENDELL. ARE in tlie ruins. ]\liss Straithmcre as- cends narrow and craggy places. Durley following. I am medi- tating on the Mighty Past. The days when the lover and his mis- tress, pursued by the King's troops, leapt on horseljack from the dining-room window in- to the moat below. How the horses came to be in the dining- room remains unex- plained. Miss Straith- mere asks me why I am so dull ? I reply that one can't be al- ways giggling and scampering about. Let Dmdey giggle and scamper. I tell her that amid old ruins such as these I love to meditate. She replies that that is just what she likes, too, and immediately dares me to run up a flight of steps leading half-way up an old tower. " Pll do it," she says : will 7/ou ? " No, I won't. Giggle, giggle, giggle, up she goes, Durley following. Then I hear MY HEALTH. 371 her, higher up, " 0, 1 shall fall ! I know I shall ! "—giggle, giggle, giggle. So the afternoon passes. We return. Wetherby can't get the ''Cootses " affair out of his head. When a man can't get a joke against you out of his head, and is perpetually going off into chuckles, looking at you, going off again, telling everyone he meets, and constantly referring to you as " Coots," supposing, for example, that to be the point of the joke which he can't get out of his head, existence in his company becomes a burden. That's the worst of Wetherby : this joke against me will last for years. Like Shakspeare, the joke isn't for an age, but for all time. Perhaps Wetherby will hand it do\m in his will to his descendants. Flash of Imagination. — Properties are held on odd conditions. His might be held on the condition of his heir telling a story once a year in the presence of witnesses — say the story of the Coot. If he failed, or exaggerated, or added to it, or diminished it, the property to go to next of kin, or a hospital. Letter from my Aunt. — She will meet me at the Exeter Station, on her road to Plymouth. It encloses a letter from her Solicitor {inre the Harness Case) : — " Dear Madam, — We regret that we are unable to give your nephew a brief in this matter. We have got Mr. Croaker, Q.C., and our usual Juniors. As one of the numerous plaintiffs in this action, your interests shall receive our best attention." A Xotefrom Budd. — " Met your Aunt. Harness case no go for you. They've got another man. Cheer up. Samuel says you oujrht to come here and wash." The last line is his way of expressing Samuel's opinion that I am in want of a Turkish Bath. Farewell, Torquay. Farewell, Miss Straithmere. dear no ! not yet ! she is coming with me and Wetherby (who is going to drive) up to the station. She remarks that I appear quite pleased to be going away. Why ? B B 2 372 BATHER AT SEA. I tell her that I am not pleased, and that I should like to stay here much longer. "Then," she asks, "why don't you?" Now as I am Wetherby's guest, not hers, the question in his presence is awkward. I can't reply, because he hasn't asked me. Torquay, however, doesn't agree with me. The sea doesn't, and the land doesn't, and, except on this morning of my departure, I have not felt what is called "the thing," since I've been here. I reply that I must go up to town and see my Doctor. Why? I have a great mind to enter into details, and if I knew scientific terms I would, and she'd never ask " why " again. The station prevents further conversation. Tickets taken ; rugs in. Luggage safely bestov\'ed. Porter tipped. Guard confidentially polite. "Wetherby talking to some- body outside. "We are together on the platform. She is not giggling now, but sentimental. So sentimental that people can't help watching us, thinking, I am sure, that I am a soldier leaving for India, or an explorer going to Central Africa. I smile, to lighten up the proceedings, and say I uuist get a paper. "Why do you get a paper?" she asks in a melancholy tone, catching (I see her) the people's eyes all about, and evidently conscious of the sensation she is creating. A tall and fashionably dressed woman, nearly six feet without lieels and chignon, weeping over a small man at a Railway Station us calculated to attract attention. Flash. — To get her into a ladies' waiting-room and leave her there, or round a corner out of sight. No. At the bookstall she is at my elbow drooping over me like a helpless Niobe. Her eyes are evidently becoming tearful. I ought, in the presence of an audience, to turn round and embrace her, comfort her, console her, but how can I ? She is so impressionable, that she (in view of this confounded audience which she has attracted) is making herself cry with her MY HEALTH. 373 own imaginary sentiment. I hiov: as well as possible that if Durley would turn up, or the French Count, or anybody, with whom she could play a new rdle, the whole scene would be changed, and I should get into the train, unwept for, uncared for — and precious glad to do it. Flash of Decision.— Seat myself in the carnage. I do so ; walking sharply to it. People on platform evidently consider me a brute. In their opinion I am (I see) a cruel, hard man, who ivon't say good-bye to his wife ; and, if it wasn't for lookers-on, would probably beat her. Seated hi the Carriage.— She stands by the door. Drooping. I am sensible of spectators having changed their position on purpose to watch my proceedings. I shouldn't be surprised to heai' that they were bettmg on whether I shall hit her, or not, just before we staii:. Passengers getting out, along the line, for refreshment, will nudge their friends, and indicate me as being the Brutal Husband. There may be another view of the ca^e, which, if they consider it worse, they will of course take. I say cheerfully, "Well, good bye. Miss Straithmere ; don't let me\eep you standing here, as I've no doubt Wetherby will be waiting for you." She repUes sorrowfully, " No 1 {sigh) he is not waiting for me." She shoots a reproachful glance at me, and another, out of the same revolvers, at the audience, who, I should imagine, now think that I am refusing to support my wife and family during my absence. Flash. — ^Miat a nuisance it is, after you're once in a railway can-iage, for any one to remain standing at the door "to wish you good bye." They have said all that is to be said — you have shaken hands. You are pretty sure you've not forgotten any- thing. If the carriage is full you can't enter into domestic matters, or into any affaii-s of a private nature, and ordinary topics are out of the question. The time can be unsatisfactorily fiUed up with such original remarks as, "I think we shall have a nice journey." " I hope so." " It will be hot." " Do you think 374 HATUEE AT SEA. so ? No, not sitting this side." " Give my love to Annie." This generally interests all your fellow-travellers. "You'll see Mrs. Wigsby when you arrive." You nod a wish to discontinue the conversation, feeling that it is beginning to bore the other people in the carriage and that they're laughing at you for know- ing Mrs. Wigsby. ''You've got your sandwiches and the flask?" is asked by considerate person at the door. You nod affirma- tively. (" Greedy fellow,' think the passengers.) "You'll take care and wrap up if you feel cold ? " Again you nod. (" What a coddle," think the passengers.) And at last you are off. Obliged to nod and smile and shake your hand up to the last moment, as much as to say, "Xo accident as yet, you see! There, we've got several yards along by the platform, and the engine hasn't burst ! Aha ! good omen ! Bless you ! " — And in another five minutes you're somewhere else. As I am now. Thank goodness ! To Exeter. At the first station a gentleman gets into the carriage. He is evidently very near-sighted, as he stumbles over my legs, turns to beg pardon of my greatcoat, which is on the seat opposite me, and then carefully inspects the middle cushion to find out if anyone is tliere. " Um ! '■ he says, shortly to himself; " Bless ray soul ! " This very jerkily and shortly. "Ah!" Then he nearly closes both eyes as a means of seeing better, and seating himself on the edge of the cushion turns towards me. Flash of Jiecoff?iitwn.—'Pende\\. Whom I haven't seen for vears. MY HEALTH. 375 CHAPTER XXXYI. GRADUAL RECOGNITION— VERY EXTR'oRD'naRY— HOSPITABLE PRO- POSAL— PENWIFFLE MENTIONED— MY AUNT DITTO— QUIET ENJOY- MENT—HEALTH—OBSERVATION—USEFUL NOTE— RUDDOCK OF POLKIVEL— OLD RUDDOCK — FAMILY MATTERS — PROSPECTIVE ENTERTAINMENT— EXETER— A FLASH. LESS mv soul 1 '' ex- claims Pendell, tapping his own shoulder, and feeling his chest all over, in order to find out where on earth his eye-glass has got to. Failing in his attempts to catch it anywhere, he adopts the alternative of screwing up his eyes, and thrusthig his head well forward towards me, then he repeats in his jerky manner, " La ! — um— so it is! Aha! Bless my soul ! Very extrord'nary 1 Who'd have thought it!"' Then suddenly, as if by inspiration, " How d'ye do L' Then we shake hands. After this he goes on more to hnnselt than me. " Odd 1 . . . why it must be-dear me ! -here he taps his breast-pocket, and appears puzzled. I ask hnn has he lost anything ? ^ ax^a^ct " Eh ^ " he replies-" Xo."' Then with a short laugh, and dn mg into his right-hand pocket, '^ Xo-only my spectacles-I'm always losing them. Very extr'ord-nary ! Ah ! here they are -m h s coat-tail pocket, whence he produces an old-fashioned leather case, from which he takes a pair of spectacles, and, having wiped them 376 EATBT/R AT SKA. carefully, and tried them first, by holding them several inches away from him, where, I am persuaded, he cannot see them at all, he adjusts them on his nose, blinks several times, then takes a good look at me through them. This examination proving my identity to his satisfaction, he says, " Ah ! dear me ! . . so it is ! . . . Lless my soul ! Very extr'ord'nary ! . . . got very stout, eh ? " I retort upon him with, " Well, youve got very bald since I last saw you." He passes his hand over his head with quite a surprised look, as if he'd had plenty of hair in the morning, but had somehow lost it since breakfast. Ascertaining by this jn-ocess that my informa- tion is not altogether incorrect, he rei)lies, "Ah, j-es ! um — but — um — I've a great deal more hair than I had a year ago." I tell him, when we become confidential, that I am travelling for the benefit of my health, to find some place to suit me, and reduce this tendency to stoutness. On hearing tliat I am engaged upon a literary work (my Analytical History of Motion, wiiich I have not touched for some time), he jjroposes that I should come and stop with him. " I think," says he, considering the matter, frowningly, " the air of our place would be just the thing for you . . . yes — um — just the very thing. We're very quiet — but — um — there's sport ... no shooting to speak of . . . and hunting just begun . . . and " evidently finding that he has exhausted all the resources of his country, he finishes up with — " and all that sort of thing." I thank him, and ask him where he lives. " ! " he says, as if this was a sort of home-thrust on my part, and he wasn't prepared for it, " — ah — yes — " then he laughs shortly, "rather out of the way — Cornwall — " Here he pauses, and looks straight at me, as much as to say, "What do you tliink of tliat ^" I say, " 0, indeed ! Cornwall ! " as quite a matter of course. If he'd said " Northumberland " or " Nova Scotia," my rej)ly would probably have been the same. After all, why shouldn't he live in Cornwall, or in Northumberland, or in Nova Scotia ? "Yes," he continues, apparently pleased at finding that I neither go off into fits of laughter, nor throw any doubt upon his informa- tion : " Cornwall . . . Penwiffle . . . Cornwall." Then he looks at me once more, to see how I take this. MY HEALTH. 377 Flash. — He's evidently been accustomed to meet with ill-bred strangers, who, on hearing the name of " Penwiffle, Cornwall," have been vers- much amused, and been unable to repress their merri- ment. I, on the contraiy, take it gravely, as if an existence at Penwififle was a matter too serious for joking. T tell him that if I don't find my Aunt at Exeter, I will return with him. He is going to Exeter on business, and this will suit him. " "We're a very quiet party," he says, presently, in an apolo- getic tone, "Perhaps too quiet for you ... no balls ... or parties." Flash. — Does he begin to be sorry he asked me ? Why should he think I'm not quiet? I reply that I prefer quiet, and that I think I've been having too much excitement and worrj' lately. My thoughts revert to the yacht, and Miss Straithmere. "Ah ! that's all right, then," returns Pendell, clearly much relieved at hearing from mvself that I do not want a large dinner party ever\^ evening with a masked ball three times a week. Then he continues, always jerkily, as if giving me the dramatis personce ofPenwiffle — " There's only my wife . . . um — she'll be delighted to see you — um." He stops, and I put in, feeling obliged to say something, " You're married, eh ? " After-Flash. — Stupid observation on my part. He tells me he has got a w-ife, and I ask him if he's mamed. Not€. — Xot to do this again. Pendell sees no offence in the inten'uption, and answers, " yes. Married eight years ago . . . Six children. Six — um — six — " thmks it over ; then repeats, as if he just arrived at the sum total — "Yes, six children." "How old is the eldest ?" I ask. Flash. — Haven't I done wrong in accepting an invitation where there are six children 1 Time to reverse my decision before reaching Exeter. " Ah ! " he exclaims, then repeats my question. " How old . . . um . . . let me see. Well — um." Then, with a laugh — "I don't 378 RATHER AT SEA. know. But," he reassures me, " my wife does — she knows — " then to himself, and looking away from me towards the other window — '' she knows." Silence for some time. Pendell, who has evidently been turning over in his mind what I've told him about my book, suddenly observes, " If you're writing — um — I can show you lots of character . . . plenty of character in Cornwall." 1 thank him. I like character. "0 yes," he continues, "we'll have a very jolly time." He is t]uite brightening up in anticipation of my visit. This is hearty and liospitable. " Yes — let me see. I'll ask Old Ruddock, of Polkivel, to meet me " — this sounds interesting — " /w-V/ amuse you . . . and — yes — my stepmother's staying with us now . . . she's deaf . . . very deaf . . . and — um — my wife's a great invalid — you won't see much of her . . . and — there's my half- brother . . . don't suppose you've ever met him . . . he's got over a fever lately . . . and . . . he's — um— he's a little silly in his head . . . but" — cheering up again — "I'll ask Old Kuddock to meet you one night at dinner ; he'll amuse you — he's a great character," here he iinislies with a laugh at some comic reminis- cence of Old Ruddock of Polkivel. "He's very amusing, then, eh?" I ask smiling, and getting up as much interest as I possibly can in Old Ruddock, whom, some- how, I dislike intuitively. Flash (of Strait hmere). — " Wh?/ " dislike him ? A 7is. — Don't know. Pendell answers my question enthusiastically. " yes, Old Huddock — ha ! ha ! " here he laughs, evidently at somejokeof the old wag — " Old Ruddock ! — he'll amuse you — if he'll only talk. That's it," he continues, his enthusiasm suddenly cooling down, on this reservation about Old Ruddock occurring to him, "That's it ... if he'll talk. Sometimes, when he dosn't know people, he won't say a word." Clearly an entertaining person. Old Ruddock. Exeter. No Aunt. "When Pendell has finished his business, go back with him to Penwiffle, Cornwall. Flash. Never been to Cornwall. Make notes. Cornwall — Characters. MY HEALTH. CHAPTER XXXYII. TO PENWIFFLE DRIZZLY DRIVE DARK PROBABLE RESULTS — RUD- DOCK AGAIN DIALECT IMPRESSIONS CHARACTERS FLASHES STORY OF A MAN WHO — ETCETERA JEROBOAM DONKEY CART METHUSALEH ALL CHARACTERS BETWEEN ME AND THE POST ON THE BRIDGE WHY CONJUROR ? DANGEROUS A PUZZLE THE WAGGONER DIFFICULTIES JERKS THUMPS BUMPS CAREERING JEROBOAM JEHOSHAPHAT PENWIFFLE REACHED. T" E station {Com icall.) Peiidell says that we have four miles to drive before we arrive at his house. Dark night. Drizzling, slightly. " yes," says he, in answer to my question as to the means of conveyance, "My trap'll be here.'"' Hope so. sincerely. In a new at- mosphere, in a fresh county, before you"re, as it were, acclimatised, there's nothing so dangerous as getting damped ; not wet through, but damped. It means rheumatism, cramps, pains, shootings, and all the fearful things that appear in an adver- tised list of complaints curable by some patent medicine. Pendell says to me, quietly " You notice the Station-Master. He's a character." I ask him if he's as great a character as Old 380 BAT HE E AT SEA. Kuddock, whom he mentioned. " Ah ! " he says, smacking his hps, ''he's a character," and then he laughs " Ha ! ha ! " abruptly, as if at some recollection of a joke of Old Ruddock's. First Notes on Cornwall {which I make while Pendell is giving directions to the Porter about the luggage). Strange dialect, as if the people were more or less angry with one another. That's the first impression. My second impression is, tliat I don't understand more than half of what they're saying. A labourer is leaning against the railings, and speaking to the Station-Master. I watch him, expecting to hear something from the " character." I fancy that (as it does not sound angrily in this instance) a joke, a retort, and a repartee, have passed between them ; and that the Station-Master, judging from his sudden silence, while the others are laughing, is getting the worst of it. Noting down the only repartee that I am able to catch, I fiud that it sounds something like this : — Labourer {lolling against railings, and laughing at Station- Master). Make a twarry wiska twarry, ay 1 Pioars of laughter at this sally. " The character " walks off silently. Perhaps this is what makes him a character. Then they look round at me. Flash. — Being in a strange country, ingratiate yourself with the people. X smile does it. I smile, and / tJiink it does it. They look at one another as much as to say, " He's not such a bad sort of fellow after all, though he doesn't belong to these parts." Talking of getting on well in a strange country, reminds me that I once met a man who knew no language but his own, and who told me that he had never had any sort of dijfhculty in making himself understood abroad by smiles, nods, and by knowing the names and airs of several songs out of Italian Operas, and also of some popular French ballads. On the strength of this last accom- l^lishment, he told me he stopped for nearly a week as the guest of a distinguished Family in Switzerland, who, I suppose (the truth has occurred to me since), didn't know how to get rid of him, because they couldn't say good bye in English. He also told me that he very nearly married an Italian Countess, whom he met at a small inn on the Rhine, and with whom, after table MY HEALTH. 381 cr/wte, he had exchanged the names and tunes of at least twenty songs while sitting out in the moonlight sipping May-wine, and smoking mild tobacco. He had a scheme for proposing to her which was very simple. He was going (he told me) to have turned his signet ring round so as to conceal the stone, and only show the plain gold semi-circle, and to have proffered this, touch- ing his heart with it fii^st, and then raising his eyebrows in- quiringly, and singing '' Tu 7)1 ami.'" from Zes Huguenots. This ingenious plan came to nothing, however ; as, while he was arranging his ring, and settling the proper key for his tune, he noticed a wedding-ring and a keeper on the lady's finger. This settled the question, so he simply sang the ''Good Sight" from the Barber of Seville (which, by the way, he pronounces " Boney Sarah" not much of a compliment to the Italian Countess), and by addin'^ '' Partons pour la Syrie" implied that he was off next morning for Mayence, allegorically represented by tlie Syria of the song. I also notice Pendell reappears. "Hallo!" he exclaims, "here you are!" Then, with a short laugh, " Aha ! I've been looking for you, everywhere. Aha 1 I'm so short-sighted, and this light so bad, that I can hardly see two inches in front of me.'"' I follow him out. A gig is in waiting for us. " Jeroboam ! " Pendell suddenly calls out, peering into the darkness. Flash. —I am startled. There's an awful sound about it. In the darkness, in a new county, with a shadowy gig-horse before me, suddenly to hear a voice challenging a reply from out of the ploom, with " Jeroboam ! " Is it a pass-word ] Xo . . . A voice says — " YezzuiT." The answer proceeds, apparently, from the horse's mouth. Intelligent Flash. — Cornwall is a County of Legends and Poetic Tradition, and I see at once how this occurrence, if handed down from generation to generation, would become at last the weU- known story of Pendell's Talking Horse. Being accustomed to the light, or rather want of it, I now per- ceive a man holding the horse. This is Jeroboam. "Ah!"' says Pendell, in a satisfied tone; "that's all right. 382 BATHER AT SEA. Jeroboam ^vill bring the luggage after us in a cart : he'll sit on it, and — um — um — " here he is mounting to the driving seat. " Methusaleh will drive him home." I feel that I open my mouth, nose, and lift my eyebrows with astonishment. Extraordinary place, Cornwall ! Jeroboam sitting on my luggage in a donkey-cart, driven by Methusaleh ! I repeat, aloud, to myself, " Jeroboam." "Ah!" says Pendell, "he's a character — quite a character." " So," he adds, after a little thought, probably to compare the two. " So is Methusaleh ! " I wonder to myself whether they're characters like Old Ruddock and the Station-Master. Kit admirari — but I can't help remarking to Pendell that these names sound a little odd. "Ah, yes," he replies; "yes" — he is leaning well forward, always peering into the darkness — "You may let her go, Jeroboam." Jeroboam obe3's, and the mare starts, showing an inclination at first, for the right-hand side of the road. " Um ! " says Pendell, smacking his lips, and then shaking his head. " Very extr'ord'nary ! " I ask if anything's the matter 1 " No," he returns ; " she's a little restive, p'r'aps, after standing about " — then he suddenly shouts out, " Hey ! " to something on his rioht. It is one of the posts of the gate leading out of the station. " Aha ! " he laughs, on discovering this ; "I am getting so blind at night, I don't think I can see an inch before me." Perhaps the post is a character. Shouldn't be surprised. We have four miles to drive. Mild Iiuiuiry. — " I suppose — at least I sincerely hope, that it's a pretty straight road to your house." "Um!" replies Pendell, considering — "nasty in parts; sharp turnings and narrow lanes." Again he shouts out, "Hey!" mean- ing that somebody, or something, on his right, is to get out of his way. MY HEALTH. 383 It is the corner of a pnrapet, which, / can clearly see, even on such a night as this, borders a bridge over the river. " I -was once talking to a fellow who was sitting beside me when I was driving," says Pendell, with a keen relish of the humour of the proceeding, " and we came right up against the corner that we've just passed." It occurs to me to ask him, " Do you often drive 1 " "Drive ! " he repeats : " Lor' bless you 1 yes — always." Then, with his usual short laugh, " Aha — um ! I V€7y seldom have any accidents — very seldom. Get up, Conjuror ! Tchk ! Conjuror ! Pst — st — St ! " All this to the horse, whose name, I perceive, is Conjuror. I can't help asking Pendell why he called his horse Conjuror. "Ah, yes," says he, evidently pleased, "I called him Conjuror, because of his tricks." "What tricks?" "Oh, all sorts" — here Conjuror stnmbles — "^ATioop, Conjiu-or! Hallo ! Tchk ! old horse ! " Then he whistles, and peers into the darkness. Flash. — Better not talk to him, or distract his attention from his driving. "It's all pretty clear here," he says. We are on a broad road. I am sure something is in front of us A large waggon, I fancy, coming towards us. I don't like exactly to point out such an object as this to him. He might think that I was interfering. He doesn't seem to see it. AVe are driving, too, on om' vrrong side. I hardly like, either, to remark on this novelty, as it may be a Cornish as well as a French custom. I am sure it is a large waggon coming towards us. Most dangerous. I ask, "Isn't there a ." He interrupts me; "Ah," he says, thrusting his head forward, "I was — um — wonder- ing whether that was anything. I can't," he adds, slowly, and not checking the horse's trot for a second, '' I can't make out whether it's a man or a cart." Half a minute decid s the question. A loud shout from the wagfroner, who is luckily walking by the side of his team, a sudden pull over to the left on PendeU's part, I grasp the side of the gig, and in another three seconds we have passed by the waggon. 384 BATHER AT SEA. Flash. — Not show nervousness. Be cheerful over it. Say "Ah ! that was near." Pendell stamps on the footboard, and laughs heartily. " Xear ! " he exclaims, " oho — um — that's nothing ! Pst-tchk ! Getaway with you, Conjuror ! " " Wouldn't he find it useful to wear his spectacles," I suggest. "Xo, not a bit," he replies, "Spectacles — no good at night." "But lamps," I say; "wouldn't you find lamps of sume service ? " "0 yes," he replies; "most people nse 'em about here. But I don't when I'm driving myself. Can't see anytliing when I've got lamps. Get up, old Conjuror!" — which adjuration seems neces- sary, old Conjuror having been, for the third time, aa nearly do\vn on his nose as ever I saw a horse. " Pst-tchk ." 1 feel a sort of scooping motion, as if I was being shovelled round somewhere in a spoon, while Pendell is tilted up a little on his side. Then the bump of a rut, — and Pendell and I are sitting evenly again. Flash. — "We have just come round one of the nasty corners. Perhaps the nastiest. I ask him if this is so. " no," he replies, "that's nothing." " But," I protest, "your side was up on the bank." " Was it ? " he says ; then adds, contidentially, " Well, the fact is, that turning took me by surprise. The old mare knew it . . . Conjuror knew it . . . um — but I thought it was further on, pst-tchk ! " Here he chuckles to himself as if the chance of an accident was the funniest thing he'd known for a long time. I ask him what amuses him ? He replies, " Oh — Old Ptuddock — aha ! — he's quite a character. You must meet him — aha " — and we're nearly into a ditch, or hole of some sort. Bang — jerk — bump. Ruts. Xearly out of our seats. " Most of our roads are first-rate here," he informs me ; "but this bit — um — I don't know — um — I must speak at our Board meeting about this . . . ." Bump — bump, jerk, bump. Holding on. Whish ! up on mij side, do^^Tl on his; result, we are round another corner, safely. Three more corners. Then Pendell asks, "Can you see a gate before you, eh ? " MY HEALTH. 385 Before I have time to reply that I have noticed something white, Conjuror, who doesn't want to be pulled up, cleverly saves his nose by stopping short of the gate by a foot. "Aha ! shut ! bless my soul — um — that's that idiot Jeroboam." Pendell gives me the reins, and descends. He opens the gate, and I drive in. " Here we are I " says Pendell, remounted on the box. We are driving up an avenue. Beyond this I can see nothing. But there are no more corners. Lights from the windows of the house visible at last. I almost expect to find my hair turned white in a single night when I get do^sTi. "Welcome," says Pendell, cheerily, "to Penwiffle." Then suddenly to himself, "I wonder "—"Vhat ?" I ask. "I was wondering," he says, " if Jehoshaphat's in," Then he bawls, ' Jehoshaphat." Good gracious ! What a set of names. 386 RATHER AT SEA. CHAPTER XXXYIII. THE PRIORY VALUE OF A STRANGER STORY OF ANOTHER MAN WHO ETCETERA — MY HEALTH — HAPPINESS WHY ? — FLASH MRS. PENDELL — ENCORE RUDDOCK DINING ROOM RULES FOR SUPPER-EATING — EXPLANATION OF PUZZLE — SLEEPINESS BED. JEHOS H APH AT emerires from somewhere with a lantern, or — it being so dark it flashes across me that— The Finish. — A lantern emerges from somewhere with Jehoshaphat. Then lantern, Jehoshaphat, horse, and tra}) vanish into the gloom. A burst of light, and we are in the hall of Tenwiffle Priory. Plash —Why Priory ? I ask this. "Eh?" replies Pendell, pausing in taking off his top-coat to consider the matter ; this evidently being quite a new idea to him. J^^ote. — A Stranger is valuable in a place to which you've become accustomed, because he starts some new ideas. I recollect a friend who had lived for two years in what he called a Country Paradise. Stranger came do^v^l. " Charming, eh ? " said my friend, expecting Stranger to be in raptures. " Um ! " replied Stranger, sniffing — (startling to get a Sniffing Stranger — it makes you look about, and arouses suspicion)— " What's the matter?" asked my friend, uneasily. "Drains all right here, eh?" asked the Sniffing Stranger, breaking it to him gently. Then 1 remember well MY HEALTH. 387 w-hat happened then — my friend became nervous ; he lived with cans of disinfecting fluid, and nuisance-destroying powders in his liand. He was up early — he and the Stranger — both sniffing all over the garden, and making points, like truffle-dogs when they found anything under their noses, and above their comprehension. Then came discussions with gardener, gi'oom, carpenter, bricklayer, well-sinker, labourer, with suggestions from Builders, and sketches from Architects; and, finally — the property was ruined, and so Mas my friend's health. There's the secret out at last, nomine rnutato (I haven't given a name except to call him " my friend "■) tabula narratur de Me. That's the secret of my want of Health. I can trace it all back to that, I believe ; and now when I go to a friend's Happy Healthy Home, the first thing I do — if he glories in its being peculiarly healthy — is to sniff. Few men can stand it. Pendell doesn't boast that his place is so eminently salubrious, but I've brought him one fresh idea to begin with. It is, "Why is your property called the Priory ? " He's been here ten years, and he owns that no one has ever asked him this question before. It puzzles him. He ejaculates to himself several times, " Very extr'ord'nary ! " and is evidently bothered. He takes off his coat : "So do I. He ushers me into the drawing-room : quintessence of comfort. Really easy chairs. Xobody here. I sink into one <:'hair. He into another. Then I hear him repeating to himself, ^s he frowns at the log fire, " Why, Priory ? " "Yes,"' he says, presently stretching himself, and standing up on the hearth-rug, "Confound it! " he is evidently annoyed, "Why, Priory?'' Flash of mine, in ord^r to relieve him. — Perhaps the tenant, prior to you, might have called it so, because you were coming after- wards. This satisfies neither of us. Pendell regi'ets that his wife is not up, or she would have given us the real history of the Priory. '^ Sh^ knows all about it," he tells me. " She'll tell you, you'll see; but," he adds, "Old Paiddock is well up in all the •Coimty History, and he's sui'e to be right." I notice that he never can mention Old Ruddock's name without smiling to himself at some of this old gentleman's facetire. I begin to long to meet Old Ruddock. I don't know why, I picture c c 2 388 RATHER AT SEA. him as a tall man in knee-breeches and top-boots, with a low- crowned hat, but I do. In my mind's eve I see Old Ruddock. " They've put out supper for us," observes Pendell, making a move. The Dining-Eoom. — More quintessences of comfort. If we'd been ogres coming in after an unsuccessful hunt for small boys, we couldn't be more sumptuously provided for. Pies, ham, beef, jug, and tankard. Pendell says he's not much of a supper-eater. I tell him I never take it, as a rule. Flash. — Make a remarkable exception. Pie, beef, home-brewed ale — 'Hhat won't hurt you," says Pendell, who suddenly takes mc in hand, medically, — and a cigar with a glass of real Irish whisky as a " coiTective." Result. — Both seated before fire. I hear Pendell murmur, *' Whv Prioiy ? very extr'ord'nary ! " Some answer is occun-ing to me when I seem suddenly to be puzzling myself as to whether I have answered or not, and then I am awoke by a loud snore, and my head jerks forward as if a spring had given way somewhere at the nape of my neck. " Hallo ! " exclaims Pendell. Then it occurs to me that, if the snore was mine, it is time for bed. I go to bed half asleep, I undress three-quarters asleep, only conscious of not throwing my things into the fire, but anywhere else, about the floor. I think I wind up my watch. Three- quarters and a half I roll into bed. In Bed. — Fall asleep. First night at Penwiffle in search of Health. MY HEALTH. 389 CHAPTER XXXIX. EARLY TO RISE— FRESHNESS— FATIGUE— INVIGORATIOX— THE IN- CORRECT TIP— FLASH— HOSPITALITY— TUM-TUM-TUMMING— GOOD NEWS— TINTAGEL IN VIEW— RUDDOCK AGAIN— A NEW CHARACTER —THE LANDLORD— MORE CHARACTERS— DRAWING-OUT PROCESS —MR. BENNY— FLASH— TORBLE— ANOTHER CHARACTER— WHERE IS HE 1— NOTES— STATISTICS— POSTMAN — GEORGE — ANOTHER CHARACTER. PEN DELL, of Penwiffle, is up early. Chi-rr-up-ing. Talk- ing to dogs and dependents. Three of the dependents are cats, one of them being a remark- ably fine specimen. "Quite like a dog," says Pendell. "Most extr'ord'nary cat." He is fresh. I am not. He comes into my room and draws the curtains. I expected to have jumped out of bed invigorated by the air of Cornwall, and inhaled new life through the open window. On the contrary, I beg him 7iot to open the win- doAv. The tip of my nose feels like an anti-climax. I mean it is burningly cold, or frigidly hot. The bridge seems very much larger than usual. Flash.— 'i:^ot the Bridge of Sighs, but the Bridge of Double the Size. 390 BATHE E AT SEA. I feel that if I get up I shall have a lively headache. I feel that, also, if I lie in bed I shall have a sleepy headache. My eyes ache. " I am afraid," I say to Pendell, " that Cornwall doesn't agree with me." " Hum ! " he replies, with his usual short laugh ; "he ! he I— lun — you took too much supper last night." I don't think (as far as I can think, mistily, about anything, in my present condition, and in bed) that Pendell is right. No man likes to be told that the place where he lives is in any way unhealthy. If you tell him that there's a dampness somewhere about, he will be offended, and retort, " Oh no ! impossible ! " If you insist upon it, he will think you disagreeable, and won't ask you again when you particularly waut an invitation. If you further press upon him that, to live in such an atmosphere, or, rather, to remain for only a few hours breathing such poison, is dangerous, he will point to himself and his children, and say, ' Look here ! we're all very well ! " Aud if they are, you can only add, " Well, voull see ; " as much as to say, " There ! I've warned you." Pendell will have it that 1 ate too much at supper ; that I eat too much generally ; that I don't take sufficient exercise ; that I sleep too long, and go to bed too late. That, in fact, I do every- thing too something or other. As for Penwiffle in any way disagreeing with me, he won't hear of it. Breakfast. — No appetite. Bad sign. Hospitality always shows out in sideboard arrangements. Cold things on sideboard. Hot things on a sort of steel gridiron before the fire. Mrs. Pendell down. Picture of health. Wish I was. Children at their music lesson. It sounds as if somebody was tuning only five notes of the piano, and couldn't get 'em right anyhow. Begin to feel that The Last Rose of Summer is being played as a tunei^'s dirge, in my head. I follow it : turn, turn (pause;, turn, then a high turn, as if a successful jump had been made, and the performer had alighted safely, and was taking breath. Children are, I am informed, going away to-day for a week's holiday to their grand- mamma's. Of course I express my regret. MY HEALTH. 391 Pendell has arranged, he says, a day for me. We're to go and see Tintagel. And be home to dinner to meet Ruddock. Pendell never can mention "Old Ruddock" without laughing. His wife smiles too. Ruddock is evidently the wag of this locality. I calculate on the effects of what to-day's exercise will be on me. Change of atmosphere. Walking. Jolting, when driving. Laugh- ing in the evening at Ruddock's jests. A carriage comes to fetch us. Pendell is not going to drive. A relief. He whispers in my ear that he doesn't drive to-day as he has hired a carriage and horses for the trip, on purpose that I may see the driver, because " he's such a character." " Is he ? " I say, and look at him as he sits on the box. A weather-beaten, crabbed face, and dressed not unlike an under- taker in top-boots. I remark, as we start, in what a lovely situa- tion Penwiffle is placed. Fine bold view of hill and dale. jVote. — This makes up for having hinted at its not agreeing with me. Pendell is very anxious that we should go through some village, and stop at the inn to make some trivial inquiry. " Just," he says, in explanation, " to draw the Landlord out. I want you to see him — imi — aha !— he's a regular character. He's well kno^Ti about here. Quite a character." Our Coachman has as yet (and we've been five miles) done nothing to entitle himself to being ranked among the Cornwall ' characters." He returns a " Yes " or " No " to a question, drives very carefully, and knows the road well. Oil reflection, perhaps this is what makes him a Character. Other Comishmen would, it may be, give you a rigmarole by way of reply, drive recklessly, and take the wrong tm-nings. The Landlord of the Three Crows. — He comes out. A tall, fresh- looking man, dressed in gamekeeperish fashion. I watch the process by which Pendell is going to "draw out" this character for my special amusement. " Good morning, Mr. Benny," says Pendell. " Morning, Sir," says Mr. Benny. Both cheerily. So far the exhausting process hasn't done much. I wait. 392 BATHER AT SEA. " Fine morning, eh ? " says Pendell, with a laugh. I smile too, out of compliment, and in a general way to encourage the perform- ance. Now is Mr. Benny's time to come out as a character. "Yes, Sir, it is fine," he replies cheerfully, "for the time of year." "Yes," returns Pendell, and looks at me, and laughs. I laugh, too. Why, I don't know. I've not noticed any eccen- tricity on the part of Mr. Benny. Ah ! he's going to give us a witticism now. He says, " Will you step in, Gentlemen, and take a glass of anything ? " " No, thank you : much obliged," answers Pendell. I express myself to the same effect. Mr. Benny raises his hat politely, we bow royally, our Coachman gives a flick of the whip to his horses (perhaps this is a touch of character), and on we go again. I look back to see if Mr. Benny shows any signs of eccentric character when w^e're gone. I rather expect to see he's throwing his hat up, doing a few funny steps in the road, or letting off a firework. No, he is talking quite quietly to a farming man : and so we gradually lose sight of him. " Is Mr. Benny a great character ? " I ask Pendell. Pendell looks at me with surprise, as much as to say, " Why ! Good gracious ! didn't you see what a character he was ? Didn't I draw him out for you ? " But he only says, " 0, yes — um — he's a great character." A wild road. Dartmoor generally visible with an association about it of mists and convicts. Houses put down at hap-hazard in different spots at a considerable distance from one another. A mansion in the distance, five miles off from its ovm lodge- gates. "Nice little distance," Pendell observes, "if you want to send down to the lodge-keeper to tell him you're not at home if any- body calls." Flash. — Private telegraph on grounds. Pendell thinks this is a Notion. He will mention it to the OAvner. MY HEALTH. 393 ^^ote. — As I've remarked before, a visitor always brings new ideas with him. This suggestion of mine — to what may it not lead 1 Telegraphs private, public, new stations, new lines, more houses, united villages, entirely New To^\'n. Pendell wishes our driver (the character) to take the right road instead of the left. He does so. " It's a little longer, perhaps,'' he observes, " but you'll see ^[r. Torble the clergyman here." "A Character?" I ask. " quite. He's always standing at his door." We drive on. Eagerly watching for a sight of old Torble, Pendell puts on his spectacles, and asks the driver to point out Mr. Torble's rectory. I am, in consequence, sho%\-n it, half a mile off. More excitement. We come up to it. We drive slowly before it. There is the door where he always stands — except on this particular occasion. " Odd ! " mutters Pendell to himself. He is evidently disap- pointed. After some consideration he informs me that "perhaps he saw the carriage coming, and went in. Because," he adds, " old Torble is shy . . . and — um — perhaps he didn't want to be at home to visitors. He's quite a character." Notes and Statistics made on the Road. — The banks on either side as you get towards the coast look as if thousands of revolu- tionary schoolboys had got loose, had broken their slates, and stuck the bits all about, everywhere. ;^ote 2. — A stone-breaker on the road. It flashes across me that I've never heard of a stone-breaker rising to any social eminence. Perhaps they take to it too late in life. TS'-Qte 3. — Everyone in Cornwall is a Character. But residence is absolutely necessary to the drawing-out their eccentricities. For instance, the Postman at Penwiffle, Pendell says, "is a regular character." It subsequently appears that what Pendell means by this is, that the Postman sometimes delivers the ^vrong letter, sometimes forgets them altogether, and often mislays a newspaper or a packet. I suggest as an amendment in the description, " an irregular character." 394 BATHER AT SEA. Another character is a coachman at a friend's house. Pendell tells me that Isaac (his friend's coachman) is quite a character. He is summoned from the stable for my special examination. He staggers up, and is so stupid as to be unintelligible. Thei/ say, " 0, he's quite a character." I say to myself, " he's nearly drunk." Pendell informs me that he has distinguished himself as a " cha- racter " by upsetting the carriage twice, and by once, accidentally, setting fire to the stable. However, in consideration of his being a character, these incidents in his career were overlooked as belonging to the eccentricities of genius. N'ote 4. — Jeroboam, David, Xoah, and other Scriptural names are quite common, and they all throng to " Little Bethels" on Sunday. I^ote 5. — "When a man's name is not Scriptural, you may be pretty certain he is called George. Hfote 6. — The cows in Cornwall are remarkably intelligent. They get drunk on oats. I saw one in this state for an hour. Luckily, the cow couldn't see me. " Do I know," says Pendell, " what to do with 'em when they're like this." A Flash. — Soda-water in troughs. (Send this idea to Mr. Mechi. Just the thing for a model farm at Christmas.) I^ote 7. — You are always going up-hill in Cornwall. Coming down is only an exception that proves the rule. J}fote 8. — " The woman who is to show us over Tintapjel Castle is a regular character," says Pendell. "She's always in her cottage." We call. She isn't. ^'Just like Jier 1 " says PendelL On the summit of Tintagel. Among the ruins. Tennysonian inspiration for an Arthurian idyll : — Let us he agile, Climb up Tintagel, Euin so fragile. I explain to Pendell — "agile" pronounced " agel" by poetic licence. Difference of opinion. Hot work climbing up here. Hungry. Good sign. Seabreeze. More hungry. Let us descend tx) the Inn. " Urn ! " says Pendell ; " you must see the Landlady there : she's quite a character." MY HEALTH. 395 CHAPTER XL. ARTHURS SEAT — CASTLE-CHAPEL WILD FLOWERS INFORMATION LUNCHEON RETURN HOUNDS TO-MORROW AFTER THE OTTER NERVOUSNESS — THRILL FLASH VIEWS — IDEAS BOOTS CORDS — HOW ABOUT DRIVING? " J. P." IMAGINARY COSTUME ROMANCE OF OTTER-HUNTING ENCORE RUDDOCK THE TRE- GONIES OF TREGIVEL — SOME BODDS — OTHER BODDS TRELISSACS OF TRELISSAC — CHARACTERS COMING. TINTAGEL is magnifi- cent. We climb up to the highest point, and are glad to lie down first, then calmly sit up and admire the view. Tintagel has, indeed, a " character.'"' Pendell points out the wild flowers to me, with the information that he doesn't know any- thing about them. We ex- amine the site of the old chapel in the Castle, and find the probable position of the ancient altar. Pendell observes that my surmises are likely to be right ; but the only person who knows everything about it is the old clergy-man Torble, who ought to have been standing at his garden gate when we passed, but wasn't. Then we descend the height, and go to the inn for luncheon. After this we return from Tintagel — tned. Evidently not strong, because I sleep all the way back in the trap. Pendell says, " Aha ! — um — that's not weakness. You ate too much 396 BATHER AT SEA. lunch. Get you all right to-morrow, with a run with the otter- hounds. Last day of the season." Flashy across me. — I've not ridden for a long time. Got no boots or breeches with me. " Nothing I should have enjoyed so much," I say, "only that — " then I gave my reason. Note on, and to myself. I'm sure that my stay at My Aunt's has made me nervous. I don't think that Wetherby's steam-launch improved me ; and I'm sure that Pendell's driving has sliattered me completely. Consequently, when he mentions suddenly a run with the hounds, I feel a sort of thrill through me, which is not exactly pleasurable ; but it is not unlike what one might experi- ence if a strong-minded medical man, to whom you had entrusted the supervision of your general health, unexpectedly turned round to you in his carriage when you thought you were out for a pleasant drive with him, and said, " Look here, I'm going to take you to Sir William Fergusson's to have you examined, and if it's necessary, he can operate at once." In my present? state of nerves, I don't know what I should do on hearing such an announcement. Faint, perhaps, or let down the window and scream for assistance. In the latter case, the medical man would probably change his mind, and direct the coachman to drive to Dr. Forbes Wiuslow's. I haven't asked Pendell to take me out hunting. Flash. — Chorus of the old Tantivy song, adapted to my present circumstances — "A hunting we wiU ^not' go, my boys ! " I don't like — in fact I dont think it hospitable for a man, with whom you are staying for pleasure, to say arbitrarily, in effect, "Now to-morrow you will be put on a horse that you've never ridden before, whose height, length, and breadth may not suit you, whose temper you don't know, whose leaping qualifications may be extraordinary, or may not, and you will be taken on the back of this animal (as long as you remain there) over so many miles of coimtry, so many hedges, so many stone walls (it flashes across me that they are all stone walls in Cornwall with sharp slates at the top), and whether you ever reappear again safe and sound it is impossible to conjecture ; but if you don't break your neck, or MY HEALTH. 397 your arm, or your leg. and if you do come back all right, then — then — youll have a capital appetite for dinner." This all occm-s to me before Pendell replies that, " There's no necessity for breeches and boots." " Ah ! '"' I say, with the air of a man who is accustomed to Leicestershire, '' that's all very well, but it doesn't do for a stranger to appear in a field unless he's properly got up." (My mind is made up, "A hunting we do jiot go, my boys.") I add, so as not to appear to be shirking the sport, which I admit I love, that " If Mrs. Pendell is going to drive or ride to the meet, I would accom- pany her ; and we could " — a little hesitation here — " we coLild see something of it." It appears, however, that Mrs. Pendell is not going. Pendell goes on to explain, that when he said breeches and boots were not necessary, he meant that I needn't ride imless I liked. I am astonished at this suggestion. It occurs to me suddenly that I've seen a lot of good-for-nothing people in seal-skin caps and highlows in attendance at meets, specially of harriers, who by know- ing the country, turn up at various checks, are in at the death, and see the whole sport on foot. They are cads, I have always imagined, who make a livelihood out of accidents on the hunting field, catch- ing horses, holding them, opening gates, leading nervous men's horses over " nasty places," (this from experience) and so forth. A class of men I detest. They would make excellent camp-followers and spend their summer in boating localities and at race-meetings. Surely it is not as one of these that a Cornish squii-e wishes me to appear in the hunting-field ! I merely say with sarcastic smile, — " 0, I couldn't hunt on foot." "I shall," returns Pendell. Can I believe my ears 1 Yes, Pendell of Penwiffle, of the ancient Pendell Family, Squire, J.P., and Chairman of Boards, Vestries, and of everything in this part of the country where there is a chair to be taken, tells me seriously that he is going out hunting, afoot ! " In what dress ? '' I ask, incredulously. " — knickerbockers and gaiters, and — um — flannel," he replies, and then adds, '' I can lend jou flannels, they're the best for run- 398 RATHER AT t^EA. "But," I ask, "do many people rim ?" He informs me that nearly everybody runs, as riding is almost impossible, and reminds me that he is talking of the Otter hounds. Flash. — Ah ! of course — Ansdell's or Landseer s picture. Hand- some young Keeper, in velvet, with long spear, holding up Otter, hungry dogs, open-mouthed, all around. 0, that':^ another thing ! Ha ! ha ! I'm with him, with pleasure. If it had been fox-hounds, I now say, I was thinking whether I should have had time to have telegraphed home for my boots, and whether, if they could find them (for I fancy they were put away with a fancy dross costume of an Austrian Hussar), they could send 'em dowTi to me here (over four hundred miles from my house), by to-morrow morning. Otter-hunting by all means ! To-morrow ! Ih'avo ! Here we are at Penwiffle. In time for dinner. To meet Old Ruddock. Mrs. Pendell tells us that a letter has just been received from Old Ruddock. "Aha!" says Pendell, chuckling, and smacking the side of his dght leg with his stick : "just like him ! Aha ! Old Ruddock ! '' Then he laughs again. It only appears from this that it's just like Old Ruddock to send a letter; nothing more. Rut tliis hardly makes him the great " character " that Pendell says he is. It appears from this characteristic letter that Old Ruddock, of Ruddock, has accepted, by mistake ("Just like him! Aha!" interposes Pendell, enjoying the note immensely), the invitation to dinner for to-morrow night — not to-night. No Ruddock to- night. Pendell is sorry that we are not going to have him all to our- selves, as he says to me, "You'd have dmwn him out. And — and — he's a — aha ! — he's a great character I " Mrs. Pendell smiles gently at the fun, as if she were recalling some happy memory of an evening with Ruddock. I am inclined to ask her quietly if he is such a character really. Women see a character at once. She'll know. I postpone the inquiry. But I can't help being curiouy as to old Ruddock, of Ruddock." Pendell is glad after all, he says, that he's not coming to-night, J/r HEALTH. 399 as he'll be such fun tomon-ow, when it appears there is to be a large party. "Let's see," says Pendell, "now there are the Tregonies of Tregivel ; then there's Miss Trelissac and her brother, then Bodds of Landagle " "Xo, dear," inteiTupts Mrs. Pendell. " The Landagle Bodds can't come, so I sent to their cousins." " — um," savs Pendell, as if meditating upon the social value of the change. "Ah I the Bodds of Popthlanack — um — well?" Mrs. Pendell answers this inquiry' with the announcement that '* The Popthlanack Bodds are coming," which, on the whole, seems to satisfy Pendell, though, for choice, it is evident he would have prefen-ed the Landagle Bodds. I remark that he seems well off for neighbours. " Um 1 " replies Pendell, thoughtfully, " Well — um — yes. The Landagle Bodds, if they'd have come, would have had to drive fifteen miles to dinner and fifteen back. The Popthlanack Bodds — mn — let me see — yes, they live about — eh ? " Here he appeals to his wife. Mrs. Pendell supposes that the Popthlanack Bodds are distant from Penwiffle some fourteen or sixteen miles. Old Ruddock will have to drive twenty-four before he's finished the evening, but then he's a chamcter, and to think of Old Piuddock walking, driving, or riding, is only a meiTV thought to Pendell, at all events, whatever the fact may be to Old Ruddock. The Tregonies of Tregivel A;\ill drive ten miles to dinner, and the Trelissacs have about nine and a half to get over. Another Xote on Cornwall. — Hospitality and Sociability are eminently the marks of a coimtry where such distances are no bai' to frequent dinner parties, balls, private theatricals, and all sorts of genial foregatherings. 400 RATHER AT SEA, CHAPTER XLI. TO BED TAKING SOMETHING A READING — TEMPUS FUGIT — ELEVEN P.M. — MORNING — A-HTJNTING WE WILL GO CERTAINTY OF RUD- DOCK BREAKFAST PASTIES AND CIDER ON OUR ROAD CHILLY — TUMBLE-DOWN INN SHIVERING SPORTSMEN— A JEST — RETROSPECTIVE OTTERS SPEARS INQUIRIES NOTES — DANGERS OF OTTER-HUNTING CROWD THE FIELD — BY THE BANK A MiLEE — SAFETY IN FLIGHT OLD RUDDOCK — WHERE ? ALK over all these arrangements at din- ner. Then, as we have, Pendell tells me, to be up early for otter-hunt- ing, we determine upon going to bed early. Process of Going to Bed Early.— ^Ir^. Pen- dell retires at nine, having seen that " everything we want," is left out on the side- board. Pendell ob- serves that he shan't be half an hour at most before he's up- stairs. I ya^Ti, to show how tired I am, and corroborate his statement as to the time we intend to pcss in front of the fire. Mrs. Pendell has retired. Pendell wishes to know what 111 take. Nothing, I thank you. Pendell doesn't " think— um— that— he'll— um— take anything," and stands before a row of bottles with the critical air of a Commander-in-Chief reviewmg MY HEALTH. 401 the line. It almost looks as if he wanted a bottle to step out of the rank and invite him to make up his mind at once and take a drop of him. In order not to prevent him from enjoying himself, I sacrifice myself, and say, " "Well, I'll have just the smallest glass of whiskey." Pendell is of opinion that no one can do better than whiskey, it being, he says, the most wholesome spirit. "We whiskey. The quarter-past arrives. "We take no notice of it, except that Pendell remarks that that clock is about twelve minutes fast, in which case, of coui'se, we have nearly half an hour at our disposal. Conversation commences. "We somehow get upon Literature, especially upon the subject of my Analytical History of Motion. Pendell quotes a line from somewhere. "We can't think where it is to be found. This leads Pendell to the book-shelves. "While he is up, would he mind just mixing me the least drop more whiskey — and vmter, plenty of water. He does so, and continues his search for the book, ending by bringing down the Ingoldshy Legends. *' Do I remember this one ? " he asks me. No, I have forgotten it. He thinks the line he quoted is there. He is, he says, going to give it at a Penny Reading, and has already done so with great success. He reads a few lines. Flash — Ask him to read. Nothing so pleasant as the sound of someone reading poetry when you're very tired, and are sitting before a good fire. Light a pipe as an aid to listening com- fortably. Better than going to bed. Besides, if he reads, it's his fault that we don't go to bed early, as we told Mrs. Pendell we would. He reads aloud. I interrupt him occasionally (opening my eyes to do so), just to show I am attending, and twice I dispute the propriety of his emphasis ; but I don't sustain my side of the argument, from a feeling that to close my eyes and be droned to sleep, is preferable to straining every nerve in order to talk and to keep awake. 11 o'clock^ P.M. — Pendell stops, and says, "Why, you're asleep ! " I reply that he is mistaken (having, in fact, just been awoke by feeling as if a spring had given way at the nape of my neck), but 1 own, candidly, to feeling a little tired. D D 402 RATHEB AT SEA. " Um ! " s.n's Pendell, and puts his selection for a Penny Read- ing away. Bed. Morning. — Am aroused by Pendell, who is always fresh. " Lovely morning," he says, opening the curtains. \_Note. — When you're only one quarter awake there's something peculiarly obtrusive in any remark about the beauty of the day. To a person comfortably in bed and wishing to remain there, the state of the weather is comparatively uninteresting, unless it's dismally foggy or thoroughly rainy, when, in either case, you can congratulate yourself upon your cleverness and forethought in not having got up.] " Is it ? " I ask. Through the window I see only mist and drizzle. " Just the morning for otter-hunting ! " exclaims Pendell, en- thusiastically. Then, as he's leaving the room, he turns, and says, " 0, by the way, Pve just remembered that Old Ruddock's pretty sure to be out with the hounds. He's great fun out hunting." This stirs me into something like exertion. Otters and Rud- dock. Ruddock, during a check, setting the field in a roar. At Breahfast. — " Um," says Pendell, thinking over something as he cuts a ham, " we shan't want to take anything with us, because Old Penolver gives us lunch. He's a picture of an Old English Squire is Penolver. Quite a picture of a — um — yes " here he apparently considers to himself whether he has given a correct definition of Penolver or not. He seems satisfied, and closes his account of him by repeating, " Yes — um — yes — an Old English Squire, you know — quite a character in his way," (I thought so,) " and you'll have pasties and cider." " Pasties ! " I exclaim. The word recalls Bluff King Hal's time, the jollifications — by my halidame ! — gadso ! — crushing a cup, and so forth. Now I have the picture before me (in my mind's eye) of the Old English Squire, attended by grooms bearing pasties and flagons, meeting the Otter Hunters with spears and dogs. Good ! Excellent ! I feel that My Health will be benefited by the air of the olden time. And perhaps by the pasties. MT HEALTH. 403 " Do any ladies come '5 " I ask. " Safe to," answers Pendell, "last day of hunting — all the ladies out — sort of show meet, and lounge." Pasties, flagons, dames, gallants with lates, and pages with beakers of wine. I am all anxiety to start. The Drive. — Bleak, misty, sharp, dreary. I am in summer costume of flannels, intended for running. Hope we sJiall have some running, as at present I'm blue with cold and shivering. Six miles finished. — "We get out at a tumble-down roadside inn. Three boys, each one lankier and colder-looking than the other, are standing together with their hands in their pockets, there being evidently among them a dearth of gloves. A rough man in a velveteen coat and leggings appears, carrying a sort of quarter- staff spiked. I connect him at once with otters. Pendell returns the salute. This is the Huntsman. The thi-ee chilly boys are the Field. We are all shivering, and evidently only half awake. Is this what Pendell calls a " show meet, and a lounge ? " Flash. — To say brightly, "Well, it couldn't have been colder for an otter hunt." The chilly boys hearing this, turn away, the man with the spear takes it literally and is offended, " because," he says, " we might ha' had a much worse day." Pendell says to himself, thoughtfully, " Um — colder — otter — ha ! Yes, I see. I've made that myself lots of times." I thought that do\vn here, perhaps, it wouldn't have been known. Never risk an old joke again. If I feel it's the only one I've got, preface it by saying, "Of course you've heard what the Attorney-General said the other day to (some one) 1 " and then, if on being told, they say, " ! that's very old," why, it's not your fault. A fly appears on the road with the Master. He welcomes Pendell and friend heartily and courteously. Is sorry that it is the last meet. Thinks it's a bad day, and in the most genial manner possible damps all my hopes of seeing an otter. "A few weeks ago," he says, " there were plenty of otters." Flcuh. — To find out if that spearing-picture is correct. Show myself deeply interested in otters. The Master says that spearing is unsportsmanlike. Damper niunber two. Xo spears. We walk on, and get a little warmer. D D 2 404 BATHE B AT SEA. More " Field " meets us : some mounted. Ifote on Otter-Hunting. — Better than fox-hunting, because you trust to your own legs. You can't be thrown, you can't be kicked off, or reared off; and, except you find yourself alone witli the otter in a corner, there's no danger. Note Number Two. Additional. — Yes, there is one other danger. A great one. Here it is : — We have been walkiug miles along the banks of a stream, crossing difficult stepping-stones, climbing over banks eight feet high [thank goodness, impossible for horses], with drops on the other side, and occasional jumpings down, which shake your teeth, but still you land on your own legs, and if you fall you haven't got a brute on the top of you, or rolling over you, or kicking out your brains with his hind hoofs. We number about sixty in the Field. The shaggy, rough hounds are working up-stream, swimming and trotting, and stopping to examine the surface of any boulder which strikes their noses as having been lately tlie temporary resting-place of an otter. A few people on horseback are pro- ceeding, slowly in single file, along the bank. Diflficult work for them. Ladies, too, are on foot, and all going along as pleasantly as possible. Suddenly a cry — a large dog is seen shaking his head wildly, and rulibing his front paws over his ears — another dog is rolling on the bank — another plunges into the river furiously, also shaking his head as if he was objecting to everything generally, and would rather drown than change his opinions. Another cry. Horses plunging — one almost in the river — shrieks of ladies — exclamations from pedestrians — the field is scattered — some attempt to ford the river — some jump right in — some on horse- back cross it shouting — some plunge into the plantation on the left — some are running back upon us ! A panic. Mad bull, perhaps — if so — with admirable presence of mind I jump into the water up to my waist, and am making for the opposite side, when a man, i-unning and smoking a short pipe, answers my question as to the bull with — " No ! Wasps ! Wasps' nest ! ! " In a second I see them. MY HEALTH. 405 At me. Pursuing me. I dive my head under water. Wet through! Scramble up bank. One wasp is after me. One pertinaciously. My foot catches in a root, I am down. Wasp down too, close at my ear. A muaute more I am up. Wasp up too, by my right ear. An Inspiration. — It flashes across me that wasps hate mud. Don't know where I heard it. Think it was in some child's educational book. Xo time for thinking. Jump — squish — into the mud ! Over my knees— boots nearly off". The last thing I see of Pendell is holding on his spectacles with his left hand, and fighting a wasp with his stick in his right. Squish — flop— flosh ! . . Up against a stump — down in a morass. Wasp at me. Close to my ear as if he wanted to tell me a secret. I won't hear it ! Now I understand why the dog shook his head. Through a bramble bush (like the man in tne Xursery Pthyme, who scratched both his eyes out and in again by a similar operation), and come out torn and scratched, but dry as a pen after being dragged through a patent wiper of erect bristles. No wasp. Gone. I am free. But still I keep on. That's the only great danger in Otter-Hunting. At least, that I know of at present. I pick up the man with pipe. Kindest creature in the world. He has two pipes, and he fills and gives me one. He says, "Wasps won't attack a smoker." Flash. — Smoke. Pendell comes up. " Um ! — aha ! " he says ; " narrow escape ! " He has not been stung. The Field is pulling itself together again. Pendell chuckles. " Did you see Old Ruddock ? " he asks. " There were two wasps at him." No ! It appears that Old Ruddock has been quite close to me throughout the day. Yet there was no laughing crowd, and I haven't heard one of Ptuddock's jokes bruited about. Odd. Wonder how the wasps liked Ruddock. 406 HAT BEE AT SEA. CHAPTER XLn. THE FORTUXE AND MISFORTUNE OF SPORT — WHERE's THE OTTER 1 THE RUN THE RESULT BACK AGAIN " NIGHT Wl' RUDDOGK " DISTANGE PUNCTUALITY AND PLEASURE — COLLARS — STUDS USUAL DIFFICULTIES THE LAST MOMENT HURRY-SCURRY HEAT EVERYBODY ARRIVED DOWN AT LAST AWKWARD CORNISH BEAUTIES RUDDOCK AT L-VST EXPECTATIONS ANTICI- PATIONS — PREPARATIONS. LITTLE way further on wo liear of an otter. A mile higher up the river we get on his trail. The hounds are MY HEALTH. 407 working. Beautiful sight. Another mile, still on his trail. We tumble over hedges and ditches, vre wade knee high through water, we squish through mud, and struggle through bogs. Another mile. More excitement. Further intelligence about the otter. Some one has seen him, yesterday night. He is quite sure that it was Twt a water-rat. Indeed, he is indignant about it. We trudge on for another mile. More wasps, more confusion. Safety reached in a meadow. Higher hedges, bruising knees, bauds scratched ; but Dogs still working. Pendell thinks we shall find the otter. The Master is silent and anxious, so is the Huntsman. Pendell shows me, from the manner of the Dogs, u'kere the otter has certainly been. We walk seven miles and stop. Xo otter. Call off, and try somewhere else. From information received next day, it appears that while we were going up the stream the otter had gone down it, which accounts for our not having met him. Also we hear that within half a mile of the next place (where we failed again) a fine otter was seen comfortably asleep. Home we return from otter-hunting. Tired, but expecting a " Xicht wi' Ruddock." He is to be at dinner, and a few very intimates are coming in the evening. The few '' very intimates" have no distance to drive — merely a matter of eight miles or so. From my window I hear carnages drawing up exactly at two minutes to seven o'clock. Punctuality in Cornwall is the soul of pleasure. Odd : at the last moment I can't find either a collar or a white tie ! " Come, Desperation, lend thy furious hold ! " Paimntage in the drawers, in the portmanteau. Staggered. Where can it be 1 — the collar, I mean. Rummage again. Getting hot and excited. Ought always to come down to dinner calm, cool, and collected. I shall be the only one late, and / hadn't to come twelve miles to dinner. Xo excuse except the real one, — " Couldn't find my collars, or a tie." Only one thing for it. Ring the bell, and ask servant. " yes, Sir ! We were changing the drawers from this room to Master's. I dessay, Sir, they're in there." They are. Rapture ! Flash. — Stirring subject for operatic and descriptive music — A Gentleman's Toilet in Diificulties. 408 BATHER AT SEA. Next Difficulty. — Drop a stud suddenly. Hear it fall close by my foot. In fact, I feel, from some peculiar sensation in my foot, that it is here, on the floor, close to me. No. Hunt for it. Can't see it anywhere. [J/em. — Xever travel without duplicate studs. Won't another time.] Still stooping : feeling about the carpet. Hands getting dirty again, hair coming unbrushcd, face growing warm and red. Flash. — The stud being, as it were, an excrescence on the carpet, can be perceived by lying on the floor, (like an Indian listening to hear if anybody's coming,) and directing your eye in a right line. After this, clothes-brush required. Stud found at last exactly where I thought it had been at first. Another Difficulty. — Time getting on. 7.10. Pendell by this time anxious below. Every one arrived. I picture to myself Ruddock in the drawing-room, tilling up the mauvais quart dlteure by satirical reflections on the dandy (me) wlio hadn't time enough to beautify himself for dinner. I should be down now, if it wasn't for the button on my collar- band. I feci that it's all over with it, if not touched gently. Once off", and worry will be my portion for the remainder of the evening. And I know what is the result of attempting to pin it. Last Difficulty, I hope. — After treating the button with sup- pressed emotion, dash at the white tie. I find myself asking myself, "Why the washerwoman ivill fold it all wrong, and starch it so that the slightest crinkle shows ? " I have no answer. Of course at any other moment I could tie it at once, and have done with it ; but now first one end's too long, then the other end's too short ; then, on the third trial, the middle part somehow gets hope- lessly tucked into itself, and I am pulling at it, by mistake, for one of the ends. At last I get it something like all right, but not everything that could be desired. Waistcoat. Coat, Handkerchief ! Where's handkerchief ? Where is — ... ha ! Down-stairs. Everybody waiting, evidently. Apology. "Ah ! " says Pendell, "um — ah — now you've come, we'll — um " and rings the bell. I recognise some of our companions out otter-hunting to-day. Galaxy, too, of Cornish beauty, which means the darkest, brightest MY HEALTH, 409 eyes, and the clearest, freshest complexions. Xot being introduced I look about for Old Paiddock. There is an elderly gentleman sit- ting at a table looking over a photograph book. This is the nearest approach to Old Paiddock that I can see. Dinner announced. I take in Miss Bodd, of Po2:)thlanack, and follow the Trelissacs, the Tregonies of Tregivel, and ^lajor Penolver, with Mi^. Somebody of Somewhere. Whom Euddock takes, I don't know. A dhcovery. — I am seated next to Old Euddock of Euddock, at dinner. Pendell introduces us. A hale, hearty, elderly gentleman, with, if any expression at all, rather a sleepy one, as if a very little over-feedincr would send him into a doze. x7ow then for Xicht wi' Euddock ! 410 HAT HEM AT SEA. CHAPTER XLin. WELCOME THE COMING — SPEED THE TARTIXG JEST ALL EARS RUDDOCK COMING OUT — ON THE QUI VIVE — SIMILE — SUBJECTS OF INTEREST BRITISH CONSTITUTION — REMARKS — LAND'S END LONDON VICE VERSA MY NEIGHBOUR — NONPLUSSED REMARKS TO MYSELF MY' STORY FAILURE — THE INTERRUPTER — MORE ARRIVALS — THE PHOTOGRAPHIC ALBUM — " WHY?" THE STATUE- BRIDE — MR. CLETIIER AND THE MOON MORE OF WHY A REMON- STRANCE — THE LAST OF RUDDOCK NEXT MORNING — ADIEU, PENWIFFLE REASONS HESITATION DECISION FLIGHT TO LONDON — PLANS FOR THE FUTURE — CONCLUSION. W E SOMEHOW tiim the dinner conversation upon some peculiar way of cultivating mangel. Pendell looks at Old MY HEALTH. 411 Ruddockj and, alluding to the last speaker's remark, Avhat- ever it was, says, " Aha ! that isn't the way we grow mangel in the South, is it, Mr. Ruddock ? " and therewith gives Old Paiddock such a humorous look, as if they had, between them, several good jokes about mangel, which, when told by Old Ruddock, would set the table in a roar. I turn towards him with a propitiatory smile, as much as to say, '• You see I'm ready for any of your fanny stories." Old Ruddock glances up at me from his plate (he hasn't looked up much since the beginning of dinner), and reiDlies, gravely and simply, " No." "Whereat, Pendell almost roars with laughter, and nods at me knowingly, as if asknig if Ruddock isn't a character. He may be. Perhaps it requires the wine to draw him out, but he hasn't, as yet, said anything funny or witty ; in fact, he hasn't said anything at all. The conversation, otherwise, is general and well distributed. Topics principally local. As far as I am concerned, it is not unlike being suddenly given a bass part in a quintette, where the other four know their music off by heart. I speak from experience, remembering how, in the instance alluded to, I came in wherever I could, with very remark- able effect, and generally at least an octave too low, leaving off with the feeling that if we had been encored (of which there wasn't, under the circumstances, the slightest possible chance), I should have come out very strong, and quite in tune. As it was, I had first to find my voice, which seemed to have gone down like the mercury in a barometer on a cold day, and having succeeded in producing it, I had then to issue it in notes. During dinner I am frequently brought into the conversation, apologetically, and appealed to out of politeness, as " probably not taking much interest in these matters." The matters in question are usually something vexatious with regard to paupers, a political question deeply mixed up with the existence of the Yeomanry, the state of the roads in the next district, the queer temper of a neighbouring clergyman, the diffi- culty of dealing with Old Somebody at a vestry meeting, the right of some parish authorities to bury somebody who oughn't, or ought, to have been buried without somebody else's consent ; the best mode of making a preserve, a difiference of opinion as to varieties 412 B A THEE AT SUA. of cider, the probabilities of a marriage between Tre-someoDe of Tre-somewhere with Pol-somebody of Pol-something else, and so forth. On consideration, I am interested. For, to a reflective mind, is not all this the interior mechanism of the Great Britisli Constitution ? Of course. One thing I obseiTe, viz., that ijcople living three hundred miles from the great centre of English fashionable life, know as much, and often a ^reat deal more about the Ptoyal Academy, the notabilities of the season, the latest opera, the newest play, and all topics of more or less general interest, than do regular London habitues. Evidently one month of thorough London life in mid-season is equal to eight months of routine. Lands-enders are at home in London, but Londoners are non- plussed at Land's End. Ergo, live at Lands End. The only thing that Old Ruddock says the whole time, is that he wouldn't keep Cochin China fowls even if they were given him. " Wouldn't you ? " exclaims Pendell, looking slily at me and beginning to laugh, evidently in anticipation of some capital story, or a witticism from Ruddock. No, not another word. He is, it strikes me, resen'ing himself. I turn to my partner, and try to interest her in Ramsgate, Torquay, the Turkish bath, London and Paris news. She doesn't like Torquay, has never been to Ramsgate, and from what she has heard of it thinks it must be vulgar (to which I return, " 0, dear no," but haven't got any proof that it isn't). I find out that she goes every season to London, and knows more about operas than I do, and finally was brought up in Paris, and generally stops there for a month yearly with her Aunt, so that I am unable to give her any information on my special subjects, and as she clearly wants to listen to some story which Tregony of Tregivel, on the other side of her, is telling, I feel that I'd better continue my dinner silently, or draw^ Ruddock out. I try it, but Ruddock won't come out. I remark therefore again to myself that Land's End has, in social and fashionable to]Dics, at least six to four the best of London. Dessert. — Tregony of Trevigel does come out genially, without the process of drawing. He has some capital Cornish stories, with an inimitable imitation of Cornish dialect. MY HEALTH. 413 Flash. — While he is telling a rather long anecdote to think of something good and new to cap it. Why not something with (also) an imitation of dialect, or brogue. I've got a very good thing about a Scotchman, but can't remember it in time. Odd how stories slip away from you just at tl.e moment you especially Avant to remember them. During a pause in the con- versation I remember my stor}-, and secure attention for it by suddenly asking Pendell (which startles him) if "he's ever heard," &c., and of course he, politely, hasn't. Odd. Somehow, this evening I canH recall the Scotch accent. I try a long speech (not usually belonging to the story) in Scotch, so as to work myself up to it, but, somehow or other, it will run into Irish. My story, therefore, takes somewhat this form. I say, " Then the Scotchman called out, ' Och, bedad ' — I mean, ' Ye dinna ken'" — and so forth. Result, failure. But might tell it later, when I'm really in the humour, which I evidently am not now, and yet I thought I was. Everyone listened most politely. I can imagine what they said afterwards. Old Ruddock begins to come out, not as a raconteur, but as an interrupter, which is a new phase of character. For example, Tregony commences one of his best Cornish stories, to which we are all listening attentively, something about an uncle and a nephew, and a cart. " They went," says Tregony, "to buy a cart " " A Avhat 1 " says Ruddock, really giving his whole mind to it. "A cart,'- answers Tregony. " 0," returns Ruddock, " I beg pardon. Yes, well " " Well," resumes Tregony, '■ they wanted something cheap, as they had no use for it except to get home, " "Get what?" asks Ruddock. " Home," replies Tregonj^, evidently a bit nettled. "Oh, ah! yes," returns Ruddock, apologetically. "Home — well?" "Well," Tregony continues, looking towards his opposite neighbour, so as to avoid Old Ruddock if possible, "the land- lord of the Inn says to them, ' I'll lend you and Xevvy Bill a cart ' " 4U BATHER AT SEA. Ruddock's in again with " A what ? " I can't help turning upon him, and saying, rather in-itahly, " A cart I " I feel inclined to add. Do be quiet, and ask your questions afterwards. Then I say to Tregony, encouragingly, " Yes." " * Only ' (continues Tregony), says the Landlord, joking them, 'mind yew du bring the wheels back safe and sound.' So they promised, and that they went about the town till it was rather late and getting dark " " Getting what ? " asks Old Ruddock, with his hand up to his ear. Eveiybody annoyed, and two pei*sons besides myself repeat the word " dark " to him. With these interruptions, and the consequent necessity of making it all quite clear, specially when it comes to Tregony imitating the convei-sation between Uncle and Nephew, in two voices, when Old Ruddock perpetually wants to know " Who said that," and so puzzles Tregony that sometimes he makes the Uncle take the Nephew's voice, and vice versa, and the story is getting into difficulties, when the sers'ant enters with a message to our Host from Mrs. Pendell, which brings us to our feet, and into the drawing-room, Tregony promising me the story quietly in a corner. The humour of a well-told Cornish story is equal to anything Irish. The other ladies have come. We all try to enter the drawing- room carelessly, as if the ladies weren't there, or as if we'd been engaged in some fearful conspiracy in the next room, and were hiding our consciousness of guilt under a mask of frivolity. Miss Bodd, of Popthlanack, is alone at a table, turning over the pages of a photographic album. I join her. Careful Flash. — Take care never to offer an opinion on photo- graphic or any other sort of portraits, unless you're quite sure of your ground. I remark generally that I don't care about photographic por- traits. Before Miss Bodd can answer, I hear a rustle behind me, and a voice asks simply, " Why ? " Good gracious ! It is — :Miss Straithmere ? She comes as it were like the statue-bride in Zampa (and she is in white) to claim MY HEALTH. 415 me for her own. She is staying with the Clethers [" Mr. Clether is here," Pendell tells me. " He's written a work on the Moon. Quite a character "], and as the Rev. Mr. Clether is the Rector of Poltrepen, she is not a mile from the house, and will be here every day. Singing and playing. Miss Straithmere asks me, " Why I am so serious ? Will I tell her. Do. Why ? " I expect Ruddock to sing. He doesn't. Mr. Clether is talk- ing to him. I join them. I am anxious to hear what Mr. Clether's view of the Moon is. He replies, "0, nothing parti- cular." "But," I urge. Ruddock listening, "You have made a study of astronomy, and in these days " — I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly what I was going to say ; but I rather fancy it was that " In these days the moon isn't what it was." Mr. Clether modestly repudiates know^ing more about the moon than other people, and says that Pendell is right about his having written a book, but he has never published it. " Why ? " asks Miss Straithmere, joining us. Why will she say Why ? If she only wouldn't — if she only would be less the impulsive child of nature I might .... but no . . She says, in a reproachful tone, but quite loud enough to be heard by Miss Penolver, whose acquaintance I am anxious to make, and who now turns away, " You're angry with poor little Trie. Why ? Do tell me why." Despairingly I reply, "No, I am not angry, but really " Carriages. Thank goodness. I accompany Ruddock to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy Fawkes out for an airing. I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a jeu de joie of humour and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the show at the Crystal Palace. Pendell (who I believe is still drawing him out) says to him, " You'll have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much as to say, ^^ Now you'll hear him, now it's coming. He's shy before a party, but now " Ruddock replies from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye." 416 RATHER AT SEA. And away goes the vehicle, turns the comer, and disappeai*s from view in the avenue. Pendell chuckles to himself. " Quite a character," I hear him murmuring. Then, after a short laugh, he exclaims almost fondly, " Old Ruddock ! ah ! ah ! Rum old fellow." And so we go in. And this has been the long-expected " Nicht wi' Ruddock." He hasn't said twenty words. Certainly not one worth hearing. Yet Pendell seems perfectly satisfied with him, and years hence, I dare say, this occasion will be recounted as a night when Old Ruddock was at his best. After this, how about Sheridan 1 Next Morning. — My friend, Miss Straithmere, is coming at two o'clock. I find that I can leave, via Launceston, at eleven. I am not well. I can't help it. I begin to consider, is it my nature to be ill? No, I must go up to town, and consult my Doctor. Adieu, Penwifile. Had I stopped, I feel that in the wilds of Cornwall, out at Tintagel, or at Land's End, or in a slate quarry, or down a mine, I should .... Well, I don't know exactly what^ but I should have to answer the question, " Why ?" Yes, good-bye for the present to Penwiffle ! If anything could establish me in good health, it would be the hospitality, the geniality, and the fine air of Coniwall. Pendell apologises for the absence of the Otter, and, before I leave, a messenger comes up, in hot haste, to offer another day's sport to be arranged specially for me. I regret I cannot stay. Pendell regrets it. Mrs. Pendell regrets it too. Her care (she keeps the entire village in health and happiness) would do wonders for me, but I also fancy that she has an eye to a match between Miss Janie and myself. It may be only fancy, but every woman is at heart a match-maker, and, if I stay, I am lost. Je me sauve. My present idea is to live in London, about two miles from the British Museum. Then I can walk there every morning, and work in the libraiy at my Analytical History of Motion. If the Doctor agrees with me, and if this plan agrees with me, I shall continue it ; if not, I must take to boxing, gymnastics, or other violent exercise. * ♦ * * ♦ ♦ MY HEALTH. 417 The Doctor does agree with me. He advises me to try my own prescription. In a week's time to call on him again, and go on calling on him regnlarly every Monday. "fr ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ I have taken lodgings three doors from my Doctor's house. I shall make no further notes, unless, at some future time, I com- mence a history of a British Constitution (my own). And so, for the present, I conclude, with a quotation from Shakspeare, who was, among other things, evidently a valetudinarian, and conclude these papers by saying, " The tenor of them doth hut signify My Health." fibAl 1 VKV, AGNKV. O. Li:..L'., lkl^TEI'.^. V. i;iTEri:iAKS. / / UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW OCT 1 1917 30m-l,'15