Gulf of Lyons, Friday.--The casual traveller on Continental railways, especially in France, is familiar with the official attitude towards the hapless wayfarer. The leading idea is to make the journey as difficult and as uncomfortable as possible. The plan is based on treatment of parcels or baggage. The passenger is bundled about, shunted, locked up in waiting-rooms, and finally delivered in a limp state at whatever hour and whatsoever place may suit the convenience of the railway people. Discover the same spirit dominant in management and arrangements of the sea service. Steamer from Marseilles to Tunis advertised to sail to-day at noon. On taking tickets, ordered to be on board at ten o'clock.
Why two hours before starting? Gentleman behind counter shrugs his shoulders, hugs his ribs with his elbows, holds out his hands with deprecatory gesture and repeats, "À dix heures, Monsieur."
Gestures even more eloquent than speech. Plainly mean that unless we are alongside punctually at ten o'clock our blood, or rather our passage, will be on our own heads. Spoils a morning; might have gone about town till eleven o'clock; breakfasted at leisure; sauntered on board a few minutes before noon. However, when in Marseilles chant the "Marseillaise."
Down punctually at ten; found boat in course of loading; decks full of dirt and noise, the shouting of men, the creaking of the winch, the rattling of the chains. Best thing to do is to find our cabin, stow away our baggage, and walk on the quay, always keeping our eye on the boat lest she should suddenly slip her moorings and get off to sea without us. Look out for steward. Like the Spanish fleet, steward is not yet in sight. Roaming about below, come upon an elderly lady, with a lame leg, an alarming squint, and a waist like a ship's. (Never saw a ship's waist, but fancy no mortal man could get his arm round it.) The elderly lady, who displayed signs of asthma, tells me she is the stewardess. Ask her where is our cabin. "Voilà," she says. Following the direction of her glance, I make for a berth close by. Discover I had not made allowance for the squint; she is really looking in another direction. Carefully taking my bearings by this new light, I make for another passage; find it blocked up; stewardess explains that they are loading the ship--apparently through the floor of our cabin. "Tout à l'heure," she says, with comprehensive wave of the hand.
Nothing to be done but leave our baggage lying about, go on deck, and watch the loading. Better not leave the ship. If the laborious Frenchmen in blouses and perspiration see our trunks, they will certainly pop them into the hold, where all kinds of miscellaneous parcels, cases and bales are being chucked without the slightest attempt at fitting in.
A quarter to twelve; only fifteen minutes now; getting hungry; had coffee and bread and butter early so as not to miss the boat. Watch a man below in the hold trying to fit in a bicycle with a four-hundredweight bale, a quarter-ton case, and a barrel of cement. Evidently piqued at resistance offered by the apparently frail, defenceless contrivance. Tries to bend the fore wheel so as to accommodate the cask; that failing, endeavours to wind the hind wheel round the case; failing in both efforts, he just lays the bicycle loose on the top of the miscellaneous baggage and the hatch is battened down. In the dead unhappy night that followed, when the sea was on the deck, I often thought of the bicycle cavorting to and fro over the serrated ridge of the cargo.
Ten minutes to twelve; a savoury smell from the cook's galley. Suppose déjeuner will be served as soon as we leave the dock. Heard a good deal of superiority of French cooking aboard ship as compared with British. Some compensation after all for getting up early, swallowing cup of coffee and bread and butter, and rushing off to catch at ten o'clock a ship that sails at noon. Perhaps the cloth is laid now; better go and secure places. Find saloon. Captain and officers at breakfast, their faces illumined with the ecstasy born to a Frenchman when he finds an escargot on his plate.
Evidently they are breakfasting in good time so as to take charge of the ship whilst nous autres succeed to the pleasures of the table. What's our hour, I wonder? Find some one who looks like a steward; ask him; says, "Cinq heures et demie." A little late that for breakfast, I diffidently suggest. Explains not breakfast but dinner; first meal at 5.30 P.M. Can't we have déjeuner if I pay for it? I ask, ostentatiously shaking handful of coppers in trousers-pocket. No, he says, severely; that's against the règlement.
Steamer starts in seven minutes; noticed at dock-gates women with baskets of dubious food; dash off to buy some; clutch at a plate of sandwiches, alleged to be compacted of jambon de York. Get back just as gangway is drawn up. Sit on deck and munch our sandwiches. "I know that Ham," said Sark, moodily. "It came out of the Ark."
Recommitted it to the waves, giving it the bearings for Ararat. Ate the bread and wished half-past five or Blucher would come.
A lovely day in Marseilles; not a breath of wind stirred the blue water that laved the white cliffs on which Château d'If stands. Shall have a lovely passage. Make ourselves comfortable on deck with cushions and books. Scarcely outside the harbour when a wind sprang up from S.E. dead ahead of us. The sea rose with amazing rapidity; banks of leaden-hued clouds obscured the sun-light; then the rain swished down; saloon deck cleared; passengers congregated under shelter in the saloon; as the cranky little steamer rolled and pitched, the place emptied. When at 5.30 the dinner-bell rang, only six took their places, and all declined soup. With the darkness the storm rose. If the ship could have made up its mind either to roll or to pitch, it could have been endured. It had an agonising habit of leaping up with apparent intent to pitch, and, changing its mind, rolling over, groaning in every plank. Every third minute the nose of the ship being under water, and the stern clear out, the screw leaped full half-length in the air, sending forth blood-curdling sounds. Midway came a fearsome crash of crockery, the sound reverberating above the roar of the wind, and the thud of the water falling by tons on the deck, making the ship quiver like a spurred horse.
"I begin to understand now," said Sark, "how the walls of Jericho fell."
Much trouble with the Generalissimo. When he came aboard at Marseilles he suffused the ship with pleasing sense of the military supremacy of Great Britain. Has seen more than seventy summers, but still walks with sprightly step and head erect. The long droop of his carefully-curled iron-grey moustache is of itself sufficient to excite terror in the bosom of the foe. The Generalissimo has not the word retreat in his vocabulary. He was one of the six who to-night sat at the dinner-table and deftly caught scraps of meat and vegetable as the plates flew past. But after dinner he collapsed. Thought he had retired to his berth; towards nine o'clock a faint voice from the far end of the cabin led to discovery of him prone on the floor, where he had been flung from one of the benches. We got him up, replaced him tenderly on the bench, making a sort of barricade on the offside with bolsters. A quarter of an hour later the ship gave a terrible lurch to leeward; the screw hoarsely shrieked; another batch of crockery crashed down; above the uproar, a faint voice was heard moaning, "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
We looked at the bench where we had laid the Generalissimo, his martial cloak around him. Lo! he was not.
Guided by former experience, we found him under the table. Evidently no use propping him up. So with the cushions we made a bed on the floor, and the old warrior securely slept, soothed by the swish of the water that crossed and recrossed the cabin floor as the ship rolled to leeward or to starboard.
When the Generalissimo came aboard at Marseilles, surveying the fortifications of the harbour as if he intended storming them, his accent suggested that if not of foreign birth, he had lived long in continental courts and camps. Odd to note how, as his physical depression grew, an Irish accent softened his speech, till at length he murmured of misery in the mellifluous brogue of County Cork.
Pretty to see the steward when the flood in the saloon got half a foot deep ladle it out with a dustpan.
Tunis, Monday, 1 A.M.--Just limped in here with deck cargo washed overboard, bulwarks stove in, engine broken down, an awesome list to port, galley so clean swept the cook doesn't know it, the cabins flooded, and scarce a whole bit of crockery in the pantry. Twenty-one hours late; not bad on a thirty-six-hours' voyage.
Captain comforts us with assurance that having crossed the Mediterranean man and boy for forty years, he never went through such a storm. Have been at sea a bit myself; only once, coasting in a small steamer off Japan, have I seen--or, since it was in the main pitch dark, felt--anything like it. Generalissimo turned up at dinner last night, his moustache a little draggled, but his port once more martial. His chief lament is, that going down to his berth yesterday morning, having spent Friday night in the security of the saloon floor, he found his boots full of water. This brings out chorus of heartrending experience. Every cabin flooded; boxes and portmanteaus floating about. Sark and I spent a more or less cosy night in the saloon. To us entered occasionally one of the crew ostentatiously girt with a life-belt. Few incidents so soothing on such a night. Fortunately, we did not hear till entering port how in the terror of the night two conscripts, bound for Bizerta, jumped overboard and were seen no more.
"If this is the way they usually get to Tunis," says Sark, "I hope the French will keep it all to themselves. In this particular case, there is more in the Markiss's 'graceful concession' than meets the eye."
RIVER GAMBLING.--"Punting," says the Daily News, "has become a very fashionable form of amusement on the Upper Thames." So it is at Monte Carlo. Punting is given up by all who find themselves in hopelessly low water.
LIVE WHILE YOU MAY.--Timid Passenger (as the gale freshened). "Is there any danger?" Tar (ominously). "Well, them as likes a good dinner had better hev it to-day!"
SATISFACTORY.--We are glad to be able to report that the gentleman who one day last week, while walking on the bank of the Thames near Henley, fell in with a friend, is doing well. His companion is also progressing favourably.
TOO SOLID
Skipper. "Did ye got the proveesions Angus?"
Angus. "Ay, ay! A half loaf, an' fouer bottles o' whiskey."
Skipper. "An' what in the woarld will ye be doin' wi' aal that bread?"]
RESIGNATION
Sympathetic Old Gentleman. "I'm sorry to see your husband suffer so, ma'am. He seems very----"
Lady Passenger (faintly). "Oh dear! He isn't my husband. 'Sure I don't know who the ge'tleman is!"]
A FLIGHT OF FANCY
Visitor. "Good morning: tide's very high this morning, eh?"
Ancient Mariner. "Ar, if the sea was all beer, there wouldn' be no bloomin' 'igh tides!"]
A QUESTION OF HOSPITALITY AT HENLEY
"Unbidden guests are often welcomest when they are gone."--Shakespeare.
A DELICIOUS SAIL--OFF DOVER
Old Lady. "Goodness gracious, Mr. Boatman! What's that?"
Stolid Boatman. "That, mum! Nuthun, mum. Only the Artillery a prac-ti-sin', and that's one o' the cannon balls what's just struck the water!!"]
POOR HUMANITY!
Bride. "I think--George, dear--I should--be better--if we walked about----"
Husband (one wouldn't have believed it of him). "You can do as you like, love. I'm very well (!) as I am!!"]
A TRYING MOMENT
Doris. "Oh, Jack, here come those Sellerby girls! Do show them how beautifully you can punt."
THE HEIGHT OF IMPROPRIETY
Miss Grundison, Junior. "There goes Lucy Holroyd, all alone in a boat with young Snipson, as usual! So imprudent of them!"
Her Elder Sister. "Yes; how shocking if they were upset and drowned--without a chaperon, you know!"]
LOCAL OPTION
Captain of Clyde steamer (to stoker, as they sighted their port). "Slack awee, Donal', slack awee"--(he was interested in the liquors sold)--"they're drencken haurd yenoo!!"
'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT
Dear Charlie,--It's 'ot, and no error! Summer on us, at last, with a bust; Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin' thust. Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still; So I'll pull out my eskrytor, Charlie, and give you a touch of my quill.
If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal; Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal. Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs. Well, it's true; But a quill and big sprawl is the fashion, so wot is a feller to do?
Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster--I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar. We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.
'Ad a invite to 'Opkins's 'ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know, Pooty girls, first-class lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.
Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip? Wish you could 'ave seen us--and heard us--old boy, when aboard of our ship. Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot, And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.
My blazer was claret and mustard, my "stror" was a rainbow gone wrong! I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed midd-lingish strong. 'Emmy 'Opkins, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe, Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.
Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss Emmy; but that's only jest by the way, 'Arry ain't one to brag of bong jour tunes; but wot I wos wanting to say Is about this here "spiling the River" which snarlers set down to our sort. Bosh! Charlie, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport.
Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q. T. Their idea of the Thames being "spiled" by the smallest suggestion of spree, Wy, it's right down rediklus, old pal, gives a feller the dithreums it do. I mean going for them a rare bat, and I'm game to wire in till all's blue.
Who are they, these stuckuppy snipsters, as jaw about quiet and peace, Who would silence the gay "constant-screamer" and line the Thames banks with perlice; Who sneer about "'Arry at 'Enley," and sniff about "cads on the course," As though it meant "Satan in Eden"? I'll 'owl at sich oafs till I'm 'oarse!
Scrap o' sandwich-greased paper 'll shock 'em, a ginger-beer bottle or "Bass," Wot 'appens to drop 'mong the lilies, or gets chucked aside on the grass, Makes 'em gasp like a frog in a frying-pan. Br-r-r-r! Wot old mivvies they are! Got nerves like a cobweb, I reckon, a smart banjo-twang makes 'em jar.
I'm toffy, you know, and no flies, Charlie; swim with the swells, and all that, But I'm blowed if this bunkum don't make me inclined to turn Radical rat. "Riparian rights," too! Oh scissors! They'd block the backwaters and broads, Because me and my pals likes a lark! Serve 'em right if old Burns busts their 'oards!
Rum blokes, these here Sosherlist spouters! There's Dannel the Dosser, old chap, As you've 'eard me elude to afore. Fair stone-broker, not wuth 'arf a rap-- Knows it's all Cooper's ducks with him, Charlie; won't run to a pint o' four 'arf, And yet he will slate me like sugar, and give me cold beans with his charf.
Sez Dannel--and dash his darned cheek, Charlie!--"Monkeys like you"--meaning Me!-- "Give the latter-day Mammon his chance. Your idea of a lark or a spree Is all Noise, Noodle-Nonsense, and Nastiness! Dives, who wants an excuse For exclusiveness, finds it in you, you contemptible coarse-cackling goose!
"Riparian rights? That's the patter of Ahab to Naboth, of course; But 'tis pickles like you make it plausible, louts such as you give it force. You make sweet Thames reaches Gehennas, the fair Norfolk Broads you befoul; You--you, who'd make Beulah a hell with your blatant Bank Holiday howl!
"Decent property-owners abhor you; you spread your coarse feasts on their lawns, And 'Arry's a hog when he feeds, and an ugly Yahoo when he yawns; You litter, and ravage, and cock-sky; you romp like a satyr obscene, And the noise of you rises to heaven till earth might blush red through her green.
"You are moneyed, sometimes, and well-tailored; but come you from Oxford or Bow, You're a flaring offence when you lounge, and a blundering pest when you row; Your 'monkeyings' mar every pageant, your shindyings spoil every sport, And there isn't an Eden on earth but's destroyed when it's 'Arry's resort.
"Then monopolist Mammon may chuckle, Riparian Ahabs rejoice; There's excuse in your Caliban aspect, your hoarse and ear-torturing voice, You pitiful Cockney-born Cloten, you slum-bred Silenus, 'tis you Spoil the silver-streamed Thames for Pan-lovers, and all the nymph-worshipping crew!"
I've "reported" as near as no matter! I don't hunderstand more than arf Of his patter; he's preciously given to potry and classical charf. But the cheek on it, Charlie! A Stone-broke! I should like to give him wot for, Only Dannel the Dosser's a dab orf of whom 'tain't so easy to score.
But it's time that this bunkum was bunnicked, bin fur too much on it of late-- Us on 'Opkins's 'ouse-boat, I tell yer, cared nix for the ink-spiller's "slate." I mean doin' them Broads later on, for free fishing and shooting, that's flat. If I don't give them dash'd Norfolk Dumplings a doing, I'll eat my old 'at.
Rooral quiet, and rest, and refinement? Oh, let 'em go home and eat coke. These fussy old footlers whose 'air stands on hend at a row-de-dow joke, The song of the skylark sounds pooty, but "skylarking" song's better fun, And you carn't do the rooral to-rights on a tract and a tuppenny bun.
As to colour, and kick-up, and sing-song, our party was fair to the front; But we wosn't alone; lots of toppers, in 'ouse-boat, or four-oar, or punt, Wos a doin' the rorty and rosy as lively as 'Opkins's lot, Ah! the swells sling it out pooty thick; they ain't stashed by no ink-spiller's rot.
Bright blazers, and twingle-twang banjoes, and bottles of Bass, my dear boy, Lots of dashing, and splashing, and "mashing" are things every man must enjoy, And the petticoats ain't fur behind 'em, you bet. While top-ropes I can carry, It ain't soap-board slop about "Quiet" will put the clear kibosh on 'Arry.
"JAM" NON "SATIS."
(A Lay of Medmenham, by a Broken-hearted Boating Man landing from the Thames, who was informed that, by the rules of the Hotel, visitors were not allowed jam with their tea if served in the garden.)
There's a river hotel that is known very well,
From the turmoil of London withdrawn,
Between Henley and Staines, where this strange rule obtains--
That you must not have jam on the lawn.
In the coffee-room still you may eat what you will,
Such as chicken, beef, mutton, or brawn,
Jam and marmalade too, but, whatever you do,
Don't attempt to eat jam on the lawn.
Young Jones and his bride sought the cool river side,
And she said, as she skipped like a fawn,
"As it is, it is nice, but 'twould be paradise,
Could we only have jam on the lawn!"
THE THAMES
(Development of the houseboat system)
"DOWN IN THE DEEP"
Fun at Henley Regatta. Bertie attempts to extricate his punt from the crowd.
A PLEDGED M.P. (1869).
M.P.'s Bride. "Oh! William, dear--if you are--a Liberal--do bring in a Bill--next Session--for that underground tunnel!!"
