Punch (57.1869)

November 27, I6d9.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 207

MORE HAPPY THOUGHTS.

T

he Admiral comes abaft (or astern; I mean lie comes

right. Feel that everything is uncertain. Wish I was at home : would
give a sum of money to be sitting with Friddy.

A lurch. My camp-stool nearly fell. A wave has broken over us
from somewhere. Helpless. Can't do anything. Let waves break
over us. Let the water trickle down to my feet. Very cold. Captain
comes up unsteadily, but quite well and smoking. He has been having
hot brandy-and-water with the Admiral. He asks us, briskly, " How
we're getting on? Quite the gay Sailor, eh ? " he inquires jovially of
me. 1 try to smile, I would smile (to be something of the gay sailor,
and show my spirit to the last), but I feel that the slightest relaxation
of face, or alteration of position, would be fatal. Chilvern and myself
are against the paddle-box, with nothing to hold on by, and a strong
inclination to fall face downwards on the deck at every lurch, or roll,
or whatever the horrid action of the ship is called.

The vessel now takes a very peculiar motion, and I feel myself, as it
wrre, following all the very peculiar motions of the vessel in detail, as
if by some internal (and infernal) machinery. She goes down with a
rush, quivering: so do I: that is, I don't move from where I am, but
the machinery does it. It seems as if 1 'd swallowed the engines. The
vessel slides or glides, and then comes up with a sort of scooping
motion : exactly the same with me.

I wonder to myself how Chilvern feels. I turn my head slightly
to look at him, and notice that he is staring before him in a blank,
helpless manner. The machinery gives a surging groan every time we
dive down as if we were going right under the sea, and I feel as if I was
being lowered into my boots; we come up again with a rash, and a
noise between a shriek and a groan from the machinery. I feel myself
entirely dependent on the machinery.

The Captain comes up (he is pacing the deck to keep himself warm)
aDd observes that " We've got a deuced fine passage ;" and adds, that
" He shouldn't think there'd be a soul ill to-night."—I can't answer
him: there's only a glimmer of hope in his speech. My thoughts
become gloomy, anything but happy. Except one.

Happy Thought.—The mind can abstract itself so as to be insensible
to pain. Therefore, if 1 can only think of something else, I shan't be
unwell; or rather, as I feel unwell now, I shan't be worse, but probably
better.

Try it. Think of stars. See only one. Wonder what it is. Think
of the ancient sailors who, without compass or-. Tremendous lurch.

towards us, and we're about the middle of the ship), j i struggle against interior machinery, and again try to think of the
smoking, always smoking. Somehow I didn t notice the smell ot his ; stars. Wave breaks over vessel. Some one says "That's a nasty one."

tobacco before: it begins to be unpleasant; so does Chilvern's
.pipe; so does Captain Dyngwell's cigar.

Perhaps it is. I am past expressing an opinion. If anyone was to point
a pistol at me I couldn't run away. Try to recal passages of Shakspeare ;

Won't I 'baccy ?" he asks. "No, thank you, I won't baccy ! j t0 think of mv next chapter of Typical Developments; to recollect what,
Feel that to baccy just now would be as it were the turning point (or §ir Peter Gboganal's argument on Abstract Right was; to think
the turning-up point) in my existence. " If you want to keep well,' ! 0f — Lurch. Wave. All machinery (internal) in motion. No more
I say to myself, " be cautious." Cazell says, " I tell you what you stars. Shall I leave paddle-box now, or stop a little longer? * * *
ought to take—a good glass of stout." No, I don't want stout, specially ; suspense * * * t i>[\ move * * * I make for the opposite

just, after tea ; I feel m fact that stout would—but, no matter—no, j paddle-box * * striking out with my legs at, the deck, and waiting for
thank you, I'd better stay on deck. a t0 come up to me * * jerk to the right * * just miss cannoning

Night is coming on. We are no longer m the river._ Chilvern , against Captain, who is pacing up and down, and who dexterously gets
says, " If it's no worse than this, he doesn't mind." I like to hear a out 0f mv way.

fellow cheering up.

Happy Thought.—No worse than this, 1 shall be all right.
Admiral, at the end of his pipe, tells us that the wind's getting
round. " Bad ?" asks Chilvern.

Happy Thought {flashes across me even at this supreme moment).—
D^.?-terously * * wretched * *

1 am looking down into the dark waters—at the white foam * * * *
if the bulwark were suddenly to give way ! * * * * Can I help it ?

Admiral nods and walks abaft, or afore, or somewhere out of sight. ******** Lurch * * roll * * stagger * * grapple with bul-
I don't like to turn in. Horrid expression just now " Turning in." , warks * * silent anguish.
Odd, how even an expression seems distasteful to me just, now. The j Can anything on the Continent be worth this ! ! ! ! ! Cathedrals-
Captain has a large overcoat, and a rug. He intends to " weather it, Churches—pictures—pleasures of Paris—can't be worth this * ::" *

and do the regular Tar," he says. I ask him, " If he is ever-? " j And * * Oh ! I've got to come back again ! ! ! Stagger to staircase * *

I don't like to say the word. He doesn't mind it, and takes it out of Companion, I mean.

my mouth. (Bah! horrid expression again!) "No," he replies,; "Quite the jovial Tar, eh?" asks the Captain, who is lighting a
" Never. Stand anything," and he lights another cigar. He politely \ filthy, beastly cigar

asks me, "if I mind his baccying ? " Of course I politely rejoin
that I don't. In reality I feel (despairingly) that it makes no differ-
ence to me now. I am sure my fate is sealed. Only a question of time.

I miss Cazell. I wish he wouldn't go away. He has gone to be-

no, I won't think of it. Perhaps he hasn't.

Thoughts {whilst leaning against paddle-box so as to keep in middle of
vessel as much as possible. Vessel lurching horribly). Is travelling worth
this? Aren't there many places in England one hasn't seen ? Why
should 1 go abroad?

Wish they'd make a tunnel under the sea—or a bridge over it. Never
mind expense. Anyone would subscribe handsomely who'd ever been
abroad, and had to cross the sea again. Horrid. So helpless too. Recollect
suddenly that'cazell told me, before he disappeared, that you oughtn't
to keep your eyes fixed on one spot. I won't. I feel that I can hardly
take them off a lump of something. No ; it's a man lying in a rug with
his head on a camp-stool. Captain Dyngwell is walking up
and down deck. He lurches from side to side occasionally, but still
he walks, and appears to enjoy it. I can only stick with my back to
the paddle-box. Chilvern too. Chilvekn volunteers the statement
that he doesn't, feel ill, Do I ? he asks. 1 don't know, I am uncertain.
Perhaps aftei all—that is—if I don't talk much or move, I may be all

Yes," I answer, knowing that if I could see my face I should
never recognise the once joyous author of Typical Developments.

Go down-stairs: horridly awkward stairs. Why couldn't they be
made straight down instead of curling round ? specially in a steam-
boat * * * *

To my Cabin.—Will undress and regularly get into bed.

Happy Thought.—Give myself the idea of being quite at home.

Haven't fastened door: it bangs against me, I against it, then
against, chair, then against side, then over portmanteau, then clutch on
by side of berth. Tear my things off; try to hang them up neatly.
Dash at a hook. Everything seems to be going topsy-turvy. Roll
into berth. On the whole, rather astonished to find myself there.

Shut my eyes I * * * * Open them again very quickly. Awful
sensation. I am wide awake, and painfully conscious of the oil-lamp,
and of the want of air. Out of berth again, to open the door—same
performance as before. Put chair adroitly between open door and
wall: chance of air now. Stagger—bump—pause for breath.

The Lost Heads of my Leaders, by Loud Salisbury. Being a sequel
to The Lost Tales of Miletus, by Lord Lytton.