DOI issue:
September 15, 1883
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17755#0136
124 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 15, 1883.
ANOTHER LITTLE HOLIDAY CRUISE.
Still at Larne—Difficulties—Hummers—Giving Way—Sermonette
— Gallantry — Bathing — Discussion—Swimming— Acrobatic—
Carpet— Con siderations— Questions—Deception—In— The Vasty
Deep—Down—Down—Up—Up—Once More on Deck—Pros-
pects — Dinner-Evening—Promise of a Start—Anticipating
Delight.
Once again in the gig, being rowed, from shore to the Creusa.
Killick and Cra.yley have evidently not had it out yet about the
Druidical Remains as they came down the hill.
Killick, who is of a volatile turn, and to whom a period 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 content-
ment 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
bouche ferrnee, 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, 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 opposition. 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
achting this season, and then, wdien the present party unbroken up,
e will start afresh with new and more pliable materials.
Happy Thought.—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 ? ” asks Crayley. At all events, the humming is over, hut
Crayley’s “ Why ? ” is uttered in just the manner which Killick is
sure to resent.
“ W ell,” replies Killick, in a tone implying that the meteorological
evidence for his previous statement is so clear as to be irresistible to
anv but a born fool, I feel that his tone does convey all this,—
“ Well, just look at the sky.”
Cra .tley 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 yacht 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 obstinate arguists, 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
“givingway” together.
Happy Thought.—The above is quite a little Sailors’ Sermon.
Good title for book, “ Sailors' Sunday Sermons. Now 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.
“Not 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 along-
side 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, “ How, 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 Commo-
dore 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 off. True gallantry is the mark of a British
Sailor, whether professional or amateur.
We are received by the Captain, who cheerfully salutes us indi-
vidually, as much as to say, “ Glad to see you back again, Gentle-
men ; 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 ? ”
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 batiiing
he cares for, and therefore will not join us.
“Why,” Killick remonstrates, but not gently, always provokingly.
“ this is the very place.”
“I dare say it is, but not for me,” answers Crayley, contem-
plating 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 sufficient confidence
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 conversa-
tion 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 eY7er come out again.
“ Exactly so,” says Crayley, quite pleased with himself. His
estimation of Melleville as a clev'er man has evidently risen
immensely in less than a minute. “ What’s the good of my drown-
ing 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 carpet 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 observ'e 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 -
of-an-hour ago, or he would not suggest that his antagonist should j
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/fothes on, and are at such close quarters with it as to practically
make vour immediate plunge an imperious necessity. It doesn’t j
look a half, nor a quarter so attractive to you when undressed as it
did before you took Y'our things off. Then the blue sea seems to
invite you with a rippling smile, saving, “ Come in ! take your boots
off, &c., you are hot ana dusty and tired! and here you will be so
cool, so clean, and so refreshed ! come ! ” But, by the time you ha^e
denuded yourself of your garments, and by that action, and by the
exposure to the winds, have already a trifle cooled and refreshed
yourself, you begin to think whether the sea isn’t playing you false
after all. As I stand on the deck at the head of the bathing-ladder,
in a state of acrobatically-attired nature. I awn to experiencing this
feeling, and I can’t help delaying just to inquire of Melleville—
who, as he is ordinarily the last to leave the ship when duty demands
his presence, so now is he the first to make the plunge when there
is a probability of danger,—for swim as well as you may, there is a
possibility of danger,—just a chance (at least, so it invariably occurs
to me at the last moment, when retreat is dishonourable) that though
you’ve come out of it safe and sound before, yet now this time you
may not, that a conger may get hold of you, or a gigantic sea-weed,
or a cramp, or, in fact, something may happen,—1 say I pause to
ask Melleville, for the reappearance of whose head on the surface
I have been anxiously waiting, “ How is it ? Cold ? ” To which he
replies, gaspingly, “Eh? What ? _Cold? Oh, no! Delicious!!”'
and though I am conscious of being the victim of good-natured
deception, and though, if I spoke my mind honestly, I would e\7en
now rather retire and put on my clothes again, and stand with
Crayley as a spectator of the inspiring scene, yet I merely reply,
“Eh? Oh! not cold?” and having previously placed myself as
near as possible to the water, on the lowest bathing-step, where I
can, so to speak, taste a sample of the sea’s temperature on my
great too, I raise my hands in a despairing Waterloo-Bridge^ ;
suicidal attitude above my head, and, like Mr. Box, in the Farce, j
give a last look at the yawning gulf beneath me, and then, unlike
Mr. Box, I take the great plunge, commit myself to the deep, and I,
too, disappear from Craylgey’s gaze. It is only for a second, but it
seems an age. Where have I got to ? Shall 1 meet a conger, or a
dog-fish ? How do divers keep their breath so long under water ?
ANOTHER LITTLE HOLIDAY CRUISE.
Still at Larne—Difficulties—Hummers—Giving Way—Sermonette
— Gallantry — Bathing — Discussion—Swimming— Acrobatic—
Carpet— Con siderations— Questions—Deception—In— The Vasty
Deep—Down—Down—Up—Up—Once More on Deck—Pros-
pects — Dinner-Evening—Promise of a Start—Anticipating
Delight.
Once again in the gig, being rowed, from shore to the Creusa.
Killick and Cra.yley have evidently not had it out yet about the
Druidical Remains as they came down the hill.
Killick, who is of a volatile turn, and to whom a period 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 content-
ment 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
bouche ferrnee, 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, 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 opposition. 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
achting this season, and then, wdien the present party unbroken up,
e will start afresh with new and more pliable materials.
Happy Thought.—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 ? ” asks Crayley. At all events, the humming is over, hut
Crayley’s “ Why ? ” is uttered in just the manner which Killick is
sure to resent.
“ W ell,” replies Killick, in a tone implying that the meteorological
evidence for his previous statement is so clear as to be irresistible to
anv but a born fool, I feel that his tone does convey all this,—
“ Well, just look at the sky.”
Cra .tley 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 yacht 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 obstinate arguists, 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
“givingway” together.
Happy Thought.—The above is quite a little Sailors’ Sermon.
Good title for book, “ Sailors' Sunday Sermons. Now 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.
“Not 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 along-
side 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, “ How, 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 Commo-
dore 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 off. True gallantry is the mark of a British
Sailor, whether professional or amateur.
We are received by the Captain, who cheerfully salutes us indi-
vidually, as much as to say, “ Glad to see you back again, Gentle-
men ; 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 ? ”
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 batiiing
he cares for, and therefore will not join us.
“Why,” Killick remonstrates, but not gently, always provokingly.
“ this is the very place.”
“I dare say it is, but not for me,” answers Crayley, contem-
plating 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 sufficient confidence
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 conversa-
tion 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 eY7er come out again.
“ Exactly so,” says Crayley, quite pleased with himself. His
estimation of Melleville as a clev'er man has evidently risen
immensely in less than a minute. “ What’s the good of my drown-
ing 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 carpet 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 observ'e 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 -
of-an-hour ago, or he would not suggest that his antagonist should j
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/fothes on, and are at such close quarters with it as to practically
make vour immediate plunge an imperious necessity. It doesn’t j
look a half, nor a quarter so attractive to you when undressed as it
did before you took Y'our things off. Then the blue sea seems to
invite you with a rippling smile, saving, “ Come in ! take your boots
off, &c., you are hot ana dusty and tired! and here you will be so
cool, so clean, and so refreshed ! come ! ” But, by the time you ha^e
denuded yourself of your garments, and by that action, and by the
exposure to the winds, have already a trifle cooled and refreshed
yourself, you begin to think whether the sea isn’t playing you false
after all. As I stand on the deck at the head of the bathing-ladder,
in a state of acrobatically-attired nature. I awn to experiencing this
feeling, and I can’t help delaying just to inquire of Melleville—
who, as he is ordinarily the last to leave the ship when duty demands
his presence, so now is he the first to make the plunge when there
is a probability of danger,—for swim as well as you may, there is a
possibility of danger,—just a chance (at least, so it invariably occurs
to me at the last moment, when retreat is dishonourable) that though
you’ve come out of it safe and sound before, yet now this time you
may not, that a conger may get hold of you, or a gigantic sea-weed,
or a cramp, or, in fact, something may happen,—1 say I pause to
ask Melleville, for the reappearance of whose head on the surface
I have been anxiously waiting, “ How is it ? Cold ? ” To which he
replies, gaspingly, “Eh? What ? _Cold? Oh, no! Delicious!!”'
and though I am conscious of being the victim of good-natured
deception, and though, if I spoke my mind honestly, I would e\7en
now rather retire and put on my clothes again, and stand with
Crayley as a spectator of the inspiring scene, yet I merely reply,
“Eh? Oh! not cold?” and having previously placed myself as
near as possible to the water, on the lowest bathing-step, where I
can, so to speak, taste a sample of the sea’s temperature on my
great too, I raise my hands in a despairing Waterloo-Bridge^ ;
suicidal attitude above my head, and, like Mr. Box, in the Farce, j
give a last look at the yawning gulf beneath me, and then, unlike
Mr. Box, I take the great plunge, commit myself to the deep, and I,
too, disappear from Craylgey’s gaze. It is only for a second, but it
seems an age. Where have I got to ? Shall 1 meet a conger, or a
dog-fish ? How do divers keep their breath so long under water ?