It has been intelligently remarked, that, in writing travels by land
or by sea, the traveller has only to jot down everything just as it
occurs, and he will be sure to produce a book worth reading. This rule
may be excellent in theory; but, gentle reader, it will not do. Only
look here. I have not jotted down one tithe of the incidents of the
first ten hours since we left harbour; and see what a long yarn it
makes. A man who, in travelling, really registered everything, would
yarn away at the rate of a quarto a week.
There _is_, however, an observation which is much more to the purpose;
namely, that one day at sea is very like another. This we certainly
found out, in our voyage from Falmouth to Lisbon. For, with the
exception of changes in wind and weather, little occurred to vary our
daily existence; at least till we got off Oporto, and took in fresh
passengers. During the first night after we left Falmouth, the wind got
round to the S.W. We had three days of it, regular Channel weather:
thick, cloudy, squally--much rain--the ship pitching, labouring,
creaking, straining, groaning--going every way but the way we wanted
to go--all the passengers, except Joey, more or less indisposed--and
nobody pleased but the skipper, who whistled a perpetual "Yankee
doodle" rondo, and seemed to exult in our miseries. "I calculate,"
said Joey, "if this lasts much longer, we shall come to anchor in the
Downs." For want of anything to relate, and for the benefit of the
reader, should he cross "the Bay," I shall here beg leave to say a few
words respecting that horrid malady to which landsmen are subject on
board ship, and respecting my own mode of dealing with it. _Experto
crede._
My case resembles that of many other persons; _i.e._, in foul weather
on board ship, you do not, we will say, at once get thoroughly ill;
but certain disagreeable sensations, quite sufficient to call a man's
attention to himself, such as giddiness, prostration of strength, awful
depression of the whole system, and still more awful sensations at the
pit of the stomach, induce the painful consciousness that you are very,
very far from well, and in some danger of being worse before you are
better. In this state of the case, the "indication," as the doctors
say, is to keep off daddy Neptune's last outrage, the detested crisis.
Don't give ear to the good-natured friend who says, "You had better be
ill at once, and get it over." That may do very well in a sail from
West Cowes to Allum Bay; but it won't answer if you are a fortnight
at sea. You may be "ill at once," if you please; but don't be certain
"you'll get it over;" if once you begin, you may go on for a week. Keep
well, then, if you can.
Now, as long as you can keep your legs, and keep on deck, you can
generally effect this. In your berth, also, in a recumbent posture,
you may manage to escape the dire catastrophe. The real difficulty is
this: that, in passing from one of these states to the other, _e.g._,
in turning in at night, or turning out in the morning, in all human
probability you become a miserable victim. You must dress--you must
undress--and, in the course of doffing or donning, ten to one your
worst apprehensions become a reality. What, then, is the remedy? Now,
don't stare, but be advised. Till you are fairly seasoned, which you
probably will be in three or four days if you do as I tell you, don't
doff or don at all. Keep on deck all day, get thoroughly cold, tired,
and drowsy, rush below at night, throw yourself on your mattress as
you are, go to sleep at once. In the morning, the moment you turn out,
rush on deck. No shaving; no titivating. You must wash, must you?
Go forwards, then; wash in the open air; wash anywhere but below.
"Beastly, though, to go day after day without a change." Beastly, I
admit; but not so beastly as day after day of convulsive paroxysms and
horrid heavings; and, depend upon it, if once you begin, there is no
telling how long it may last. Whereas follow my plan, and in three or
four days you are all right--you are seasoned--the ship may dance a
polka, and you not the worse for it. You may then go below, and stay
below, with perfect impunity--treat yourself to a grand universal scrub
and a clean shirt--and, if you are a shaver, shave--only remember you
are shaving on board ship, and mind you don't cut off your nose. After
all, it's a matter of taste, I admit: and tastes are various. If you
consider a three-days' shirt, and a rough chin, greater evils than
vomitory agonies, and spasms of the diaphragm, why, do as you like;
shave, titivate, change, your linen, and retch your heart up.
During the three days of foul weather, wind S.W., I contrived to keep
about, by following the method indicated above. On the fourth, the
wind returned to the N.W., with an occasional brash of rain; and we
were again able to hold our course. I was then myself again, past the
power of sea-sickness; and could walk the deck with Joey, cast accounts
with Gingham, sit out the dinner without declining soup, respectfully
ogle the lovely Juno, and occasionally extort a giggle. On the morning
of this same day, impelled by curiosity, I approached the berth where
lay deposited the unhappy Capsicum, and drew his curtain. Ah! is that
Capsicum? Alas, how changed! He looked like death. I spoke to him.
His lips moved, but his voice was inaudible. I felt his pulse. It was
scarcely perceptible. He was in a state of collapse!
Deeming the exigency cogent, I fetched Mr Staff-surgeon Pledget.
Pledget, after due examination, pronounced it a serious case,
prescribed a restorative, departed to compound, and soon came back with
it--only about half a pint. With some difficulty, poor Capsicum was
got up in his berth, and the restorative was got down. Anticipating
recalcitration, Pledget had come provided with a small _horn_. Having
swallowed the dose, Capsicum found his voice. "Ah me!" he feebly
whined, with a look of inexpressible horror and disgust, and his hand
pressed upon the pit of his stomach; "ah me! is it an aperient?" Then,
in a low and indignant growl, "Never took physic before, in all my
life." He lay back on his bolster, with closed eyes, in feeble and
sulky silence. Pledget withdrew, and I remained.
Presently, reopening his eyes, he cautiously looked around. "Is that
fellow gone?" he whispered. I nodded. "Look in the cabin," he whispered
again.
"Gone on deck," said I; "not quite right yet, himself. Do you want him?
Shall I call him back?"
"No, no; nonsense! I say, you mix me a glass of _that_--you know
what--the same you took yourself t'other night."
I hesitated. There was no doubt in the world it would do him a deal of
good. But then he was under treatment; he was _medically_ ill. What was
I to do?
He looked at me appealingly, coaxingly, touchingly. "I'd do as much for
you," said he.
There was no standing that. I clancularly gave my orders to the
steward. The steward grinned, and brought the materials. In due time
the mixture was made; and, in a very short time after, the patient had
stowed it away. "I shall get up," said he. "Just help me out." I sent
the steward to request the aid of Joey.
By unshipping the board at the side, we got Capsicum out of his crib,
far more easily than we had got him in. But, alas, his legs doubled
under him; he was helpless as an infant, and almost fainted away. At
length we managed to dress him; and seated him in full fig at the cabin
table, with his enormous snuff-box open before him. At dinner, that
day, he managed the wing of a chicken and a slice of tongue. Couldn't a
currant dumpling, though--was set against it by the wine sauce. Pledget
had the credit of the cure.
I omit to relate, _in extenso_, how we were chased by what we took for
an American sloop of war, but what proved to be an English frigate;
how the arm-chest was got upon deck when we expected to be brought
to action; and how the muskets were found, like poor Capsicum,
stuck--rusted together into a mass, for want of looking after; how
badly the said frigate threw her shot, sending the first, which ought
to have gone ahead of us, slap through our topsail, and the second,
which should have been a more direct communication, half a quarter of a
mile wide; how the Major and Captain Gabion saw the said shot as they
were coming, while I saw nothing but the splash in the water; how our
leisure hours were solaced by two combative drakes, shut up together
in the same coop, which fought incessantly, day and night, from the
beginning to the end of the voyage--if you held a lantern to them in
the dark, they were still fighting; how, when one hen laid an egg,
the others pecked at it, and gobbled it up; how the skipper was rude
to everybody on board--to the Major, it appeared, grossly so. These
particulars, with many others, I defer to my quarto edition.
Yet let me not omit the skipper's confidence to Joey; how _he_ thought
passengers should be victualled on board ship. "Fust, good flabby
pea-soup, as thick as batter--plenty on it--let 'em blow out their
jeckits with that. When it's took away, why, then perpose a glass of
bottled porter all round. Fust dinner aboard; won't it make some on 'em
bolt?"
Perhaps, my dear madam, the best way of giving you a general idea of
our voyage, will be to present you with a description of our mode of
life from day to day. The rule with our military friends was, to take
fun out of everything; and they proved themselves perfect adepts in all
the means and methods, thereto available; hoaxing, quizzing, shaving,
imitating, trotting, cajoling, bamboozling. Pledget could not make it
out--wondered what it all meant; and one day gravely asked me, if I
could explain the nature and cause of laughter. Laughter he viewed as a
psychological problem; we had plenty on board; but he could not solve
it. The best thing was, that Pledget himself caught the infection at
last, and began to laugh. It was curious to watch the first stirrings
of nascent humour in Pledget's mind. Towards the close of the voyage he
had actually, though by slow degrees, concocted a joke; and, had our
passage been to the West Indies, and not to Lisbon, he would perhaps
have got so far as to try it on. The victim of the said joke was to
be Capsicum. Capsicum's birth at Macao, and breeding at Canton, had
transpired through Joey. Pledget's primary idea was, that Capsicum
might possibly have a penchant for a dish of stewed puppies. This
bold, ingenious, and comical conception, as he fed on it from hour to
hour, and from day to day, in about three days' time began to grow in
his mind; and, as it grew, it ramified. From one thing to another, at
length it came to this: that, with my co-operation, Joey's, and the
steward's, Capsicum was to be persuaded that a batch of puppies had
actually been littered on board. Capsicum, kept momentarily cognisant
of the progress of Pledget's plot, by the treachery of those to whom
it was confided, was prepared to humour the joke, whenever Pledget
commenced operations. Pledget, big with his own idea, walked the deck
for hours together, rubbing his hands in an ecstasy, and laughing till
he whimpered. When Joey or I took a turn, he was soon by our side,
screeching in a rapidly ascending gamut, with pungent delight, and much
cachinnation, "Puppies! puppies! Oh, sir, won't they be nice? Poor old
Capsicum!--puppies! puppies!"
The day before we made the coast of Spain, I was fairly "trotted." You
must know, I fancied in those days I could sing. Item, my dear father
had brought home, from the Peninsula, some very pretty Portuguese airs,
of the kind called modinhas--which modinhas I had at my fingers' ends.
Now, there are two very distinct ideas, which young people are apt to
confound. If they happen to know a pleasing song, they fancy themselves
pleasing singers: often quite the reverse; the finer the song, the
fouler the butchery. I wish singing was visible, and not audible; for
then we could keep it out by shutting our eyes. Well, this is how it
was: leaning, as I was wont, over the ship's side, my face to the
horizon, my back to the company, I won't pretend to say that I exactly
sang for their benefit: oh no; I sang, as I had right to do, for my
own amusement; though I certainly did sing loud enough to be heard,
without being listened to. Presently by my side leaned Captain Gabion.
I ceased. He hummed a mellifluous song of Lusitania.
"Pity the Lisbon music-sellers don't print their music," said he;
"Write it all. Quite a fuss, sometimes, to get a song you fancy."
"That explains something I never understood before," said I. "All the
songs I have received from Portugal are in manuscript. Pray, what is a
modinha, strictly speaking?"
"Why, a modinha," replied he, "in common parlance, means any song
that you happen to like. Modinha: a little mode; a little fashion;
any little fashionable song. But the grand, regular music of the
Portuguese--oh! that's magnificent--their church music for instance.
You must know, once a-year, in one of the Lisbon churches, they sing
a grand mass for the souls of deceased musicians. Of course, on such
an occasion, all the living forces of the musical world are put in
requisition. The last time I was at Lisbon, I attended--advise you,
as a musical man, to do the same. Oh! wasn't that a grand harmonious
crash? Extraordinary fellows, some of those singing monks and friars!
Fancy one whole side of an immense church, from the floor to the roof,
a grand bank of chorus-singers, as high as Shakspeare's Cliff; each
bellowing like a bull; yet each with a voice as finely modulated as the
richest violoncello, touched by a master's hand. Then there was one
fellow, a bass, who stood up to sing a solo. Never heard anything like
that. He struck off, deep down in his throat--yes, sir; and deeper down
in the scale, too, than I ever heard any man go before--with a grand
magnificent double shake, like--like--like the flutter of an eagle.
Then down--down--down the villain dropped, four notes lower, and gave
such another. I advised him to go to England. His name was Naldi. But
let me see--oh--we were talking about modinhas. Why, sir, the fact
is this--if you want to hear what I call the vernacular basis of the
modinha, you must go up among the hills, a few leagues out of Lisbon."
"I suppose," said I, "my best plan will be to go by the mail."
"Yes," replied he; "any one in Lisbon will show you the booking office:
unless, by the bye, you prefer palanquin, in which case I would
advise you to order relays of black bearers from Jigitononha; or, you
might do it on two donkeys. Well, sir; when you're up there in the
mountains, among the goats, wolves, wild buffaloes and rhododendrons,
the altitude about corresponding to latitude 66° N. in Europe, and
to--let me see--latitude--say latitude 50° in the United States--of
course you'll feel hungry. Step into the first hotel. But I'd advise
you--don't order three courses; you'll find it come expensive; better
rough it with something light--say a beef-steak and a bottle of port.
That buffalo beef, capital. Port--let me see--are you particular in
your port? Better ask for the Algarve sort. Well, sir; after you have
dined, just step out into the village--walk into the first wine-shop.
You'll probably find half-a-dozen peasants there--big, muscular,
broad-chested, good-humoured-looking fellows--goatherds and all that
kind of thing. Look out for the chap with the guitar--you'll be sure to
find him in the wine-shop; order a quart tumbler of wine--just taste
it yourself--then hand it to him--and tell him to play. The moment he
has tossed off the tipple, he begins tinkling. The other six fellows
stand up; throw back their shoulders; bulge out their chests; and begin
smirking, winking their little black eyes, snapping their fingers,
and screwing their backs in such an extraordinary manner as you never
beheld--all in cadence to the guitar. That's the first access of the
musical oestrum. The guitar goes on--strum--strum--strum--a low
monotonous jingle, just two or three chords. That's the accompaniment
to the singing that's about to begin. At length, one of the fellows
commences--air and words both extempore; perhaps something amatory,
_Minha Maria, minha querida_; or, it may be, something satirical, if
they see anything quizzable--something about yourself. While that first
fellow is singing, the chap next him stands, still winking, screwing,
smirking, snapping his fingers; and begins, as soon as the other has
done. So it goes on, till all the half-dozen have had their turn.
But the curious thing is this: though all the songs are different,
different in the _tema_, different in the style, different in the
compass of voice, different in the pitch, different in the words, the
same accompaniment does duty for all: the chap with the guitar goes on,
just tinkling the same chords, till the whole is finished. Then, if
you want it _da capo_, give him another tumbler of wine. If you've had
enough, why, then, you know, you can just fork out a moidore or two,
tell them to divide it, and take your leave,--that is, if you don't
want to see the fight for the money: but that's not worth your while;
mere rough and tumble, with a little knifing. Only mind; don't give
dollars or patacas. They prefer gold."
I really thought I was now trotting Captain Gabion, who was a musical
amateur. Villain! he was operating to clap the saddle on me, in a way
I little suspected. "Then," said I, "each of these fellows, I suppose,
has sung a modinha."
"Why, no; not exactly that, neither," said the Captain. "I'll tell you.
Curious sort of music it is, though; the national music, in fact. When
you see one of those big athletic fellows expanding his chest, sucking
his breath, his whole pulmonary region heaving, labouring with the
song he is going to sing, why, of course you'd expect him to break out
like a clap of thunder. But, instead of that, forth comes from his big
throat a very mouse-like issue of those mountain throes; an attenuated
stream, not altogether unmusical though, of growling, grunting,
squeaking cadences--for the compass of their voices is perfectly
astonishing--a string of wild and rapid trills, very short notes,
very long notes, mostly slurred, never _staccato_; and, if you should
happen to notice, similar, in its intervals, to the music of Scotland.
With your musical knowledge, of course you understand what I mean by
intervals. Well, sir; that sort of mountain music is what I call the
national basis of the Portuguese modinha. Take one of those wild airs,
arrange it scientifically, with suitable symphonies, accompaniment, and
all that sort of thing--no difficulty to _you_--the modinha is then
complete."
This was by no means a bad theory of the modinha of those days; an
Italian graft upon the native stock; a scientific modification of the
music of the peasantry; so wild, so expressive, so sweet, so thrilling,
never have I heard songs to compare with those old modinhas. Once,
at a party in the house of a Lisbon lady, we persuaded her married
daughter to sing; a round, fat, rosy-brunette little dump of a woman,
famous for singing modinhas. She kindly took her guitar, spat in her
handkerchief, and gave us them in such style as I have never but once
heard since--and then the fair vocalist was not a Portuguese. What rich
expression, what rises and falls, what rapid execution, what accurate
intonation, what power, what tenderness, what point, in that soft,
flexible, delicate, yet rich, full, brilliant, and highly-cultivated
voice! Alas, the modinha of that day is rapidly passing into oblivion.
It has yielded in Lisbon society to a new style of songs, still called
modinhas, the words generally native, as they used to be; but the
music, _modern_ Italian--utterly destitute of sentiment; a constant
straining at effect, and a constant failure.
"I understand," said I, "that in every part of the Peninsula you meet
with a kind of songs that may be called local."
"Yes," said the Captain; "all, if I may so say, provincial; all
peculiar; all highly characteristic; and all excellent. Even the
occasional songs are good as compositions; that is to say, songs which
refer to politics, passing events, and so forth. Did you ever hear
this?" He gave _Ya vienen los Ingleses_.
"Very pleasing, and very lively," said I. "This is in the same style."
I began to strike up _Quando el Pepe José_.
"Don't let's have any more Spanish," said the Captain. "Sing something
Portuguese." I gave _Os soldados do comercio_.
"Quite humorous," said he, "but very pleasing music. This is the
Portuguese national song." He gave _Eis, Principe excelso_.
"Some of the satirical songs," said I, "are very well set." I gave
_Estas senhoras da moda_. The Captain, I observed, looked at his watch.
Little dreamt I the traitor was working against time.
"This, now," said he, "is what may be called the sentimental style;
short, but expressive, like the serious epigram of the Greek
Anthology." He gave _Tu me chamas tua vida_.
"The finest I have heard, though," said I, "in that style, is the
Spanish song--"
"No, no," said the Captain; "give us something Portuguese; something by
an old Padre. They are the fellows that knock off the best modinhas." I
gave _Fui me confessar_.
The conclusion of this my third song was followed by loud shouts of
laughter, a general clapping of hands, and cries of "Encore! encore!
bravo! viva! encore! encore!" I turned, and stood the centre of a
semicircle! Around me were ranged the delighted, applauding passengers;
the Colonel, the Major, Capsicum, Pledget, Gingham, Mr Belvidere, Joey,
and, oh! leaning on Joey's arm, the lovely Juno; the whole Party, at
my expense, in the highest possible state of hilarity. The skipper in
the background, leaning on the binnacle, stood surveying the whole
transaction with his face set in a sarcastic scowl, as though it had
first been cast in plaster of Paris, and then painted with red ochre.
Kitty's bonnet appeared on the level of the deck, projecting from the
cabin stairs. Near her, profuse in soft attentions, stood the Colonel's
flunkey, lavishing winks and winning simpers. Immediately above me,
in the shrouds, with his face downwards, like a monkey in a tree,
hung Snowball the nigger; his two eyes, full of wonder and delight,
gloating like a basilisk's, and projecting like a skinned rabbit's; his
mouth extended across his face in so broad a grin, you'd have thought
his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The applause having a little
subsided, each in turn paid me a compliment. Juno, the enchanting saucy
witch, dropped me a demure and very low curtsy, begged to thank me, and
precipitately put her handkerchief to her face. Gingham advised me to
cultivate my voice; begged to assure me I had very good taste, and only
wanted modulation, flexibility, accuracy, and execution, with a little
attention to time and tune, and care to avoid passing into the wrong
key--nay, had no doubt, if I took pains, I should some day acquire an
_ear_. Just when I was annoyed past bearing, Pledget, tittering with
ecstasy, whispered at my elbow, "Capital joke! the Captain did it
admirably. Almost as good as puppies!--puppies!--puppies!"
"Your compliment last, sir," said I, "comes in the proper place. Allow
me to designate it as it deserves--the ass's kick."
Pledget turned a little pale, and drew up; said something that seemed
to stick in his throat, about "lions roaring, and asses braying."
We were on the edge of a regular tiff. The general garrulity dropped
into a dead silence, and the whole party looked concerned. The Colonel
at once interposed, and insisted on our shaking hands. This operation
was performed accordingly, as in such cases provided, with immense
cordiality on both sides.
"Captain Gabion, I'll trouble you for a dollar," said the Major.
"No, no; I'll trouble _you_ for a dollar," replied the Captain.
"How do you make that out?" said the Major. "You've lost; that's
evident."
"What do you mean by lost?" said Captain Gabion. "Didn't I make Mr Y--
sing three songs within the given time? Hadn't I two minutes over, when
he finished the last? Weren't they all three Portuguese? I took good
care of that. Wasn't that our bet?"
"Yes, Captain; all right," said the Major. "But one of _your_ songs was
Spanish. That was an infringement."
"Didn't understand any condition of that sort," replied Captain Gabion.
"All the party heard the bet. Let the company decide."
One said one thing, one another. By common consent it was referred to
Gingham, who had held his tongue. Gingham decided that the Captain had
lost.
"Very well," said the Captain, "then I have had all my trouble for
nothing. Rather hard, though, to sing three songs yourself; get three
more out of a gentleman that has a particular objection to singing, in
forty minutes; and then have to pay a dollar besides. However, book it,
Major. Very kind of you, though, Mr Y--: equally obliged. Trust you'll
often favour us." We all went below to prepare for dinner; but I had
not heard the last of my singing.
We were now on the look-out for Cape Villano, and began to feel the N.
wind which blows down the W. coast of the Spanish Peninsula ten months
in the year. This wind, as you get further to the S., is generally
attended with a clear sky. But in our present latitude, meeting the
upper or S.W. current of air, which comes charged with the vapours
of the Atlantic, it produced incessant rain. The rain commenced, as
indeed rain often does commence, about three o'clock P.M., and kept us
below all the evening; obliging us also to lay-to till daybreak, as the
skipper did not like to run nearer in by night, with such weather.
From dinner to tea we managed to crack on, without finding the time
hang heavy on our hands. After tea the conversation was resumed, but in
the course of an hour or two began to flag; when Gingham enlivened it
by volunteering his services in brewing a bowl of punch. The offer was
received with tumultuous applause; except that Capsicum, who thought
nobody understood brewing so well as himself, politely expressed
a doubt as to Gingham's capabilities. Gingham avowed, with much
seriousness, that he "yielded in punch-making to no man." A discussion
arose, in the course of which I ventured to move, and it was carried,
that a bowl of punch should be brewed by each, and that the company
should award the palm after finishing both.
Capsicum brewed first. The materials were not wanting. The steward
brought rum, brandy, lemons, all the etceteras. Gingham, chivalrous in
his rivalry, tendered limes in lieu of lemons: "always took a few when
he travelled--got them in Pudding Lane." Capsicum's sense of honour
would have declined the limes; but the company ruled otherwise. The
bowl was brewed--a perfect nosegay--and stood smoking in the centre of
the table. In a very short time after, each man had his quantum before
him.
"Now, gentlemen," said the Colonel, (chairman,) "punch is nothing
without harmony. I beg leave to call on Mr Y-- for a song." Much
applause. "Hear! hear! hear! A song by Mr Y--! hear! hear! hear!"
I had not quite recovered the adventure of the morning, and was far
from disposed to sing. Had sung enough for one day--felt rather
hoarse--begged to decline--but all in vain: the company would take no
denial. I was obstinate. Joey began to talk of keelhauling; the Major
suggested the old mess fine, a sugared oyster; while a soft admonition
was heard in the distance, "The bird that can sing, and that won't
sing, must be made to sing."
Not to sing was just then a principle as fixed in my mind as any
theorem in the first six books of Euclid. The company became
peremptory. At length, tired of saying no, I rose, and begged leave to
ask the chairman whether, if I sang, I should have the usual privilege
of calling on any other gentleman present. The chairman hesitated to
reply. He saw his position: I might call upon _him_. I now had the best
of it. The chairman laughed, leaned over to Capsicum, and whispered a
remark about "generalship." Capsicum growled out something, of which I
could only distinguish "jockey" and "young fox."
I was still on my legs, and continued,--"Well, Mr Chairman, as my very
equitable proposal is not met so promptly as I anticipated, would it
not be better if the company resolve, instead of extorting a solitary
song from an individual who has already contributed largely this day
to the common stock of amusement," (_hear! hear! hear!_) "that every
person present should either sing a song, or tell a story?"