[Illustration: Chill-sea.]
MY Nautical Drama is not making much progress. Must go more amongst men
and things. That is the only way to gain ideas. World full of _dramatis
personae_, who will provide their own dialogue, if you can only find them
a good part. Interview old sailor; capital character--the very man to be
"discovered drinking," (which must have frequently occurred to him) as
curtain rises. Talk to him half-an-hour, but without hearing a single
really telling line. Half-a-crown wasted! Pleasure-boat just "putting
off,"--which is naturally a dilatory operation--Skipper says they are
only waiting for me. I hesitate; does Art demand this sacrifice?
Hitherto my voyages have been chiefly confined to journeyings in a penny
steamer from Chelsea to Lambeth. But can I reasonably expect to become
familiar with marine matters without some actual experience? If M. ZOLA
could go and live for weeks down a coal-mine, surely I may trust myself
in a pleasure-boat for one short half-hour? It is only sixpence.
I subdue my diffidence, and embark--that is, I fall over the stern, and
stumble to the only vacant seat--a thwart in the middle. Should have
_preferred_ a place nearer the gunwale.... We are off; boat pretty full,
twenty-four passengers, to crew of two boatmen and a cornet-player.
People enjoying what they call "a blow on the jetty," wave handkerchiefs
to us as we pass. Curious, this blind impulse to wave greetings to
perfect strangers--does it spring from vague enthusiasm for humanity?
Chatty old gentleman next to me _will_ talk: he tells me confidentially
that it is a singular thing, but it does so happen that he has never
been on the sea without an accident of some sort occurring,--never!
There is no superstitious nonsense about him, it seems, so he thought he
would "chance it" once more. Very creditable--but more considerate if he
would chance it in a canoe. The Cornet-player quite a cockney Arion
(though nobody thinks, somehow, of pitching him overboard). He performs
appropriate airs during trip. _A Life on the Ocean Wave_, as we start;
_Only a Pansy Blossom_, (though I don't see the precise connection of
this) as we tack; and the _Harbour Lights_, when we turn. Somehow, this
rather vulgarises the Ocean--for me. Sea fortunately smooth: nobody at
all unwell. I feel nothing--except perhaps a growing conviction that a
very young infant opposite should not be permitted to eat a jam-puff in
public. Boatmen use no nautical expressions. Passengers lively at first,
though, by time we turn, the expression on our features, like that of
young lady who wore the wreath of roses, seems "more thoughtful than
before." We are close in now--the musician is sending round his hat.
Resent this privately, it is _not_ seamanlike! In beaching, yacht swings
round with her broadside to breakers, causing sudden wave to drench the
Jonah gentleman and myself before we can disembark. He seems rather
gratified than otherwise by so apposite an illustration of his ill-luck.
The brown-eyed girl on sands watches me alight--on all fours, dripping.
Sea-trip a mistake, I feel damped rather than fired.
_On the Beach again._--Cheap photographers, galvanic machines,
chiropodist, tea-stalls, grim old ladies eating shrimps, as if they were
cherries, out of paper bags. Open-air music-hall, where comic songs are
shouted from platform by dreary men in flaxen wigs to harmonium--this
always crowded. Enjoyment at Starmouth hearty perhaps--but hardly
refined. Constantly haunted by song from open-air platform about "The
Gurls," with refrain describing how "they squeeze, And they tease. And
they soy, 'Oh, what joy!'" (or perhaps it should be--"sigh, 'Oh, what
jy!'") Either way, it has hit the popular taste here. I may be
prudish--but, even if a couple _are_ engaged, it seems to me that a
nicer sense of propriety would deter them from dozing in a sand-pit,
_coram publico_, with their arms around one another's neck. Nobody
thinks anything of this at Starmouth, however.
[Illustration: Lamb-bath.]
What a matter of circumstance are our prejudices! I should once have
thought that nothing would induce me to drive about on a
_char-a-banc_--like one of the band in a circus procession. Yet I have
just returned from a drive in one--and enjoyed it!
She--my brown-eyed divinity of the Phrenology lecture--was on one of the
seats, which redeemed a drive otherwise prosaic. We went to ruined
castle; scenery unpicturesque (she showed, I thought, delicate
perception of this by reading _Family Herald_ all the way). Starmouth
children ran by side of carriage, turning head-over-heels, and gasping
comic songs for coppers. Had last glimpse of them standing gratefully in
a row on their heads.
We did not alight to see castle, as coachman said there was nothing to
see. On way home, conductor made collection on his own account. (The hat
is not much worn at Starmouth.) Yet I was happy--I have made _her_
acquaintance! Charming as she is beautiful--so simple and _naive_ in the
few remarks she made. She is called LOUISE, and the person I took to be
her maid is, it appears, her aunt--a most shrewd and sensible old lady,
full of quiet good sense. We became friendly at once.
_A Week later._--No time for notes lately--too absorbed in study of
LOUISE'S character--most complex and fascinating. Am I drifting into
love? Why not--who could help it? The rank she occupies is not, perhaps,
a lofty one; but at least there is nothing unfeminine in the duty of
providing old ladies and children with light refreshment from behind the
counter of an Oxford Street confectioner. And her tastes are refined;
she is a gentlewoman by nature and instinct. The lady-phrenologist has
delineated her (privately), and declared that LOUISE "could learn
science easily, and play the piano, if she turns her attention that
way." As a matter of fact, she has not, because neither science nor the
piano is in demand at a confectioner's; but still she undoubtedly
possesses a superior intellect; no ordinary girl would enter into the
Nautical Drama, for instance, as she does.
[Illustration: "A Blow on the Jetty."]
We have been to see _Caste_ at the theatre. LOUISE very grave and
critical; she only laughed once, and that was when _Eccles_ blew rather
loudly down his pipe to clear it. So many girls have an inconvenient
sense of humour--quite unsexing, I have always thought.
Her aunt is not precisely patrician in her manner, which would be
totally out of place in a Fancy Wool Repository--but, after all, I shall
not have to go through any experiences like poor _D'Alroy's_. And I am
sure my uncle's heart will warm to LOUISE at once. Why hesitate, then? I
will not.
I have taken the plunge--LOUISE has consented. She tells me that she was
won by my appearance in the Professor's chair, and still more by the
character he gave me. How our choicest blessings masquerade! Drama, for
the moment, in the background--but only apparently so. Literature has no
stimulus like love, and I am constantly talking the play over with
LOUISE. She has made one suggestion that convinces me she has a keen
sense of dramatic effect--a hornpipe in one of the Acts. I am to read
her the first Scene, as soon as it is put into shape.
Her brother "ALF" is expected down to-night. LOUISE is certain we shall
"take to one another," he has "such spirits," and is "quite a cure."
Always thought a "cure" was a kind of jumping clown--but ALF is a clerk
in a leading establishment, somewhere in Marylebone--a steady,
industrious young fellow, no doubt. However, I shall meet him to-morrow.
I _have_ met ALF. Although I love LOUISE with the first real passion of
a lifetime, I cannot disguise from myself that her brother is an
unmitigated Blazer. I would almost rather that he did not take to
me--but he does. In half an hour he is addressing me as "Old
gooseberry-pudden." If he is going to do this often, I shall have to
hint that I do not like it.
I have been strolling with him on the sands, where he has already found
several of his acquaintance. He _will_ introduce me to all of them.
Hearty, high-spirited fellows, full of rough but genuine British humour.
From the manner in which they all inquire "How my bumps are getting on,"
I infer they were amongst Professor SKITTLES' audience the other day.
But they mean to be friendly enough--I must not let them see how they
annoy me.... It is absurd to be stiff at Starmouth.
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