In about ten days from the date of his purchase, and not before, Brag
was informed by his captain, Bung, that “The Psyche” was “ready for
sea;” the aforesaid Bung, being an exception to the general rule of
nautical honesty and fair-dealing, having successfully persuaded Jack
into the absolute necessity of stocking and victualling her, as if she
were going to make a fresh voyage to the Pole, in order to discover
that there is nothing to find out.
It was curious enough to see the boaster caught in his own snare: his
last step had compelled him really to do all, or most of the things
about which he had, through the previous years of his life, only
talked; there was really the yacht,--the captain and crew were really
there,--really there was his own man, (butler and valet;) there were
really all the essentials for luncheon, and its consequences; and there
was Lady Lavinia doing the honours, and issuing her invitations to make
up the party for the first cruise; those to whom she sent her missives
being too glad to get afloat, even with her ladyship.
Brag liked it very much; it seemed somehow that he was beginning to
realize all his visions; but as there are drawbacks to all pleasures,
so in _his_ case there occurred one, which at first appeared
insurmountable. Jack went on board about twelve o’clock. It was a fine
fresh day, and everything looked propitious for a trip.
When he got on the deck of “The Psyche,” the mainsail, which had been
shaken out, began to flap and flutter, and Jack surveyed it with an
awe not to be described: he looked ahead, and saw one or two yachts
plunging head foremost into the rising billows, and then riding over
their curling heads in a manner which filled him with the most terrible
apprehensions.
“It blows uncommon hard, Bung,” said Jack.
“Nice breeze as ever was, sir,” said the captain.
“Those vessels out there, are bobbing up and down a good deal;--a’n’t
they?” said Jack.
“Pitches a few sir,” said Bung. “When we gets further out, the swell
will be longer. We may, perhaps, get a bit of a twister off Spithead,
if it holds as it does now: but Psyche’s an uncommon dry boat.”
Into the fair-weather mind of Brag, the idea of her ever being wet, had
never yet entered.
“Oh!” said Brag, “a dry boat, and no mistake.”
“Not a bit o’ one, sir,” said Bung. “She was a little crank last year:
but I’ve got a ton or two more ballast just a-midships, which, as I
calculate, makes her all right.”
“Umph!” said Brag, who kept his eyes fixed upon the boom, which gave
evident signs of liveliness, as the wind took the sail.
“The ladies are coming aboard, sir,” said Hickman, Jack’s new
servant,--“quite a treasure,” who had lived with Captain Chipstead as
long as that gallant officer could contrive to keep him, and who was,
therefore, a perfect master of his art in his present capacity.
“Are they?” said Jack. “What a lot!”
Accordingly, the boat containing these fair creatures, pulled
alongside; and Jack, standing at the gangway, handed on to the deck
of his yacht, Lady Lavinia Newbiggen, Miss Hastings, Lady and Miss
Wattle, Captain Hazleby,--a sort of lover of the latter,--Miss Lumsden,
intimate associate of Miss Hastings, and Dr. Munx, Lady Olivia’s
physician in ordinary; not one of which amiable and respectable
individuals, with the exception of Lady Lavinia and her niece, were in
any very particular degree known to Jack, and not one of them caring
whether he were hanged or not, the next day, _their_ object being, to
carry on their respective flirtations, enjoy the cruise, and satisfy
the appetite it most probably would create, by the demolition of his
luncheon.
Selwyn was too good a dramatist not to have conceived a sort of under
plot, in which he was himself to perform the principal part. Scarcely
had the first detachment of _Houris_ set their feet on board, before
Selwyn and his friend Mr. Buckthorne, whom he brought with him, in
order to make his own appearance nothing particular, were at the side.
“Oh, Mr. Selwyn,” said Lady Lavinia, “I didn’t know we were to have the
pleasure of your society.”
“_I_ asked _him_ to come,” said Jack; “all right, and no mistake.”
The emphasis which Jack so studiously placed upon the monosyllable
“him,” tended in some degree to enlighten her ladyship as to his
notions of the free-and-easy style in which she introduced her, by
_him_, uninvited party; however, there they were. Bung came up to Jack,
and enquired if he expected any more company.
“’Pon my life! I don’t know,” said Jack, for once quite out of his
element:--“does anybody know if anybody else is coming?”
A dead silence succeeded to the question.
“Shall we cast off from the buoy, sir?” said Bung.
“What boy?” said Jack; “I don’t expect no boys.”
Whereupon his guests laughed a little.
“I mean, sir,” said the captain, touching the rim of his hat, “are you
ready to start?”
“Oh! yes,” said Brag, getting rather soured at finding that nobody paid
the slightest attention to anything he said. “I’m ready;--only mind the
wind.”
“Forward there,” cried Bung,--and no sooner were the words out of
his mouth than Hickman jumped up the companion and cried, “Bung,
Bung!--hold hard:--the ice and the pines isn’t come aboard; nor not one
of the perigoos (as he pronounced it.) I say, make the signal 1906 for
the ices; 2014 for the pines--numeral four, and blue-pierced white,
at the gaff, with a gun, for the perigoos:--I can’t sail without the
perigoos.”
“Oh! no,” said Jack, not knowing what on earth or water it meant--“we
can’t go without the perrigoose, for fear of accidents; I won’t go out
to sea without the perrigoose.”
“What’s the use,” said Bung to Hickman, “o’ you talking to me of making
signals?--it’s as much as my life’s worth. Mr. Brag isn’t a member of
the squadron: how can I use them ’ere signals? If I did, the yachtmen,
as sure as we stand here, would load them ’ere carronades which poke
their noses out of the iron railings in front of the ‘_Clubbus_,’ and
blow us to _h_attoms.”
“Don’t do that, captain,” said Jack; “anything reasonable I don’t mind.
If the perrigoose is absolutely necessary, have it aboard; but no
tricking--no affront to the squadron--no: all straight up, right down,
and no mistake.”
“Why, sir,” said Hickman in a whisper to Jack, “there’s more come
aboard than you told me of; and if you haven’t something more in the
way of provisions, they’ll be all out of sorts.”
“Out of sorts!” said Jack--“not if they are like me the other day when
I came over here: they’ll be a deuced sight more out of sorts the more
they eat--eh?--right down, straight up, and _no_ mistake.”
“Why, sir,” said Hickman in the same subdued tone, “I have been at this
work with the captain now three or four years--that is, you know, sir,
as long as he could stand it,--and I know the whole--what I call the
whole scale and bearing of this sort of thing. They all hate the sea as
much as I, and, begging your pardon, _you_ do; but it’s a something to
do: and then the young gentlemen, and the young ladies, like it; and
the old ones like it--but they like the consolations below, sir,--the
luncheon--all that, rely upon it. You’ll forgive me, sir; if you want
the thing to go off well, you’ll make Bung hoist 1906--2014, and hoist
blue-peter at the gaff, with a gun.”
“Hoist Peter where?” said Jack.
“At the gaff, sir,” said Hickman, “where we generally run up the
ensign.”
Jack’s small mind was now so entirely overloaded with ices, pines, and
perrigoose, (unknown to him by that name,) that he saw in his servant’s
proposition about the signal, nothing but an option between hanging an
ensign in the army, or Blue Peter, whom he had established in his mind
as being one of his crew, so nicknamed by his shipmates.
It is notorious that servants _will_ have their way, and Psyche was not
suffered to get way upon her, until, in defiance of signal-making, Mr.
Hickman had sent ashore for his ices, his pines, and his perigeux pies,
which duly arrived in half an hour, much to the surprise of Jack, who
did not know a French _paté_ by that name. Hickman enjoyed exceedingly
the innocence of his master; and having been, as Jack would have said,
“put up” to the necessity of having an increase of provisions by the
strangers,--who had a much greater influence over Hickman than Jack
himself had, from having been friends of Captain Chipstead--he resolved
upon having a strong reinforcement of _comestibles, coute qui coute_.
At last, everything being ready, Bung gave the word to cast off--“Haul
taut the sheet;” and away ran “The Psyche” out of the harbour like an
arrow from a bow.
“To the Nab? sir,” said Bung to Brag.
“Oh! in course,--Oh, yes, go to the Nab,” said Jack.
She rounded out beautifully. The ladies were in ecstasies; nothing
could be more charming. Clear of the harbour, she began to feel the
breeze.
“You’ll take the helm, sir, won’t you?” said Bung to Brag.
“No,” said Jack, “no--nothing, thank you, before luncheon.”
“Stand by there.” “Aye, aye, sir”--“About she goes!” Flap--slap
went the mainsail: shiver--shake--round went the boom: off went
Jack’s hat--he hadn’t yet hoisted a cap: splash came a sea--whisked
over her bows: the ladies laughed. Bung cried--“Steady now:--there,
there--that’ll do. Belay there, Jim. On with that hatch. Clear away
there. Mind your eye, Jack.”
And then Psyche began to pitch and knock up the spray, much to the
surprise of her sporting owner, who was however speedily released from
the embarrassment of being unhatted by the provident Hickman, who
brought him up a cap, such as he ought to have worn at starting.
“Delightful breeze!” said M^{r.} Buckthorne to Jack, who was holding
on, like grim Death, by the companion, looking in the face as white as
a sheet.
“Very nice indeed,” said Jack.
Dash came another bright silvery spray over her bows, which flew on
high, and sparkled in the sun like a dancing rainbow.
“Oh, my!” said Jack, “that’s uncommon severe, eh!--and no mistake.”
“Lord love you, sir!” said Bung, “she’s like a duck in the water.
Here’s a stiff-’un coming; see how she’ll rise to that.”
And, sure enough, a great white horse came foaming and splashing along,
and over it she went! Glorious confirmation of her duck-like qualities.
“By Job!” said Jack, holding on, “we are well out of that.”
“Bung,” cried the doctor, “here comes a twister.”
And before the words were out of his mouth, a good toppling wave struck
her nearly a-midships--Bung giving the doctor, who had been a constant
companion of Chipstead in his voyages, one of those cunning looks which
are perfectly understood amongst the initiated, as he gave Psyche a
“yaw,” up into the wind, in order to make the beautiful pneumatic
exhibition which followed, for the benefit of her new owner.
This, however, was more than Jack could stand, and after this shake he
made a rapid disappearance. He descended to the cabin, not however half
so much affected by the mere physical effects of the motion as by his
moral apprehension that nothing short of a miracle could save them from
perdition.
Upon the next tack they ran away beautifully--not to poor Brag’s eyes,
who having thrown himself horizontally upon one of the well-stuffed
sofas in his cabin, and having made himself rather better, thought that
nothing ever could restore “Psyche” to the gentle upright position
in which she rode so easily when he bought her: and what added to
his misery was, hearing the mirthful conversation of his unknown
guests, none of whom had left the deck, or abandoned the delights of
participating in the pleasures of the day.
Just as Jack was getting what he called a little easy and
comfortable--barring his constant apprehensions of some dreadful
calamity,--his ears were assailed by Lady Lavinia’s voice, calling upon
him loudly and repeatedly, to know when they were to have luncheon.
He could not disobey the summons of the noble Orlebar with whom he
sought an alliance, and he therefore roused himself. Hickman advised
him to bathe his temples with cold water, and drink brandy; both of
which he did;--a mode of taking brandy and water which a particular
friend of his would have pronounced the very best mode of administering
the beverage. However, Jack was completely beaten, and it was with
the greatest difficulty Hickman could get him to sit right up, and no
mistake! while, by his command, he summoned the guests to their repast.
It is not an agreeable subject to dwell upon, but as the mishap affords
a new illustration of Jack’s absurdities--only imagine a man having
been dreadfully, and being still considerably, sick, oppressed and
agitated by a certain quantum of alarm, and labouring moreover under
the influence of an unsavoury smell of pitch, moreen-damask, savoury
viands, and fresh paint, having to preside at a table which was dancing
the hays, and help a squashy French pie, made by a Cowes confectioner.
In addition to this, Jack had to behold the destruction of flocks of
fowls, hams, tongues, and sundry more delicate things, by people whom
he had never seen before, and who were, unluckily for him, what are
called good sailors.
Things went on pretty well; Lady Lavinia encouraged him,--for she
really liked him: pop went the champagne corks--(splash came a sea down
the companion):--more fowls; more _moussu_--more seas:--and it was
pleasant to observe how careful Captain Hazleby was of Miss Wattle, who
could hardly keep her seat in her chair without his assistance. Selwyn
too, who in the confusion of the moment had contrived to get near Miss
Hastings, was equally attentive to _her_; while Dr. Munx, a great
favourite with Lady Lavinia, kept prescribing repeated draughts of
Jack’s champagne, which her ladyship kept swallowing, weeping a little
as the day wore on, and saying to herself, audibly enough to be heard
by Jack--“How my poor dear Henry would have liked such a day as this!”
The beauty of the day, however, began to fade away; the bright sky was
overcast with clouds, and a meteorological contest took place between
the wind and the rain. It became impossible for the ladies to return
to the deck, and indispensably necessary to shut the cabin skylights.
This was extremely agreeable to Jack, whose health, under existing
circumstances, required the admission of a very considerable quantity
of oxygen, and who, when the cucumber-frame was put over what he called
the square hole in the floor, felt as one may suppose a sparrow feels,
under the receiver of an air-pump during the process of exhaustion.
“The wind has all died away,” said Mr. Buckthorne, when he returned
from the deck. “Here we are, off St. Helens, and, as Bung says, when we
shall get away nobody can tell.”
“But what are we to do?” said Jack, to whom every novelty of
circumstance presented some new peril.
“Stay where we are, I presume,” said Dr. Munx.
This produced a laugh. Dr. Munx was pleased, and called for some more
champagne.
Psyche began to roll a little, and her wet mainsail to flap heavily.
“What the deuce is that noise?” said Jack.
“The mainsail flapping,” said Buckthorne.
“Why do they let it flap?” said Jack.
“Because,” said the facetious Munx, “they can’t help it.”
Another laugh.
“Well then, I suppose it’s all right,” said Jack, “and no mistake:--but
a’n’t we rolling about, a good deal?”
“That’s because there’s no wind; the rain has beaten it dead hollow,”
said Buckthorne.
This last reason killed the last of Jack’s hopes. When he found
his light and lively yacht spanking and splashing through the
water--pitching into one wave and rising over the next--he felt himself
dreadfully unwell. Hickman, his servant and counsellor, then observed
that it _did_ blow fresh, and that there _was_ a good deal of sea on,
upon which Jack took to praying that the wind would, what he called,
“go down,” and make Psyche easier. His petition to Æolus, it seems, had
been heard, and the breeze had subsided into a calm; and now, when the
great object of all his wishes was actually obtained, Psyche was ten
times more uneasy than she was before.
The state of affairs was very considerably changed by the change of
weather: the ladies ceased smiling; Lady Lavinia felt drowsy; the men
kept peeping and peering up the companion. The heavy tread of the crew
upon the wet deck, and their muttered conversations, combined to excite
the most melancholy feelings in Jack’s mind, whose amiable assurance
was so greatly weakened by the state of his health, that he could not
rally and stand up against the off-hand replies and retorts, “not
always courteous,” of the doctor.
“Hickman,” said Mr. Buckthorne to the servant, “have you got any cards
on board?”
“I believe there are two or three packs, sir,” replied Hickman.
Well, muttered Jack to himself, I think he might as well have asked
_me_ that question.
“We may have a little _Ecarté_,” said Captain Hazleby.--(These words
conjured up in Jack’s mental eye the vision of Stiffkey and the I. O.
U.)--“Lady Lavinia, what say you to a hand?”
“I don’t think I can see the cards,” said her ladyship, alluding to the
darkness of the day.
I should wonder if you could, thought Jack, after drinking all that
champagne.
“Oh! don’t play cards,” said Munx. “How long shall we be getting back?”
“Bung says,” replied Buckthorne, “we shall never get back, if a breeze
doesn’t spring up. There’s no chance of _that_, while the rain holds;
and even if it _should_ should come to blow a little, the wind will be
right in our teeth, so we shall have to beat up.”
“Well but,” said Jack, “can’t we get out and go ashore, and walk home!”
This produced a general roar, which roused Lady Lavinia from her serene
slumber; and for her ladyship’s benefit the question was repeated by
Dr. Munx in his happiest style.
“Oh,” said her ladyship, “you are so droll!--this is the sort of thing
he is continually saying.--It quite kills me.”
“No,” said Buckthorne--“as matters look now, the chances are we shall
sleep on board: at all events we sha’n’t get back till ten or eleven.”
“That’s a bore,” said Hazleby. “I’m engaged to a most agreeable dinner
at seven.”
“And we,” said Miss Wattle, “are going to Lady Thunderum’s ball.”
“Oh! so am I,” said Buckthorne, “and all of us, I conclude; but we
can’t command the elements.”
“Have you nothing new to give us, Mr. Selwyn, in the literary way?”
asked Miss Lumsden, who knew she could not better please her friend
Fanny than by bringing her lover forward.
“Oh! do--do--pray, do! Read us something, Mr. Selwyn, or recite,” said
Munx; “anything by way of amusement.”
“I have got my last poem in my pocket, by mere chance,” said Selwyn. “I
have often promised Lady Lavinia to read it; this, I think, would be a
good opportunity.”
“Oh, dear!” said Munx.
“What say you, Lady Lavinia?” said Lady Wattle,--“They say you are
sovereign here.”
“Our great captain’s captain,” said Munx.
“Why,” exclaimed Jack, “that’s out of Othello.”
“In it, if you please,” said Munx.
The very recollection of Othello, coupled with the dread that Dr.
Munx might have last seen it at Lewes, threw poor Jack into a fresh
confusion.
“Oh! yes,” said Lady Lavinia, “as Mr. Selwyn _is_ here, he may as well
make himself agreeable, if he can.”
“Aunt!” said Fanny, in a soft but reproachful tone.
“I shall be too happy,” said Selwyn, producing from his pocket the
manuscript, which, having had some experience of the uncertainty of
yacht voyages, he had brought with him, in the hopes of obtaining an
opinion of such acknowledged judges of literary merit as Lady Lavinia
and Dr. Munx.
Selwyn accordingly moved himself out of the corner in which he had been
sitting, and poking across the cabin at an angle of forty-five degrees,
caught hold of a dancing chair, and placing it at the bottom of the
table, seated himself, and began his last pet favourite work.
“Lady Lavinia,” said Dr. Munx, “I do _not_ think you are well. Sudden
changes come over your countenance--affected by the motion; clouds
swimming before your eyes--giddiness in your head?”
“Exactly so,” said her ladyship.
“I must take you under my care, Lady Lavinia,” said the doctor. “Put
you through a three years’ course of my infinitesimal medicines, which
will enable me to form a just estimate of your ladyship’s constitution.”
“Isn’t that rather a long time to wait?” said Hazleby.
“No,” said Munx, “the new school have determined to do nothing in a
hurry. The human frame and constitution are much too delicate to be
handled so roughly as the present race of physicians handle them. In
fact, we have discovered that all medicines are injurious that are
visibly effective, and that unless administered after the new fashion,
they eventually increase the complaints for which they are given; hence
we argue (and our success has been established), that it is better to
do nothing than do mischief.”
“There I quite agree with the doctor,” said Lady Wattle.
“When I say, nothing,” said Munx, “I speak, of course, comparatively.
Our system, in fact, is composed of a combination of what, to the
vulgar, appear most ridiculous contradictions: for instance, a great
deal of poison kills a man,--_ergo_, a little poison will do him
good;--therefore we take care to give him sufficient poison to produce
a disorder which we know we can cure, in order to prevent his having
some other disorder which we equally well know we cannot.”
“Yes but, Doctor,” said Hazleby, “the delicacy of your proceedings in
the poison line is very striking. My sister-in-law called in one of
your school, unknown to the family physician, and after pecking at the
pin’s-head pills of the new school for a month she got ashamed of her
duplicity, told Doctor Fang the whole history of her defection, and
quackery, and showed him a box containing materials for working out the
new and infallible system which were to last her for a twelvemonth,
expressing to him at the same time the mingled dread and veneration
with which the magical remedies inspired her. Fang smiled, and taking
the box, emptied its contents into his hand, and swallowed the whole
of them at one gulp before the face of his recreant patient, to her
infinite horror and astonishment.”
“That is more than anything you could possibly have said, confirmatory
of the safety of our principles,” said Munx. “Our success I tell you
does not depend upon the application of a remedy homœopathically, so
much as upon the minuteness of the dose; the effects of which are the
greater as it approaches the finite bounds of dilution.”
“I perceive,” said Buckthorne, “that the Poor-law Commissioners have
regulated their proceedings upon precisely the same system. According
to their _dictum_,--‘The less a man eats and drinks the fatter and
stronger he gets.’ Minute medicaments, in the shape of half-ounces
of Dutch cheese and half-pints of water, ‘approaching, as near as
possible, the finite bounds of dilution,’ are most judiciously
substituted for the vulgar beef and beer which the Allopathic asses of
other days administered to the old and weak and infirm, in the hope of
nourishing age, and strengthening infirmity.”
“Quite right, quite right,” exclaimed the Doctor. “The Allopathic
system exactly defined.--The gross masses of beef, the lengthened
potations of beer, exactly correspond with the powerful remedies
hitherto prescribed, which, we have now so satisfactorily ascertained,
produce of themselves, symptoms which did not characterize the original
malady.”
“I agree with you there,” said Buckthorne. “The original symptoms were
hunger and thirst, the beef and beer overcame those, and replaced them
by very different ones.”
“The whole thing resolves itself into this one principle,” said
Munx,--“minuteness of application.”
“Why,” said Hazleby, “your practice reminds me of the Duke of
Buckingham--reading “power” for “love.” _You_ say,--
Your power is great because it is so small,
to which I add, like his Grace,--
Then were it greatest were it none at all!”
“What,” said Lady Lavinia, “do you call a minute application?”
“Why,” said Munx, “it is difficult to explain to your ladyship. The
only admissible vehicles for homœopathic medicine are amadine, the
saccharine basis of milk, and alcohol reduced to a certain specific
gravity at 60° of Fahrenheit.”
“What a lovely name for a medicine,” said Lady Wattle. “Amadine!--I
think if I had a daughter born now, I would christen her Amadine.”
“Why,” said Munx, “that--I--the word is a good word,--it is classical
and euphonious, but the material,--the English,--the vulgar name of the
article it designates,--is starch.”
Here a laugh, at the expense of her ladyship, gave poor Fanny hopes
that the subject would drop, and that Selwyn, who had been now for
some time seated, book in hand, ready to begin his poem, would have an
opportunity of delighting their ears with his mellifluous voice.
“Starch, sugar of milk, and spirits of wine, and water,” said Munx,
“are the vehicles. The medicines must be made in a laboratory
sheltered from the sun’s rays, yet so ventilated as not to be liable to
the odious odours which so dangerously distinguish the atmosphere of
an apothecary’s shop: the scales to weigh them must be so sensitively
delicate, as to turn with the hundredth part of a grain, and the
largest vessel in the laboratory need only be a minim measure graduated
to a hundred drops.”
“You should send to Lilliput, Doctor, to get practitioners,” said
Hazleby. “I wish Swift were alive, to give us a history of your
proceedings.”
“The race is not always to the Swift,” said Munx, facetiously. “Our
principle is admirable: we administer nothing but dried vegetables,
or imperceptible minerals. Only look at our tinctures; when it comes
to that, we get our extracts, mix them with spirits of wine, and stop
them up in little bottles. What do we do with those tinctures--make
them by taking out of our little bottles little bits of our invaluable
mass--half the size of a poppy seed--add alcohol in the proportion of
twenty minims to one grain of the mash; let it stand in a warm room,
let the pellucid liquor drop out of it,--keep it. That’s the secret for
tinctures.”
“Ah!” said Jack, who thought it was absolutely necessary in his own
yacht to say something, “that’s it,--eh? straight up, right down, and
no mistake.”
“Then for regulating their modifications,” said Munx: “eleven grains
of sugar of milk, diligently triturated for an hour with one of the
medicament, whatever it is, added again, to eleven grains of sugar
of milk, and triturated for another hour, produces another degree of
attenuation; while one hundred drops of gin and water--we call it
alcohol--Hodges, Booth, or spirits of wine, as circumstances require,
mingled with a grain of the medicament;--ninety-nine minims to one of
the combination--expands the quality of the medicament another degree,
and so on for every subsequent dilution. The degrees of expansion and
attenuation are regularly adapted to the disease and constitution of
the patient.”
“Well,” said Buckthorne, “it is something to know that you pretend to
pay so much attention to circumstances as that.”
“The table of expansions is a very curious and scientific paper,”
said Munx. “The degrees run thus,--the highest point to which the
calculation is carried being one grain.
1. First _deg. of expansion_ A hundredth part.
2. Second Ten-thousandth.
I. Third A millionth.
II. Sixth Billionth.
III. Ninth Trillionth.
IV. Twelfth Quadrillionth.
V. Fifteenth Quintillionth.
VI. Eighteenth Sextillionth.
VII. Twenty-first Septillionth.
VIII. Twenty-fourth Octillionth.
IX. Twenty-seventh Nonillionth.
X. Thirtieth Decillionth.
And then for the intervening expansions we stick certain dots and
scribbles on the little bottles, which are perfectly intelligible to
the initiated.”
“I declare, Lady Lavinia,” said Lady Wattle, “I never heard anything
so satisfactory in my life: one grain of predicament, no bigger than a
poppy-seed, to be expanded to a decillionth. What elasticity it must
give to the system.”
“Elasticity!” said Munx; “the sensations produced by an adherence to
the system are indescribable; and then the convenience,--a whole dose,
if liquid, is absorbed by five grains of sugar of milk, and if in
powder, may be converted into an ample draught by a single dew-drop.”
“Bravo! Doctor,” said Hazleby: “a noble remedy. But now in a case of
a violent accession of inflammatory symptoms, eh? what would you do
_then_? use your infinitesimals,--eh? You might as well play a boy’s
squirt into a burning powder-mill.”
“Oh,” said Munx, “I do not admit the possibility of anything of the
sort you imagine, while the patient is under the regimen of the
Homœopathic school.”
“Regimen,” said Lady Lavinia. “What! must not we eat or drink during
the time we are swallowing the pins’ heads and poppy seeds?”
“You may eat everything,” said Munx, “everything,--fish, flesh,
and fowl, (except ducks, geese, pork, veal, and shell-fish,) eggs,
weak black-tea, and cocoa, are good. Milk you may have, and fruits
boiled that are not acid. Drink toast-and-water, barley-water, weak
brandy-and-water--one eighth brandy; no wine, certainly no spices, no
green-tea, no coffee, no salads, no malt-liquor, and, above all, no
parsley, no onions, and no raw fruit of any kind;--duck, is death;
pork--poison; and parsley, perdition. One decillionth of a parsley leaf
settles you; in fact, parsley, pork, and perfumes, are destructive.”
Jack, who, having seen Munx eat most ravenously of veal pie, ham, and
salad, watched him swallow glass after glass of his champagne, and
beheld him munching pineapples as if they were turnips, could stand
this absurdity no longer,--“Well, Doctor,” said he, “how do you find
this mode of training and feeding suit your own book?”
“Oh,” said Munx, “it perfectly coincides with the doctrines I have
advocated in my book which I have published on the subject.”
“Not a bit of _that_,” said Jack: “I won’t have _that_ at no price. I
mean, how does it agree with you yourself?”
“Oh!” said Munx, “I--I don’t attend to the rules myself: I have no
constitutional disposition to any particular disease. I--that is--I----”
“I think,” said Jack, “pine-apples is raw fruit; and the pie, which
you have eat half of, is veal; the ham shews plenty of bone, the
salad-bowl, which was before you, is empty; and, as far as the
champagne goes----”
“By the way,” said Munx, who was the most impudent of all
pretenders--Jack himself not excepted, “I hope it isn’t all gone.”
“Hickman,” said Buckthorne, “have you got any more champagne in ice?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Hickman, to the utter dismay and confusion of
Jack, who found himself in almost as helpless a position in his own
boat as a constitutional king with a cabinet full of overbearing
ministers.
“Depend upon it,” said Munx, “my dear Lady Lavinia, if you pursue
a regular course of these medicines for eight or ten years, you
will imperceptibly find your life extended. I merely state that
abstinence”--(“Mind, Hickman, don’t pour the champagne over”)--“and
that future generations will bless the discoverers of so magnificent an
accession to the world of science in its most important department.”
A pause ensued. Fanny, the timid--yet, when love-prompted, the bold
advocate of wit and genius, again said--“Aunt, Mr. Selwyn is ready to
begin his poem which you asked him to read to us.”
“By the way, Lady Lavinia,” said Hazleby,--“I beg your pardon, one
moment, Mr. Selwyn;--will you tell me what is the beginning of
that beautiful little song of Lady Fanny’s which she sang us last
week--something about ‘Fly, dearest Mary’--eh?”
“I remember,” said Lady Lavinia; “it was very pretty. I don’t
recollect the words, or the music. Sing it to us, Hazleby--do!”
“I can-_not_ sing,” said Hazleby. “I wonder if Chipstead’s guitar is on
board. Hickman!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Is there a guitar on board?”
“No, sir.”
“Mind, when we come again, to remind your master to have a guitar,”
said Hazleby: “one can’t do without a guitar. We must have a guitar.
Miss Wattle sings to the guitar, and so do I. Don’t you recollect that
charming little air that you gave us the last time we sailed together?
It was moonlight--all calm: and so bright.”
“You never sing when you are asked,” said Lady Wattle.
“Upon my word, I would now,” said Hazleby, “but somehow I wetted my
feet getting on shore last night, and have got a dreadful cold.”
“Well then,” said Fanny, “perhaps Mr. Selwyn will begin to read?”
“I shall be too glad,” said Selwyn, drawing his chair a little closer
to the table.
“I don’t mind, however,” said Hazleby, “for once. Upon my word,--if
I break down, don’t abuse me. I think I could manage to croak out a
little thing which has just been published. I beg a thousand pardons,
Selwyn!--I will not detain you five minutes. Hem, hem!”
“That’s just the way,” said Fanny in a whisper to Miss Lumsden. “It is
all jealousy of poor Mr. Selwyn: Captain Hazleby wouldn’t sing under an
hour’s pressing at any other time.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Miss Lumsden.
“Now then,” said Jack,--“go along, if it kills you.”
The look Hazleby gave Jack, if he could have perfectly seen, or
entirely comprehended it, would unquestionably have extinguished him.
“Well,” said Hazleby, “_commençons donc_.”
The Colonel has married Miss Fanny,
And quitted the turf and high play:
They’re gone down to live with his granny
In a sober and rational way.
Folks in town were all perfectly scared
When they heard of this excellent plan,
For nobody there was prepared
To think him a sensible man.
For Fanny two years he’d been sighing,
And Fanny continued stone-cold,
Till he made her believe he was dying;
And Fan thought herself growing old.
So, one very fine night, at a _fête_,
When the moon shone as bright as it can,
She found herself left _tête-à-tête_
With this elegant sensible man.
There are minutes which lovers can borrow
From Time, ev’ry one worth an age;
Equivalents each to the sorrow
They sweetly combine to assuage.
’Twas so on this heart-stirring eve;
He explained ev’ry hope, wish, and plan:
She sighed, and began to believe
The Colonel a sensible man.
He talk’d about roses and bowers,
Till he dimm’d her bright eye with a tear;
For though “Love cannot live upon flowers,”
Miss Fan. had four thousand a-year.
’Twas useless, she felt, to deny;
So she used her bouquet for a fan;
And averting her head, with a sigh,
Gave her heart to the sensible man.
“Bravo! bravo!” echoed through the cabin; and everybody was, or seemed
to be, delighted except Fanny, who kept her eyes fixed upon Selwyn
with an anxiety too characteristic of the interest she took in his
proceedings.
“Capital!” said Buckthorne. “Whose words are they?”
“I can guess,” said Lady Wattle.
“I can-_not_,” said Lady Lavinia.
“Tell us!” said Buckthorne.
“Do!” said Jack, who only said so, because he _would_ say something.
“They are _so_ pointed,” said Lady Wattle.
“And _so_ personal,” said Munx, “there’s no mistaking the allusion.
Name, name!”
“No,” said Hazleby, “I really cannot; I am pledged.”
“Never mind pledges,” said Munx; “tell us!”
“Do!” “do!” “do!” “do!” said all the party, excepting Fanny and Selwyn,
whose thoughts were turned on very different things at the moment.
“Well,” said Hazleby,--“I suppose we are safe.”
“I hope so,” said Jack.
“All tiled,” said Hazleby--“only don’t betray me; because I hate
breaking a confidence in these matters, let the person be whom he may.”
“Not a syllable,” said one:--“Close as wax,” said another:--“Silent as
the grave,” said a third.
“Well then,” said Hazleby,--“only I must whisper, because I should not
like it to be known beyond our little party;--they are by----”
“Yourself!” said Buckthorne.
“No,” said Hazleby, “they are _not_; but under seal, recollect--they
are written by my man Dickinson, who, although _I_ say it, who should
not, is, perhaps, in French blacking and fashionable song writing,
superior to any man of his _metier_ I ever met with. He makes a mint of
money by his muse; and I am too happy to encourage him in his poetical
pursuits: but this is of course, as I have before said, all _entre
nous_.”
This announcement was received with infinite delight by the company,
excepting again poor Fanny, who fancied that what Captain Hazleby
said was not true, and that the words were his own; the history of
his literary valet having been invented extempore, for the purpose of
wounding Selwyn’s feelings, and casting a reflection upon mercenary
poets, as severe as those of Lord Byron, and quite as certain of
being followed up by his taking whatever he could get for his own
compositions. Fanny was probably right, and Hazleby had made the
important sacrifice of his vanity for the gratification of his
ill-nature.
“How kind you are,” said Lady Wattle, “to sing to us.”
“Very kind, indeed,” said Dr. Munx: “it was because nobody asked him;
if we had pressed him, he wouldn’t have opened his mouth.”
“His minim-box you mean, Doctor,” said Buckthorne, “in the eighth
degree of expansion.”
“Well, Mr. Selwyn,” said Fanny, “will you begin? Maria and I are
anxiously waiting.”
“I am ready,” said Selwyn.
“One moment, Selwyn,” said Buckthorne. “Hickman, you must have some
cards on board? look in that locker,--by the door. I know there were
some.”
“What are you going to do with cards, now, Mr. Buckthorne?” said Fanny.
“Why, Miss Hastings,” said Buckthorne, “Hazleby and I can go on quietly
with our game while Selwyn reads.”
“I should like to join you,” said Lady Lavinia; “or, at all events,
I’ll bet, and advise.”
“My dear aunt!” said Fanny.
“It is getting rather dark,” said Selwyn, whose patience was rapidly
evaporating. “Are there any candles to be had?”
“Candles, Hickman!” cried Hazleby.
“None on board, sir,” said Hickman.
“My dear Brag,” said the Captain to Jack, “where are your
candles?--never forget candles!--why we shall be in the dark for four
hours before we get ashore. Bung,” continued the vivacious cavalier,
“where are we? Does it rain much?”
“Mizzling, sir,” said Bung. “We are abreast of Stokes Bay, and as near
as may be mid-channel. I think we shall have a spirt of wind presently.”
“Now, Mr. Selwyn!” said Miss Lumsden.
“My dear Miss Lumsden,” said Buckthorne, “do wait till Hickman finds
the cards.”
“It is getting dark,” said Fanny.
“Oh,” said Buckthorne, “there must be a light somewhere. Why we shall
be like so many children playing blind-man’s buff.”
“What a charming little party, Lady Wattle, you gave us Tuesday,” said
Lady Lavinia, “those dear mazurkas. Mr. Brag, I tell you what--you must
give us a ball.”
“I have no house,” said Jack.
“Lady Wattle will lend you hers,” said Lady Lavinia, “and I’ll invite
the people.”
“And I will manage the supper for you,” said Hazleby.
“You are very kind; but----”
“But nothing,” said Lady Lavinia. “You acknowledge me your
sovereign,--I must be obeyed.”
“Can’t find any cards, sir, anywhere,” said Hickman.
“Deuced provoking,” said Buckthorne. “It can’t be helped.”
“But now, Mr. Selwyn,” again said Fanny.
Selwyn opened his manuscript, and having hemmed thrice to beget
attention, began--
“The silver moon on----”
“I beg pardon,” said Buckthorne; “but I think the breeze seems to
be springing up. I’ll just step on deck. I’m getting fidgetty about
dinner.” Selwyn made way for him, and up the ladder he skipped.
Selwyn recommenced--
“The silver moon on----”
“One moment, my dear fellow,” said Hazleby, “before you begin. I’ll
just step up, too: we can hear you extremely well on deck: but it is
getting infernally close; that was always the worst of this yacht,--a
kind of fusty smell.”
“Well,” said Lady Lavinia, “I really _do_ think it is very oppressive.
Fanny dear, does it rain? I think I should like a little air myself.”
“I thought you wished to hear Mr. Selwyn read his poem?” said Fanny.
“So I did,” said her ladyship; “but it was not so hot then.”
“Can’t you tell us a funny story, Mr. Selwyn?” said Munx.
“Ah, do!” said Lady Wattle. “I don’t mean one of your own, because you
don’t write funny things; but one----”
“I know no stories,” said Selwyn. “I--if you wish me to read----”
“Oh, go on,” said Miss Lumsden; “they will be glad enough to listen
when once you begin.”
“Well,” said Selwyn, “as _you_ please.”
“The silver moon on----”
“I say, by Jove!” cried Buckthorne, putting his head down the
companion, “there’s a ship on fire in Portsmouth harbour!”
“A fire!” cried one: “A ship!” cried another: “A ship on fire!” cried
a third. “I hope it’s a long way off,” cried Jack. “Oh! how dreadful!”
said Lady Lavinia. “Splendid sight!” said Lady Wattle. And away they
all scrambled up to see this magnificent spectacle, sweeping everything
before them, nearly upsetting the unhappy author in the rush, and
leaving the cabin tenanted only by him and Fanny.
“I am quite ashamed of my aunt,” said Fanny, “and disgusted with the
rest of the party: their conduct towards you is inexcusable.”
“Never mind,” said Selwyn; “if I have _your_ pity, I am satisfied.”
“My aunt very much mistakes my character,” said Fanny, “if she imagines
that, by endeavouring to lower you in your own estimation, she can
lower you in mine; such a course is foolish in the extreme,--an insult
to the object of our esteem only increases our interest in him.”
“I am repaid for all that has passed,” said Selwyn. “I _am_ esteemed?”
He took Fanny’s hand,--pressed it,--it was not withdrawn. “Loved?”
whispered he. A gentle pressure of his hand by Fanny, was the practical
answer to this deciding question. It _was_ given, and she sank back on
her seat, and burst into tears.
“Very fine!” said one of the party on deck; “--strong flame,--burns
fiercer!”
“Where’s Fanny?” exclaimed Lady Lavinia.
“She is below,” said Selwyn, standing on the deck, close to her
ladyship, a position to which he had attained by a sudden spring up the
companion, having been “signalled” by a wave of Fanny’s hand to leave
her on the instant, lest the fire-worshippers might return and find
them _tête-à-tête_; a discovery most unquestionably the prelude of a
scene, the points of which would have received a wonderful accession of
force from the appearance of Fanny in tears.
The party remained on deck, watching the “splendid spectacle,” which,
instead of a ship on fire, proved eventually to be nothing but the
flame from a brick-kiln near Alverstoke, until it began again to
rain: they then hurried down again, and huddled themselves up in
corners,--the darkness nearly complete, the wags worn out, and Jack
himself fast asleep. Two only of the party were happy, and they only
happy, because they were together.
Several attempts at renewing a conversation were made, and failed.
Buckthorne’s watch was a repeater, and the principal recreation
during the voyage, was making it strike half-hours, and quarters,
three-quarters, and whole hours, which it periodically continued to do
until three-quarters past ten; at which period a slight increase of
bustle “’pon deck” gave indication of an approach to Cowes; and just as
the church clock was striking eleven, the anchor was let go, and “The
Psyche” brought up; the Yacht Club-house distant three-quarters of a
mile, which, considering the wind was blowing fresh from the southward,
was all that could be done for her.
“Well, here we are,” said Buckthorne, “at last.”
“Where?” said Jack.
“At Cowes,” replied Buckthorne.
“Why, it is miles off,” said Jack, looking at the lights of the town.
“No,” said Buckthorne; “a mile, perhaps.”
“And how are we to get there?” said Jack.
“In the boat,” was the answer.
“Bung,” said Hazleby, “it rains deuced hard still. Hadn’t you better
make the night signal for umbrellas?”
“Can’t, sir,” said Bung, and he whispered something to Hazleby.
“Oh, ah!” said Hazleby; “I forgot _that_.”
“No, I wish I did,” said Jack, who had overheard the captain’s subdued
observation that “Mr. Brag did not belong to the Club.”
In the midst of this discussion, it was found that the boat could
only take the party at two trips. It was pitch-dark, a good deal of
sea on, and the rain beating right out of the harbour into the faces
of the pleasure-hunters on their return from the chase. Then came the
squabbling as to who should go first:--the ladies, of course,--then two
gentlemen were to be selected; and while the decision was under debate,
Hazleby and Buckthorne summarily decided the question by stepping into
the boat and shoving off; and it is difficult to say which heart was
the more agitated, that of Selwyn or Jack Brag, as they stood watching
the boat, till it became a black speck upon the dark blue waves with
which it seemed to struggle for existence. Selwyn almost wept to
think that all he loved in the world was exposed to the discomfort and
inconvenience of such a night, without his being with her to share her
ills; and Jack trembled to think, that in another half-hour or so he
should himself be doomed to a similar expedition.
_His_ turn came. In about an hour the boat returned; and although
Jack had made sundry sly suggestions about staying on board till the
morning, and talked somewhat largely of cold and rain, he was utterly
defeated by the care and civility of Lady Lavinia, who sent back by the
boat, boat-cloaks and umbrellas in plenty,--the latter being, however,
rendered entirely useless by the force of the wind.
Away they went, much after the fashion of their predecessors, save that
it blew harder and the sea was rougher,--a combination of circumstances
which produced upon Jack a sensation to which he had hitherto been a
stranger:--it was not sickness--it was not fear,--but it was a happy
mixture of both, by which he was attacked. Every pitch brought, as the
old women say, his heart into his mouth; and as the boat’s bow dipped
into the trough of the sea, he grasped the gunwale at his side, as
tightly as possible, hoping to produce some beneficial effect, without
any clearly-defined notion as to what it might be.
In getting out, Jack “missed his tip” in a jump, and first took to
earth in three feet water; and was eventually lugged out and carried on
shore on the back of one of his crew,--Munx observing that, although
he had proclaimed himself to be remarkably hungry during their passage
from “Psyche,” he was not exceedingly _dry_!--a joke of Jack’s own, for
the commission of which by the Doctor, he would have been gratified
to see him gibbeted. The _friends_, however, parted, each talking of
the delightful day they had spent, and all separately voting the whole
affair the most unequalled and unqualified bore.
Delightful or dreadful as it might have been to some, or all of the
party, Brag himself was made perfectly miserable. His detestation of
the sea he had overcome in order to do the thing properly; all his
prudential precautions as to finance had been broken through, in order
to carry the great point of putting himself practically on a footing
with those with whom he wished to associate,--and, above all, to secure
the prize to which he had all through life looked so anxiously, “a
titled wife.”
What is the result? He gets his yacht--_she_ makes his party; his
man, transferred from a ruined spendthrift, prepares the banquet;
his unknown guests feast at his charge,--talk of things he does not
comprehend,--of people he never saw,--until, seeing him completely
overpowered by their _nonchalance_, they dispense with even the common
courtesy of consulting _him_, or asking him for anything they may
happen to want, referring wholly to the servant whom he had hired, as
if he had been so hired for their sole use and accommodation.
During the whole day Jack had never rallied: pale and sad, the pert
prig of other times remained both sick in body and mind, full of wrath
which he dared not express, and of repentance which he was ashamed to
admit; and when he got himself dried, rubbed, and put to bed, he began
to think that a theoretical pretender was at all events a cheaper and
better thing than a practical one.