[Illustration]
The ward-room lunch was finished, and all the ladies were playing
“Bridge” for nuts with the officers, except Josephine, whose thoughts
were too much occupied with other and more important matters. So she
came on deck to indulge in a _rêverie_ all alone.
[Illustration: SO SHE CAME ON DECK TO INDULGE IN A _RÊVERIE_ ALL
ALONE]
“It is useless,” said she to herself; “Sir Joseph’s attentions disgust
me. I know that he is a truly great and good man, for he told me so
himself, and of course he would know;[6] but to me he seems tedious,
fretful, and dictatorial. Yet his must be a mind of no common order, or
he would not dare to teach my dear Father to dance a hornpipe on the
cabin table.”
[Footnote 6: Sir Joseph was mistaken, but to do him justice, he
believed that he was telling the truth. Josephine’s estimate of his
character was much nearer the mark.]
It was Sir Joseph’s firm belief that if Great Britain were to retain
her proud position as the most powerful naval country in the world, it
was essential that all her sailors should learn to dance hornpipes. It
was all he knew about the Navy, and he had been three years learning
that.
As Josephine soliloquized, she saw Ralph Rackstraw advancing towards
her with an undulating swan-like motion that teemed with unspeakable
grace.
“Ralph Rackstraw!” she exclaimed, withdrawing from her pocket the false
nose which she always put on when she thought she was going to be too
much admired.
“Nay, lady,” said he, “put away yon pasteboard mockery. The matchless
beauty of the real one is so deeply graven in my memory that I can see
it even through that hollow absurdity.”
“In that case,” said she, “it is of course useless to wear it, for it
is uncomfortable wear on a warm day.” And she returned it to her pocket.
“Lady,” said Ralph, “I have long wished to meet you alone.”
“That’s nonsense,” she replied, “you can’t be alone if I am here, you
know.”
“An unworthy quibble,” said he. “You know perfectly well what I mean.
It is unladylike to sneer at a poor sailor-man because his education
has been neglected.”
“It is true,” she replied. “I beg your pardon.”
“Granted,” said he, with the ready urbanity of one of Nature’s noblemen.
Poor Josephine was much touched by this generous and freely accorded
forgiveness, and the affection that she had long entertained for him
struggled with her sense that it would never do to unite herself with
a humble and illiterate sailor. Moreover, she had promised her papa
that no consideration should induce her to let Ralph Rackstraw know her
real sentiments towards him, so she drew a “Diabolo”[7] from her pocket
and pretended to be wholly absorbed in the game. She usually played it
with great skill, throwing the Diabolo as high as the mast head and
catching it on the string with her eyes shut; but so great was her
agitation that she missed it every time, to the serious damage of her
renowned nose.
[Footnote 7: “Diabolo” was not publicly played at the date of my story.
The game was invented by Josephine, and she reserved it at first for
her own entertainment; but eventually Messrs. Ayres of Aldersgate
Street were induced to make it public, with considerable pecuniary
results, all of which she handed over, like a good girl, to the
Sailors’ Institute.]
“Nay, lady,” said Ralph, “I see that my presence has unsettled you—I
will withdraw.”
“No, Ralph, you may remain,” she said. She did not like him to go away
with the impression that she was but a clumsy player after all. And
again she tossed the “Diabolo” high into the air, and again it came
down on her beautiful little nose.
“Lady,” said he, “put aside that silly toy and listen. I am a poor
uneducated fellow who has dared to love you, but before you dismiss
me with contempt, do not forget that I am a British sailor. It is
important to bear that in mind.”
Josephine was much moved, and though she was a girl of great strength
of mind she would not trust herself to speak. So she merely exclaimed
“Pooh!” and again threw up the toy, with the same painful results.
“Nay, lady,” said he, “I feel that this indifference is assumed. I
distinctly see a tear trembling in your left eye.”
“It—it was the Diabolo,” she said (not quite truthfully), “it hurt.”
“Then—you reject me?” said he.
“Sir,” said she, “you forget the disparity in our ranks.”
“I forget nothing, haughty girl,” said Ralph. “Give me hope, and what
I lack in education and polite accomplishments, I will endeavour to
acquire. Drive me to despair, and in death alone I shall look for
consolation. I am proud, and cannot stoop to implore. I have spoken and
I await your word.”
As he finished, he assumed an attitude of such extraordinary dignity
that Josephine was on the point of saying “Take me and be happy,” but
the noble girl called all her resolution to her aid, and haughtily
replied:
“You shall not wait long—your proffered love I contemptuously reject.
Go, sir, and learn to cast your eyes on some village maiden in your own
poor rank—they should be lowered before your Captain’s daughter!”
And so saying, with the tell-tale tears streaming down her face, she
strode magnificently to her cabin, where she almost sobbed her little
heart out. Poor Josephine!
[Illustration: SO SAYING, WITH TELL-TALE TEARS STREAMING DOWN HER FACE,
SHE STRODE MAGNIFICENTLY TO HER CABIN]
Ralph Rackstraw was furious. In defiance of all ship-rules he loudly
summoned all the crew to the quarter-deck.
“Why! what’s all this?” said Mr. Bobstay. “Is the ship on fire, or have
they made you Port Admiral?”
“Neither,” gasped Ralph. “I have told Josephine of my love, and she has
scornfully rejected me!”
“Ah! what did I tell you!” said the crew, as one man.
“Well, Ralph,” said Bobstay, “I was afraid you were over sanguine.”
“Aye, aye,” said Dick Deadeye, “it was too much to expect.”
“Will somebody, please, take this chap away and put his head in the
flour-bin,” said Mr. Bobstay. “His sentiments are simply disgraceful.”
And two brawny sailors took poor Dick away (kicking meekly) and dipped
his head into the flour-bin until he assured them that he would behave
better in future.
[Illustration]
“Life is no longer worth living,” said Ralph. “Has anybody got such a
thing as a pistol handy?”
Mr. Bobstay was overcome with emotion, for he loved Ralph rather better
than his own mother; and the crew, quite unmanned, sobbed on each
other’s shoulders.
“Come,” says Ralph, “a pistol!”
Mr. Bobstay, who was one of the most tender-hearted creatures living,
could never refuse anything to the friend of his heart. So the good
fellow reluctantly produced a full-sized horse-pistol and proceeded to
load it as quickly as his hiccupping sobs would allow him, while Ralph
was taking an affectionate leave of his beloved ship-mates.
“Here you are, Ralph,” he said, handing him the loaded pistol. “Bless
you, my boy. Be cool and aim straight. It—it’ll be soon over!”
And the brawny seaman fairly sobbed like a girl.
“My friends,” said Ralph, “for the last time, farewell! And when I am
dead convey my respectful compliments to Miss Josephine and tell her
that she’s done it and I hope she likes it.”
So saying, he placed the pistol to his head while all the crew stopped
their ears, for if there was one thing they hated more than another, it
was the bang of an exploding fire-arm.
But you will be surprised to hear that Ralph was not to die just then.
Josephine, who had been watching all this through her cabin window
(which looked on to the quarter-deck), couldn’t stand it any longer.
Forgetting her family pride, her brilliant prospects, and even her
promise to her papa, she rushed out and flung herself into Ralph’s arms
with a shriek in which devoted love, acute anguish, humbled pride, wild
determination, and maidenly reserve were perceptibly blended. She had
often practised this shriek, so as to have it ready for emergencies,
and it was much admired by her family and friends.
Ralph, visibly moved, flung away the pistol, which exploded as it fell,
making all the crew jump and cutting off poor Deadeye’s only remaining
little toe. Ralph embraced Josephine rapturously as the crew danced,
shouted, and flung up their caps for very joy. It was arranged that the
happy pair, accompanied by the ship’s company, should steal away that
very night at twelve, in order to be married without a moment’s delay,
and as they all knew a chorus which happened to fit the situation
exactly, they sung it as loud as they could:
Let’s give three cheers for the sailor’s bride,
Who casts all thoughts of rank aside,
Who gives up home and fortune too,
For the honest love of a sailor true!
All this time Sir Joseph, in the Captain’s cabin, was so busily
occupied in explaining to Captain Corcoran, at great length, how
tremendous a sacrifice he was making in condescending to marry
Josephine, and the Captain was listening to him so attentively, that
neither of them heard anything of the noisy rejoicings I have just
described.
CHAPTER FOUR
[Illustration]
It was night, and a beautiful crescent moon was shining over the placid
blue waters of Portsmouth Harbour. All the hammocks had been taken from
the receptacles on deck called hammock-nettings in which they were kept
during the day, carried below, and hung up from hooks in the beams
of the lower decks. The sailors who were not required on deck were
supposed to be fast asleep in them, but I’m afraid they slept with one
eye open, because it would soon be time for them to escape secretly
from the ship in order to accompany Ralph Rackstraw and the beautiful
Josephine to Portsmouth Town to be married. Josephine did not go to
bed at all, but was busily occupied in packing up a few indispensable
necessaries (not forgetting her pasteboard nose) in a small handbag,
and in writing an affectionate farewell letter to her kind Papa. Now I
want it to be distinctly understood that Josephine was very much to be
blamed for the step she was about to take. In the first place, a young
lady should, under no circumstances, fall in love with a young man
greatly beneath her in social rank, and in the second place, no young
lady should ever take such an important step as getting married without
her Papa’s express approval. In this case, Josephine had distinctly
promised her Papa that she would never, under any circumstances, let
Ralph Rackstraw know even that she had fallen in love with him, whereas
here she was, actually preparing to leave the ship with him secretly
in order that they might be married! It is true that it is some excuse
for her that she revealed her affection for Ralph as the only means
of preventing him from killing himself, but, having done that, she
should have gone to her Papa without a moment’s delay, and explained
to him the dreadful circumstances under which she had felt bound to
disclose her secret. Captain Corcoran had shown himself to be a most
affectionate and sympathetic father, and he would, no doubt, have
made every allowance for the distressing situation in which she found
herself. He might even have gone so far (and I think he would) as to
have provided masters for Ralph who would have taught him to spell and
dance, drink soup without gobbling, eat peas with a fork, play bridge,
and, in short, make him fit to take his place creditably among ladies
and gentlemen.
Poor Captain Corcoran had also been greatly worried by the events of
the day. He had been severely rebuked by Sir Joseph, in the presence
of his crew, for not having said “if you please” when he gave them an
order; he had been greatly upset by his daughter’s determination to
decline Sir Joseph’s handsome offer (and also by her short and snappish
replies to Sir Joseph’s pretty speeches at dinner that evening) and, to
crown everything, Sir Joseph had threatened to have him placed under
arrest and tried by Court Martial because he did not rebuke Josephine
for her rudeness to him at dinner. Of course, if the First Lord of the
Admiralty had known anything whatever about the Navy, he would have
been aware that no Court Martial would have punished Captain Corcoran
for his daughter’s rudeness; but he knew nothing at all about the Navy,
having, as we know, been brought up in a solicitor’s office.
[Illustration: HER SHORT AND SNAPPISH REPLIES TO SIR JOSEPH’S PRETTY
SPEECHES AT DINNER]
So instead of going to bed at his usual hour Captain Corcoran
brought his banjo on deck and began to sing to the moon, as sentimental
people will do who find themselves in such low spirits that they cannot
sleep. He had written and composed the song in his cabin (after Sir
Joseph had retired to rest) and when he had practised it until he knew
it by heart, he came up on deck to sing it. The moon was behind a cloud
at the time but as soon as she became aware that a gentleman was going
to sing to her, she politely blew the cloud aside and listened to hear
what he had to say.
This was the pretty song that he sang:
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens,
Say, why is everything
Either at sixes or sevens?
I have lived hitherto
Free from the breath of slander,
Beloved by all my crew—
A really popular commander.
But now my kindly crew rebel,
My daughter to a Tar is partial,
Sir Joseph storms, and, sad to tell,
He threatens a Court Martial!
Fair moon, to thee I sing,
Bright regent of the heavens,
Say, why is everything
Either at sixes or at sevens?
The moon not being in the position to give him the required
information, withdrew behind her cloud, and was seen no more.
Captain Corcoran had no idea that anyone except the moon was listening
to him, as he sang, but in point of fact, Little Buttercup, who was
concealed by the mizen-mast, had heard his beautiful light-baritone
voice, and her attention was arrested by the charm of the dainty melody.
Now I must tell you something about Little Buttercup, who had had a
very adventurous career. At the time of my story, she was a buxom, well
preserved person, about sixty-five years of age. She had known Captain
Corcoran all his life, and when he was a handsome young lieutenant
of twenty-five I am sorry to say she fell hopelessly in love with
him, although the old goose was at least twenty years older than he.
Lieutenant Corcoran (as he was then) commanded a little gun-boat called
the _Hot Cross Bun_, and I should explain that a gun-boat, in
those days, was a very small vessel, rigged something like a miniature
ship, and was armed with one, two, or three big guns. Lieutenant
Corcoran was then in the very flower of manly beauty, and all the young
ladies of Portsmouth were quite as much in love with him as Little
Buttercup was. Of course, Lieutenant Corcoran scarcely noticed Little
Buttercup—she used to wash for the ship, and he only saw her now and
then, when she brought his linen aboard. At length the _Hot Cross
Bun_ was ordered to make ready to go to sea, and Little Buttercup,
who couldn’t bear the thought that she might never see him again,
dressed herself in sailor’s clothes, and presented herself on board,
as a (not very) young man who wanted to go to sea. Captain Corcoran,
who, as a matter of course, did not recognize her in this disguise,
accepted her as a member of his crew, and when the _Hot Cross Bun_
sailed Little Buttercup sailed with it. She was extremely clumsy as
a sailor, but the kind-hearted Lieutenant, who couldn’t bear to hurt
anybody’s feelings, overlooked her awkwardness in consideration of the
eager alacrity with which she endeavoured, however unsuccessfully,
to obey all his commands. Indeed the crew, generally, were much more
remarkable for gentle politeness and cheerful goodwill than for mere
pulling and hauling. They were, without exception, most amiable and
well-behaved young persons, with beautiful complexions, very dainty
white hands, small delicate waists, and a great quantity of carefully
dressed back-hair. Lieutenant Corcoran was bound to admit that as
sailor-men they were not everything that could be desired, (being all
very sea-sick when it was not quite calm), but, in his opinion, they
more than compensated for this drawback by their singularly polite and
refined demeanour when they were quite well.
One day (and it was a terrible day for Little Buttercup) he went on
shore for a couple of hours, and returned with a beautiful young lady,
whom he presented to his crew as his newly-wedded wife; upon which, to
his intense discomfiture, all the crew gave a gurgle, and fell down in
so many separate fainting fits, and he then discovered that, without
a single exception, they were Portsmouth maidens who had dearly loved
him and who had taken the very steps that Little Buttercup herself had
taken, in order that they might not be separated from their adored
Lieutenant! Of course they were all discharged at once (his bride
insisted on that), and Little Buttercup did not see him again for
twenty long years. By this time he had been promoted to be Captain of
the _Pinafore_; his wife had died, and he was left a widower with
one daughter, the beautiful Josephine, who is the heroine of my story.
From the moment that Little Buttercup learnt that Lieutenant Corcoran
was a married man she determined, as a matter of course, to think of
him no more, and, by a tremendous effort, she succeeded in banishing
him altogether from her mind; but, now that he was a widower and again
free to marry, all her old affection revived. By this time, as you
know, she was a bum-boat woman, and in that capacity she enjoyed many
opportunities of seeing and talking to Captain Corcoran, who hadn’t
the remotest idea that she had formerly been one of the lady-like crew
of the _Hot Cross Bun_, and Little Buttercup never mentioned the
circumstance, as, to tell the plain truth, she was not particularly
proud of it.
As the Captain sang his song, Little Buttercup wondered what was the
matter with him.
“How sweetly he carols forth his melody to the listening moon,” said
she to herself. “Of whom is he thinking? Of some high-born beauty?
It may be! Who is poor Little Buttercup that she should expect his
thoughts to dwell on one so lonely?”
“Ah, Little Buttercup,” said Captain Corcoran, as he caught sight of
her, “still on board? That is not quite right, little one—all ladies
are requested to go on shore at dusk.”
“True, dear Captain,” she replied, “I tried to go, but the recollection
of your pale and sad face seemed to chain me to the ship. I would fain
see you smile before I leave.”
“I will try,” said he.
He endeavoured to smile, but it was little more than a creaky
mechanical grin.
“Not good enough, Captain,” replied Little Buttercup, “don’t be
faint-hearted; try again, because I want to go home.”
Again he tried to smile, but without success.
“Ah, Little Buttercup,” said he, “I fear it will be long before I
recover my accustomed cheerfulness, for misfortunes crowd upon me, and
all my old friends seem to have turned against me!”
“Do not say ‘all,’ dear Captain,” exclaimed Little Buttercup. “That
were unjust to one, at least!”
“True,” said Captain Corcoran, “for you are staunch to me. Good old
Buttercup!”
At this point poor Little Buttercup’s resolution gave way. With a
bitter cry she knelt at his feet, and sobbed loudly as she kissed his
hand.
[Illustration: LITTLE BUTTERCUP AND THE CAPTAIN]
“Little Buttercup,” said Captain Corcoran, “it would be affectation to
pretend that I do not understand your meaning. I am touched to the
heart by your innocent regard for me, and were we differently situated,
I think I could have returned it. As it is, I regret to say that I can
be nothing to you but a friend.”
Little Buttercup, who always knew more about people than anybody else,
knew a good deal of Captain Corcoran’s history, as will presently
appear. _He was not really Captain Corcoran_, and she knew it.
More than that, she knew who he really was, but it did not suit her to
tell him just then. I believe that this mysterious Little Buttercup was
able to prove, from the hidden depths of her miscellaneous information,
that every human being alive was somebody else, and that no human being
alive was what people really supposed him to be. Fortunately, she only
revealed her knowledge bit by bit as it suited her, but it is terrible
to think what an amount of confusion she might have created in highly
respectable families if she had chosen to disclose all she knew at once.
Knowing who Captain Corcoran was, and how little reason he really
had to plume himself on his superior position as a Captain in the
Navy, Little Buttercup’s naturally hasty temper began to simmer.
The gipsy blood that ran in her veins gave her a curious power of
prophesying backwards. I mean that she could foretell what you were,
and remember what you will be, which is quite unlike the usual kind of
fortune-telling that comes of crossing a gipsy’s hand with a sixpence.
She also possessed a remarkable power of expressing herself in rhyme
without ever having to hunt for the last words of her lines, which gave
a peculiar force and emphasis to her words, and convinced everybody
that what she said was supernatural, and consequently true.
So, getting gradually more and more angry with Captain Corcoran for
despising her, as she called it (though he was the last person in the
world to despise anybody) she summoned her remarkable rhyming ability
to her aid in the following utterances:
Things are seldom what they seem (said she)
Skim-milk masquerades as cream;
High-lows pass as patent leathers;
Jackdaws strut in peacocks’ feathers.
Rhyming is rather infectious, so Captain Corcoran, catching the
disease, replied (rather puzzled)
Very true,
So they do!
[Music: By special permission of the publishers, Metzler & Co., Ltd.]
(It was an easy rhyme, suited to a mere beginner.)
Black sheep dwell in every fold; (said she)
All that glitters is not gold;
Storks turn out to be but logs;
Bulls are but inflated frogs.
The captain thought _he_ could do as well as this, but he
considered that it was best to confine himself at present to quite easy
rhymes, so he said:
So they be
Frequentlee.
Buttercup resumed:
Drops the wind and stops the mill;
Turbot is ambitious brill;
Gild the farthing if you will,
But it is a farthing still.
The Captain replied:
Yes, I know
That is so.
Then, beginning to feel his feet, as the saying is, he ventured into
deeper water:
Though to catch your drift I’m striving,
It is shady—it is shady.
(He repeated “it is shady” to give him time to think of the next rhyme,
though he pretended that the repetition was part of the structure of
the verse.)
I don’t see at what you’re driving.
Mystic lady—mystic lady!
Having discovered that this sort of rhyming was much easier than it
appeared at first sight to be, he determined to show her that other
people were just as smart as she was, and (if you come to that) even a
little bit smarter.
So he began:
Though I’m anything but clever,
I could talk like that for ever.
Once a cat was killed with care:
Only brave deserve the fair.
Very true,
So they do.
said Little Buttercup (mimicking his own way of replying to her). The
Captain continued:
Wink is often good as nod;
Spoils the child who spares the rod;
Thirsty lambs run foxy dangers;
Dogs are found in many mangers.
Here he paused to consider what he should say next, and Little
Buttercup (to give him time) said, just as before:
Frequentlee,
I agree.
By this time the Captain had thought of something more:
Paw of cat the chestnut snatches;
Worn-out garments show new patches;
Men are grown-up “catchy-catches.”
Yes (said Little Buttercup) I know
That is so.
Then she sang, under her breath, so that nobody at all should hear her.
Though to catch my drift he’s striving,
I’ll dissemble—I’ll dissemble—
When he sees at what I’m driving
Let him tremble—let him tremble!
and, muttering to herself in a fashion which might be described,
musically, as a triumph of _pianissimo_, she disappeared
mysteriously into the forward part of the ship.
Captain Corcoran—though very uneasy at her portentous utterances—was
rather disposed to pat himself on the back for having tackled her on
her own ground in the matter of stringing rhymes, and (as he thought)
beaten her at it. But in this he was wrong, for if you compare her
lines with his, you will see that whereas her lines dealt exclusively
with people and things who were not so important as they thought
themselves to be, his lines were merely chopped-up proverbs that had
nothing to do with each other or with anything else. Still it wasn’t
bad for a first attempt, and although we must give her the prize, I
think he deserves a “highly commended.”
Now although Sir Joseph had gone to bed, he was so worried about
Josephine that he couldn’t get a wink of sleep. So as it was a
beautiful warm night, and everybody (as he supposed) asleep, he thought
he would go on deck in his pyjamas, and console himself with a cigar.
Accordingly he went on deck, but finding that the Captain was in close
conversation with a lady, he very properly retired to his cabin to put
on the beautiful and expensive uniform of a Cabinet Minister which he
had worn during the day, and which were the only clothes he had brought
with him. He had completed his toilet and returned to the deck just as
Captain Corcoran was endeavouring to pat himself on the back for his
cleverness in stringing rhymes with Little Buttercup.
“What are you trying to do?” said Sir Joseph, as he noticed that the
Captain had some difficulty in reaching the exact part of the back
which he wished to pat. “Can I help you?”
[Illustration: “WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO?” SAID SIR JOSEPH]
“Thank you, Sir Joseph,” replied the Captain, “I have a particular
reason for wishing to pat myself between the two shoulder blades,
and—and it’s not easy to get at.”
“Allow me, Captain Corcoran,” and he obligingly patted him on the very
spot.
“Thank you, Sir Joseph, that is capital,” said Captain Corcoran, much
relieved, “but I am sorry to see your Lordship out of bed at this hour.
I hope your crib is comfortable.”
“Pretty well,” said Sir Joseph, who made it a rule never quite to
approve of anything that was done for him, “the fact is I am worried
about your daughter. I am disappointed with her. To tell the plain
truth, I don’t think she’ll do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Joseph,” replied the Captain, “Josephine
is, I am sure, sensible of your condescension.”
“She naturally would be,” said Sir Joseph, who was really too conceited
for words.
“Perhaps your exalted rank dazzles her,” remarked Captain Corcoran.
Here again we become conscious of that nasty irritating little blot on
the good Captain’s character. He attached so much importance to mere
rank that I am afraid we must put him down as just a teeny-weeny-wee
bit of a sn-b.
“Do you really think it does?” asked Sir Joseph.
“Well, she is a modest girl, and, of course, her social position is far
below that of a Cabinet Minister. Possibly she feels that she is not
worthy of you.”
Captain Corcoran knew better than that, but his natural kindness of
heart would not allow him to tell Sir Joseph the plain truth—that
Josephine looked upon him as a conceited donkey, because he was afraid
that, being a touchy old gentleman, he might not like that.
“That is really a very sensible suggestion,” said Sir Joseph.
“See,” said the Captain, “here she comes. If you would kindly reason
with her and assure her officially, that it is a standing rule at the
Admiralty that love levels all ranks, her respect for an official
utterance might induce her to look upon your offer in its proper light.”
“It is not unlikely,” said Sir Joseph, “and I am glad I am not wearing
my pyjamas. Let us withdraw and watch our opportunity.”
So they withdrew behind the mast, as Josephine stepped upon deck.
Poor Josephine was very uneasy and conscience-stricken at the
unjustifiable step she was going to take that night. As the moment for
her flight approached, she became more and more uncomfortable; and as
her cabin was hot, and the night lovely, she thought she would wait
more comfortably on deck until the fatal moment for her departure.
Naturally a good and honourable young lady, she felt that she was doing
an unpardonable thing in leaving her good Papa secretly in order to
marry a man of whom she knew that he disapproved. In common fairness,
however, it should be explained that it was the first time she had ever
left her father in order to be secretly married to _anybody_, and
she resolved that, after this once, nothing on earth should ever induce
her to do so again.
Josephine had a neat literary turn, and it was her practice to express,
in poetical form, the various arguments for and against any important
step that she contemplated taking. She had amassed quite a large
amount of these effusions, which she was in the habit of singing, on
appropriate occasions, to any airs that would fit them. So, finding
herself quite alone (as she supposed) it occurred to her to sing,
in subdued tones, a composition which had direct reference to her
misguided affection for Ralph.
This was the song:
The hours creep on apace,
My guilty heart is quaking;
Oh, that I might retrace
The step that I am taking!
Its folly it were easy to be showing;
What am I giving up, and whither going?
On the one hand, papa’s luxurious home,
Hung with ancestral armour and old brasses,
Carved oak, and tapestry from distant Rome,
Rare “blue and white,” Venetian finger glasses,
Rich oriental rugs and sofa pillows,
And everything that isn’t old, from Gillows’.
And, on the other, a dark dingy room
In some back street, with stuffy children crying,
Where organs yell and clacking housewives fume,
And clothes are hanging out all day a-drying:
With one cracked looking-glass to see your face in,
And dinner served up in a pudding basin.
Oh, god of Love and god of Reason—say
Which of you twain shall my poor heart obey?
But the two potentates, so pathetically appealed to, declined to
undertake the responsibility of advising her. I expect they both
thought that she was quite old enough to judge for herself.
Poor Josephine was greatly distracted at the ugly prospect of love
in a back street that she had conjured up for herself, and her
resolution began to waver. The social difference between her and her
chosen husband was so enormous, and the discomforts that she would
be obliged to endure in the humble surroundings that awaited her
presented themselves to her mind so vividly, that she had almost
resolved that instead of eloping with Ralph, she would unpack her
dressing-bag, put her hair up in Hinde’s curlers, and go to bed like a
good girl. I regret to think that, in contemplating this step, she was
influenced solely by the fact that if she married Ralph she would have
to surrender all the luxuries she was accustomed to, and that remorse
for being about to break the heart of her affectionate and indulgent
father did not appear to influence her in the least. I am very partial
to Josephine, but I cannot regard her in the light of a thoroughly
estimable young lady.
Sir Joseph endeavoured in vain to catch the words of Josephine’s song,
but she had been taught the Italian method of singing, which consists
in “la-la-ing” all the vowels and allowing the consonants to take
care of themselves, and consequently the words of her song were quite
unintelligible to him—indeed they might have been Hebrew for anything
he could tell. So when she had finished, he and Captain Corcoran
approached her.
“Madam,” said he, “it has been represented to me that you are appalled
by my exalted rank. I desire to convey to you, officially, my
deliberate assurance that if your hesitation is attributable to that
circumstance, it is unequivocally uncalled for.”
[Illustration]
It is a rule at the Admiralty that when a person in authority has to
make an announcement he is bound to use all the longest words he can
find that will express his meaning.
“Oh, indeed,” replied Josephine; “then your Lordship is of opinion that
married happiness is _not_ inconsistent with discrepancy in rank?”
This was artful on Josephine’s part, for if Sir Joseph agreed, he would
practically be admitting that there was no reason why Josephine should
not condescend to marry a common sailor if she had a mind to do so.
“Madam,” said Sir Joseph, loftily, “I am officially of that opinion,”
and he took a pinch of snuff with an air that suggested that he had
finally settled the question once for all.
“I thank you, Sir Joseph,” she replied, with a low curtsey. “I
_did_ hesitate, but I will hesitate no longer.” And with another
curtsey she retired to her own cabin, muttering to herself, “He little
thinks how successfully he has pleaded his rival’s cause!”
The Captain, who shared Sir Joseph’s impression that Josephine had made
up her mind to accept him, was overjoyed.
“Sir Joseph,” said he, “I cannot express to you my joy at the happy
result of your eloquence. Your argument was unanswerable.”
“Captain Corcoran,” replied Sir Joseph, “it is one of the happiest
characteristics of this inexpressibly fortunate country that official
replies to respectfully uttered interrogatories are invariably regarded
as unanswerable.”
And Sir Joseph, having discharged this mouthful of long words, withdrew
to complete his night’s rest.
Captain Corcoran could not conceal his exultation. Indeed, there was
no reason why he should as he was entirely alone. He clasped his
hands, smiled broadly, took a long breath of relief and had just
begun to dance the hornpipe that Sir Joseph had taught him (to see if
he remembered the steps) when he was interrupted by the unexpected
appearance of poor deformed Dick Deadeye, who approached him with the
irregular jerky action of a triangle that is being trundled like a hoop.
“Captain,” whispered he, “I want a word with you!” And he placed his
hand impressively on the Captain’s wrist.
“Deadeye!” said he, “_you_ here? Don’t!”
[Illustration: “DEADEYE!” SAID THE CAPTAIN, “_YOU_ HERE? DON’T!”]
“Ah, don’t shrink from me, Captain!” replied Deadeye. “I’m unpleasant
to look at and my name’s agin me, but I ain’t as bad as I look!”
“What do you want with me at this time of night?” said Captain Corcoran.
Deadeye looked round mysteriously to make quite sure that they were
unobserved.
“I’ve come,” said he, “to give you warning!”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the Captain, who was delighted to think that there
was a chance of getting rid of Deadeye without hurting his feelings.
“Do you propose to leave the Navy, then?”
“No, no,” said Deadeye, “I don’t mean that. Listen!”
The Captain was disappointed, but he listened, nevertheless.
And in accordance with the standing rule that no one was ever to
_say_ anything to the Captain that could be _sung_, Dick
Deadeye struck up as follows:
Kind Captain, I’ve important information
(Sing hey, the kind Commander that you are),
About a certain intimate relation
(Sing hey, the Merry Maiden and the Tar!).
[Music: By special permission of the publishers, Metzler & Co., Ltd.]
The Captain, who had his book of rhymes handy, consulted it for a
moment and then replied:
Good fellow, in conundrums you are speaking
(Sing hey, the mystic sailor that you are),
The answer to them vainly I am seeking
(Sing hey, the Merry Maiden and the Tar!).
Of course the Captain was completely puzzled, having no idea what
Deadeye was alluding to. So Dick explained:
Kind Captain, your young lady is a sighing
(Sing hey, the simple Captain that you are),
This very night with Rackstraw to be flying
(Sing hey, the Merry Maiden and the Tar!).
Captain Corcoran was dreadfully distressed at this piece of
information, but he pulled himself together with an effort and replied
(after a moment with his rhyming dictionary):
Good fellow, you have given timely warning
(Sing hey, the thoughtful sailor that you are),
I’ll talk to Master Rackstraw in the morning!
(Sing hey, the cat-o’-nine-tails and the Tar!)
And, so singing, Captain Corcoran produced from his pocket a
beautifully inlaid little presentation “cat-o’-nine-tails,” and, as he
flourished it, he brought it down accidentally (but heavily) on poor
Dick’s back. Dick, grateful for any attention, pulled his forelock
respectfully and trundled off into the fore-part of the ship.
I ought to explain that the cat-o’-nine-tails is a cruel kind of whip
with nine thongs, which was, at that time, commonly used in the Navy to
punish badly behaved seamen, but Captain Corcoran was much too humane a
man to use it. It happened to be in his pocket because it was a present
from his dear old white-haired apple-cheeked grandmama which had only
arrived that day.
Dick Deadeye had warned the Captain just in time; for as Dick crept
off, the Captain saw a large body of the crew, with Ralph among them,
advancing on tip-toe towards the boats which were hanging from irons,
called davits, in the ship’s side, and at the same time Josephine came
out of her cabin with her handbag in her hand, and crept silently
to where Ralph was standing. It was more than flesh and blood could
stand, and, in the anger of the moment, the Captain exclaimed “Bother!”
and brought the cat-o’-nine-tails down on the breach of a gun which
happened to be handy.
All the crew were dreadfully startled.
“Why! what was that?” said Bob Buntline, one of the sailors who had not
yet spoken.
“It was only the cat,” said Bill Boom.
Bill Boom was perfectly right. It _was_ the “cat.”
As Josephine met Ralph, and while the crew were mustering on the
quarter-deck, the Captain glanced hastily through his rhyming
dictionary, and, having found what he wanted, revealed himself,
exclaiming “Hold!”
Much alarmed and greatly astonished to find their Captain among them,
they all held.
Captain Corcoran advanced and seizing his daughter by the hand twirled
her away from Ralph Rackstraw, who looked like the Apollo Belvedere
struck stupid.
Naughty daughter of mine (_sang the Captain_)
I insist upon knowing
Where you may be going
With these sons of the brine?
For my excellent crew,
Though foes they could thump any,
Are scarcely company
For a lady like you!
[Illustration]
Ralph wasn’t going to stand this. He had been taught by the First Lord
of the Admiralty that a British sailor is the finest fellow in the
world, and if you can’t believe a First Lord, whom can you believe? So,
pulling himself together he began:
“Haughty Sir, when you address”—
“Poetry, please,” said Captain Corcoran, “I allow no sailor to address
me in prose.”
Ralph thought for a moment, and then declaimed (in the key of G):
Proud officer, that haughty lip uncurl! (_the Captain uncurled his
haughty upper lip as desired_)
Vain man, suppress that supercilious sneer! (_he suppressed it at
once_)
For I have dared to love your matchless girl—
A fact well known to all my messmates here!
I, humble, poor, and lowly born,
The meanest in the port division—
The butt of epauletted Scorn—[8]
The mark of quarter-deck derision—
Have dared to raise my wormy eyes
Above the dust to which you’d mould me;
In manhood’s glorious pride to rise,
I am an Englishman—behold me!
[Footnote 8: The idea of Scorn wearing epaulettes is rather a fine
figure of speech. I do not remember to have met it before.]
And at once all the crew, carried off their feet with enthusiasm,
shouted their own domestic National Anthem, led by the energetic Mr.
Bobstay:
He is an Englishman!
For he himself hath said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman!
For he might have been a Rooshian
A French, or Turk, or Prooshian,
Or perhaps I-tal-i-an!
But, in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman!
[Music: By special permission of the publishers, Metzler & Co., Ltd.]
And when they had finished, all the crew wiped their eyes (which were
full of manly tears), and shook hands with each other until their
emotion had in some degree subsided. Indeed three or four of them were
carried off in hysterics, and had to be revived with eau-de-Cologne,
a tub of which always stood on the forecastle. Speaking for myself, I
do not quite see that Ralph Rackstraw deserved so very much credit for
remaining an Englishman, considering that no one seems ever to have
proposed to him that he should be anything else, but the crew thought
otherwise and I daresay they were right.
Captain Corcoran hardly knew how to act, for he so seldom got into a
tearing rage that he didn’t know what it was considered usual for a
man in tearing rage to do. He was anxious not to overdo it, and at
the same time he felt that it was necessary to let them know that a
tearing rage was what he was in. After some reflection, and a glance
at his dictionary, he concluded that the best way was to depart from
his usual calm correct way of speaking, and horrify them by introducing
some really unpardonable language. So he exclaimed:
In uttering a reprobation
To any British Tar,
I try to speak with moderation,
But you have gone too far.
I’m very sorry to disparage
A humble foremast lad,
But to seek your Captain’s child in marriage,
Why, hang it, it’s too bad!
Yes, hang it, it’s too bad!
(I don’t care, I will say it, and risk the consequences)—
Yes, hang it, it’s too bad!
The crew were awestruck, for they had never, in all their experience
of Captain Corcoran, known him to forget himself as far as to use
an expression of this description. Three times too—not once, but
_three_ times, as if he revelled in his wickedness! And what
made the circumstance more impressive was that as their amazement and
agitation subsided, they saw the First Lord of the Admiralty standing,
apparently thunderstruck, in their midst!
“I am appalled,” said Sir Joseph, as soon as he could control his
tongue. “Simply appalled!”
There was no mistake about it—he was quite white with the shock that
the Captain’s language had given him. He was no longer a First Lord—he
was a Monument of Pathetic Imbecility.
“To your cabin, Sir,” said he, trembling with emotion, “and consider
yourself under the strictest arrest.”
“Sir Joseph,” said Captain Corcoran, “pray hear me—”
“To your cabin, Sir!”
And a couple of marines marched him off under the command of the
smallest midshipman in the ship.
[Illustration: A COUPLE OF MARINES MARCHED HIM OFF UNDER THE COMMAND OF
THE SMALLEST MIDSHIPMAN IN THE SHIP]
Sir Joseph had by this time somewhat recovered his composure.
“Now tell me, my fine fellow,” said he, addressing Ralph Rackstraw,
“How came your Captain so far to forget himself?”
“Please your honour,” said Ralph, pulling respectfully at his forelock,
“it was thus wise. You see I’m only a topman—a mere foremast hand—”
“Don’t be ashamed of that,” said Sir Joseph, “a topman is necessarily
at the top of everything.”
This, of course, was not the case, but Sir Joseph, having been a
solicitor, did not know any better.
“Well, your honour,” said Ralph, “love burns as brightly on the
forecastle as it does on the quarter-deck, and Josephine is the
fairest bud that ever blossomed on the tree of a poor fellow’s wildest
hopes!”
Sir Joseph could scarcely believe his ears.
“Are you referring to—er—Miss Josephine Corcoran?” gasped Sir Joseph.
“That’s the lady, Sir,” said Ralph, “in fact here she is, bless her
little heart!”
And Josephine rushed into Ralph’s outstretched arms.
“She’s the figure-head of my ship of life—the bright beacon that guides
me into the port of happiness—the rarest, the purest gem that ever
sparkled on a poor but worthy fellow’s trusting brow.”
The crew burst into tears at this lovely speech and sobbed heavily.
It had quite a different effect on Sir Joseph who, forgetting all his
dignity, danced about the deck in a blind fury.
“You—you impertilent presumtiful, disgracious, audastical sommon
cailor,” exclaimed Sir Joseph, chopping up and transposing his letters
and syllables in a perfectly ridiculous manner, “_I’ll_ teach you
to lall in fove with your daptain’s caughter! Away with him to the
barkest bungeon on doard!” Of course he meant to say “the darkest
dungeon on board” and _would_ have said it if he had had his
temper under proper control.
Josephine clung to Ralph and declared that as he was to be shut up in
a cell, she would go with him, but they were violently torn asunder,
and, a pair of handcuffs having been placed on Ralph’s wrists by the
serjeant of the marines, he was taken away in custody. At this point
Sir Joseph became calm and coherent again.
“And as for you, Miss Corcoran—” he began, but before he could say what
he was going to say (whatever it was) Little Buttercup came forward,
and exclaimed “Hold!”
“Why?” Sir Joseph asked, not unnaturally.
“Because I have a tale to unfold,” she replied.
“We are all attention,” said Sir Joseph. “Proceed.”
And Little Buttercup proceeded thus:
A many years ago,
When I was young and charming,
As some of you may know,
I practised baby-farming.[9]
[Footnote 9: By ‘baby-farming’ she meant that she earned her living by
taking in little children to nurse, while their Papas and Mamas were
travelling on the Continent.]
The crew were most interested in this piece of news, and, expecting
that she was about to reveal something that would entirely alter the
aspect of affairs, they muttered to each other:
Now this is most alarming—
When she was young and charming
She practised baby-farming
A many years ago!
[Music: By special permission of the publishers, Metzler & Co., Ltd.]
Little Buttercup continued:
Two tender babes I nussed,
One was of low condition,
The other “upper crust,”[10]
A regular patrician!
[Footnote 10: A vulgar expression intended to imply that one of them
belonged to a family of some social importance. It is not an expression
that I can recommend for general use, but Little Buttercup wanted a
rhyme for ‘nussed,’ and there was no other word handy that would do.]
Again the crew said to each other, by way of explaining how the case
stood:
Now this is the position—
One was of low condition,
The other a patrician,
A many years ago!
This having been made quite clear to them, Little Buttercup continued
the story:
Oh, bitter is my cup,
However could I do it?
_I mixed those children up_,
And not a creature knew it!
[Illustration: “I MIXED THOSE CHILDREN UP”]
This was quite an inexcusable piece of carelessness on the part of
Little Buttercup. If she had any doubt which was which, she could so
easily have tied a bit of blue ribbon round the neck of one, and a
luggage-label round the neck of the other. The sailors were surprised
at this culpable neglect of duty and replied:
However could you do it?
Some day no doubt you’ll rue it,
Although no creature knew it
So many years ago!
Little Buttercup, not heeding their interruption, concluded her
confession thus:
In time each little waif
Forsook his foster-mother,[11]
The well-born babe was Ralph—
Your Captain was the other!!!
[Footnote 11: That is to say, when their respective parents returned to
England and reclaimed them.]
Again the crew explained the situation to each other, that there might
be no mistake about it:
They left their foster-mother;
The one was Ralph, our brother,
Our Captain was the other,
A many years ago!!!
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! Ralph was, properly speaking, a
Captain in the Navy, and Captain Corcoran was only a common sailor!
“Am I really to understand,” said Sir Joseph, “that during all these
years, each has been occupying the other’s position?”
“That,” said Little Buttercup, “is the idea I intended to convey.”
“And you’ve done it very well,” said Sir Joseph, and all the crew
applauded so vigorously that Little Buttercup thought they wished to
hear it all over again, and had actually got so far as “A many years
ago,” when Sir Joseph interrupted her:
“Let them both appear before me at once,” said he.
And immediately Ralph appeared dressed in Captain Corcoran’s uniform
as a captain in the navy, and Captain Corcoran in Ralph’s uniform as a
man-o’-war’s man!
This had been carefully arranged by Little Buttercup herself. Knowing
that the time had come when it would be necessary that she should
reveal her secret, she had previously caused one of Captain Corcoran’s
uniforms to be conveyed to Ralph’s quarters, and one of Ralph’s
uniforms to be placed in Captain Corcoran’s cabin, with a note, pinned
to each bundle, explaining the condition of affairs. Now we see
what Little Buttercup meant when she sang those mysterious lines to
Captain Corcoran about things being seldom what they seem, skim-milk
masquerading as cream, and so forth. Oh, she was a knowing one, I can
tell you, was Little Buttercup!
As Corcoran (no longer a captain) stepped forward, Josephine rushed to
him in amazement.
“My father a common sailor!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” said Corcoran, “it is hard, is it not, my dear?”
During this time Ralph was too much occupied in trying to catch sight
of the two epaulettes which glistened on his shoulders, to attend to
anything else.
[Illustration]
“This,” said Sir Joseph, “is a very singular occurrence, and, as far as
I know, nothing of the kind has ever happened before. I congratulate
you both.”
Then, turning towards Captain Rackstraw, as we must now call him, he
said (indicating Corcoran), “Desire that remarkably fine seaman to step
forward.”
“Corcoran,” said Captain Rackstraw, “three paces to the front—march!”
just as Corcoran, when he was a captain, had said to Ralph.
Corcoran, however, knew his rights, and wasn’t going to stand being
spoken to in this abrupt fashion.
“If _what_?” said Corcoran, touching his cap.
“I don’t understand you,” said Captain Rackstraw haughtily.
“If you _please_,” said Corcoran, with a strong emphasis on the
“please.”
“Perfectly right,” said Sir Joseph, “if you _please_.”
“Oh, of course,” said Captain Rackstraw, “if you please.”
And Corcoran stepped forward and saluted, like the smart man-o’-war’s
man that he was.
“You’re an extremely fine fellow,” said Sir Joseph, turning him round
as he inspected him.
“Yes, your Honour,” said Corcoran, who was still too good a judge to
contradict a First Lord of the Admiralty.
“So,” observed Sir Joseph, “it seems that you were Ralph and Ralph was
you.”
“So it seems, your Honour,” said Corcoran, with a respectful pull at
his forelock.
“Well,” said Sir Joseph, “I need not tell you that, after this change
in your condition, a marriage with your daughter will be out of the
question.”
“Don’t say that, your Honour,” replied Corcoran, “Love levels all
ranks, you know!”
Sir Joseph was rather taken aback by being confronted with his own
words. But, having been a solicitor, he was equal to the occasion.
“It does to a considerable extent,” said Sir Joseph, “but it does not
level them as much as that. It does not annihilate the difference
between a First Lord of the Admiralty and a common sailor, though it
may very well do so between a common sailor and his Captain, you know.”
“I see,” said Corcoran; “that had not occurred to me.”
“Captain Rackstraw,” said Sir Joseph, “what is your opinion on that
point?”
“I entirely agree with your Lordship,” said Ralph, whose love for
Josephine overcame all other considerations. “If your Lordship doesn’t
want her, I’ll take her with pleasure.”
He said this because, fine fellow as he was, and deeply as he loved
Josephine, he considered that it was his duty, as an officer in the
Navy, to give Sir Joseph the first choice.
“Then take her, sir, and mind you make her happy.”
And Captain Rackstraw arranged with Josephine that they would go on
shore at once and be married at once. Fortunately the clergyman was
still waiting for them, although he had become rather impatient at the
delay.
During this conversation, Corcoran had a word or two with Buttercup,
who took that opportunity of revealing herself to him as one of the
maidenly crew of the _Hot Cross Bun_ of twenty years ago. He was
greatly touched at the story of her faithful devotion to him, and
determined to repay it.
“My Lord,” said he to Sir Joseph, “I shall be quite alone when
Josephine marries, and I _should_ like a nice little wife to sew
buttons on my shirt and mend my socks.”
“By all means,” said Sir Joseph. “Can you suggest anybody?”
Corcoran presented blushing Little Buttercup to Sir Joseph, who gave
her sixpence on the spot as a wedding present. Little Buttercup was so
touched by Sir Joseph’s liberality that she burst into tears.
[Illustration: CORCORAN PRESENTED BLUSHING LITTLE BUTTERCUP TO SIR
JOSEPH, WHO GAVE HER SIXPENCE ON THE SPOT]
Corcoran, overjoyed, at once broke into song, adapting, on the spur of
the moment, the well-known and familiar words with which he used to
greet his crew every morning, thus:
I was the Captain of the _Pinafore_!
And all the crew chorused:
And a right good Captain too!
CORCORAN. And though before my fall
I commanded of you all,
I’m a member of the crew!
I shall marry with a wife
In my humble rank of life,
And you, my own, are she!
[_Indicating_ LITTLE BUTTERCUP.
I must wander to and fro,
But, wherever I may go,
I shall never be unkind to thee!
And the crew sang, rather slyly:
What, never?
Replied he:
No, never!
The crew, more slyly still:
What, _never_?
And the Captain, whose experience of his former wife had taught
him that even the most amiable married people _will_ fall out
occasionally, replied:
Hardly ever!
Hardly ever be unkind to thee!
And they all sang:
Then give three cheers and one cheer more
For the hardy seamen of the _Pinafore_!
For he is an Englishman,
And he himself hath said it,
And it’s greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman!
For he might have been a Rooshian,
A French, or Turk, or Prooshian,
Or perhaps I-tal-i-an!
But, in spite of all temptations
To belong to other nations,
He remains an Englishman!
In short, there were general rejoicings all round. Lemon ice, shoulders
of mutton, ginger-beer and _meringues-à-la-crème_ were served
out in profusion, and Sir Joseph, who happened to know a number of
surprising conjuring tricks, brought a rabbit smothered in onions out
of his left boot, to the intense delight of the crew. All the sisters
and cousins and aunts of Sir Joseph tumbled out of bed as soon as they
heard the news, and came on deck after a hasty toilette. A general
dance followed in which Ralph and Josephine particularly distinguished
themselves, and then they all went on shore that the clergyman (who had
nearly grown tired of waiting and wanted to go home to his breakfast
bacon) might join the happy couple in matrimony. Corcoran was married
at the same time to Little Buttercup, and Captain Rackstraw most kindly
gave him a week’s leave that he and his wife might go and enjoy some
sea-bathing at Ventnor.
Captain Rackstraw proved to be a most excellent Commander, and was just
as much beloved as Captain Corcoran had been, while Corcoran took up
Ralph’s duties with enthusiasm, and became one of the smartest top-men
on board. It is an excellent test of a man’s character when he resigns
himself with cheerfulness to a sudden change from dignified affluence
to obscure penury, and I can’t help thinking that, on the whole, he was
a very fine fellow.
But still I do wish he had not made that very unfortunate remark about
being related to a peer.
[Illustration: THE END]
[Illustration]
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious printer errors have been corrected without note.
Illustrations and music notation have been moved to the nearest
appropriate paragraph break so as not to interrupt the flow of the
text.
Lyrics in the music notation have been omitted where they are
repeated in the main text.