I love you so truly, and have such pride and joy of heart in your
friendship, that I don't know how to begin writing to you. When I think
how you are walking up and down London in that portly surtout, and can't
receive proposals from Dick to go to the theatre, I fall into a state
between laughing and crying, and want some friendly back to smite.
"Je-im!" "Aye, aye, your honour," is in my ears every time I walk upon
the sea-shore here; and the number of expeditions I make into Cornwall
in my sleep, the springs of Flys I break, the songs I sing, and the
bowls of punch I drink, would soften a heart of stone.
We have had weather here, since five o'clock this morning, after your
own heart. Suppose yourself the Admiral in "Black-eyed Susan" after the
acquittal of William, and when it was possible to be on friendly terms
with him. I am T. P.[4] My trousers are very full at the ankles, my
black neckerchief is tied in the regular style, the name of my ship is
painted round my glazed hat, I have a red waistcoat on, and the seams of
my blue jacket are "paid"--permit me to dig you in the ribs when I make
use of this nautical expression--with white. In my hand I hold the very
box connected with the story of Sandomingerbilly. I lift up my eyebrows
as far as I can (on the T. P. model), take a quid from the box, screw
the lid on again (chewing at the same time, and looking pleasantly at
the pit), brush it with my right elbow, take up my right leg, scrape my
right foot on the ground, hitch up my trousers, and in reply to a
question of yours, namely, "Indeed, what weather, William?" I deliver
myself as follows:
Lord love your honour! Weather! Such weather as
would set all hands to the pumps aboard one of
your fresh-water cockboats, and set the purser
to his wits' ends to stow away, for the use of
the ship's company, the casks and casks full of
blue water as would come powering in over the
gunnel! The dirtiest night, your honour, as
ever you see 'atween Spithead at gun-fire and
the Bay of Biscay! The wind sou'-west, and your
house dead in the wind's eye; the breakers
running up high upon the rocky beads, the
light'us no more looking through the fog than
Davy Jones's sarser eye through the blue sky of
heaven in a calm, or the blue toplights of your
honour's lady cast down in a modest overhauling
of her catheads: avast! (_whistling_) my dear
eyes; here am I a-goin' head on to the breakers
(_bowing_).
_Admiral_ (_smiling_). No, William! I admire
plain speaking, as you know, and so does old
England, William, and old England's Queen. But
you were saying----
_William._ Aye, aye, your honour (_scratching
his head_). I've lost my reckoning. Damme!--I
ast pardon--but won't your honour throw a
hencoop or any old end of towline to a man as
is overboard?
_Admiral_ (_smiling still_). You were saying,
William, that the wind----
_William_ (_again cocking his leg, and slapping
the thighs very hard_). Avast heaving, your
honour! I see your honour's signal fluttering
in the breeze, without a glass. As I was
a-saying, your honour, the wind was blowin'
from the sou'-west, due sou'-west, your honour,
not a pint to larboard nor a pint to starboard;
the clouds a-gatherin' in the distance for all
the world like Beachy Head in a fog, the sea
a-rowling in, in heaps of foam, and making
higher than the mainyard arm, the craft
a-scuddin' by all taught and under storms'ils
for the harbour; not a blessed star a-twinklin'
out aloft--aloft, your honour, in the little
cherubs' native country--and the spray is
flying like the white foam from the Jolly's
lips when Poll of Portsea took him for a
tailor! (_laughs._)
_Admiral_ (_laughing also_). You have described
it well, William, and I thank you. But who are
these?
_Enter Supers in calico jackets to look like
cloth, some in brown holland petticoat-trousers
and big boots, all with very large buckles.
Last Super rolls on a cask, and pretends to
keep it. Other Supers apply their mugs to the
bunghole and drink, previously holding them
upside down._
_William_ (_after shaking hands with
everybody_). Who are these, your honour!
Messmates as staunch and true as ever broke
biscuit. Ain't you, my lads?
_All._ Aye, aye, William. That we are! that we
are!
_Admiral_ (_much affected_). Oh, England, what
wonder that----! But I will no longer detain
you from your sports, my humble friends
(ADMIRAL _speaks very low, and looks hard at
the orchestra, this being the cue for the
dance_)--from your sports, my humble friends.
Farewell!
_All._ Hurrah! hurrah! [_Exit_ ADMIRAL.
_Voice behind._ Suppose the dance, Mr.
Stanfield. Are you all ready? Go then!
My dear Stanfield, I wish you would come this way and see me in that
Palazzo Peschiere! Was ever man so welcome as I would make you! What a
truly gentlemanly action it would be to bring Mrs. Stanfield and the
baby. And how Kate and her sister would wave pocket-handkerchiefs from
the wharf in joyful welcome! Ah, what a glorious proceeding!
Do you know this place? Of course you do. I won't bore you with anything
about it, for I know Forster reads my letters to you; but what a place
it is. The views from the hills here, and the immense variety of
prospects of the sea, are as striking, I think, as such scenery can be.
Above all, the approach to Genoa, by sea from Marseilles, constitutes a
picture which you ought to paint, for nobody else can ever do it!
William, you made that bridge at Avignon better than it is. Beautiful as
it undoubtedly is, you made it fifty times better. And if I were
Morrison, or one of that school (bless the dear fellows one and all!), I
wouldn't stand it, but would insist on having another picture gratis, to
atone for the imposition.
The night is like a seaside night in England towards the end of
September. They say it is the prelude to clear weather. But the wind is
roaring now, and the sea is raving, and the rain is driving down, as if
they had all set in for a real hearty picnic, and each had brought its
own relations to the general festivity. I don't know whether you are
acquainted with the coastguard and men in these parts? They are
extremely civil fellows, of a very amiable manner and appearance, but
the most innocent men in matters you would suppose them to be well
acquainted with, in virtue of their office, that I ever encountered. One
of them asked me only yesterday, if it would take a year to get to
England in a ship? Which I thought for a coastguardman was rather a tidy
question. It would take a long time to catch a ship going there if he
were on board a pursuing cutter though. I think he would scarcely do it
in twelve months, indeed.
So you were at Astley's t'other night. "Now, Mr. Stickney, sir, what can
I come for to go for to do for to bring for to fetch for to carry for
you, sir?" "He, he, he! Oh, I say, sir!" "Well, sir?" "Miss Woolford
knows me, sir. She laughed at me!" I see him run away after this; not on
his feet, but on his knees and the calves of his legs alternately; and
that smell of sawdusty horses, which was never in any other place in the
world, salutes my nose with painful distinctness. What do you think of
my suddenly finding myself a swimmer? But I have really made the
discovery, and skim about a little blue bay just below the town here,
like a fish in high spirits. I hope to preserve my bathing-dress for
your inspection and approval, or possibly to enrich your collection of
Italian costumes on my return. Do you recollect Yarnold in "Masaniello"?
I fear that I, unintentionally, "dress at him," before plunging into the
sea. I enhanced the likeness very much, last Friday morning, by singing
a barcarole on the rocks. I was a trifle too flesh-coloured (the stage
knowing no medium between bright salmon and dirty yellow), but apart
from that defect, not badly made up by any means. When you write to me,
my dear Stanny, as I hope you will soon, address Poste Restante, Genoa.
I remain out here until the end of September, and send in for my letters
daily. There is a postman for this place, but he gets drunk and loses
the letters; after which he calls to say so, and to fall upon his knees.
About three weeks ago I caught him at a wine-shop near here, playing
bowls in the garden. It was then about five o'clock in the afternoon,
and he had been airing a newspaper addressed to me, since nine o'clock
in the morning.
Kate and Georgina unite with me in most cordial remembrances to Mrs. and
Miss Stanfield, and to all the children. They particularise all sorts of
messages, but I tell them that they had better write themselves if they
want to send any. Though I don't know that this writing would end in the
safe deliverance of the commodities after all; for when I began this
letter, I meant to give utterance to all kinds of heartiness, my dear
Stanfield; and I come to the end of it without having said anything more
than that I am--which is new to you--under every circumstance and
everywhere,
Your most affectionate Friend.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. C. Macready.]