_H.M.S._ ‘_Vulgarium_,’
_Off Havre de Grace_, _this_ 22_nd_ _day of August_ [1887].
SIR,—The weather has been hitherto inimitable. Inimitable is the only
word that I can apply to our fellow-voyagers, whom a categorist, possibly
premature, has been already led to divide into two classes—the better
sort consisting of the baser kind of Bagman, and the worser of
undisguised Beasts of the Field. The berths are excellent, the pasture
swallowable, the champagne of H. James (to recur to my favourite
adjective) inimitable. As for the Commodore, he slept awhile in the
evening, tossed off a cup of Henry James with his plain meal, walked the
deck till eight, among sands and floating lights and buoys and wrecked
brigantines, came down (to his regret) a minute too soon to see Margate
lit up, turned in about nine, slept, with some interruptions, but on the
whole sweetly, until six, and has already walked a mile or so of deck,
among a fleet of other steamers waiting for the tide, within view of
Havre, and pleasantly entertained by passing fishing-boats, hovering
sea-gulls, and Vulgarians pairing on deck with endearments of primitive
simplicity. There, sir, can be viewed the sham quarrel, the sham desire
for information, and every device of these two poor ancient sexes (who
might, you might think, have learned in the course of the ages something
new) down to the exchange of head-gear.—I am, sir, yours,