BUBBLES from the BALTIC.
BLOWN from the PIPE of TOBY. M.P.
Off the Elbe, Wednesday Afternoon.—Got up steam, weighed anchor and laid our course East by North half South for Hamburg. Don Currie, whose knowledge of ocean life is extensive and peculiar, tells me no well regulated ship puts to sea without first ascertaining the weight of her anchor. Much interested at this peep into nautical life. But what has the weight of the anchor to do with the voyage of the Tantallon Castle, or even with the opening of the Baltic Canal? Well, the Don is not sure. Anyhow, it is an old custom. Sailors are superstitious, and if this preliminary to a voyage were omitted, they would turn rusty, and might even want to throw someone overboard. So, to prevent possible unpleasantness, the anchor is weighed—"To an ounce," Don Currie says severely.
Suppose before we turn in we shall be told how much it weighs. Wish I knew what is the average weight of a really good anchor. So awkward if a man comes upon you suddenly, and says "The anchor weighs just over a ton"; or "What do you think? the anchor turns the scale at fifty-two lbs. ten dwt." Is one too much, and is the other surprisingly little? Haven't the slightest idea. Shall, in either case, say "Ha!" That is, at any rate, noncommittal.
Mr. G. will know what an anchor ought to weigh in given circumstances. He knows everything. Shall try and find opportunity of asking him.
Hamburg, Friday, 5 A.M.—"I am very fond of the German tongue," said the Member for Sark, paying me an early morning pyjama-call. "The language in which Goethe wrote and Heine sang is sacred. Still, when it is emitted from the throats of half a score of steam-whistles, one feels there are limits to passionate desire. Have often heard siren song of steam-whistle in and about the Thames. That's bad enough for the sensitive ear. But when it comes to steam-whistling in German, you begin to understand why people sometimes commit suicide."
For my part, I like it. Few things more charming than to be wakened at daybreak by a steam-whistle spluttering in your larboard ear. Before you have quite drank in the fulness of the music, another shrieks in your starboard ear. Then, far and near, all round the harbour, they pop off in different keys. Some angry; some whining; some in anguishing pain; some mocking; some wailing; one ingenious contrivance, moved by a master-hand, managing to imitate a burst of maniacal laughter, in which, if you didn't bury your head in the pillow, you feel you must join.
Then there's the effect on the man on deck. Don't know who he is; fancy he must be the Supercargo. At first shriek of the earliest whistle, he puts on the heaviest boots (those with the clump of steel at the toes, the wedges of iron at the heel, and fat-headed nails all over the sole). He gives preliminary stamp precisely over your head; all right; steam-whistle shrieks; others respond; Supercargo is off; stamps to and fro just the length of the deck immediately over your berth; leaps up height of two feet; drops exactly over your head; steam-whistles go faster; Supercargo clatters off; fetches from somewhere a plank, a rough-hewn plank studded with nails; this he dashes on the deck over your head; got the range to a nicety; never misses; steam-whistles go off simultaneously; maddening effect on Supercargo; he rages to and fro, charges over your berth, banging the plank with mad delight. You get out of your berth, dash to side; just going to plunge over; when Quartermaster seizes you and leads you back to cabin, locking you in.
And Sark says he doesn't care for early morning effects in Hamburg harbour!
Saturday Morning.—Steaming down Elbe, meaning to anchor at its mouth. (Not at its elbow, as Sark told the pilot. Pilot didn't see joke. Stared at him, and said, "Hein?" which made Sark look foolish.) Last night citizens of Hamburg entertained us at dinner. Banquet spread in what they call the Zoologischer Garten. Odd how the way of pronouncing a familiar word grows upon some people after dinner.
Mr. Punch regrets to hear (from a thoroughly [un]reliable source) that some confusion has been caused at Keil owing to the great physical resemblance between his representative on the Tantallon Castle and His Imperial Majesty the German Emperor!! In fact, some doubts are expressed as to which of the two it was who opened the Baltic Canal!
Feeding time seven. No extra charge to the public, who are kept outside. Excellent dinner; but general arrangement more suited to time of Methuselah than our shorter-lived day. Sat down at 7.30; finished by 11.30. Peculiarity of menu was the interpolation of cold speeches among the hot dishes. As soon as we swallowed our Klare Schildkrötensuppe, and toyed with our Forellen, blau mit Butter, Chairman rose and proposed toast to Emperor. Next came on the table (sideways, of course) Helgoländer hummer auf amerikanische Art. Before the dish was removed, another gentleman on his legs proposing health of Mr. G. So on through the meal: first a bite and sup, then a speech. Practice interesting, though apt to induce a coolness on part of some of the dishes. Suppose cook calculates that gentlemen proposing particular toast will speak for ten minutes; he takes twenty, or, if of a fearless nature, half an hour. Where's your next dish? Why, cold or burnt. Nor can system be recommended on score of economy. Consequence of sitting through four hours dining off sort of speech-sandwich, is that you begin to get hungry again. The absent-minded man, offered an ice, says he usually begins his dinner with soup. If two hundred follow his example, and insist upon going all through the dinner again, it is not only embarrassing, but becomes costly.
Off Jutland, Sunday.—Don Currie last night gave return banquet on Tantallon Castle to Hamburgers. Done in princely style. Over two hundred sat down in brilliantly lighted saloon. Had our speeches, as usual with nous autres, served with the dessert instead of as entrées. Few, short, pithy, and one historical. Don Currie proposed toasts to his fellow Sovereigns, the Queen of England and Emperor of Germany. Burgomaster of Hamburg toasted Mr. G., who responded in speech, lofty in sentiment, eloquently simple, admirable in delivery. Dog and pup, I have, during the last twenty years, heard nearly every one of his great speeches in the House and out. Declare that in all the qualities that go to make a perfect oration, it would be hard for even his record to beat this impromptu speech, delivered amid such strange surroundings.
After dinner, a dance on deck. The waltzing and polkaing commonplace enough. But pretty to see John Leng, M.P., and the Lord of the Isles do a sword dance, whilst Ramsay, M.P., like them, clad in national garb, played the bagpipes. This struck the German guests more than anything. Their papers full of it.
Copenhagen, Tuesday.—King and Queen of Denmark, with rest of Royal Family, had day out to-day. Came aboard Tantallon Castle for luncheon.
"You talk about your Roshervilles, cher Tobee," his Majesty said, as we smoked cigars with our coffee; "but to my mind, the place to spend a happy day is the Tantallon Castle."
"There is," I said, "the drawback of the absence of shrimps. But then even kings cannot have everything."
"True, Tobee," said the grandfather of our kings-to-be and of other people's. And for a moment the royal brow was "sicklied o'er with pale cast of thought."
It cleared as he caught sight of our two rival Kodakesses, who had simultaneously got him in focus. Pretty to see King arrange his hair, give little twist to moustache, and assume look of abstraction, just as common people do when they suspect someone is taking a snap-shot at them. As Sark says, "One snap of the Kodak makes the whole world kin."
An admirable spot for a little quiet reading, although perhaps the firing does make it a leetle difficult to concentrate one's thoughts wholly upon the matter in hand.
Oddly enough, there were speeches at the luncheon. Mr. G. having got his hand (or rather his voice) in at mouth of the Elbe, delivered two charming addresses. One in proposing health of King and Queen of Denmark, the other in responding to toast to his own health, given by King. A new thing this for Old Parliamentary Hand to serve as after-dinner speaker. Listening to his graceful, gracious phrases, one almost regrets he should have given up so much time to Irish Land Bills, Home Rule, and the like.
After luncheon a stroll on deck, and, incidentally, a memorable scene. In addition to the Kodakesses, who have taken everyone on board, except each other, we have a regular artist with a camera. Don Currie, having a moment to spare, thought he would have his likeness taken. Got into position; operator's head under the cloth fixing him; in another moment it would have been done. As Shakspeare wrote long ago, "Nothing escapes the eye of royal Denmark." The King, seeing what was going on, quietly led up the Queen, and stood by her in focus; the rest of the Royal Family, as our toast lists have it, closed in, forming a group near the Don; and when the astonished operator removed the cap and exposed the plate he found upon it the Royal Family of Denmark and one simple Highland gentleman distinguished in such company by his plain estate.
In afternoon, Don Currie having entertained Kings and Queens and Crown Princes, threw open all the gangways of the ship to the people of Copenhagen. They flocked in by hundreds, increasing to thousands. In endless streams they passed along the decks peering and poking their noses into every nook and cranny. On upper deck they had a great find. Sitting in his state cabin, with door open, was Mr. G. reading about the Vikings in their own tongue, which he has lately added to his list of acquired foreign languages. The Danes, men, women, and children, stood there at gaze. Mr. G., with his back turned to door, read on, unnoticing. Crowd growing unmanageable with ever-increasing numbers, a handy quartermaster rigged out ropes, and made sort of handrail, guarding either side of cabin, keeping back crowd. But it filled the deck all through the afternoon, ever changing, but ever one in its passionate, yet patient desire to catch a glimpse of that figure in the cabin, that went on reading as if the world outside were a mere wilderness.
Wednesday.—At Kiel. Harbour and approaches filled with fleets of all nations, every ship bristling with guns, and longing to be at somebody. For the closing years of the nineteenth century of the Christian Era, this is, as Sark says, most encouraging. It is the completest achievement, the proudest thing civilisation has to show us.
From the Manchester Guardian:—
SIR CHARLES HALLE'S CHOIR PICNIC. FINAL REHEARSAL and for TICKETS at Messrs. &c.
How is a picnic rehearsed?
