Our last journey to Ireland began in mirth, and ended in the agonies of a bad passage which accentuated all our regrets. The traject thither had been accomplished with no such drawbacks.
The Master of the Villino is remarkably indifferent to anything the sea can do; but I like to have a comfortable cabin to myself, and a large port-hole for the sea-wind to blow through. I cannot say I’m fond of feeling like the German lover:
Himmel-hoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt
between wave and hollow. But it is the woes of other people that really undo me. On this particular passage—a bright fresh day it was, with what’s called, I suppose, “a choppy sea”—I was quite ready to defy the elements, when suddenly there arose, from the next-door cabin, sounds.... No—even in recollection these things are not to be dwelt upon!
“My dear,” said I to my companion, “let us talk and drown the outcries of this shameless and abandoned woman.”
Fortunately I had a companion with whom conversation is always as easy as it is interesting. We began to enjoy our own pleasant humour very much, and did not allow a moment’s silence to fall between us, lest—
We were travelling by North Wall; and when the placidity of the Liffey odoriferously enfolded us, we emerged cheerfully on deck to join some friends, for the sake of whose agreeable company we had chosen this particular route.
The dear little lady who was about to be our hostess we found charitably administering dry biscuits to a very dilapidated-looking, green-faced young woman with the unmistakable appearance of—but again, no!
“Poor Mrs. Saunders has been feeling so faint,” said our friend, with the cheerful sympathy of the good sailor.
We were introduced to the languid one.