She is rather high in stature, fair in complexion, and slim in person; her hair is brown, and is worn quite plain; her physiognomy is most pleasing; her eyes, of a bluish tint, speak volumes, and are always sparkling with intelligence; her mouth is small and well formed, while her lips act in unison, and make known the impression of her heart—one seems the reflex of the other. Her visage, as regards expression, is very remarkable, and one can almost anticipate by her countenance what she is about to say: alternately, with matters of the most grave import, a gentle smile passes radiantly over her countenance, thus proving her evenness of temper; at other times, when wit or a pleasantry prevails, the heroine is lost in the happy, good-natured smile which pervades her face, and you recognise only the charming woman. Her dress is generally of a greyish or black tint; she wears a simple white cap, and often a rough apron. In a word, her whole appearance is religiously simple and unsophisticated. In conversation no member of the fair sex can be more amiable and gentle than Miss Nightingale. Removed from her arduous and cavalier-like duties, which require the nerve of a Hercules,—and she possesses it when required,—she is Rachel on the stage in both tragedy and comedy.
During the voyage Miss Nightingale conversed with the captain, Major Campbell, and one or two more gentlemen on board. Dinner-time arrived—four bells apprized us of the fact—the deck was soon cleared, and the table surrounded. The pièces de résistance were attacked on all sides. The last decent piece of roast beef we were to see or partake of for some time was that day before us. Miss Nightingale and the Sisters of Mercy dined in their cabin. The conversation was so very lively, that one might have fancied that we were going on a pleasure excursion instead of the solemn pilgrimage from whence so many were never to return. All bore testimony to the good fare provided by the captain, and exquisite pale sherry flowed in the glasses, in honour first of her Majesty, then Miss Nightingale, next the ladies, and last, not least, the army and navy. Some good old port, with a fine crust, properly decanted without shaking, was then introduced, with the inseparable and justly-famed Stilton cheese and fresh plain salad.
This sudden change of countenance in the happy homely groups, who only a few minutes before were as grave as grave—in fact, morally and properly grave, exchanging peaceably word for word while upon deck, cannot be attributed to the walk down, nor to the temperature of the room, or even the charming architectural paintings upon glass which adorned the chief cabin of the Robert Lowe, nor the laying out of the table, “which was perfect.” No, not at all. It was the dinner—yes, the dinner!—which made me heartily second the opinion of my illustrious compatriot, Brillat Savarin, when he justly remarks in one of his immortal aphorisms, that if there is one hour spent more pleasantly than another in the course of the day, that one is the first hour at the dinner table. Though he intends his remark for epicures, it can easily be applied to all classes of society, according to the difference of time each man can afford from his occupations or peculiar habits. But out of this reunion of hilarity I will here give an anecdote which will probably amuse, if not interest, the reader.
P. M. AND THE LOOKING-GLASS.
On the eve of my departure from Scutari I fell in with a travelling gentleman named Peter Morrison, a personage of no small importance in his own estimation, who was very desirous of accompanying me through my Crimean campaign, and of making himself useful to me should his services be required. Remuneration was to him a secondary consideration. According to himself, “moving accidents by flood and field, and peril in the imminent deadly breach,” excited his martial ardour, and these had no terrors for him—while he was far removed from their sphere of action. He afterwards gave us to understand that he was courting a wealthy lady, who, being decidedly of opinion that
None but the brave deserve the fair,
had declared that none should wed her who had not both “fought and bled for his country.” P. M., as I shall designate this redoubtable hero, needed some such stimulus to risk his life in his country’s cause, as the sequel will show; for he preferred, with due regard to his complexion, albeit none of the fairest, the shelter of the bays used in my kitchen, to any laurels he might reap on the field of Mars, as, when in front of the enemy, his courage, like that of Bob Acres, “oozed out at his fingers’ ends.” But to our anecdote.
During a gale a few weeks before we went on board, a looking-glass had been broken in the cabin, the steward, as the ship made a heavy lurch, having sent his head through it while carrying a dish to the table. Probably the glass was not set flat in the frame, as his head had made a perfect star of a hundred jets. The circular hole looked just as if a shot had passed through it. Three small boards were fixed across to keep it together.
Whilst at dinner, P. M., who was sitting next me, inquired how the glass had been broken.
“Upon my word,” said I, “I do not know; but one of the mates says it was done by a round shot.” (This the mate had said in joke.) The captain, who was very jocular, perceiving P. M. was rather uneasy at the information, merely replied, “Ah, and I had a very narrow escape on the occasion. I was sitting at the head of the table at the time, nearly opposite the spot.”