I think the true reason why Marseilles is so frequently spoken of with disfavour is on account of the "Bouillabaisse," the terrible mixture which delights the palates of the natives, and which innocent strangers are induced to partake of under the delusion that it must therefore be good for human food.
The only recommendation this dish possesses is the curious interest it arouses in one's mind as to what it is really composed of. One never knows what form of fish, flesh, or bad red herring one may encounter next. The appearance of the dish resembles one's childish imaginations of a "Mess of Pottage." Its scent suggests Marseilles harbour, and the stoke hole of a Channel steamer. I myself was never sufficiently enterprising to taste it, but judging by the expression of haggard thought that overspread the features of some who were so venturesome, I should say the taste must be "mystic, wonderful," and that years of careful study are necessary to attain to a true appreciation of its subtle delicacy.
I think the journey from Marseilles to London is the most wearisome that can be undertaken. After the warmth, the quiet, and the absence of hurry to which I had become accustomed in the East, I found the bustle and noise, added to the piercing cold of a European April, almost overpowering. I shivered on deck, as our steamer ploughed her way across the Channel, through a damp clinging fog, and when at last the welcome white cliffs came into sight, I was far too miserable to wax sentimental over this return to my native shore, and I longed only for tea and a fire.
Yet after all, despite the contrast betwixt sunshine and yellow fog, between jungle glades and London streets, despite all the advantages which we know that every other clime and country can boast over our own, England is England still, and Home is Home.
And now let me offer a word of advice to those who, like myself, undertake adventurous wanderings far from their native land, and recount the same with many embellishments. On their return home, let them beware of introducing to the admiring circle of their friends, any who may have accompanied them on their travels.
I had been back at home some three months, had told my story, and had established my reputation, when one day a visitor from Burmah arrived.
He had not been long in the house before some uncalled-for allusion was made to the historic occasion on which I defended my sister's house in Remyo from a body of dacoits. He denied all knowledge of the incident. Suspicions awoke in the breasts of my friends. They questioned the visitor about my struggle with the tiger, my adventure with the bear, my heroic bravery on the occasion of the shipwreck, and about all my other best inspired narrations.
Alas! he denied them all, and my credit was gone for ever. I fancy some have even ceased to believe that I have been to Burmah at all, and some have become so suspicious as to make enquiries as to whether I really am myself. It is hard! and the recently notorious contributor to the "Wide Wide World" Magazine has my deep sympathy. Would I had lived in the days of Columbus; I would have discovered more than America, had I enjoyed such excellent opportunities as did he.
* * * * * *
Thus ends the account of my experiences in Burmah, and of the impression left on my mind by this oft-described country.