“Well, sir, to resume. We arrived at Southampton, but only in time to hasten down to the pier, and take boat for the ship. The blue-peter was flying at the mast-head, and people hurrying away to say ‘good-bye’ for the last time. I, sir, I alone had no farewells to take. Simon Yellowley was leaving his native soil, unwept and unregretted! Sad thoughts these, Mr. Tramp,—very sad thoughts. Well, sir, we were aboard at last, above a hundred of us, standing amid the lumber of our carpet-bags, dressing-cases, and hat-boxes, half blinded by the heavy spray of the condensed steam, and all deafened by the din.
“The world of a great packet-ship, Mr. Tramp, is a very selfish world, and not a bad epitome of its relative on shore. Human weaknesses are so hemmed in by circumstances, the frailties that would have been dissipated in a wider space are so concentrated by compression, that middling people grow bad, and the bad become regular demons. There is, therefore, no such miserable den of selfish and egotistical caballing, slander, gossip, and all malevolence, as one of these. Envy of the man with a large berth,—sneers for the lady that whispered to the captain,—guesses as to the rank and station of every passenger, indulged in with a spirit of impertinence absolutely intolerable,—and petty exclu-siveness practised by every four or five on board, against some others who have fewer servants or less luggage than their neighbors. Into this human bee-hive was I now plunged, to be bored by the drones, stung by the wasps, and maddened by all. ‘No matter,’ thought I, 4 Simon Yellowley has a great mission to fulfil.’ Yes, Mr. Tramp, I remembered the precarious position of our Eastern possessions,—I bethought me of the incalculable services the ability of even a Yellow-ley might render his country in the far-off valley of the Himalaya, and I sat down on my portmanteau, a happier—nay, I will say, a better man.
“The accidents—we call them such every day—the accidents which fashion our lives, are always of our own devising, if we only were to take trouble enough to trace them. I have a theory on this head, but I ‘m keeping it over for a kind of a Bridgewater Treatise. It is enough now to remark that though my number at the dinner-table was 84, I exchanged with another gentleman, who could n’t bear a draught, for a place near the door, No. 122. Ah, me! little knew I then what that simple act was to bring with it. Bear in mind, Mr. Tramp, 122; for, as you may remember, Sancho Panza’s story of the goatherd stopped short, when his master forgot the number of the goats; and that great French novelist, M. de Balzac, always hangs the interest of his tale on some sum in arithmetic, in which his hero’s fortune is concerned: so my story bears upon this number. Yes, sir, the adjoining seat, No. 123, was vacant. There was a cover and a napkin, and there was a chair placed leaning against the table, to mark it out as the property of some one absent; and day by day was that vacant place the object of my conjectures. It was natural this should be the case. My left-hand neighbor was the first mate, one of those sea animals most detestable to a landsman. He had a sea appetite, a sea voice, sea jokes, and, worst of all, a sea laugh. I shall never forget that fellow. I never spoke to him that he did not reply in some slang of his abominable profession; and all the disagreeables of a floating existence were increased ten-fold by the everlasting reference to the hated theme,—a ship. What he on the right hand might prove, was therefore of some moment to me. Another Coup de Mer like this would be unendurable. The crossest old maid, the testiest old bachelor, the most peppery nabob, the flattest ensign, the most boring of tourists, the most careful of mothers, would be a boon from heaven in comparison with a blue-jacket. Alas! Mr. Tramp, I was left very long to speculate on this subject. We were buffeted down the Channel, we were tossed along the coast of France, and blown about the Bay of Biscay before 123 ever turned up; when one day—it was a deliciously calm day (I shall not forget it soon)—we even could see the coast of Portugal, with its great mountains above Cintra. Over a long reach of sea, glassy as a mirror, the great ship clove her way,—the long foam-track in her wake, the only stain on that blue surface. Every one was on deck: the old asthmatic gentleman, whose cough was the curse of the after-cabin, sat with a boa round his neck, and thought he enjoyed himself. Ladies in twos and threes walked up and down together, chatting as pleasantly as though in Kensington Gardens. The tourist sent out by Mr. Colburn was taking notes of the whole party, and the four officers in the Bengal Light Horse had adjourned their daily brandy and water to a little awning beside the wheel. There were sketch-books and embroidery-frames and journals on all sides; there was even a guitar, with a blue ribbon round it; and amid all these remindings of shore life, a fat poodle waddled about, and snarled at every one. The calm, sir, was a kind of doomsday, which evoked the dead from their tombs; and up they came from indescribable corners and nooks, opening their eyes with amazement upon the strange world before them, and some almost feeling that even the ordeal of sea-sickness was not too heavy a penalty for an hour so bright, though so fleeting.
“‘Which is 123?’ thought I, as I elbowed my way along the crowded quarter-deck, now asking myself could it be the thin gentleman with the two capes, or the fat lady with the three chins? But there is a prescience which never fails in the greater moments of our destiny, and this told me it was none of these. We went down to dinner, and for the first time the chair was not placed against the table, but so as to permit a person to be seated on it.
“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward to me, ‘could you move a little this way? 123 is coming in to dinner, and she would like to have the air of the doorway.’
“‘She would,’ thought I; ‘oh, so this is a she, at all events;’ and scarce was the reflection made, when the rustle of a silk dress was heard brushing my chair. I turned, and what do you think, Mr. Tramp?—shall I endeavor to describe my emotions to you?”
This was said in a tone so completely questioning that I saw Mr. Yellowley waited for my answer.
“I am afraid, sir,” said I, looking at my watch, “if the emotions you speak of will occupy much time, we had better skip them, for it only wants a quarter to twelve.”
“We will omit them, then, Mr. Tramp; for, as you justly observe, they would require both time and space. Well, sir, to be brief, 123 was the angel of the railroad.”
“The lady you met at—”