UNDER CLIFF—ISLE OF WIGHT.
OUR STEAMER FRIEND TIBBITTS.
peace now, but the sentry shows how insecure the peace. England must be always ready for war. But standing upon a parapet, overlooking the sea, one forgets for the time the fact that he is in the very midst of that oppressive power, the strong arm of the soldier, and gives himself up to kindlier thoughts, brought up by the marvelous beauties of the scene spread out before him like the mystic picture painted by fairy hands. The sea, over which the last rays of the sinking sun dance and shimmer, is just rippled with a light breeze that sends the graceful little yachts skimming merrily over its surface. The misty outlines of the Isle of Wight, half hidden by a delicate purple haze, gradually fade from sight as the sun sinks lower and lower, and throws a broad path of golden light along the bright blue water. As it sinks into the sea, a great globe of brilliant red, a stately ship, with graceful masts rising high in air, cuts the path of golden light, and for an instant is clearly outlined against the glowing orb. Every mast, every rope, even, can be seen clearly and distinctly against the beautiful background. For an instant every outline is tinged with gold, then it passes slowly on, the sun sinks beneath the waves, and then comes the soft twilight, when one “sinks into reveries and dreams.”
This reverie and dream business is all very well for awhile, but it cannot last, and the awakening is not pleasant. The good old town of Portsmouth, with its historical memories, the beautiful harbor filled with so much that is interesting, must be left for others to enjoy while we go back to London and resume the routine of sight seeing—that is, to draw it mildly, becoming just a trifle tiresome. One can have too much of even London.
* * * * * * * *
On our return to London we met our old steamer friend, Tibbitts’s Lemuel, of Oshkosh. He had been traveling in the North of England, and tiring of the smaller cities and the country, had returned to London to “do it.” He was rather puffy in the cheeks and rather bleary about the eyes, which showed a season of not altogether strict adherence to the precepts of Father Matthew. He was overjoyed at seeing us, as men always are at seeing anybody of whom they want something. He was in trouble.
“Look here,” said Lemuel, “you are a good fellow, now, and I know you will help me out. You see I came over for improvement and experience, and to enlarge my mind, and all that sort of thing, and the old gentleman insisted that I should keep a diary, and note down my impressions of scenery, and industries, and modes of living, and all that, and send it to him regularly, and I must do it, or he will cut off the supplies, and bring me home.”
“Well, that is easy enough. You have done it? You have kept a diary?”