“Oh, sir, surely the advantage of the counsel of an officer trained to navigate femininity in the shape of a ship, is apparent: a ship, even though a three-decker ready to fire a broadside of a hundred guns, is invariably alluded to as 'she,'” said he, airily.
“Such an one must surely be the most formidable piece of femininity in the world,” said Mr. Kendal.
“By no means,” said Garrick. “During my career as the manager of a playhouse I have had to face worse. Still, the training of a naval officer in dealing with feminine craft—at times off a lee shore, and often during a storm at sea—nothing to be compared to the tempests in our green-room—is certain to be of value. You will stay, Lieutenant Burney, if it please you.”
“I should be most unwilling to obtrude upon your council, sir,” said young Burney, “unless you are convinced that my humble services——”
“You have been among the savages of the South Seas, and you are acquainted with all the rules of chasing and capturing prizes, all of the feminine gender—I allude to your sloops and frigates and catamarans—I take it for granted that a catamaran is as feminine in its ways as any wherry that floats,” cried Garrick. Then he turned to their visitor, who was looking more puzzled than ever.
“You may reckon yourself fortunate in the presence of our young friend, sir,” he said. “So far as I can gather this is a case of chase, with a possible capture of a prize. I venture to think that in these days a gentleman of family and fortune, like yourself, is something of a prize, Mr. Kendal.” This was language that contained nothing to puzzle anyone, the visitor perceived. His face brightened, and he waved young Burney to a seat.
“I take it that Mr. Garrick knows what he is talking about,” he said. “And though it was truly your father to whom I came for counsel, I doubt not that you will take my part, should the worst come to the worst.”
“Which means, should the lady come to the gentleman, Mr. Burney,” said Garrick.
“Pay out your yarn, sir: I gather that you are still to the windward of your enemy, and that is the position which the books tell us we should manoeuvre for,” cried the nautical assessor.
Dr. Burney sat silently by, he had no mind to join in the fooling of the others. Dr. Burney had never in his life lost a sense of his own dignity. He had been a church organist for thirty years, and no man who has had such an experience of the control of an instrument of such superlative dignity could be otherwise than dignified. He had never once run off on a keyboard a single phrase of “The Beggar's Opera.” Even Handel's “Ruddier than the Cherry,” with Mr. Gay's ticklish rhymed line about “Kidlings blithe and merry,” he only played apologetically, allowing it to be clearly understood that Mr. Handel and Mr. Gay divided between them the responsibility for so frivolous a measure.