In the evening a grand shingarnee was held on the quarter-deck, when an intellectual repast was provided of about the same quality as our dinner. There was a young fellow among the steerage passengers who, from some real or fancied resemblance to that individual, had received the cognomen of Smike, though "the Artful Dodger" would have been perhaps more appropriate. He seemed afraid that some one was about to lay hold of him from behind, and hence kept himself in constant readiness for flight; so that his gait became the debateable ground between walking and running, where one ends, and the other has not yet begun. This gave his body a slight inclination forward; and the agreeable slope thus produced, found a fitting termination in the short skirts of his fuzzy, blue roundabout, that projected a few inches from his person as if, like the eaves of a house, intended to shoot off the rain. The beholder, on seeing this jacket for the first time, was unavoidably impressed with the belief that it had originally started with the intention of reaching the knees, but having been stunted in its growth, had stopped short half-way between that point and the waist, which gave the wearer somewhat of the appearance of a rooster who has shed his feathers, and is waiting for his tail to regain its full dimensions before he ventures to indulge in his wonted strut. His hat, which he wore on the back of his head as if to restore his centre of gravity, seemed in truth ill-fitted for the purpose, both rim and crown having been sadly shorn of their fair proportions.
All Shakspeare's seven ages were huddled together in his face, his chin being the seventh. To look at that alone, you would affirm he was a hundred years old; each feature led to a different conclusion, but all together involved the question in painful uncertainty. If you paid to his nose the reverence due to old age, a glance at his mouth made you blush with indignation at having wasted your courtesies on a boy; but if his mouth tempted you to treat him as an equal, his eyes frowned reproach upon such unbecoming familiarity. His physiognomy thus became a perpetual trap to the unwary, as it was an enigma that defied all the speculations of the curious.
This boy-Methuselah was the first performer, and his part was that much abused monologue of Hamlet, "To be or not to be." He took his station on the quarter deck, with the mizen mast at his back; and the spectators stood, or sat, or leaned, wherever they could find support. I do not remember whether he decided to be or not to be, but his effort was received with immense approbation, and in honour of this achievement, he was henceforth called Hamlet, in addition to his other titles.
The next performer was a very Hercules of a fellow, who, if he had been cut into pieces, would have made three of his diminutive rival. He had formerly been an actor, and it was easy to see that he must have gained great success. He bellowed, he muttered, he whispered, he hissed,—he stamped, and the hollow deck resounded; he spread apart his Colossus-like legs, and raised his arms as if to hold up the sky; till having run through all those parts so envied by Bully Bottom, he suddenly broke away in a whirlwind of passion, and resumed his place among the admiring spectators.
During the remainder of the month little occurred worthy of notice. Our water again failed, and we were once more put on an allowance of only three pints a day, and two of these we gave the steward for our coffee. The beans and rice in which we had luxuriated were no longer seen on our table, for there was no water to cook them. Once a week we were summoned into the cabin to receive our hebdomedal allowance of butter. On the steward's table, in his little pantry, were set out, in tempting array, on half sheets of letter paper some forty pats of butter, each weighing exactly four ounces, and, like the candy in a confectioner's window, exhibiting all the colours of the rainbow. Not only candy, but many other articles, are all the more pleasing for this variety, but butter possesses no such versatility; here yellow is your only colour; blue, and green, and red, though elsewhere highly becoming, should be rigidly excluded. Yet I remember hearing the steward trying to convince one young fellow, who rather demurred about taking the fortieth and sole remaining pat, as being more curiously coloured than the rest, that it was nothing more than natural, since streaked and speckled cows always gave butter of the same pattern.
[CHAPTER VII.]
On the morning of the 13th of August a sail was discovered in the horizon. She rapidly overhauled us, and when sufficiently near, a boat was sent to obtain, if possible, a supply of water, our own being now nearly exhausted. The boat returned after several hours, bringing a cask of water and a number of papers from Valparaiso, from which we gleaned a variety of interesting items. The Helena left home a month later than we, but though their voyage had been thus comparatively short, her passengers were no better contented than our own. They had just eaten their last pickled salmon; and the mackerel, fresh beef, and potatoes, which still remained to them, could not efface from their tender stomachs the recollection of their recent bereavement.
In view of this afflictive dispensation how unreasonable now seemed our own ungrateful discontent. Henceforth, if any one grumbled, as some are sure to do under the most favourable conditions, because our water looked like soapsuds, or because we were forced to dine seven days in the week on salt beef and pork, he was sure to be cut short with, "Why!! they are out of pickled salmon on board the Helena!" and unless he were a peculiarly obstinate and hardened offender, this rebuke did not need to be repeated.