And not one of them is a realist. There have been two realists who have written poetry of the sea. One is Shakespeare, who wrote: "Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground." The other is James Montgomery Flagg, who in his "All in the Same Boat" exposes the sea down to its very depths. The sea treated him abominably. He retaliated by throwing a book. If the sea had any sense of shame it would dry up, and so would certain of the passengers upon it. The Cheerful One, for instance:
"He sees you are dozing, he knows you are ill;
But he will sidle up, just to say,
As he crowds his gay person on half of your chair,
'Well, how's the boy feeling to-day?'"
Don't ever fancy that the Cheerful One among the passengers inquires thus because he cares a whit. He only wishes to emphasise his own immunity from mal de mer, and blow the smoke of his disgusting pipe into your face. Neither his stomach nor his intellect is sensitive. He has a monologue on sea-sickness: it is all nonsense, imagination. It denotes weakness, not so much of the stomach as of the mentality, the will, the character. And besides, you don't call this rough, do you? You ought to have crossed with him in the old Nausia in 'eighty-nine. Fourteen days and the racks never off the table! Only two other passengers at meals, and—don't you feel it coming?—the captain said it was the—but you fill in the rest. Ah, if the Nausia had only sunk with all on board!
QUITE THE NICEST PLACE ON THE WHOLE SHIP IS THE SMOKE-ROOM.
When the voyage is smooth and the Cheerful One is denied the joy of making sea-sick folk feel sicker, he is disappointed but not idle, for he may still extort confessions from untravelled persons. You know him: the solid, red-faced man who dresses for dinner and sits at the head of the table eating fried things loud and long when it is rough. He wears travel as though it were the Order of the Garter, and tells you, between mouthfuls, about all the ships that sail the seas. "No, sir! Pardon me! The table on this ship cannot compare with that of the old Gorgic. The Potterdam's the only ship for table outside the Ritz-Carlton boats, though Captain Van der Plank's a personal friend of mine. He knows what eating is, sir! Still, I like the small boats—no elevators, gymnasiums, and swimming-pools for me. I like to know I'm at sea, sir." And all the time he's casting round for a victim who has never been across before.
You see, there is something very ignominious in making a first transatlantic trip. No one should ever do it. Everybody should begin with the second or third trip. Yet I remember a little Kansas City lawyer I met on the New Amsterdam, who didn't seem to be ashamed of owning up. He was bald-headed and, despite the twinkling eyes behind his spectacles, solemn-looking. His bald head felt a draught from an open port-hole during dinner on the first night out, and it was when he asked the "waiter" to "close the window" that the "seasoned traveller" (as they love to call themselves) snapped up his cue. Turning in his seat and bringing his wide white shirt-front to bear full upon his victim, he raised a foghorn voice and asked the dreaded question:
"Ever been abroad before?"
We all squirmed with sympathy for the little man.
"No," he replied, looking up with a mild, innocent expression.