“But I ’low,” growls he, “that Sir Harry an’ Skipper 42 Chesterfield haves the right of it: for they’re both strong on manners––if weak on morals.”
Aboard ship I was put in the cabin and commanded to bear myself like a gentleman: whereupon I was abandoned, my uncle retreating in haste and purple confusion from the plush and polish and glitter of the state-room. But he would never fail to turn at the door (or come stumping back through the passage); and now heavily oppressed by my helplessness and miserable loneliness and the regrettable circumstances of my life––feeling, it may be, some fear for me and doubt of his own wisdom––he would regard me anxiously. To this day he lingers thus in my memory: leaning forward upon his short staff, half within the bright light, half lost in shadow, upon his poor, fantastic, strangely gentle countenance an expression of tenderest solicitude, which still would break, against his will, in ripples of the liveliest admiration at my appearance and luxurious situation, but would quickly recover its quality of concern and sympathy.
“Dannie, lad,” he would prescribe, “you better overhaul the twenty-third psa’m afore turnin’ in.”
To this I would promise.
“‘The Lard is my shepherd,’” says he. “‘I shall not want.’ Say it twice,” says he, as if two doses were more salutary than one, “an’ you’ll feel better in the mornin’.”
To this a doleful assent.
“An’ ye’ll make good use o’ your time with the gentlefolk, Dannie?” says he. “Keep watch on ’em, 43 lad, an’ ye’ll l’arn a wonderful lot about manners. ‘List o’ the necessary ornamental accomplishments (without which no man livin’ can either please or rise in the world), which hitherto I fear ye want,’” quotes he, most glibly, “‘an’ which only require your care an’ attention t’ possess.’ Volume II., page 24. ‘A distinguished politeness o’ manners an’ address, which common-sense, observation, good company, an’ imitation will give ye if ye will accept it.’ There you haves it, Dannie––underlined by Sir Harry! Ye got the sense, ye got the eye, an’ here’s the company. Lord love ye, Dannie, the Commissioner o’ Lands is aboard with his lady! No less! An’ I’ve heared tell of a Yankee millionaire cruisin’ these parts. They’ll be wonderful handy for practice. Lay alongside, Dannie––an’ imitate the distinguished politeness: for ol’ Skipper Chesterfield cracks up imitation an’ practice most wonderful high!”
The jangle of the bell in the engine-room would now interrupt him. The mail was aboard: the ship bound out.
“An’ Dannie,” says my uncle, feeling in haste for the great handkerchief (to blow his nose, you may be sure), “I’m not able t’ think o’ you bein’ lonely. I’m for’ard in the steerage, lad––just call that t’ mind. An’ if ye find no cure in that, why, lad”––in a squall of affectionate feeling, his regard for gentility quite vanished––“sink me an’ that damn ol’ Chesterfield overside, an’ overhaul the twenty-third psa’m!”
“Ay, sir.”