BUBBLES from the BALTIC.
BLOWN from the PIPE of TOBY. M.P.
Off the Elbe, Wednesday Afternoon.—Got up steam, weighed anchor and laid our course East by North half South for Hamburg. Don Currie, whose knowledge of ocean life is extensive and peculiar, tells me no well regulated ship puts to sea without first ascertaining the weight of her anchor. Much interested at this peep into nautical life. But what has the weight of the anchor to do with the voyage of the Tantallon Castle, or even with the opening of the Baltic Canal? Well, the Don is not sure. Anyhow, it is an old custom. Sailors are superstitious, and if this preliminary to a voyage were omitted, they would turn rusty, and might even want to throw someone overboard. So, to prevent possible unpleasantness, the anchor is weighed—"To an ounce," Don Currie says severely.
Suppose before we turn in we shall be told how much it weighs. Wish I knew what is the average weight of a really good anchor. So awkward if a man comes upon you suddenly, and says "The anchor weighs just over a ton"; or "What do you think? the anchor turns the scale at fifty-two lbs. ten dwt." Is one too much, and is the other surprisingly little? Haven't the slightest idea. Shall, in either case, say "Ha!" That is, at any rate, noncommittal.
Mr. G. will know what an anchor ought to weigh in given circumstances. He knows everything. Shall try and find opportunity of asking him.
Hamburg, Friday, 5 A.M.—"I am very fond of the German tongue," said the Member for Sark, paying me an early morning pyjama-call. "The language in which Goethe wrote and Heine sang is sacred. Still, when it is emitted from the throats of half a score of steam-whistles, one feels there are limits to passionate desire. Have often heard siren song of steam-whistle in and about the Thames. That's bad enough for the sensitive ear. But when it comes to steam-whistling in German, you begin to understand why people sometimes commit suicide."
For my part, I like it. Few things more charming than to be wakened at daybreak by a steam-whistle spluttering in your larboard ear. Before you have quite drank in the fulness of the music, another shrieks in your starboard ear. Then, far and near, all round the harbour, they pop off in different keys. Some angry; some whining; some in anguishing pain; some mocking; some wailing; one ingenious contrivance, moved by a master-hand, managing to imitate a burst of maniacal laughter, in which, if you didn't bury your head in the pillow, you feel you must join.
Then there's the effect on the man on deck. Don't know who he is; fancy he must be the Supercargo. At first shriek of the earliest whistle, he puts on the heaviest boots (those with the clump of steel at the toes, the wedges of iron at the heel, and fat-headed nails all over the sole). He gives preliminary stamp precisely over your head; all right; steam-whistle shrieks; others respond; Supercargo is off; stamps to and fro just the length of the deck immediately over your berth; leaps up height of two feet; drops exactly over your head; steam-whistles go faster; Supercargo clatters off; fetches from somewhere a plank, a rough-hewn plank studded with nails; this he dashes on the deck over your head; got the range to a nicety; never misses; steam-whistles go off simultaneously; maddening effect on Supercargo; he rages to and fro, charges over your berth, banging the plank with mad delight. You get out of your berth, dash to side; just going to plunge over; when Quartermaster seizes you and leads you back to cabin, locking you in.
And Sark says he doesn't care for early morning effects in Hamburg harbour!