"A—a—Boy! Have you seen any Birds about here this Morning?"
"Ees, Zur! I seed a lot of 'em about 'arf an hour back, a sittin' on the Telegraph Woires!"
SOME NOTES AT STARMOUTH.
Chill-sea.
My Nautical Drama is not making much progress. Must go more amongst men and things. That is the only way to gain ideas. World full of dramatis personæ, who will provide their own dialogue, if you can only find them a good part. Interview old sailor; capital character—the very man to be "discovered drinking," (which must have frequently occurred to him) as curtain rises. Talk to him half-an-hour, but without hearing a single really telling line. Half-a-crown wasted! Pleasure-boat just "putting off,"—which is naturally a dilatory operation—Skipper says they are only waiting for me. I hesitate; does Art demand this sacrifice? Hitherto my voyages have been chiefly confined to journeyings in a penny steamer from Chelsea to Lambeth. But can I reasonably expect to become familiar with marine matters without some actual experience? If M. Zola could go and live for weeks down a coal-mine, surely I may trust myself in a pleasure-boat for one short half-hour? It is only sixpence.
I subdue my diffidence, and embark—that is, I fall over the stern, and stumble to the only vacant seat—a thwart in the middle. Should have preferred a place nearer the gunwale.... We are off; boat pretty full, twenty-four passengers, to crew of two boatmen and a cornet-player. People enjoying what they call "a blow on the jetty," wave handkerchiefs to us as we pass. Curious, this blind impulse to wave greetings to perfect strangers—does it spring from vague enthusiasm for humanity? Chatty old gentleman next to me will talk: he tells me confidentially that it is a singular thing, but it does so happen that he has never been on the sea without an accident of some sort occurring,—never! There is no superstitious nonsense about him, it seems, so he thought he would "chance it" once more. Very creditable—but more considerate if he would chance it in a canoe. The Cornet-player quite a cockney Arion (though nobody thinks, somehow, of pitching him overboard). He performs appropriate airs during trip. A Life on the Ocean Wave, as we start; Only a Pansy Blossom, (though I don't see the precise connection of this) as we tack; and the Harbour Lights, when we turn. Somehow, this rather vulgarises the Ocean—for me. Sea fortunately smooth: nobody at all unwell. I feel nothing—except perhaps a growing conviction that a very young infant opposite should not be permitted to eat a jam-puff in public. Boatmen use no nautical expressions. Passengers lively at first, though, by time we turn, the expression on our features, like that of young lady who wore the wreath of roses, seems "more thoughtful than before." We are close in now—the musician is sending round his hat. Resent this privately, it is not seamanlike! In beaching, yacht swings round with her broadside to breakers, causing sudden wave to drench the Jonah gentleman and myself before we can disembark. He seems rather gratified than otherwise by so apposite an illustration of his ill-luck. The brown-eyed girl on sands watches me alight—on all fours, dripping. Sea-trip a mistake, I feel damped rather than fired.