Up on deck again. Evening spent happily—chiefly in smoking-room. Turn in at twelve. Up next morning at 5·30. Awoke by the light, and fresh breeze. Lovely marble bath—then early coffee. Breakfast à la fourchette, at 9·30. Everything as I had anticipated, en prince indien. Lounge on deck. Newspapers arrive. More lounging. Refreshments. Chatting. Then luncheon. The Review becomes quite a secondary consideration. Ships everywhere, bunting and flags all about. Weather lovely—scene gay. At three what is called "the fun" is to commence. The "fun" for the coloured seamen in white, consists in their having to stand in a row on the yards up aloft for about an hour and a half. If this is nautical etiquette, I'm very glad I'm not one of the coloured sailors. I suddenly remember that I have to get away. Now begins my trouble again. I find four other persons to whom getting away is an absolute necessity, and not one of them knows how he is going to achieve it, and not one of them likes to broach the subject to Rossher. We try the Captain, a bluff seaman, who replies, with a pleasant sort of sea-doggishness, that "he is ready to take the ship wherever Mr. Rossher orders him." At present Mr. Rossher hasn't issued any orders, but he (the Captain) thinks he means sailing for Cherbourg to-morrow (Sunday) early. Cherbourg!! The Purser, on being asked, can't say any more.
For one moment I see Rossher. I remind him that he promised to land me. "Did I?" he says, with an air of quiet astonishment which is most provoking. "Well, I don't know how I'm going to do it. We'll see—after the Queen has gone." I catch at a first chance, and say, cajolingly, as if suggesting a plan that he could have adopted long ago if he had only thought of it—"Couldn't you send us off in a launch or the tender?" I had ascertained the existence of these two boats in attendance, "After the fireworks?" Rossher looks at me, thunderstruck. He simply says, "Impossible!" and turns on his heel.
The fact is, when you get out to sea on board a great ship, the visitor is in the power of the owners of the vessel, who have settled all their arrangements for the comfort and amusement of two hundred-and-fifty persons, and if a proposition is made which will interfere with these laws of nautical Medes and Persians in the smallest degree, it is like suggesting the slightest possible alteration, pro tem., in the solar system. No help for it. I make up my mind philosophically. If they can't put me on shore, they can't. It's a serious matter, it's the loss of thousands, it's misery for a year, perhaps, it's ruin to a family, but——I shall see the fireworks and illuminations, and have a cruise to Cherbourg, where I don't particularly wish to go. In the meantime let us look at the Review. I am temporarily resigned.
The Review.—Which are the War-vessels? Where is the Queen? How silent it all is. The yards are manned everywhere. Very pretty. Firing and smoke in distance, hardly any noise, and though there must be cheering somewhere, yet the wind blows it away from us and we hear scarcely a sound. Dull. Through the glass we see the Queen's Yacht passing along: then as the ship swings round we turn and turn, and everybody gets more or less of a stiff neck. The Band stands ready to play "God Save the Queen," but two hours elapse, and Her Majesty is nowhere near us, and never will be; most of the Band are fast asleep, the violoncello, having gone off first, is nodding over his instrument. The ladies yearn for five o'clock tea, and gradually disappear to get it. The party watching the Queen dissolves.
Aha! the Tender! The four separatists are to be put on shore, and to do this a large party, wishing to see the ships of war, the torpedo-boats, and gun-boats, will accompany us on the tender. We steam down the line, we dodge in and out, we see all the ships, and this is the liveliest and most interesting part of the day's proceedings. Then comes the most melancholy, when we steam back, and allow the other guests to re-embark for dinner on board ("Wish you'd stop," says Rossher, heartily, and I as heartily wish I could; so do we all), and then the four separatists, waving their adieux, are conveyed on board the tender to Southsea. In the crowd I lose the other three. I see no illuminations. I am thankful for what I have seen, and am content to imagine the rest, which I do as, in a carriage all to myself, I am taken up to London, stopping only once—at Guildford—en route, and am finally at home by 1·30 A.M., when I find the card of invitation of the M. & N. Co. on my desk. It is over. It is an experience. Vive la Compagnie!
HENRY MAYHEW.
Born, 1812. Died, 1887.
"The Mayhew Brothers." A familiar phrase
On all men's lips in Punch's earlier days,