“well, skipper—you’ve thought better of it—i’ve no right in the world, have i?—you will turn her round?”

“totally impossible, sir—quite out of my power.”

“very well, very well, very well indeed!” the original’s temper was getting up as well as the sea.

[pg 436]

“but mind, sir—i protest. i protest against you, sir—and against the ship—and the ocean, sir—and everything! i’m getting further and further out—but, remember, i’ve no right! you will take the consequences. i have no right to be kidnapped—ask the crown lawyers, if you think fit!”

after this denouncement, the speaker began to pace up and down like the captain, but at the opposite side of the deck. he was on the boil, however, as well as the engine,—and every time that he passed near the man whom he considered as his sir hudson lowe, he gave vent to the inward feeling in a jerk of the head, accompanied by a short pig-like grunt. now and then it broke out in words, but always the same four monosyllables, “this—is—too—bad”—with a most emphatic fall of the foot to each. at last it occurred to a stout pompous-looking personage to interpose as a mediator. he began by dilating on the immense commercial importance of a punctual delivery of letters—thence he insisted on the heavy responsibility of the captain; with a promise of an early return packet from holyhead—and he was entering into a congratulation of the fineness of the weather, when the original thought it was time to cut him short.

“my good sir—you’ll excuse me. the case is nobody’s but my own. you are a regular passenger. you have a right to be in this packet—you have a right to go to holyhead—or to liverpool—or to gibraltar,—or to the world’s end—if—you—like. but i choose to be in dublin. what right have i to be here then? not—one—atom! i’ve no right to be in this vessel—and the captain there knows it. i’ve no right (stamping) to be on this deck! i have no more right to be tossing at sea (waving his arms up and down) than the pigeon house!”

“it is a very unpleasant situation, i allow, sir,” said the captain to the stout passenger.

[pg 437]

“but, as i have told the gentleman, my hands are tied. i can do nothing—though nobody is more sorry for his inconvenience.”

“inconvenience be hanged!” exclaimed the oddity, in a passion at last. “it is no inconvenience, sir! not—the—smallest. but that makes no difference as to my being here. it’s that—and that alone,—i dispute all right to!”

sea riddle. “do you give it up?”

“well, but my dear, good sir,” expostulated the pompous man; “admitting the justice of your premises, the hardship is confessedly without remedy.”

“to be sure it is,” said the captain, “every inch of it. all i can say is, that the gentleman’s passage shall be no expense to him!”

“thankee—of course not,” said the original with a sneer.

[pg 438]

“i’ve no right to put my hand in my pocket! not that i mind expense. but it’s my right i stand up for, and i defy you both to prove that i have any right—or any shadow of a right—to be in your company! i’ll tell you what, skipper”—but before he could finish the sentence, he turned suddenly pale, made a most grotesque wry face, and rushed forward to the bow of the vessel. the captain exchanged a significant smile with the stout gentleman; but before they had quite spoken their minds of the absent character, he came scrambling back to the binnacle, upon which he rested with both hands, while he thrust his working visage within a foot of the skipper’s face.

“charming spots about this part of the river.”

[pg 439]

“there, skipper!—now, mr. what d’ye call—what do you both say to that? what right have i to be sick—as sick as a dog? i’ve no right to be squeamish! i’m not a passenger. i’ve no right to go tumbling over ropes and pails and what not to the ship’s head!”

“but my good sir,”—began the pompous man.

“don’t sir me, sir! you took your own passage. you have a right to be sick—you’ve a right to go to the side every five minutes—you’ve a right to die of it! but it’s the reverse with me—i have no right of the sort!”

“what right have you in my steel trap?”

“o certainly not, sir,” said the pomposity, offended in his turn. “you are indubitably the best judge of your own privileges. i only beg to be allowed to remark, that where i felt i had so little right, i should hesitate to intrude myself.” so saying, he bowed very formally, and commenced his retreat to the cabin, while the skipper pretended to examine the compass very minutely. in fact our original had met with a chokepear. the fat man’s answer was too much for him, being framed on a principle clean contrary to his own peculiar system of logic. the more he tried to unravel its meaning, the more it got entangled. he didn’t like it, without knowing why; and he quite disagreed with it, though ignorant of its purport. he looked up at the funnel—and at the flag—and at the deck,—and down the companion stairs,—and then he wound up all by a long shake of his head, as mysterious as lord burleigh’s, at the as

[pg 440]

tonished man at the wheel. his mind seemed made up. he buttoned his coat up to the very chin, as if to secure himself to himself, and never opened his lips again till the vessel touched the quay at holyhead. the captain then attempted a final apology—but it was interrupted in the middle.

“enough said, sir—quite enough. if you’ve only done your duty, you’ve no right to beg pardon—and i’ve no right to ask it. all i mean to say is, here am i in holyhead instead of dublin. i don’t care what that fat fellow says—who don’t understand his own rights. i stick to all i said before. i have no right to be up in the moon, have i? of course not—and i’ve no more right to stand on this present quay, than i have to be up in the moon!”

patronage.

the authenticity of the following letter will, probably, be disputed. the system of patronage to which it refers, is one very likely to shock the prejudices of serious sober-minded persons, who will naturally refuse to credit such practical anachronisms as the superannuation of sucklings. goldsmith, it is true, has mentioned certain fortunatuses as being born with silver ladles in their mouths; but it would be easier to suppose a child thus endowed with a whole service of plate than to fancy one invested with a service of years. the most powerful imagination would be puzzled to reconcile an ex-speakership with an infant untaught to lisp; or to recognise a retired bow-street runner

[pg 441]

in a nursling unable to walk. the existence of such very advanced posts for the infantry is, however, affirmed; but with what truth, from my total want of political experience, i am unable to judge. mr. wordsworth, indeed, who says that “the child is father of the man,” seems to aim a quiz at the practice; and possibly the nautical phrase of “getting a good birth,” may refer to such prosperous nativities. for the rest, grown gentlemen have unquestionably been thrust, sometimes, into public niches to which they were as ill adapted as mr. d.; the measures taken by patrons not leading invariably, like stultz’s, to admirable fits. but the lady waits to speak her mind.