The conversation became general, and the long and gleaming interior was filled with the hum of it, with the sounds of corks drawn, with the noise of knives and forks busily plied upon crockery ware. There was also a dull echo of wind, a dim hissing of broken and flying waters, that gave a singular effect to this hospitable picture of gentlemen and well-dressed ladies eating and drinking. I listened to the conversation, but what I heard of it conveyed no meaning to my mind. For example, Sir Frederick Thompson spoke of having visited a certain London theatre a couple of nights before the vessel sailed. ‘I never saw such a full ’ouse,’ he said. ‘Yet it was Shakespeare--it was “’Amlet.” They clapped when Ophelia came on mad, but it was the scenery that gave the satisfaction. Without the scenery there would have been no ’ouse; and though I consider Shakespeare top-weight as a writer, what I say is, since it’s scenery that takes, why don’t managers draw it mild and give us plays easy to follow and written in the language that men and women speak?’ He seemed partly to address this speech to me, and I listened, but hardly understood him. Others talked of Australia and the growth of the colonies, of England, of emigration, of many such matters; but, so far as my understanding of their speech went, they might have discoursed in a foreign tongue. The captain, at the head of the table, spoke seldom, and then with a grave face and a sober voice. Occasionally he glanced at me. I do not doubt that many watched me, to remark how I behaved. Knowing that I had no memory, they might well wonder whether I should not often be at a loss, and stare to see if I knew what to do with my glass, my plate, and my napkin. Before lunch was half over Mr. Wedmold and Mr. Clack, who immediately confronted Mrs. Webber, raised their voices in a discussion. Mrs. Lee, leaning behind me to her daughter, exclaimed: ‘Those unhappy men are going to begin!’ ‘What do they intend to argue about?’ said Alice, in her soft voice, looking towards them. There was no need to inquire of our neighbours, for the two gentlemen’s voices rose high above all others. ‘It is idle to speak of Carlyle as a good writer,’ exclaimed Mr. Wedmold; ‘his style is as barbarous as his matter is trite. Never was reputation so cheaply earned as Carlyle’s. His philosophy is worth about twopence-ha’penny. Here is a great original writer, who goes to the Son of Sirach, and to Solomon, and to Collections of the Proverbs of Nations, and taking here a thought and there a thought, he dresses it up in a horrid jargon, harder than Welsh, more repulsive than Scotch, more jaw-breaking than German, puts his name to it, and offers the fine old fancy in its vile new dress as something original!’ ‘It is not Dickens and Thackeray to-day,’ said Mrs. Lee.