Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66 No.406, August 1849Various
General
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 66 No.406, August 1849
Various
England -- Periodicals; Scotland -- Periodicals
have knocked the mate down and died happy. "Why, sir," said he, with a
cool half sneer, "I fancied none of you gentlemen would have favoured
us this capful of wind--plenty of air there is on deck, though." It
just flashed through my mind what sort of rig I was in--I looked over
my infernal 'long-shore toggery, and no wonder she didn't recollect me
at all! "_Curse_ this confounded folly!" muttered I, and made a dart to
run up the poop-steps, where the breeze took me slap aback, just as the
judge himself opened the larboard door. "Why, Violet!" exclaimed he,
surprised at seeing his daughter, "are you exposing yourself to this
disagreeable--I declare a perfect _storm_!" "But see, papa!" said she,
taking hold of his arm, "how changed the sea is!--and the ship!--just
look where the sun was!" "Get in--get in, do!" kept on her father;
"you can see all that again in some finer place; you should have had
a servant with you, at least, Violet." "I shall come out oftener
than I thought, papa, I can tell you!" said she, in an arch sort of
way, before she disappeared. The mate touched his cap to the judge,
who asked where the captain was. "'Gad sir," said the judge crossly,
"the floor resembles an earthquake--every piece of furniture swings,
sir; 'tis well enough for sleeping, but my family find it impossible
to dine. If this _oolta-poolta_ continues in my apartments, I must
speak to Captain Williamson about it! He must manage to get into some
other part of the sea, where it is less rough," saying which he swayed
himself in and shut the door. I still kept thinking and picturing _her_
face--Lota Hyde's--when she noticed the mate. After all, any one that
knew tack from bowline might reef topsails in a fair wind; but a girl
like _that_ would make more count of a man knowing how to manage wind
and sea, than of the Duke on his horse at Waterloo beating Bonaparte;
and as for talk, he would jaw away the whole voyage, no doubt, about
moonlight and the ocean, and your genteel fancy mariners! "By George,
though!" thought I, "if the mate's a better man than me, hang me--it's
all right; but burn my wig if I don't go and turn a Hindoo fakeer, with
my one arm stuck up in the air till I die! Go it, old lady!" said I, as
I glanced over the side before going below for the night, "roll away,
only shake something or other to _do_ out of the pace you're going at!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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