‘Yes,’ said Mr. Johnson looking at the ash of his cigar after every puff; ‘I think I know what you mean. But it is the effect of politeness, I believe. A young gentleman and a young lady who desire to please will begin very low with each other, lest they should prove disconcerting. But what d’ye say’--he lowered his voice--‘to the drivel, as you call it, of a man of advanced years?’--here he looked into the cuddy, then took a step forward to peer up at the poop--‘of a person who has seen the world--of a colonel, in short? I wish to be on good terms with my fellow-passengers; but if that man Bannister goes on as he has begun, I’m afraid--I’m afraid it will end in my having to pull his nose.’ He sent another nervous look into the cuddy and frowned upon his cigar end. ‘Has he been offensive?’ said I. ‘Well, judge,’ he exclaimed, ‘when I tell you that he said there wasn’t a respectable man connected with journalism; that the calling was distinctly a tipsy one; that his idea of a journalist was that of a man lying in bed till his only shirt came from the wash, and inventing lies to publish to the world when the washerwoman enabled him to clothe himself.--“And pray, sir,” said I, sneering at him, “what would the country know of your military achievements if it were not for the journalist? You army gentlemen profess to despise him; but you will get up very early to buy his paper if you have a notion that there will be any mention of your doings in it.”--That was pretty warm, I think?’ ‘Rather,’ said I; ‘and what did he say?’ ‘He answered that if any other man but myself had said as much, he would have told him to go and be damned.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘I hope the passengers may prove a companionable body, I am sure. For my part, it is more likely than not that my place of abode whilst the weather permits will be the foretop. Anything to escape overhearing the insipidity of a chat between a young man and a young woman when they first meet.’ ‘I see,’ said he, ‘that your friend Colledge has hooked himself on to Miss Temple. I should say he needs to be the son of a nobleman to make headway with such a Cleopatra as her ladyship. Fine eyes, perhaps; but a little pale, eh? Give me Miss Hudson. I don’t admire the sneering part of the sex.’ ‘Nor I,’ said I. ‘But every woman,’ said he, ‘has a way of her own of making love. Some simper themselves into a man’s affection, and some triumph by scorn and contempt. Do you remember how the Duchess of Cleveland made love to Wycherley? She put her head out of the coach window and cried out to him: “Sir, you’re a rascal, you’re a villain!” and Pope tells us that Wycherley from that moment entertained hopes.’