The Old DominionJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
General
The Old Dominion
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
Southampton Insurrection, 1831 -- Fiction
The wind was quite favourable, the master assured me; and there was
just enough of it to ripple the water, and make the ship go quietly
on, without producing any rebellion of stomach or refractoriness of
legs. I remained upon deck till it was quite dark, and more than one
little star looked out with eager, twinkling eyes, as if it feared it
should not have time enough to behold its own image in the waters
before the sun rose and sent it to bed again. I then went below, and
found the little cabin, round which our berths were placed, already
tenanted by two gentlemen, who had never appeared upon the deck since
I first reached it, and who were consuming time and brandy and water
very nearly in silence. Whether they had been thus employed for the
preceding six or seven hours, I know not; and how much of the spirit
they had drunk it was impossible to discover, for they certainly were
not tipsy, and the brandy itself was entombed in a vast bottle, called
here a demijohn, so curiously concealed in wickerwork, that it is
impossible for the keenest eyes to discover whether it is full or
empty.
Both were well dressed men, but very different in appearance from each
other. I must venture upon some description, my dear sister, as our
ideas of the Yankee race in England are very unlike the realities
which we see before us in this country. I remember hearing a wealthy,
respectable, foolish, ignorant woman, of a class such as frequently
forces its way into society with us at home, deliberately ask an
American, whom she knew to be such, whether all the natives of America
were salmon-coloured. She had, doubtless, heard of red Indians; and, I
suppose, with that brilliant confusion of ideas which trouble the
brains of some ladies, had confounded our brethren on this side of the
Atlantic, with the aborigines of the country.
However, my two companions on the present occasion, though one was not
of American or Anglo-Saxon race, had nothing of the Indian about them.
One was a thin, spare, but well-formed man, about three and thirty
years of age, who, from dress or appearance altogether, no one would
have distinguished from an Englishman, had it not been for a certain
jaunty, well satisfied, self-reliant air not altogether consistent
with our staid and more sober character of thought. His face was by no
means handsome, God knows. His eyes were somewhat protuberant, round,
and sparkling; his nose was short, thickish, and a little tinged with
red, which might have some affinity with the contents of the demijohn
I have just mentioned. His upper lip was shaded by a thick,
Austrian-cut moustache; his chin was prominent and decided; but his
forehead was bold, high, and towering, and by far the finest feature
of his face.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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