varnished in French
polish; the tea seasoned with geological specimens from the basin of
London, ycleped maple sugar; and the butter--ye gods, the butter! But why
enumerate these smaller features of discomfort and omit the more glaring
ones?--the utter selfishness which blue water suggests, as inevitably as
the cold fit follows the ague. The good fellow that shares his knapsack
or his last guinea on land, here forages out the best corner to hang his
hammock; jockeys you into a comfortless crib, where the uncalked deck-butt
filters every rain from heaven on your head; votes you the corner
at dinner, not only that he may place you with your back to the
thorough-draught of the gangway ladder, but that he may eat, drink, and lie
down before you have even begun to feel the qualmishness that the dinner of
a troop-ship is well calculated to suggest; cuts his pencil with your best
razor; wears your shirts, as washing is scarce; and winds up all by having
a good story of you every evening for the edification of the other "sharp
gentlemen," who, being too wide awake to be humbugged themselves, enjoy his
success prodigiously. This, gentle reader, is neither confession nor avowal
of mine. The passage I have here presented to you I have taken from
the journal of my brother officer, Mr. Sparks, who, when not otherwise
occupied, usually employed his time in committing to paper his thoughts
upon men, manners, and things at sea in general; though, sooth to say, his
was not an idle life. Being voted by unanimous consent "a junior," he was
condemned to offices that the veriest fag in Eton or Harrow had rebelled
against. In the morning, under the pseudonym of _Mrs_. Sparks, he presided
at breakfast, having previously made tea, coffee, and chocolate for the
whole cabin, besides boiling about twenty eggs at various degrees of
hardness; he was under heavy recognizances to provide a plate of buttered
toast of very alarming magnitude, fried ham, kidneys, etc., to no end.
Later on, when others sauntered about the deck, vainly endeavoring to fix
their attention upon a novel or a review, the poor cornet might be seen
with a white apron tucked gracefully round his spare proportions, whipping
eggs for pancakes, or, with upturned shirt-sleeves, fashioning dough for
a pudding. As the day waned, the cook's galley became his haunt, where,
exposed to a roasting fire, he inspected the details of a _cuisine_; for
which, whatever his demerits, he was sure of