Part 2

Howsever, bold Bo'sen he went down to leeward, While Curly Dick shook with funk; And Long-legged Bill he hid in the caboose, A-yellin' "We'll all be sunk!" You might a'most heard a marlinspike drop As Bo'sen James he looked out. Then down through the scupper his head it went, And there came a tremenjous shout, "Sea-Sarpint be blowed, ye darned landlubbers! Who's left this here mop hangin' out?"

* * * * *

A WORD TO THE Y.'S AT HENLEY.--Try again; you will be Yale-fellow, well met!

* * * * *

HINTS FOR HENLEY

(_At the Service of Visitors wishing to be comfortable_)

Take care to be invited to the best situated houseboat.

If you can, get permission to ask a few friends to join your host's party at luncheon.

Be sure to secure the pleasantest seat, the most amusing neighbour, and all the periodicals.

If you are conversationally inclined, monopolise the talk, and if you are not, plead a headache for keeping every one silent.

Mind that "No. 1" is your particular numerical distinction, and that the happiness of the rest of the world is a negligible quantity.

If you are a man, keep smoking cigars and sipping refreshing beverages until it is time to eat and drink seriously; if you are of the other sex, flirt, chatter, or sleep, as the impulse moves you.

And when you are quite, _quite_ sure that you have nothing better to do, give a glance to the racing!

* * * * *

* * * * *

HOW TO ENJOY LIFE ON THE RIVER

Get a houseboat and be sure that it is water-tight and free from rats and other unpleasant visitors.

Take care that your servants have no objection to roughing it, and can turn their hands to anything usually supplied in town by the stores.

Accustom yourself to food in tins and bottles, and learn to love insects with or without wings.

Acclimatise yourself to mists and fogs and rainy days, and grow accustomed to reading papers four days old and the advertisements of out-of-date railway guides.

Try to love the pleasures of a regatta. Do not quarrel with the riparian owners or the possessors of other houseboats. Enjoy the pleasantries of masked musicians, and take an intelligent interest in the racing. Illuminate freely, and do your best to avoid a fire or an explosion. And if you have fireworks, don't sort them out with the light of a blazing squib or some illuminant of a similar character.

Be good, and mild and long-suffering. Rest satisfied with indifferently cooked food, damp sheets, and wearisome companions. And make the best of storms of rain and hurricanes of wind. In fact, bear everything, and grin when you can't laugh.

_Another and a better way._--Put up at a comfortable riparian hotel, and when the weather is against you, run up to town and give a wide berth to the Thames and its miseries.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NAUTICAL MANOEUVRES

(_Described by a Landlubber_)

_Sailing in the Wind's Eye._--In order to accomplish this difficult manoeuvre, you must first of all discover where the wind's eye is, and then, if it be practicable, you may proceed to sail in it. It is presumed for this purpose that the wind's eye is a "liquid" one.

_Hugging the Shore._--When you desire to hug the shore, you first of all must land on it. Then take some sand and shingle in your arms, and give it a good hug. In doing this, however, be careful no one sees you, or the result of the manoeuvre may be a strait-waistcoat.

_Wearing a Ship._--This it is by no means an easy thing to do, and it is difficult to suggest what will make it easier. Wearing a chignon is preposterous enough, but when a man is told that he must wear a ship, he would next expect to hear that he must eat the Monument.

_Boxing the Compass._--Assume a fighting attitude, and hit the compass a "smart stinger on the dial-plate," as the sporting papers call it. But before you do so, you had best take care to have your boxing-gloves on, or you may hurt your fingers.

_Whistling for a Wind._--When you whistle for a wind, you should choose an air appropriate, such as "_Blow, gentle gales_," or "_Winds, gently whisper_."

_Reefing the Lee-scuppers._--First get upon a reef, and then put your lee-scuppers on it. The manoeuvre is so simple, that no more need be said of it.

_Splicing the Main-brace._--When your main-brace comes in pieces, get a needle and thread and splice it. If it be your custom to wear a pair of braces, you first must ascertain which of them _is_ your main one.

* * * * *

A DELICATE HINT.--_Brighton Boatman._ "There's a wessel out there, sir, a labourin' a good deal, sir! Ah, sir, sailors works werry 'ard--precious 'ard lines it is for the poor fellers out there!--Precious hard it is for everybody just now. I know _I_ should like the price of a pint o' beer and a bit o' bacca!"

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

WHAT NO ONE SHOULD FORGET, IN CROSSING THE CHANNEL

To place his rugs, carpet-bags, and umbrellas on the six best seats on the boat.

To worry the captain with remarks about the state of the weather and the performance of the steamer: to observe to the steward that there is a change in the weather, and that there were more passengers the last time he crossed.

To speak to the man at the wheel, and ask him whether there was much sea on last trip.

To change his last half-crown into French money, and squabble with the steward as to the rate of exchange.

To stare at his neighbours, read aloud their names on their luggage, and remark audibly that he'll lay anything the lady with the slight twang is an American.

To repeat the ancient joke on "Back her! stop her!"

If the passage is rough, to put his feet on his neighbour's head, after appropriating all the cushions in the cabin.

To call for crockery in time. N.B.--Most important.

To groan furiously for an hour and a half, if a sufferer; or, if utterly callous to waves and their commotions, to eat beef and ham, and drink porter and brandy-and-water, during the entire voyage, with as much clattering of forks and noise of mastication as is compatible with enjoyment.

To kiss his hand, on entering the harbour, to the _matelottes_ on the quays, or send his love in bad French to the Prefect of Police.

To struggle for a front place, in crowding off the steamer, as if the ship was on fire. And finally--

To answer every one who addresses him in good English in the worst possible French.

* * * * *

"What with the horse-boats," said Mrs. Ramsbotham, "the steam-lunches, the condolers, the out-ragers, the Canadian caboose, and the banyans, we had the greatest difficulty, at Henley, in getting from one side of the river to the other."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SILVER TEMS!

The butiful River's a-running to Town, It never runs up, but allers runs down, Weather it rains, or weather it snos; And where it all cums from, noboddy nose.

The young swell Boatmen drest in white, To their Mothers' arts must be a delite; At roein or skullin the gals is sutch dabs, For they makes no Fowls and they ketches no Crabs.

The payshent hangler sets in a punt, Willee ketch kold? I hopes as he wunt. I wotches him long, witch I states is fax, He dont ketch nothin but Ticklebacks.

The prudent Ferryman sets under cover, Waiting to take me from one shore to t'other; I calls out "Hover!" and hover he roes, If he aint sober then hover we goes.

When it's poring with rane and a tempest a-blowin, A penny don't seem mutch for this here rowin; And wen the River's as ruff as the Sea, I thinks of the two I'd sooner be me.

For when I'm at work at Ampton or Lea, Waitin at dinner, or waitin at tea, I gits as much from a yewthful Pair As he gits in a day for all that there.

Then let me bless my lucky Star That made me a Waiter and not a Tar; And the werry nex time I've a glass of old Sherry, I'll drink to the pore chap as roes that 'ere Ferry.

ROBERT.

* * * * *

VERY LOW FORM ON THE PART OF FATHER THAMES.

_Boy_ (_standing in mid-stream at Kew, to boating party_). "'Ere ye are! Tow ye up to Richmond Lock! All by water, sir!"

* * * * *

PUNCH'S NAVAL SONGSTER

It is a well-known fact that the songs of Dibdin had a wonderful effect on the courage of the Navy, and there is no doubt that the Ben Blocks, Ben Backstays, Tom Tackles, and Tom Bowlings, were, poetically speaking, the fathers of our Nelsons, our Howes, our St. Vincents, and our Codringtons. It will be the effort of _Punch's Naval Songster_ to do for the Thames what Dibdin did for the Sea, and to inspire with courage those honest-hearted fellows who man the steamers on the river. If we can infuse a little spirit into them--which, by the bye, they greatly want--our aim will be fully answered.

NO. I.--IT BLEW GREAT GUNS

It blew great guns when Sammy Snooks Mounted the rolling paddles; He met the mate with fearful looks-- They shook each other's daddles. The word was given to let go, The funnel gave a screamer, The stoker whistled from below, And off she goes, blow high, blow low, The _Atalanta_ steamer.

His native Hungerford he leaves, His Poll of Pedlar's Acre, Who now ashore in silence grieves Because he did not take her. There's a collision fore and aft; Against the pier they squeeze her. "Up boys, and save the precious craft, We from the station shall be chaff'd-- Ho--back her--stop her--ease her."

Aha! the gallant vessel rights, She goes just where they want her; She nears at last the Lambeth lights, The trim-built _Atalantar_. Sam Snooks his messmates calls around; He speaks of Poll and beauty: When suddenly a grating sound Tells them the vessel's run aground While they forgot their duty.

NO. II.--BEN BOUNCE.

My name's Ben Bounce, d'ye see, A tar from top to toe, sirs. I'm merry, blithe and free, A marling-spike I know, sirs. In friendship or in love, I climb the top-sail's pinnacle, But in a storm I always prove My heart's abaft the binnacle.

I fear no foreign foe, But cruise about the river; As up and down I go My timbers never shiver. When off life's end I get, I'll make no useless rumpus; But off my steam I'll let, And box my mortal compass.

NO. III.--THE CAPTAIN'S ROUNDELAY.

Away, away, we gaily glide Far from the wooden pier; And down into the gushing tide We drop the sailor's tear. On--with the strong and hissing steam, And seize the pliant wheel; Of days gone by I fondly dream, For oh! the tar _must_ feel!

Quick, let the sturdy painter go, And put the helm a-port; Lay, lay the lofty funnel low, And keep the rigging taut. 'Tis true, my tongue decision shows, I act the captain's part; But oh! there's none on board that knows The captain's aching heart.

Upon the paddle-box all day I've stood, and brav'd the gale, While the light vessel made her way Without a bit of sail. And as upon its onward flight The steamer cut the wave, My crew I've order'd left and right, My stout--my few--my brave!

NO. IV.--TO MARY.

Afloat, ashore, ahead, astern, With winds propitious or contrary. (I do not spin an idle yarn.) No--no, belay! I love thee, Mary. Amidships--on the Bentinck shrouds, Athwart the hawse, astride the mizen, Watching at night the fleecy clouds, Your Harry wishes you were his'n.

Then let us heave the nuptial lead, In Hymen's port our anchors weighing; Thy face shall be the figure-head Our ship shall always be displaying. But when old age shall bid us luff, Our honest tack will never vary, But I'll continue Harry Bluff, And thou my little light-built Mary.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

WATER-PARTIES

(_By Mr. Punch's Vagrant_)

Take four pretty girls And four tidy young men; Add papa and mamma, And your number is ten.

Having ten in your party You'll mostly be eight, For you'll find you can count Upon two to be late.

In the packing of hampers 'Tis voted a fault To be rashly forgetful Of corkscrew and salt.

Take a mayonnaised lobster, A tasty terrine, A salmon, some lamb And a gay galantine.

Take fizz for the lads, Claret-cup for the popsies, And some tartlets with jam So attractive to woppses.

Let the men do the rowing, And all acquire blisters; While the boats go zigzag, Being steered by their sisters.

Then eat and pack up And return as you came. Though your comfort was _nil_, You had fun all the same.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"SIC TRANSIT----"

Just starting down Southampton Water in jolly old Bigheart's yacht, _The Collarbone_--or _Columbine_? I wonder which it is? Dear old Bigheart, the best fellow in the world, and enthusiastic about yachting. So am I (theoretically, and whilst in smooth water). Try to act as nautically as possible, and ask skipper at frequent intervals "How does she bear?" Don't know what it means; but, after all, what _does_ that matter? Skipper stares at me rather helplessly, and mutters something about "Nothe-nor-east-by-sou-sou-west." Feel that, with this lucid explanation, I ought to be satisfied, so turn away, assume cheery aspect and with a rolling gait seize the topsail-main-gaff-mizen sheet and pull it lustily, with a "Yo, heave ho!"

The pull, unfortunately, releases heavy block, which, falling on Bigheart's head, seems to quite annoy him for the minute. We plunge into Solent, and then bear away for West Channel. Skipper remarks that we shall make a long "retch" of it (_absit omen_). He then adds that we could "bring up"--why these unpleasantly suggestive nautical expressions?--off Yarmouth. Not wishing to appear ignorant, I ask Bigheart, "Why not make a course S.S. by E.?" He replies, "Because it would take us ashore into the R. V. Yacht Club garden," and I retire somewhat abashed.

Out in West Channel we get into what skipper calls "a bit of a bobble." Don't think I care quite so much for yachting in "bobbles." Bigheart shows me all the varied beauties of the coast, but now they fail to interest me. He says, "I say, we'll keep sailing until quite late this evening, eh? That'll be jolly!" Reply, "Yes, that'll be jolly," but somehow my voice lacks heartiness.

An hour later I was lying down--I felt tired--when Bigheart came up, and with a ring of joy in his manly tones exclaimed, "I tell you what, old man; we'll carry right on, now, through the night. We're not in a hurry, so we'll get as much sailing as we can." ... Then, with my last ounce of failing strength, I sat up and denounced him as an assassin.

After passing a night indescribable, lying on the shelf--I mean berth--I was put ashore at Portland next morning. Should like to have procured dear old Bigheart a government appointment there for seven years, as a due reward for what he had been making me suffer.

* * * * *

SUITABLE SONG FOR BOATING MEN.--The last _rows_ of summer.

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

MY YOT

(_A Confidential Carol, by a Cockney Owner, who inwardly feels that he is not exactly "in it," after all_)

What makes me deem I'm of Viking blood (Though a wee bit queer when the pace grows hot), A briny slip of the British brood? My Yot!

What makes me rig me in curious guise? Like a kind of a sort of--I don't know what, And talk sea-slang, to the world's surprise? My Yot!

What makes me settle my innermost soul On winning a purposeless silver pot, And walk with a (very much) nautical roll? My Yot!

What makes me learned in cutters and yawls, And time-allowance--which others must tot--, And awfully nervous in sudden squalls? My Yot!

What makes me sprawl on the deck all day, And at night play "Nap" till I lose a lot, And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way? My Yot!

What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale, (Though rather than own it I'd just be shot) When the _Fay_ in the wave-crests dips her sail? My Yot!

What makes me "patter" to skipper and crew In a kibosh style that a child might spot, And tug hard ropes till my knuckles go blue? My Yot!

What makes me snooze in a narrow, close bunk, Till the cramp my limbs doth twist and knot, And brave discomfort, and face blue-funk? My Yot!

What makes me gammon my chummiest friends To "try the fun"--which I know's all rot-- And earn the dead-cut in which all this ends? My Yot!

What makes me, in short, an egregious ass, A bore, a butt, who, not caring a jot For the sea, as a sea-king am seeking to pass? My Yot!

* * * * *

AT WHITBY.--_Visitor_ (_to Ancient Mariner, who has been relating his experiences to crowd of admirers_). "Then do you mean to tell us that you actually reached the North Pole?"

_Ancient Mariner._ "No, sir; that would be a perwersion of the truth. But I seed it a-stickin' up among the ice just as plain as you can this spar, which I plants in the sand. It makes me thirsty to think of that marvellous sight, we being as it were parched wi' cold."

[_A. M.'s distress promptly relieved by audience._

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE RULE OF THE RIVER

(_As Deduced from a late Collision_) The rule of the river's a mystery quite, Other craft when you're steering among, If you starboard your helm, you ain't sure you are right, If you port, you may prove to be wrong.

* * * * *

"THE USUAL CHANNEL"

To what snug refuge do I fly When glass is low, and billows high, And goodness knows what fate is nigh?-- My Cabin!

Who soothes me when in sickness' grip, Brings a consolatory "nip," And earns my blessing, and his tip?-- The Steward!

When persons blessed with fancy rich Declare "she" does not roll, or pitch. What say--"The case is hardly sich"?-- My Senses!

What makes me long for _real_ Free Trade, When no Douaniers could invade. Nor keys, when wanted, be mislaid?-- My Luggage!

What force myself, perhaps another, To think (such thoughts we try to smother) "The donkey-engine is our brother"?-- Our Feelings!

And what, besides a wobbling funnel, Screw-throb, oil-smell, unstable gunwale, Converts me to a Channel Tunnel?-- My Crossing!

* * * * *

* * * * *

AT GORING

Where is the sweetest river reach, With nooks well worth exploring, Wild woods of bramble, thorn and beech Their fragrant breath outpouring? Where does our dear secluded stream Most gaily gleam? At Goring.

Where sings the thrush amid the fern? Where trills the lark upsoaring? Where build the timid coot and hern, The foot of man ignoring? Where sits secure the water vole Beside her hole? At Goring.

Where do the stars dramatic shine 'Mid satellites adoring? And where does fashion lunch and dine _Al fresco_, bored and boring? Where do we meet confections sweet And toilets neat? At Goring.

Where are regattas? Where are trains Their noisy crowds outpouring? And bands discoursing hackneyed strains, And rockets skyward soaring? Where is this _urbs in rure_?--where This Cockney Fair? At Goring.

* * * * *

* * * * *

NICE NIGHT AT SEA

(_Extracts from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P._)