weather may be, every morning before breakfast
you will find him, with one of his chaplains, a
sharp-faced, wiry little man, pacing up and
down the deck, breviary in hand, looking out
straight before them, seeing no one, but avoiding
outstretched legs, &c., in the most dexterous
manner, and to all appearance praying most
fervently. With equal certainty you may calculate
on finding them, for the first half-hour after
breakfast, walking sharply up and down, side by
side, the one smoking a large meerschaum pipe,
the other a cheroot, and carrying on a most
animated conversation in a most barbarous
unknown tongue. Both the bishop and the
chaplain have for a long time been missionaries
in Cochin-China (the bishop has been there, he
tells me, for nearly thirty years), and both speak
the language like natives; this is necessary for
their protection, for, as the worthy old prelate
tells me, with a smile, his life is never worth one
hour's purchase when he is in his diocese, and
is principally passed in concealment all day and
in travelling at night, disguised in a native
costume. He is not enthusiastic on the success of
his mission, but is yet hopeful. He has been
to France, to his society, and is returning
with fresh funds and another chaplain: a
wretched mortal called Father Lazarus, who is
so deadly ill that it is only on the last day of
the voyage that he can be dragged on deck and
laid out in an easy-chair, and whom I set down,
from the conversation I have with him, as
thoroughly hating and fearing the new life
which is opening upon him. But the bishop is
splendid; to see his purple stockings skipping
out of the way of the hose held by the boatswain
as they wash the decks, is a grand sight;
to hear him laugh as the water accidentally
splashes over his venerated person, and to see
him shake his fist in pretended wrath at the
offender, does one good. He is always on the
look-out for a chance to join in a good-humoured
jest, and is perfectly charming.

It was not until the afternoon of the second
day of our departure from Marseilles that
become aware of the existence of Our Swell: a
fact which is forced upon me by his calmly
strolling up to the spot where I am standing
smoking my cheroot, and asking me if I don't
know Fibber of the Haresfoot Club? With
Fibber I am acquainted, and the repetition of
his name brings back reminiscences of a gas-
atmospherish, club-smoking-room-frequenting,
scandal-talking, ballet-ball-going, coulisse-haunting
life, which are utterly at variance with the
broad ocean, and perfectly new existence in
which I am now revelling. I had cast my old
London slough, and was rejoicing in the novelty
of fresh scenes and faces, nevertheless I am
anything but unwilling to make acquaintance
with Our Swell, who, in his way, is one of the
greatest of characters. He is a perfect type
of his class; tall with good features,
admirably dressed, and with a general air of
lassitude and don't-careishness about him which is
quite characteristic. After a short conversation
I begin to revere him immensely, for he discloses

his noble name, and then I recollect that he is
actually the man of whom I have so often
heard. He is the great creature who, upon
arriving at a railway station, and hearing that
the tram had gone, said to the porter, " Then
bring another!" It is he who when he was asked
in what branch of history, ancient or modern,
he had been plucked for his army examination,
said, " Oh, long before either of them, 'bout
some infernal fellah called William the
Conqueror;" and to him is due the noblest conundrum
-answer on record, for, once appearing in a
large pair of summer jean trousers, the old
question was put to him, why his garments were
like two French towns, he replied, "French
town, my trousers! sure I don't know—something
about Nankeen, I suppose!"

There is not the least superciliousness or
exclusiveness about him; he is politeness itself; he
worries the purser by insisting on having his breakfast
in bed, and is inclined to be rebellious at not
being allowed to sit up after half-past nine,
when all cabin lights are extinguished; but
he is a general favourite, from his soft, easy-going
manners, and from his evident desire to be civil
to all. The activity and bustle of the sailors
cause him the greatest wonder: "he can't think
how fellahs can get about so, when it's so hot."
He has a very splendid meerschaum pipe, which
has cost incalculable sums of money, but he is
only up to Latakia and Turkish, and finding
that to colour such a pipe properly requires the
consumption therein of much tobacco of the
coarser order, he one day goes to the stoke-hole,
and, after calling loudly, " I say, you fellah!"
he is answered by the apparition of a greasy, oily,
black engineman, to whom he confides the cherished
pipe, telling him he shall have five shillings when
he brings it back duly defiled. For three days
the delicate amber mouthpiece is seen at intervals
between the sooty lips of the stoker, and
the money is gained. His other ideas are purely
swellish; he cannot recollect anybody's name, he
cannot stand about without lolling, he cannot
keep his hands out of his pegtop pockets, he
cannot give the English language its ordinary
pronunciation, but drawls and lengthens every
word. And when he hears that he will have in
India to parade with the cavalry regiment to
which he is proceeding at five A.M., he is very
nearly throwing up his commission, and returning
by next ship.

Our other passengers are of the ordinary
stamp; two newly married couples: one, healthy,
genial, and sociable, proceeding to the Mauritius;
the other, deadly ill at first, and, when recovered,
unpleasantly fond, going to Calcutta; a broad-
faced, good-humoured Anglicised German, bound
for Alexandria to look after a runaway
correspondent of his house of business; two jolly
young cadets, and a Swiss emigrant with a pretty
wife, make up our number. Starting from
Marseilles on the Thursday morning, we do not
all show at dinner until the Friday afternoon;
the after-dinner deck-parade and subsequent
smoking reunion beget the warmest friendship
amongst us, and when, at a very early hour on