a good harmless set of fellows, and I have
remarked that Britons generally seem to know
when they are pretty well off. So do our
passengers, for now and then a spirited sort of
fellow does not mind trying his fortune with
us for a short voyage. And whenever we meet
such a bold adventurer we give him the
welcome clue to the bold; and as we have a French
cook on board we give him a very good dinner
to keep his spirits up. Most of us have our
wives on board; most of our wives play the
piano, some of them sing; so we are merry, and,
if the boiler bursts, as it will sometimes, we
have our sails; and, after all, the Mediterranean
is not a very dangerous sea, and there are
always plenty of ships about, so whatever
mischief may befal us, we are pretty sure to be able
to hail another vessel in time to get out of
the scrape. And now, suppose you, good-
humoured English passenger, sing us "God save
the Queen." My wife shall play the
accompaniment, and if you ever get home, which I am
not rash enough to promise, tell your countrymen
that we Russians are not such terrible
fellows after all, and certainly wish no harm to
you or to any one else.

PUTTING ON THE SCREW.

EVERYBODY puts the screw upon some one
else; in fact, human life is a series of screws,
where it all depends on chance who turns
the handle, and who is underneath the press.
Everything can be resolved into this; not only
in trade or business, instances of which we all
know of, but in every relation of life, and under
every circumstance whatever. What a screw
temper is, for instance, and how it keeps all the
household underlying in mashed and mangled
subjection! Take a family of sisters. Who puts
the screw on to all the rest: the good-natured
sisters, or that little fiery-eyed "party" whose
characteristic it is to be ever hungry for a
quarrel? Who studies the good-natured sisters?
Who caters for the fulfilment of their fancies, or
attends to their likes or dislikes? No one.
They know nothing of moral dynamics, these
white-souled creatures; they turn no screw-
handle, and put no living heart under the press;
but, whether opposed or humoured, screwed
down or left free, are just the same placid
contented amiable beings they ever were,
perilously tempting to tyrants. Not so the fiery-
eyed sister. She puts on the screw heavily,
sweeping every one of the household under
the worm, and grinding them down into pulp
and compost. No one is rash enough to
oppose her: for who cares to thrust himself
into the path of a storm, when half an hour's
walk across a bleak moor would set him
on the outer edge, clear of the wrath of the
angry lightning and the passion of the driving
rain? The safety of peace is well bought by a
little extra trouble and self-sacrifice, and only
fools object to a trifling loss for the sake of a
greater gain. And surely it is better to succumb
to the fiery-eyed, and submit to be pressed flat
under her screw, than to live in a perpetual
whirlwind of contention, ever struggling who
shall clutch the handle. Wherefore fiery-eyes
gets her own way in the house, as a matter of
course, by screw pressure; and all the home
amiabilities submit to her, and allow her to
manipulate them at her pleasure.

In married life the screw is generally in great
request: the handle for the most part turning by
an endless band, which only needs the faintest
touch to guide it. And here again, as in the
case of fiery-eyes, it is who has the highest
temper that gives the strongest turn, and who
is least to be feared that gets the hardest driven.
Sometimes it is the wife who is put under the
screw of her husband's peculiarities: sometimes
it is the husband who is martyred by his wife's
extravagances. I know a little woman whose
life is a perpetual sacrifice to blinds and boots,
and another who will surely never rest in her
grave because of the creases in the tablecloths,
and a certain silver tankard which never is
clean, never was clean, and never will be clean,
yet which the maid polishes twice a-week with
rouge, and rubs up every day with "chamoy
leather." My little friend who is under the
screw in the matter of blinds, has long ago been
squeezed flat and shapeless; but then her husband
wields a very formidable machine, and knows
how to give the extra turn scientifically. A
third is under the screw of her husband's
disorder and irregularity, having to subdue her own
instincts of order and organisation and clear
methodical punctuality, in obedience to his demand
for muddle, and being obliged to neglect her own
life in the vain attempt to stitch up the rags and
rents of his. In point of fact she is held in the
tightest vice of all, her whole life being passed
in a state of uncomfortable pressure and
inharmonious servitude, where she has not even the
wages of service—the pleasure of accomplishing
the work she undertakes to fulfil. As a rule, I
should say that wives are more frequently under
the screw than husbands, and with a larger
proportion of smashed vitality: but sometimes they
take their revenge: and a woman's revenge, like
most things feminine, is apt to be excessive, and
by no means well considered. When they once
get hold of the screw-handle, pray how much
nerve and muscle do you think is left entire?
And do they ever leave off turning until their
victim is a mere superficies—a flattened bit of
cardboard bearing but a remote resemblance to
a man? The screw of old maiden primness,
which squeezes down all exuberance and
individuality and naturalness and moral richness,
as if all men ought to be pulped into one
homogeneous whole, and then run off into moulds
like so many jellies of the same shape: the
screw of housekeeping meanness, where there
are barbed points and salt to rub into the
wounds, over and above the lawful amount of
pressure: the screw of feminine gadding, which
cannot rest quietly at home and will not gad
abroad alone, but must have a companion to fly
in the same concentric circles: the screw of