ightsbridge; and, even in the throes
of sea-sickness, and the secret recesses of the cabin, WOULD talk to
her about the world, Lord Pimlico, and her father, General Guff, late
aide-de-camp to the Duke of York.

That those throes of sickness ensued, I need not say. A short time after
passing Ramsgate, Serjeant Lankin, who had been exceedingly gay and
satirical--(in his calm way; he quotes Horace, my favorite bits as
an author, to myself, and has a quiet snigger, and, so to speak,
amontillado flavor, exceedingly pleasant)--Lankin, with a rueful and
livid countenance, descended into his berth, in the which that six foot
of serjeant packed himself I don't know how.

When Lady Knightsbridge went down, down went Kicklebury. Milliken and
his wife stayed, and were ill together on deck. A palm of glory ought to
be awarded to that man for his angelic patience, energy, and suffering.
It was he who went for Mrs. Milliken's maid, who wouldn't come to
her mistress; it was he, the shyest of men, who stormed the ladies'
cabin--that maritime harem--in order to get her mother's bottle of
salts; it was he who went for the brandy-and-water, and begged,
and prayed, and besought his adored Lavinia to taste a leetle drop.
Lavinia's reply was, "Don't--go away--don't tease, Horace," and so
forth. And, when not wanted, the gentle creature subsided on the bench,
by his wife's feet, and was sick in silence.

[Mem--In married life, it seems to me, that it is almost always Milliken
and wife, or just the contrary. The angels minister to the tyrants; or
the gentle, hen-pecked husband cowers before the superior partlet. If
ever I marry, I know the sort of woman I will choose; and I won't try
her temper by over-indulgence, and destroy her fine qualities by a
ruinous subserviency to her wishes.]

Little Miss Fanny stayed on deck, as well as her sister, and looked at
the stars of heaven, as they began to shine there, and at the Foreland
lights as we passed them. I would have talked with her; I would
have suggested images of poesy, and thoughts of beauty; I would have
whispered the word of sentiment--the delicate allusion--the breathing
of the soul that longs to find a congenial heart--the sorrows and
aspirations of the wounded spirit, stricken and sad, yet not QUITE
despairing; still knowing that the hope-plant lurked in its crushed
ruins--still able to gaze on the stars and the ocean, and love their
blazing sheen, their boundless azure. I would, I sa