Woken this morning by Adams telling me that Charlie Howard was too ill to take Divine Service. At first I thought that the inevitable had happened and he had finally bored himself to death, but Jackson the Surgeon informed me that it was merely a slight fever brought on by wearing damp clothes.
Slight fever or no Howard had decided to pass over in the odour of sanctity. Actually, since he was below decks with the cats there was quite a bit of odour and sanctity was the least of it.
He had gathered his wife and children about his bed in a darkened room lit by a single candle where they stood singing hymns and praying like there was no tomorrow - well, Charlie seemed to think that there was no tomorrow - and the Reverend lay in deathly splendour, every once in a while raising a quavering hand and whimpering "Is that you Mother? I shall join you soon!"
He had gathered his wife and children about his bed in a darkened room lit by a single candle where they stood singing hymns and praying like there was no tomorrow - well, Charlie seemed to think that there was no tomorrow - and the Reverend lay in deathly splendour, every once in a while raising a quavering hand and whimpering "Is that you Mother? I shall join you soon!"
To the best of my knowledge his mother lives in a cottage in Clontarf, and since we are about 1000 miles off the Western coast of Australia I can't see exactly how he is going to join her, but he is feverish after all.
Later in the day I am told by James Jackson that poor Charlie raised himself up from the bed and cried out "Take me not Lord, I an unfulfilled!" I assume that by this he refers not to domestic matters best dealt with by his good lady wife, but to his future ambitions in Holy Orders.
"Take me not Lord"! For pity's sake! Such nonsense.
For a start, if the Lord did take Charlie Howard He'd return him soon enough once he realised what a prize boring arse He'd lumbered Himself with for eternity.
But really. To hear Charlie talk, when his time comes he intends to walk through those Pearly Gates, offer God a few useful hints on how He can manage things better, then sit down with Moses and explain Deuteronomy to him. If he meant it he might be looking forward to it. Or at least keep fairly equable about the business. Instead, the first hint of a bit of sickness and it's "I'm too young!" Silly sod.
But after such a diverting start to the day things took a turn for the worse.
Poor Charlie stayed at death's door all day and was unable to take Divine Service. So instead, two of the emigrants - whose names I have not learned, nor, after their performance today, do I so intend - volunteered to raid Charlie's library and read us a sermon.
In the morning a man I suspect of being a turnip farmer or builder's 3rd rate assistant read us one of the published sermons of Dr Wilson (Bishop of Sodor & Man). I say "read", but honestly,what with tripping over every third word and droning on and on in an unintelligible monotone, "reading" is hardly the word. His fifteen minutes of Dr Wilson had me longing for the second hour of Charles Beaumont Howard on lesser known aspects of Habakuk.
Charlie may bore us rigid, but at least he has professional standards when he does so.
In the afternoon the competition was on. Although it was the emigrants who had the idea of diverting us with readings from the dying Howard's library of ponderous tomes, the younger passengers, perhaps having seen the standard set by the turnip farmer, decided that they could do better and rival camps were established of prospective readers for evening service.
The emigrants proposed to read from Charlie Howard's own book of published sermons, printed, according to the title, by the subscription of a grateful congregation on his leaving the parish. I dare say I'd be grateful too if Howard was leaving the parish, but to print his sermons in a gesture of "we have suffered, so why shouldn't you?" seems a most unchristian act.
The passengers were having none of this and proposed to read from some classic of Anglican piety. I was asked to adjudicate but declined. Truth to tell I would be quite happy with neither parry reading anything and silently wished them both to the devil. I would have preferred to spend my Sunday evening with a blanket wrapped around me reading "The Heart of Midlothian".
In the end the passengers finalised the affair by stealing Howard's book of sermons from the turnip farmers and hiding it in a secret location, meaning that the turnips had nothing with which to entertain us.
And so, this evening James Fisher minor read from the sermons of Jeremy Taylor (Bishop of Dromore). Young Fisher has a belief in himself as a thespian and his reading of the sermon was, in consequence, rather more dramatic than Howard's usual practice. Young Fisher's parents have a belief that he is gifted beyond his years.
With his hand waving gestures and his vocal tricks young Fisher managed to turn an old, dry sermon into the mad scene from King Lear, to the evident delight of the half man half rabbit. All we needed was the effect of thunder and lightening and we could have been at the Drury Lane with Macready before an adoring audience. Unfortunately we were at Divine service on board ship so that the whole performance seemed to be an exercise in excess. Howard may have no taste, but that is surely preferable to the execrably tasteless.
I made the mistake of mentioning this in the hearing of the doting Mrs Fisher who flew into a rage and upbraided me, saying, amongst other reflections on my family and lineage, that if anyone disparaged my daughters I would be "utterly offended". In point of fact, if anyone disparaged my daughters I would be the first to agree with them, but thought it best not to say so, since Mrs Hindmarsh might hear of it.
Mrs Fisher had her revenge later by letting it be known to the turnip farmers that the secret location where Howard's book of sermons was hidden was a storage locker on the poop deck usually reserved for my personal use.
So now, of course, the rumour has got around that the book was stolen with my collusion and that I was the instigator in stopping the emigrants from reading at evening service. Nonsense of course, but there are dark looks aplenty for yours truly.
The whole day has, I am afraid, been a proof of the adage "Be careful what you wish for."
But really. To hear Charlie talk, when his time comes he intends to walk through those Pearly Gates, offer God a few useful hints on how He can manage things better, then sit down with Moses and explain Deuteronomy to him. If he meant it he might be looking forward to it. Or at least keep fairly equable about the business. Instead, the first hint of a bit of sickness and it's "I'm too young!" Silly sod.
But after such a diverting start to the day things took a turn for the worse.
Poor Charlie stayed at death's door all day and was unable to take Divine Service. So instead, two of the emigrants - whose names I have not learned, nor, after their performance today, do I so intend - volunteered to raid Charlie's library and read us a sermon.
In the morning a man I suspect of being a turnip farmer or builder's 3rd rate assistant read us one of the published sermons of Dr Wilson (Bishop of Sodor & Man). I say "read", but honestly,what with tripping over every third word and droning on and on in an unintelligible monotone, "reading" is hardly the word. His fifteen minutes of Dr Wilson had me longing for the second hour of Charles Beaumont Howard on lesser known aspects of Habakuk.
Charlie may bore us rigid, but at least he has professional standards when he does so.
In the afternoon the competition was on. Although it was the emigrants who had the idea of diverting us with readings from the dying Howard's library of ponderous tomes, the younger passengers, perhaps having seen the standard set by the turnip farmer, decided that they could do better and rival camps were established of prospective readers for evening service.
The emigrants proposed to read from Charlie Howard's own book of published sermons, printed, according to the title, by the subscription of a grateful congregation on his leaving the parish. I dare say I'd be grateful too if Howard was leaving the parish, but to print his sermons in a gesture of "we have suffered, so why shouldn't you?" seems a most unchristian act.
The passengers were having none of this and proposed to read from some classic of Anglican piety. I was asked to adjudicate but declined. Truth to tell I would be quite happy with neither parry reading anything and silently wished them both to the devil. I would have preferred to spend my Sunday evening with a blanket wrapped around me reading "The Heart of Midlothian".
In the end the passengers finalised the affair by stealing Howard's book of sermons from the turnip farmers and hiding it in a secret location, meaning that the turnips had nothing with which to entertain us.
And so, this evening James Fisher minor read from the sermons of Jeremy Taylor (Bishop of Dromore). Young Fisher has a belief in himself as a thespian and his reading of the sermon was, in consequence, rather more dramatic than Howard's usual practice. Young Fisher's parents have a belief that he is gifted beyond his years.
With his hand waving gestures and his vocal tricks young Fisher managed to turn an old, dry sermon into the mad scene from King Lear, to the evident delight of the half man half rabbit. All we needed was the effect of thunder and lightening and we could have been at the Drury Lane with Macready before an adoring audience. Unfortunately we were at Divine service on board ship so that the whole performance seemed to be an exercise in excess. Howard may have no taste, but that is surely preferable to the execrably tasteless.
I made the mistake of mentioning this in the hearing of the doting Mrs Fisher who flew into a rage and upbraided me, saying, amongst other reflections on my family and lineage, that if anyone disparaged my daughters I would be "utterly offended". In point of fact, if anyone disparaged my daughters I would be the first to agree with them, but thought it best not to say so, since Mrs Hindmarsh might hear of it.
Mrs Fisher had her revenge later by letting it be known to the turnip farmers that the secret location where Howard's book of sermons was hidden was a storage locker on the poop deck usually reserved for my personal use.
So now, of course, the rumour has got around that the book was stolen with my collusion and that I was the instigator in stopping the emigrants from reading at evening service. Nonsense of course, but there are dark looks aplenty for yours truly.
The whole day has, I am afraid, been a proof of the adage "Be careful what you wish for."
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