That holiday cruise on board the good steamship Cannie Donia! Did I dream it? or was it a reality? "Are there wisions about?" It seems like yesterday or like years ago, and I know it was neither. "Old Kaspar's,"—or let us say middle-aged Kaspar's,—"work was done" pro tem., and he could not neglect so great an opportunity, nor refuse so inviting an invitation as that sent him by Sir Charles Cheerie, the Chairman, to come aboard for the trial trip of the G.S.S. Cannie Donia. So I, middle-aged Kaspar, work done as aforesaid, did then and thereby become Tommy the Tripper, and, as such, went aboard the gallant SS. abovementioned, all-to-the-contrary, nevertheless, and notwithstanding.

And what a goodly company!

Sir Charles and Lady Cheerie, perfect host and hostess in themselves. Here too was our Toby, M.P., waggish as ever. "I am not down on the official list of guests as 'Tobias,'" quoth he. "And why?" I gave it up. "Because," says he, answering his own conundrum, "I am a free and independent scribe, and there is nothing to bias me. Aha!" The sea air agrees with Toby, M.P. "And where would the Member for Barkshire be," he asks, propounding as it were another and a better puzzle, "but aboard a bonnie barque? My bark," he continues gaily, "may be worse than my bite, but——" Here the bugle-call to breakfast sounds, and from ocular evidence I can roundly assert that whatever his bark may be, I will back his bite—and this without backbiting, of which, as I trust, neither of us is capable—against that of any two of his own size and weight. Yet Toby en mangeant is not the dog in a manger, no, not by any means! With one eye to the main chance, and another to the corresponding comfort of his co-breakfasters, so pursueth he his steadfast course, as indeed do we all, to the astonishment of most of us, through the shoals of toast and butter; over the shallows of eggs; safely through the Straits of Kipper and Kurrie; with a pleasant time in Hot Tea Bay; then through a Choppy sea, between the dangerous rocks of Brawn and Bacon; into the calm Marmaladean Sea, where we ride at anchor and all is well.

After breakfast, the cigar, or pipe, with conversational accompaniment, what time we pace the quarter-deck. Prognostications as to probable weather are "taken and offered" by nautically-attired guests, who, in a general way, may be supposed from their seagoing costume "to know the ropes." Here is the ever amiable and truly gallant Sir Peter Plural, looking every inch the ideal yachtsman, as honorary member of the Upper House of Cowes and Ryde Piers. Wonderful man Sir Peter! knows everybody, is liked by everybody; has been yachting and sailing and voyaging for any number of years; knows even the smallest waves by sight, and, if asked, could probably tell you their names! One day he will publish his reminiscences!

We anchor off Queenstown. The estimable, jovial Valentine Vulcan, M.P., from the North, must ashore to purchase some trifling knickknacks by way of mementoes of the visit. Instead of "knickknacks" he lays in a stock of "knock-knocks," yclept "shillelaghs," which are served out to him by a delicately pale beauty of Erin, dark-haired, slim waisted, and as elegant as might be any natty girl from County Trim. She shows us some dozen shillelaghs with hard, murderous-looking, bulbous knobs.

"Phew!" whistles Valentine Vulcan, M.P., weighing one of these dainty sticks in his hand. "You might get rather a nasty crack from this." I agree with him, and the sad daughter of Erin regards us sadly and sympathetically.

"Maybe," I think to myself, "she has lost a friend or a lover in one of these confounded O'Capulet and O'Montague rows. Poor girl!" And I eye her with a look wherein admiration is tempered with pity. It occurs to me that I will say something appropriate, just to show her how I, a stranger and a Saxon, feel for her. It may lead her to express her hearty detestation of these faction-fights, and of these deadly fracas with the armed constabulary. So I say, with a touch of deep indignation in my tone, "It's a shame," say I, "that such things as these"—and I nod frowningly at the shillelaghs, which Vulcan, M.P., is twirling meditatively, one in each hand, as if right and left were about to fight it out—"it's a shame that such things as these should be permitted!" The pale, sad, beautiful daughter of Erin, regards me mournfully, and then, in a tone expressive of astonishment blended with firm remonstrance, she asks,—

"An' what would the poor Boys use, an' they not allowed fire-arms?"

That was all. No smile is on the lips of Erin's pale daughter. She is apparently in earnest, though both Vulcan and myself, talking it over subsequently, unite in opinion that, perhaps, she had been availing herself of this rare and unique opportunity of "getting at" the Saxon.

So she went on recommending sticks and photographs, and did a good bit of business with our generous Vulcan, M.P., who returned, laden with gifts for various fellow-guests aboard the good SS. Cannie Donia.

What amusing nights and delightful days! The ladies—bless 'em!—all charming, and very Barkisses in their perpetual "willingness" to do anything and everything that might give pleasure and afford amusement. Two fairy-gifted maidens entertain us mightily with a capital dramatic sketch of their own composition; others follow suit, playing the piano; and a sestette perform, without previous rehearsal, glees, madrigals, part-songs, and choruses to popular plantation melodies, under the leadership of that masterly musician Tom Tolderol, whose only regret is that he has not been able to bring on board with him his sixteen-horse-power-fifty-stopped-sixteen-pedal organ (designed and made by the eminent firm of Bellows, Blower & Co., at a cost of some few thousand pounds), though, as he explains to us, he would have done so, had this musical mammoth been only compressible within the limits of an ordinary carpet bag.

However, À propos of organs, we have with us a representative of one of the greatest organs—of the Press—full of wise saws and modern instances; as jolly as a sandboy, or rather as a schoolboy out for a holiday. A sailor every inch of him, and this is saying a great deal, as he must be over six feet, and broad in proportion.

Appropriate, too, as aboard "the craft," is the presence of the Great Grand Secretary, Mr. Benjamin Boaz, A.M., P.G.M., &c., &c., and the still Greater, Grander Something Else, P.P.M., &c., Sir Jonathan Jachin, mysterious officers, Arcades ambo, of the Secret Rites of Masonry, fall of nods, winks, becks, wreathed smiles, signs, secrets, fun, frolic, and tales galore.

Ah! the happy days! And the happy evenings! What excellent "toasts" and "returnings of thanks" by my Lord Affidavit, by Sir Poseidon À Vinklo (President of the Anchorite Court), by Andrew McJason (senior of the Argonautic Firm that built the good ship Cannie Donia), and the sprightliest speech of all by Sir Charles Cheerie!

Round to Falmouth, up the Fal, "with our Fal, lal, la," as singeth our brilliant sestette to piano, or, to quote Sir Jonathan, "our P. an' O." accompaniment.

Then S'uth'ards! Then.... But "here break we off."

Thus do I briefly make some record of a "trial trip"; and may no trip that any of us may make, whether involving a trial or not, have worse results than has this, of which, beginning and finishing happily and gloriously as it has done—and such be the Cannie Donia's fate evermore—I am privileged to write this slight record, and proud to account myself henceforth as

One of the Trippers.