Once Aboard The Lugger | Page 2

advertisement so clearly to give you the
manner of our novel that without further waste of time you may forego
the task of reading so little as a single chapter if you consider that
manner likely to distress you. Hence something must be said touching
the style.
We cannot see (to make a start) that the listener or the reader of a story
should alone have the right to fidget as he listens or reads; to come and
go at his pleasure; to interrupt at his convenience. Something of these
privileges should be shared by the narrator; and in this history we have
taken them. You may swing your legs or divert your attention as you
read; but we too must be permitted to swing our legs and slide off upon
matters that interest us, and that indirectly are relevant to the history.
Life is not compounded solely of action. One cannot rush breathless
from hour to hour. And, since the novel aims to ape life, the reader, if
the aim be true, cannot rush breathless from page to page. We can at
least warrant him he will not here.
These are the limitations of our history; and we admit them to be
considerable. Upon the other hand, the print is beautifully clear.
* * * * *
As touching the title we have chosen, this was not come by at the cost
of any labour. Taken, as we have told, from that dashing sentiment,
"Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine!" it is a label that might be
applied to all novels. It is a generic title for all modern novels, since
there is not one of these but in this form or that sets out the pursuit of
his mistress by a man or his treatment of her when he has clapped her
beneath hatches. This is a notable matter. The novelist writes under the
influences and within the limitations of his age, and the modern
novelist correctly mirrors modern life when he presents woman as for
man's pursuit till he has her, and for what treatment he may will when
he captures her. The position is deplorable, is productive of a million
wrongs, and, happily, is slowly changing; but that it exists is clear upon

the face of our social existence, and is even advertised between the
sexes in love: "You are mine" the man says, and means it. "I am yours"
the woman declares, and, fruit of generations of dependence, freely,
almost involuntarily, gives herself.
But of this problem (upon which we could bore you to distraction) we
are nothing concerned in our novel. Truly we offer you the pursuit of a
girl; but my Mary would neither comprehend this matter nor wish to be
other than her George's. From page 57 she waves to us; let us hurry
along.

_.... Who so will stake his lot, Impelled thereto by nescience or whim,
Cupidity or innocence or not, On Chance's colours, let men pray for
him._ RALPH HODGSON.

BOOK I.
Of George.

CHAPTER I.
Excursions In A Garden.

I.
Mr. Christopher Marrapit is dozing in a chair upon the lawn; his darling
cat, the Rose of Sharon, is sleeping on his lap; stiffly beside him sits
Mrs. Major, his companion--that masterly woman.
As we approach to be introduced, it is well we should know something
of Mr. Marrapit. The nervous business of adventuring into an assembly
of strangers is considerably modified by having some knowledge of the
first we shall meet. We feel more at home; do not rush upon subjects
which are distasteful to that person, or of which he is ignorant; absorb
something of the atmosphere of the party during our exchange of
pleasantries with him; and, warmed by this feeling, with our most
attractive charm of manner are able to push among the remainder of our
new friends.
Unhappily, the friendly chatter of the neighbourhood, which should

supply us with something of the character of a resident, is quite lacking
at Paltley Hill in regard to Mr. Marrapit. Mr. Marrapit rarely moves out
beyond the fine wall that encircles Herons' Holt, his residence; with
Paltley Hill society rarely mixes. The vicar, with something of a frown,
might tell us that to his divers parochial subscription lists Mr. Marrapit
has consistently, and churlishly, refused to give a shilling. Professor
Wyvern's son, Mr. William Wyvern, has been heard to say that Mr.
Marrapit always reminded him "of one of the minor prophets--shaved."
Beyond this--and how little helpful it is!--Paltley Hill society can give
us nothing.
In a lower social grade of the district, however, much might be learned.
In the kitchens, the cottages, and the bar-parlours of Paltley Hill, Mr.
Marrapit is considerably discussed. Nicely mannered as we are,
servants' gossip