PENZANCE LODGINGS. 193 



Contrary winds, and what sailors call ''dirty weather," 

 detained me a week at Penzance, where I was stranded 

 in a lodging-house, kept by a middle-aged Harpy, rear- 

 ing a brood of young Harpies, and rendered all the 

 more fierce in lodging-house instincts by her condition 

 of widowhood, which, you may have observed, generally 

 throws a woman on the naked ferocities of her nature. 

 Were you ever in nautical lodgings ? Do you remem- 

 ber their ornaments, — the cases of stuffed birds and 

 fish, the shells on the mantelpiece, and the engravings 

 irradiating the walls : a " Sailor s Departure," with 

 whimpering v/ife and sentimental off'spring ; a "Sailor's 

 Eeturn," with joyous wife and capering juveniles ? 

 'All these adorned my rooms, which were further adorn- 

 ed by a correct misrepresentation of the brig Triton, 

 as she appeared entering an impossible harbour of 

 Marseilles, flanked by a portrait of* the defunct hus- 

 band, master of the aforesaid brig, painted in the 

 well-known style : a resplendent shirt-front with 

 a head attached, sternly inexpressive, on a mahogany 

 background. The defunct mariner seemed blank with 

 astonishment at my courage in coming to such a 

 house — a ruin, not a lodging. Everything in it was 

 afflicted with the rickets. The chair-backs creaked in 

 harmonious threats, if you incautiously leaned against 

 them. The fire-irons fell continually from their un- 

 stable rests. The bed-pole tumbled at my feet when I 

 attempted to draw the curtain. The doors wouldn't 

 shut. Even the teapot had a wohhly top, which resist- 

 ed all closing. Nay — and this will surprise you — in 



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