CHAPTER XIX. 
THE ENGLISH TOURIST. 
On our passage through the Sea of Marmora we were beset 
by a furious Levanter. The waters were lashed into a white 
foam, and floods of spray covered the decks fore and aft. The 
motion of the steamer in the short chopping seas produced 
the most unpleasant effects. Crowded as we were with deck- 
passengers, chiefly pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem, it was 
pitiable to behold their terror and the miserable condition to 
which they were reduced by sea-sickness and exposure to the 
weather. Some lay covered up in their dripping blankets, 
groaning piteously; others staggered about the decks, cling¬ 
ing to the rails, and looking vacantly toward the land ; some 
prayed, some wept, some smoked, some did nothing at all, 
but it was evident there were not many aboard who would 
have objected to being put ashore again. In the midst of all 
the confusion, I noticed an English tourist on the quarter¬ 
deck, leaning against the companion-way, and contemplating 
the scene with a calmness that was really provoking. Hang 
it, man ! I thought, have you no soul-—no bowels of compas¬ 
sion ? Why don’t you look amused, or sorry, or interested, 
or sick, or miserable, or something ? I went a little closer, 
to try if I could discover some trace of feeling in his stolid 
features. Surely I had seen that face before; that clean- 
shaved face; those well-trimmed, reddish whiskers; that 
starched shirt-collar of snowy whiteness; that portly figure. 
Certainly I had seen him. Every body has seen him. 
Bromley is his name—Mr. Bromley, an English gentleman 
of fortune, who travels to kill time. He is the Mephistoph- 
iles of Englishmen. I saw him every where—in Paris read- 
