It always goes
to bed (when I am going to Calais) with a more brilliant display of lamp
and candle than any other town. Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham, host and
hostess of the Lord Warden Hotel, are my much-esteemed friends, but they
are too conceited about the comforts of that establishment when the
Night Mail is starting. I know it is a good house to stay at, and I
don't want the fact insisted upon in all its warm bright windows at such
an hour. I know the Warden is a stationary edifice that never rolls or
pitches, and I object to its big outline seeming to insist upon that
circumstance, and, as it were, to come over me with it, when I am
reeling on the deck of the boat. Beshrew the Warden likewise for
obstructing that corner, and making the wind so angry as it rushes
round. Shall I not know that it blows quite soon enough, without the
officious Warden's interference?
As I wait here on board the night-packet, for the South-Eastern train to
come down with the mail, Dover appears to me to be illuminated for some
intensely aggravating festivity in my personal dishonour. All its noises
smack of taunting praises of the land, and dispraises of the gloomy sea,
and of me for going on it. The drums upon the heights have gone to bed,
or I know they would rattle taunts against me for having my unsteady
footing on this slippery deck.
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