Anon, the intermittent funnel-roar of protest at every violent
roll becomes the regular blast of the high-pressure engine, and I
recognise the exceedingly explosive steamer in which I ascended the
Mississippi when the American Civil War was not, and when only its
causes were. A fragment of mast on which the light of a lantern falls,
an end of rope, and a jerking block or so become suggestive of
Franconi's Circus in Paris, where I shall be this very night mayhap (for
it must be morning now), and they dance to the selfsame time and tune as
the trained steed, Black Raven. What may be the speciality of these
waves as they come rushing on I cannot desert the pressing demands made
upon me by the gems she wore, to inquire, but they are charged with
something about Robinson Crusoe, and I think it was in Yarmouth Roads
that he first went a-seafaring and near foundering (what a terrific
sound that word had for me when I was a boy!) in his first gale of wind.
Still, through all this, I must ask her (who _was_ she, I wonder!) for
the fiftieth time, and without ever stopping, Does she not fear to
stray, so lone and lovely through this bleak way, And are Erin's sons so
good or so cold, As not to be tempted by more fellow-creatures at the
paddle-box or gold? Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm, No son of
Erin will offer me harm, For though they love fellow creatures with
umbrella down again and golden store, Sir Knight, they--what a
tremendous one!--love honour and virtue more: For though they love
stewards with a bull's-eye bright, they'll trouble you for your ticket,
sir--rough passage to-night!
I freely admit it to be a miserable piece of human weakness and
inconsistency, but I no sooner become conscious of those last words from
the steward than I begin to soften towards Calais.
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