those of the opposite coast appear to draw near and yet nearer. Often
as one has crossed, the sense of a new and strange impression is never
wanting. The sense of calm and silence, the great waste of sea, the
monotonous 'plash' of the paddle-wheels, the sort of solitude in the
midst of such a crowd, the gradually lengthening distance behind, with
the lessening, as gradual, in front, and the always novel feeling of
approach to a new country--these elements impart a sort of dreamy,
poetical feeling to the scene. Even the calm resignation of the
wrapped-up shadows seated in a sort of retreat, and devoted to their
own thoughts or slumbers, add to this effect. With which comes the
thought of the brave little vessels, which through day and night, year
after year, dance over these uncertain waters in 'all weathers,' as it
is termed. When the night is black as Erebus, and the sea in its fury
boiling and raging over the pier, the Lord Warden with its
storm-shutters up, and timid guests removed to more sheltered
quarters, the very stones of the pier shaken from their places by the
violence of the monster outside--the little craft, wrapping its mantle
about its head, goes out fearlessly, and, emerging from the harbour to
be flung about, battered with wild fury, forces her way on through the
night, which its gallant sailors call, with truth, 'an awful one.'

While busy with these thoughts I take note of a little scene of
comedy, or perhaps of a farcical kind, which is going on near me, in
which two 'Harrys' of the purest kind were engaged, and whose oddities
lightened the tediousness of the passage. One had seen foreign parts,
and was therefore regarded with reverence by his companion.

They were promenading the deck, and the following dialogue was borne
to me in snatches: