upon the leather couch. As you touch it, a magic calm o'erspreads the sea. Then all is well until your sense of duty pricks again.
[Illustration: AH, CONFIDENCES BESIDE A LIFE-BOAT ON THE UPPER DECK!]
That the smoke-room is iniquitous, I own--as iniquitous as a comfortable club, with nice dark wainscoting, leather chairs and couches, and little bells to touch when good cigars and other things are wanted. It is, therefore, quite the nicest place on the whole ship.
My deck-walking friends will not subscribe to this, of course. They call my smoke-room views and habits anything but healthy, and urge me to come out upon the cold and slippery decks, and get the chilly "benefits" of being on the sea. Alas! there is but one benefit for me, and that is Europe. I detest the sea. I abhor it with an awful loathing. It offends alike my physical system and my sense of proportion. It is too sickeningly out of scale, too hideously large!
Do not fancy that I object to water, as such. In glasses, in
A rather arch account of a sea crossing on a British passenger liner. It's similar to Mark Twain's travelogues, with the humor less subtle, and many slang words and references to century-old fads that date the thing a bit. But it has some funny observations from a stuffy and cynical observer.
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