“What are they a doin’ of?”
“Sportin’ of themselves.”
“Exactly,” sais I, “and do you place man below the beasts of the field and the fishes of the sea? What in natur’ was humour given to us for but for our divarsion? What sort of a world would this be if every fellow spoke sermons and talked homilies, and what in that case would parsons do? I leave you to cypher that out, and then prove it by algebra; but I’ll tell you what they wouldn’t do, I’ll be hanged if they’d strike for higher wages, for fear they should not get any at all.”
“I knock under,” said he; “you may take my hat; now go on and finish the comparison between Clippers and Steamers.”
“Well,” sais I, “as I was a sayin’, Captain, give me a craft like this, that spreads its wings like a bird, and looks as if it was born, not made, a whole-sail breeze, and a seaman every inch of him like you on the deck, who looks you in the face, in a way as if he’d like to say, only bragging ain’t genteel, Ain’t she a clipper now, and ain’t I the man to handle her? Now this ain’t the case in a steamer. They ain’t vessels, they are more like floating factories; you see the steam machines and the enormous fires, and the clouds of smoke, but you don’t visit the rooms where the looms are, that’s all. They plough through the sea dead and heavy, like a subsoiler with its eight-horse team; there is no life in ’em; they can’t dance on the waters as if they rejoiced in their course, but divide the waves as a rock does in a river; they seem to move more in defiance of the sea than as if they were in an element of their own.
“They puff and blow like boasters braggin’ that they extract from the ocean the means to make it help to subdue itself. It is a war in the elements, fire and water contendin’ for victory. They are black, dingy, forbiddin’ looking sea monsters. It is no wonder the superstitious Spaniard, when he first saw one, said: ‘A vessel that goes against the tide, and against the wind, and without sails, goes against God,’ or that the simple negro thought it was a sea-devil. They are very well for carrying freight, because they are beasts of burden, but not for carrying travellers, unless they are mere birds of passage like our Yankee tourists, who want to have it to say I was ‘thar.’ I hate them. The decks are dirty; your skin and clothes are dirty; and your lungs become foul; smoke pervades everythin’, and now and then the condensation gives you a shower of sooty water by way of variety, that scalds your face and dyes your coat into a sort of pepper-and-salt colour.
“You miss the sailors, too. There are none on board—you miss the nice light, tight-built, lathy, wiry, active, neat, jolly crew. In their place you have nasty, dirty, horrid stokers; some hoisting hot cinders and throwing them overboard (not with the merry countenances of niggers, or the cheerful sway-away-my-boys expression of the Jack Tar, but with sour, cameronean-lookin’ faces, that seem as if they were dreadfully disappointed they were not persecuted any longer—had no churches and altars to desecrate, and no bishops to anoint with the oil of hill-side maledictions as of old), while others are emerging from the fiery furnaces beneath for fresh air, and wipe a hot dirty face with a still dirtier shirt sleeve, and in return for the nauseous exudation, lay on a fresh coat of blacking; tall, gaunt wretches, who pant for breath as they snuff the fresh breeze, like porpouses, and then dive again into the lower regions. They are neither seamen nor landsmen, good whips nor decent shots, their hair is not woolly enough for niggers, and their faces are too black for white men. They ain’t amphibious animals, like marines and otters. They are Salamanders. But that’s a long word, and now they call them stokers for shortness.
“Then steamers carry a mob, and I detest mobs, especially such ones as they delight in—greasy Jews, hairy Germans, Mulatto-looking Italians, squalling children, that run between your legs and throw you down, or wipe the butter off their bread on your clothes; Englishmen that will grumble, and Irishmen that will fight; priests that won’t talk, and preachers that will harangue; women that will be carried about, because they won’t lie still and be quiet; silk men, cotten men, bonnet men, iron men, trinket men, and every sort of shopmen, who severally know nothing in the world but silk, cotten, bonnets, iron, trinkets, and so on, and can’t talk of anythin’ else; fellows who walk up and down the deck, four or five abreast when there are four or five of the same craft on board, and prevent any one else from promenadin’ by sweepin’ the whole space, while every lurch the ship gives, one of them tumbles atop of you, or treads on your toes, and then, instead of apoligisin’, turns round and abuses you like a pick-pocket for stickin’ your feet out and trippin’ people up. Thinkin’ is out of the question, and as for readin’, you might as well read your fortune in the stars.
“Just as you begin, that lovely-lookin’, rosy-cheeked, wicked-eyed gall, that came on board so full of health and spirits, but now looks like a faded striped ribbon, white, yeller, pink, and brown—dappled all over her face, but her nose, which has a red spot on it—lifts up a pair of lack-lustre peepers that look glazed like the round dull ground-glass lights let into the deck, suddenly wakes up squeamish, and says, ‘Please, Sir, help me down; I feel so ill.’ Well, you take her up in your arms, and for the first time in your life hold her head from you, for fear she will reward you in a way that ain’t no matter, and she feels as soft as dough, and it seems as if your fingers left dents in her putty-like arms, and you carry her to the head of the stairs, and call out for the stewardess, and a waiter answers, ‘Stewardess is tight, Sir.’
“‘I am glad of it, she is just the person I want. I wish all the other passengers were tight also.’