I embarked myself, with my luggage in my left hand and my “Ruff’s Guide to the Turf” in my right.
I shall see them, then, at last—these courses, sacred in the past by the memory of Eclipse and the Flying Admiral Childers, dear to the patriotic heart of France in the present days by the triumph of Gladiateur!
III. Ocean less Perfidious than the Aristocracy of Albion.
The sun was shining. The Ocean stirred gently in its sleep. Its ripples were as tender, as voluptuous, as the sighs of pleasure which scarcely derange the diaphanous scarf that lies upon the bosom of beauty. Oh, Phœbus! Oh, Neptunus! Oh, Venus!
I told you the sun was shining. My heart also. That I was gay! Gaiety premature, unreasonable, absurd!
As we cross Calais Bar the vessel rolls. I like it not. Can she be strong enough for the traverse, often fearful and stormy, to Douvres? I begin to marvel whether she is made of iron, or only made of wood.
I address the question, politely, to a young English sportmans by my side—“Pardon, Mister! but what is the vessel made of?”
A spasm of uncertainty, if not of pain, passes across his face as he points to an inscription inside the paddle-boxes.
One can only die one time; nevertheless, it is permitted to exclaim against the perfidy of the Steam-Lords of the Board of Commerce for London and Douvres. I read the inscription. Hope abandons me. The vessel is not made of iron!
She is not even made of wood!!