"On the day fixed for our departure from Boulogne, the weather being boisterous and wind contrary, the Packet could not sail, and we trusted ourselves to a small vessel, with only one effective sailor on board. Even Mary was daunted by the Breakers outside the Harbour, and I descended into the vessel as unwillingly as a criminal might go to execution, and hid myself in bed. Presently our little ship moved; and before ten minutes were gone she struck upon the sands. I felt that something disastrous had happened; but knew not what till poor Mary appeared in the cabin, having been thrown down from the top of the steps. There was again a frightful beating and grating of the bottom of the vessel, water rushing in very fast. A young man, an Italian, who had risen from a bed beside mine, as pale as ashes, groaned in agony, kneeling at his prayers. My condition was not much better than his; but I was more quiet. Never shall I forget the kindness of a little Irish woman who, though she herself, as she afterwards said, was much frightened, assured me even chearfully that there was no danger. I cannot say that her words, as assurances of safety, had much effect upon me; but the example of her courage made me become more collected; and I felt her human kindness even at the moment when I believed that we might be all going to the bottom of the sea together; and the agonizing thoughts of the distress at home were rushing on my mind." (From Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal, vol. ii.)—Ed.
VARIANT:
[566] 1837.
1822.
. . . murmuring sea,
FOOTNOTE:
[JF] See Wordsworth's note appended to the poem.—Ed.