A stout wooden wedge driven in at my right temple and out at my left, a floating deposit of lukewarm oil in my throat, and a compression of the bridge of my nose in a blunt pair of pincers—­these are the personal sensations by which I know we are off, and by which I shall continue to know it until I am on the soil of France.  My symptoms have scarcely established themselves comfortably, when two or three skating shadows that have been trying to walk or stand, get flung together, and other two or three shadows in tarpaulin slide with them into corners and cover them up.  Then the South Foreland lights begin to hiccup at us in a way that bodes no good.

It is at about this period that my detestation of Calais knows no bounds.  Inwardly I resolve afresh that I never will forgive that hateful town.  I have done so before, many times, but that is past.  Let me register a vow.  Implacable animosity to Calais everm—­that was an awkward sea, and the funnel seems of my opinion, for it gives a complaining roar.

The wind blows stiffly from the nor’-east, the sea runs high, we ship a deal of water, the night is dark and cold, and the shapeless passengers lie about in melancholy bundles, as if they were sorted out for the laundress; but, for my own uncommercial part, I cannot pretend that I am much inconvenienced by any of these things.  A general howling, whistling, flopping, gurgling, and scooping, I am aware of, and a general knocking about of Nature; but the impressions I receive are very vague.  In a sweet, faint temper, something like the smell of damaged oranges, I think I should feel languidly benevolent if I had time.  I have not time, because I am under a curious compulsion to occupy myself with Irish melodies.  “Rich and rare were the gems she wore,” is the particular melody to which I find myself devoted.  I sing it to myself in the most charming manner and with the greatest expression.  Now and then I raise my head (I am sitting on the hardest of wet seats, in the most uncomfortable of wet attitudes, but I don’t mind it) and notice that I am a whirling shuttle-cock between a fiery battledore of a lighthouse on the French coast and a fiery battledore of a lighthouse on the English coast; but I don’t notice it particularly, except to feel envenomed in my hatred of Calais.  Then I go on again, “Rich and rare were the ge-ems she-e-e-e wore, And a bright gold ring on her wa-and she bo-ore, But O her beauty was fa-a-a-r beyond”—­I am particularly proud of my execution here, when I become aware of another awkward shock from the sea, and another protest from the funnel, and a fellow-creature at the paddle-box more audibly indisposed than I think he need be—­“Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand, But O her beauty was fa-a-a-a-a-r beyond”—­another awkward one here, and the fellow creature with the umbrella down and picked up—­“Her spa-a-arkling ge-ems, or her Port! port! steady! steady! snow-white fellow-creature at the paddle-box very selfishly audible, bump roar wash white wand.”