140 THE CALL OK THE SEA 



ing shuttlecock between a fiery battledore of a 

 lighthouse on the French coast and a fiery battle- 

 dore of a lighthouse on the English coast ; but 

 I don't notice it particularly, except to feel en- 

 venomed 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-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 awk- 

 ward one here, and the fellow- creature with 

 umbrella down and picked up, " Her spa-a-rkling 

 ge-ems, or her Port ! port ! steady ! steady ! snow- 

 white fellow-creature at the paddle-box veiy sel- 

 fishly audible, bump roar wash white wand." 



As my execution of the Irish melodies partakes 

 of my imperfect perceptions of what is going on 

 around me, so what is going on around me be- 

 comes something else than what it is. The stokers 

 open the furnace doors below, to feed the fires, 

 and I am again on the box of the old Exeter Tele- 

 graph fast coach, and that is the light of the for 

 ever extinguished coach-lamps, and the gleam on 



