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onward like a monster goaded into madness, to be 

 beaten down, and battered, and crushed, and leaped 

 on by the angry sea — that thunder, lightning, hail, 

 and rain, and wind, are all in fierce contention for the 

 mastery — that every plank has its groan, every nail 

 its shriek, and every drop of water in the great ocean 

 its howling voice — is nothing. To say that all is 

 grand, and all appalling and horrible in the last 

 degree, is nothing. Words cannot express it. 

 Thoughts cannot convey it. Only a dream can 

 call it up again in all its fury, rage, and passion." 

 That describes to the letter our experience on 

 the Etruria forty-five years after those lines were 

 written. 



Mr. Chamberlain was a good sailor, and hardly 

 ever missed a meal, nor did I miss one. Poor little 

 Bergne, on the other hand, suffered the tortures 

 of the damned throughout the voyage, and some 

 female in a cabin adjacent to mine screamed half 

 the night, and was perpetually anointing herself 

 with essence of peppermint as a remedy for sea 

 sickness, and its pungent odour was the reverse of 

 comforting. A very small percentage of the pas- 

 sengers turned up at meals, and the saving under 

 the subheads " bacon, ham, and pork " must have 

 been quite considerable. Of course every one in the 



