stone thrown into the water, begin somewhere and end nowhere.
As we have said, he expounds himself no more, the significant forefinger is down, the eye no longer imprisons yours.
But if you ask him how he does, he shakes himself as if, like Farinata,1
avesse l'inferno in gran dispetto, he had a very contemptible opinion of hell.
Several “portraits” follow, among them her own.
A woman, said to be of a literary turn of mind, in the miserablest condition imaginable.
Her clothes, flung at her by the Stewardess, seem to have hit in some places and missed in others.
Her listless hands occasionally make an attempt to keep her draperies together, and to pull her hat on her head; but though the intention is evident, she accomplishes little by her motion.
She is being perpetually lugged about by a stout steward, who knocks her head against both sides of the vessel, folds her up in the gangway, spreads her out on the deck, and takes her upstairs, downstairs, and in my lady's chamber, where, report says, he feeds her with a spoon, and comforts her with such philosophy as he is master of. N. B. This woman, upon the first change of weather, rose like a cork, dressed like a Christian, and toddled about the deck in the easiest manner, sipping her grog, and cutting sly jokes upon her late companions in misery;--is supposed by some to have been an impostor, and, when ill-treated, announced intentions of writing a book.
No. 4, my last, is only a sketch;--circumstances allowed no more.
Can Grande, the great dog, has