Volume 62 — "IF!"

'Tother day I steamed from Dover To Boulogne-sur-Mer: We'd bad weather crossing over: Very sick we were. Busy, Steward's-Mate and Steward— "Basins!" was the cry: Ocean heaved, because it blew hard; Heaved, and so did I. In the intervals of basin Blessed dreams were mine: Fowler was from Ocean 'rasin' Every ill-ruled line. Over Neptune's worst commotion Holding despot's state, He not only ruled the Ocean, But he ruled it straight! Steady, sea ne'er so ugly, Did his craft behave; Passengers, carriaged snugly, Sweeping o'er the wave! Not a soul from out his cushions Moved, the passage through; Padded soft against concussions, And spring-seated, too! O, it was a blessèd vision! Blessèd all the more For that awful exhibition Betwixt shore and shore. But when terra-firma reason On that dream I fixed, At a less afflicted season, Doubt with hope was mixed. For, I thought—Can Fowler answer That his boats won't roll— Grant, that, swift as a merganser, O'er the sea they bowl? If they roll—and who can promise That they never will?— Little joy to John Bull from his Power of sitting still. Think of an afflicted train-full Cabined, cribbed, confined— Rolling with the rollings painful Of that pen inclined! Face to face, and knee to knee, sick, Retch and heave and strain, Think of a whole hundred sea-sick All along the train! Sea-sickness in open ocean May be bad to bear, But, boxed up in a train in motion, Worse, far worse, it were! So if Fowler cannot promise Pitch-and-toss shall be Game of chance, far-banished from his Skimmers of the sea, Better 'gainst our woes we gird us— Cold, and stench, and spray— Than in railway train you herd us, Nausea's helpless prey! If the traveller from Dover Reached the other shore, Worser woes, than crossing over, Were for him in store. Awfuller than the up-turn he Suffers from the tide,— Think upon that six hours' journey On the other side! Present woe 'gainst worse mismarriage— Put it to the vote— And I'll bet 'tis contrà carriage, And for open boat!