The mass is lord.
And behold our friend the sailor of the boards, whose walk is even as two meeting billows, appears upon the lonely moor, and salts that uninhabited region with nautical interjections.

Loose are his hose in one part, tight in another, and he smacks them.

It is cold; so let that be his excuse for showing the bottom of his bottle to the glittering spheres.

He takes perhaps a sturdier pull at the liquor than becomes a manifest instrument of Providence, whose services may be immediately required; but he informs us that his ship was never known not to right itself when called upon.
He is alone in the world, he tells us likewise.

If his one friend, the uplifted flask, is his enemy, why then he feels bound to treat his enemy as his friend.