Visible sea, this girdle of Britain, inspired him to exultations in reverence.
He wished Mr.Durance could behold it now and have such a breastful.
He was wishing he knew a song of Britain and sea, rather fancying Mr.
Durance to be in some way a bar to patriotic poetical recollection, when he saw his Captain Dartrey mounting steps out of an iron anatomy of the pier, and looking like a razor off a strap.
'Why, sir!' cried Skepsey.
'Just a plunge and a dozen strokes,' Dartrey said; 'and you'll come to my hotel and give me ten minutes of the "recreation"; and if you don't come willingly, I shall insult your country.' 'Ah! I wish Mr.Durance were here,' Skepsey rejoined.
'It would upset his bumboat of epigrams.

He rises at ten o'clock to a queasy breakfast by candlelight, and proceeds to composition.

His picture of the country is a portrait of himself by the artist.' 'But, sir, Captain Dartrey, you don't think as Mr.Durance does of England!' 'There are lots to flatter her, Skepsey! A drilling can't do her harm.
You're down to see Miss Nesta.

Ladies don't receive quite so early.
And have you breakfasted?
Come on with me quick.' Dartrey led him on, saying: 'You have an eye at my stick.

It was a legacy to me, by word of mouth, from a seaman of a ship I sailed in, who thought I had done him a service; and he died after all.