But as it was, there was naught to strike fire from their steel.
There were other things, also, tending to make my lot on ship-board very hard to be borne.

True, the skipper himself was a trump; stood upon no quarter-deck dignity; and had a tongue for a sailor.

Let me do him justice, furthermore: he took a sort of fancy for me in particular; was sociable, nay, loquacious, when I happened to stand at the helm.

But what of that?
Could he talk sentiment or philosophy?
Not a bit.

His library was eight inches by four: Bowditch, and Hamilton Moore.
And what to me, thus pining for some one who could page me a quotation from Burton on Blue Devils; what to me, indeed, were flat repetitions of long-drawn yams, and the everlasting stanzas of Black-eyed Susan sung by our full forecastle choir?
Staler than stale ale.
Ay, ay, Arcturion! I say it in no malice, but thou wast exceedingly dull.