waves, over which the dawn, on a cold
winter morning, cast a level lonely glance,
and through which the ship fought her
melancholy way at a terrific rate. And
now, lying down again, awaiting the season
for broiled ham and tea, I would be compelled
to listen to the voice of conscience—
the Screw.

It might be, in some cases, no more than
the voice of Stomach, but I called it in my
fancy by the higher name. Because, it
seemed to me that we were all of us, all day
long, endeavouring to stifle the Voice. Because,
it was under everybody's pillow,
everybody's plate, everybody's camp-stool,
everybody's book, everybody's occupation.
Because, we pretended not to hear it, especially
at meal times, evening whist, and
morning conversation on deck; but it was
always among us in an under monotone, not
to be drowned in pea soup, not to be
shuffled with cards, not to be diverted by
books, not to be knitted into any pattern,
not to be walked away from. It was
smoked in the weediest cigar, and drunk in
the strongest cocktail; it was conveyed on
deck at noon with limp ladies, who lay
there in their wrappers until the stars
shone; it waited at table with the stewards;
nobody could put it out with the lights. It
was considered (as on shore) ill bred to
acknowledge the Voice of Conscience. It
was not polite to mention it. One squally
day an amiable gentleman in love, gave
much offence to a surrounding circle, including
the object of his attachment, by
saying of it, after it had goaded him over
two easy chairs and a skylight:—" Screw!"

Sometimes it would appear subdued. In
fleeting moments when bubbles of champagne
pervaded the nose, or when there was " hot
pot" in the bill of fare, or when an old dish
we had had regularly every day, was described
in that official document by a new
name. Under such excitements, one would
almost believe it hushed. The ceremony of
washing plates on deck, performed after
every meal by a circle as of ringers of
crockery triple-bob majors for a prize,
would keep it down. Hauling the reel,
taking the sun at noon, posting the
twenty-four hours' run, altering the ship's
time by the meridian, casting the waste
food overboard, and attracting the eager
gulls that followed in our wake; these
events would suppress it for a while. But
the instant any break or pause took place in
any such diversion, the Voice would be at
it again, importuning us to the last extent.
A newly married young pair, who walked
the deck affectionately some twenty miles
per day, would, in the full flush of their exercise,
suddenly become stricken by it, and
stand trembling, but otherwise immovable,
under its reproaches.

When this terrible monitor was most
severe with us, was when the time approached
for our retiring to our dens for
the night. When the lighted candles in the
saloon grew fewer and fewer. When the
deserted glasses with spoons in them, grew
more and more numerous. When waifs of
toasted cheese, and strays of sardines fried
in batter, slid languidly to and fro in the
table-racks. When the man who always
read, had shut up his book and blown out
his candle. When the man who always
talked, had ceased from troubling. When
the man who was always medically reported
as going to have delirium tremens,
had put it off till to-morrow. When the
man who every night devoted himself to a
midnight smoke on deck, two hours in
length, and who every night was in bed
within ten minutes afterwards, was buttoning
himself up in his third coat for his
hardy vigil. For then, as we fell off one by
one, and, entering our several hutches, came
into a peculiar atmosphere of bilge water
and Windsor soap, the Voice would shake
us to the centre. Woe to us when we sat
down on our sofa, watching the swinging
candle for ever trying and retrying to stand
upon his head, or our coat upon its peg imitating
us as we appeared in our gymnastic
days, by sustaining itself horizontally from
the wall, in emulation of the lighter and
more facile towels. Then would the Voice
especially claim us for its prey and rend us
all to pieces.

Lights out, we in our berths, and the
wind rising, the Voice grows angrier and
deeper. Under the mattress and under the
pillow, under the sofa and under the washing
stand, under the ship and under the sea,
seeming to arise from the foundations under
the earth with every scoop of the great
Atlantic (and O why scoop so!), always
the Voice. Vain to deny its existence, in
the night season; impossible to be hard
of hearing; Screw, Screw, Screw. Sometimes
it lifts out of the water, and revolves
with a whirr, like a ferocious firework—
except that it never expends itself, but is
always ready to go off again; sometimes it
seems to be aguish and shivers; sometimes
it seems to be terrified by its last plunge,
and has a fit which causes it to struggle,
quiver, and for an instant stop. And now
the ship sets in rolling, as only ships so