One girl I saw with a bruise on her forehead as large
as an egg, and the blood streaming from her nostrils. Shrieks
resounded, and for a few moments, we had quite a tragic time.
About this time H. gave in, and descended to Tartarus, where the floor
was compactly, densely stowed with one mass of heaving wretches, with
nothing but washbowls to relieve the sombre mosaic. How H. fared there
she may tell; I cannot. I stood by the bulwark with my boots full of
water, my eyes full of salt spray, and my heart full of the most
poignant regret that ever I was born. Alas! was that channel a channel
at all? Had it two shores? Was England over there, where I saw nothing
but monstrous, leaping, maddening billows, saying, "We are glad of it;
we want you; come on here; we are waiting for you; we will serve you
up"?
At last I seriously began to think of Tartarus myself, and of a calm
repose flat on my back, such as H. told of in his memorable passage.
But just then, dim and faint on the horizon, I thought I discerned the
long line of a bank of land. It was. This was a channel; that was the
shore. England had not sunk. I stood my ground; and in an hour we came
running, bounding, and rolling towards the narrow mouth of the
Folkstone pier heads.
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