One of them took upon himself the task of
interjecting what the practical opinion of himself and
friends was by addressing the aesthetic dreamer in accents
of stern reproof: "_You_," said he, "may call it grandeur
and picturesque and magnificent and curtseying, but we call
it a damned dirty business. If you were aboard of one of
them, you wouldn't talk about rustling through the cloven
sea to the kiss of the tempest, you would be too tarnation
keen on getting ashore!"
The orator had just finished his harangue when one of the
vessels, a brigantine, was crossing the bar. The supreme
moment had come. All eyes and minds were fixed on the doomed
vessel; men were seen clinging to the rigging, and one
solitary figure stood at the wheel directing her course
through a field of rushing whiteness. She was supposed to
have crossed the worst spot, when a terrific mountain of
remorseless liquid was seen galloping with mad pace until it
lashed over her and she became reduced to atoms. Nothing but
wreckage was seen afterwards. The crew all perished. It was
a heartrending sight, which sent the onlookers into
uncontrollable grief.
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