Harriet Beecher Stowe

Palmetto Leaves Harriet Beecher Stowe

Yes, here he comes again! Look at him! Whose dog is he? We are sitting around the little deck house of the Savannah steamer, in that languid state of endurance which befalls voyagers, when, though the sky is clear, and the heavens blue, and the sea calm as a looking glass, there is yet that gentle, treacherous, sliding rise and fall, denominated a ground swell. Reader, do you remember it? Of all deceitful demons of the deep, this same smooth, slippery, cheating ground swell is the most diabolic. Because, you see, he is a mean imp, an underhanded, unfair, swindling scamp, who takes from you all the glory of endurance. Fair to the eye, plausible as possible, he says to you, "What's the matter? What can you ask brighter than this sky, smoother than this sea, more glossy and calm than these rippling waves? How fortunate that you have such an exceptionally smooth voyage!" And yet look around the circle of pale faces fixed in that grim expression of endurance, the hands belonging to them resolutely clasping lemons, those looks of unutterable, repressed disgust and endurance. Are these people seasick? Oh, no! of course not. "Of course," says the slippery, plausible demon, "these people can't be sick in this delightful weather, and with this delightful, smooth sea!"