'His wife a barren woman! what's that to us!' Temple went on, exploding
at intervals. 'So was Sarah. His cabin and his substance! He talks
more like a preacher than a sailor. I should like to see him in a storm!
He's no sailor at all. His men hate him. It wouldn't be difficult to
get up a mutiny on board this ship. Richie, I understand the whole plot:
he's in want of cabin-boys. The fellow has impressed us. We shall have
to serve till we touch land. Thank God, there's a British consul
everywhere; I say that seriously. I love my country; may she always be
powerful! My life is always at her---- Did you feel that pitch of the
ship? Of all the names ever given to a vessel, I do think Priscilla is
without exception the most utterly detestable. Oh! there again. No,
it'll be too bad, Richie, if we 're beaten in this way.'

'If YOU are beaten,' said I, scarcely venturing to speak lest I should
cry or be sick.

We both felt that the vessel was conspiring to ruin our self-respect.
I set my head to think as hard as possible on Latin verses (my instinct
must have drawn me to them as to a species of intellectual biscuit
steeped in spirit, tough, and comforting, and fundamentally opposed to
existing circumstances, otherwise I cannot account for the attraction).
They helped me for a time; they kept off self-pity, and kept the
machinery of the mind at work. They lifted me, as it were, to an upper
floor removed from the treacherously sighing Priscilla. But I came down
quickly with a crash; no dexterous management of my mental resources
could save me from the hemp-like smell of the ship, nor would leaning
over the taffrail, nor lying curled under a tarpaulin. The sailors
heaped pilot-coats upon us. It was a bad ship, they said, to be sick on
board of, for no such thing as brandy was allowed in the old Priscilla.