The engines of the “Great Eastern” are justly considered as masterpieces—I was going to say of clock-work, for there is nothing more astonishing than to see this enormous machine working with the precision and ease of a clock, a singular contrast to the screw, which works rapidly and furiously, as though getting itself into a rage. Independently of these two engines, the “Great Eastern” possesses six auxiliary ones to work the capstans, so that it is evident steam plays an important part on board. Such is this steam-ship, without equal and known everywhere; which, however, did not hinder a French captain from making this _naïve_ remark in his log-book: “Passed a ship with six masts and five chimneys, supposed to be the ‘Great Eastern.’” CHAPTER VIII. On Wednesday night the weather was very bad, my balance was strangely variable, and I was obliged to lean with my knees and elbows against the sideboard, to prevent myself from falling. Portmanteaus and bags came in and out of my cabin; an unusual hubbub reigned in the adjoining saloon, in which two or three hundred packages were making expeditions from one end to the other, knocking the tables and chairs with loud crashes; doors slammed, the boards creaked, the partitions made that groaning noise peculiar to pine wood; bottles and glasses jingled together in their racks, and a cataract of plates and dishes rolled about on the pantry floors. I heard the irregular roaring of the screw, and the wheels beating the water, sometimes entirely immersed, and at others striking the empty air; by all these signs I concluded that the wind had freshened, and the steam-ship was no longer indifferent to the billows. At six o’clock next morning, after passing a sleepless night, I got up and dressed myself, as well as I could with one hand, while with the other I clutched at the sides of my cabin, for without support it was impossible to keep one’s feet, and I had quite a serious struggle to get on my overcoat. I left my cabin, and helping myself with hands and feet through the billows of luggage, I crossed the saloon, scrambling up the stairs on my knees, like a Roman peasant devoutly climbing the steps of the “Scala santa” of Pontius Pilate; and at last, reaching the deck, I hung on firmly to the nearest kevel. No land in sight; we had doubled Cape Clear in the night, and around us was that vast circumference bounded by the line, where water and sky appear to meet. The slate-coloured sea broke in great foamless billows. The “Great Eastern” struck amidships, and, supported by no sail, rolled frightfully, her bare masts describing immense circles in the air. There was no heaving to speak of, but the rolling was dreadful, it was impossible to stand upright. The officer on watch, clinging to the bridge, looked as if he was in a swing.