I boarded an old P. and O. boat, far too slow to suit me. One day I suggested to the captain that a little more speed would not hurt any passenger’s feelings. He then coolly and deliberately began a calculation, or rather a rehearsal of what he had probably told a thousand times, of the amount of coal it took for a ten mile speed, and the ratio of increase of coal for every mile of increased speed. What did I care about his coal bill? It was heartless in him to talk in that cold way about his coal. What did he know about Leadenhall street, or why I was going there? Nor would I have told him for all his old boat was worth. It is said that physicians, by their constant acquaintance with suffering and grief, become as insensible to them as wooden men; so, probably, these captains, so familiar with the heart longings of their anxious human freight, become as indifferent to them as the dummy at the bow of the boat is to the rush of the waters. There was no help for it. So many days had to be consumed to save consuming extra coal, while my heart was consumed by insatiate longings. I had my doubts and my fears, for who has not in such enterprises? though before I started I was so positive about the matter. I wished I had not resorted to any tricks, as we always do in such cases; may be I was making a fool’s journey, may be some luckier fellow would carry off the prize while I was lagging along at a snail’s pace. But what gave me a little comfort was, that there were others in a worse predicament than I was, going at a venture, not knowing when and where, afraid that not a girl in the United Kingdom would have them, so I consoled myself somewhat. This is a strange thing in human life, that no one ever finds himself in such a plight but he knows some other worse off than himself. I have never yet found the last man in the line who could not look down upon some one lower than himself.