Livro Tom Cringle's Log (Volume 2)

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VOMITO PRIETO. (continued.) The small twinkling lights from millions of lesser stars, in that part of the firmament where she hung, round as a silver pot-lid?shield I mean?were swamped in the flood of greenish-white radiance shed by her, and it was only a few of the first magnitude, with a planet here and there, that were visible to the naked eye, in the neighbourhood of her crystal bright globe?

but the clear depth, and dark translucent purity of the profound, when the eye tried to pierce into it at the zenith, where the stars once more shone and sparkled thick and brightly, beyond the merging influence of the pale cold orb, no man can describe now?one could, once?but rest his soul, he is dead ?and then to look forth far into the night, across the dark ridge of many a heaving swell of living water?but, Thomas Cringle, ahoy?where the devil are you cruizing to?

So, to come back to my story. I went aft, and mounted the small poop, and looked towards the aforesaid moon, a glorious resplendent tropical moon, and not the paper lantern affair hanging in an atmosphere of fog and smoke, about which Vol.

II. 2 your blear-eyed poets haver so much. By the by, these gentry are fond of singing of the blessed sun? were they sailors they would bless the moon also, in place of writing such wearisome poetry with regard to her blighting propensities.

But I have lost the end of my yarn once more, in the strands of these parentheses?Why, what a word to pronounce in the plural!?I can no more get out now, than a girl's silkworm from the innermost of a nest of pillboxes, where, to ride the simile to death at once, I have warped the thread of my story so round and round me, that I can't for the life of me unravel it.

Very odd all this. Since I have recovered of this f...