She was beautiful and had a weakness. We loved her no less for
that. We admired her qualities aloud, we boasted of them to one another,
as though they had been our own, and the consciousness of her only fault
we kept buried in the silence of our profound affection. She was born
in the thundering peal of hammers beating upon iron, in black eddies of
smoke, under a grey sky, on the banks of the Clyde. The clamorous and
sombre stream gives birth to things of beauty that float away into the
sunshine of the world to be loved by men. The _Narcissus_ was one of
that perfect brood. Less perfect than many perhaps, but she was ours,
and, consequently, incomparable. We were proud of her. In Bombay,
ignorant landlubbers alluded to her as that "pretty grey ship." Pretty!
A scurvy meed of commendation! We knew she was the most magnificent
sea-boat ever launched. We tried to forget that, like many good
sea-boats, she was at times rather crank. She was exacting. She wanted
care in loading and handling, and no one knew exactly how much care
would be enough. Such are the imperfections of mere men! The ship knew,
and sometimes would correct the presumptuous human ignorance by the
wholesome discipline of fear.
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