Below, among dark mysteries of the under-wharf, the water placidly slipslopped; the sea-wind blew gently in, fluffing a lock of hair across my face.

No, no, Lily, preachification isn't the medicine I want.

England bound in with the triumphant ſea, / Whoſe rocky ſhore beates backe the enuious ſiedge / Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with ſhame, / With Inky blottes, and rotten Parchment bonds.

a treacherous mountain trail