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The Doldrums of Depression.

Trouble is a blessing so well disguised that in comparison a sausage is an open secret. But trouble has its advantages like deafness at an oratorio, or cauliflower ears at a vegetarian lecture. Recently we have passed through so much triple-plated trouble in compressed form, that the experiences of the Ancient Mariner read like a page from the Deadhead's Diary. If the darkest hour is before the dawn, we are in for a dawn that will demand smoked glasses. In comparison, a shining example wearing an illuminated address will look like a liquorice baby by twilight. Already there is a perceptible quiver of agitated air in the Doldrums of Depression. The sails of commerce slap sluggishly, and the skipper of the schooner Perspirus prepares to run before the “trades.”

Let's follow the fortunes of the schooner Perspirus through the seas of Persiflage:—

It was the schooner Perspirus
That sailed the wintry sea,
And the skipper took Prosperity
To bear him company.
Her eyes were as blue as blue could be,
And all her teeth were crowned
With gold that should by rights assay
Ten florins to the pound.
But ere the binnacle was boxed,
And everything in nick,
Prosperity went green as grass,
And presently was sick.
Thereafter in her bunk she moaned,
Nor shewed her face on deck:

The skipper knew by all the signs
He'd get it in the neck.
He sawed a section off the gaff,
And braced the mizzen poop,
And called the crew abaft the bunt,
To say, “we're in the soup.
Prosperity has took the count,
And we are all at sea.
We'll have to cut the rations down,
Without Prosperity.”
The crew, although their belts were slack,
Reacted true to form,
And furled the bowsprit willingly,
To counteract the storm.
And when the surging billows sank
To what they ought to be,
The skipper said, “She's ne'er so bad,
But we are still at sea.”
For not a breath of air was there.
The skipper cried “were skinned
Unless the elements conspire
To help us ‘raise the wind.’”
At this Prosperity appeared,
A trifle green it's true,
And somewhat groggy on her pins
Like partly melted glue.
At this the skipper's spirits rose,
The bosun's mate said “Heck!
We'll sink our groans to Davy Jones—
Prosperity's on deck.”
At once the balmy breezes blew,
The “trades” took up the tale,
And soon the Perspirus was dressed
In ev'ry foot of sail.
And thus though storms at times must rage,
And Doldrums pain the neck,
Prosperity is bound at last
To shew her face on deck.

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