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Updated: May 25, 2025
Generally during the process of fusion magnificent light effects were noted, of which it would be difficult to give an adequate idea. At first one may see a narrow funnel of white light projected against the top of the globe, where it produces an irregularly outlined phosphorescent patch.
When she was ready to set forth, she had never looked so well in her life. Her toilet SEEMED a mere detail. In fact, it was some such subtlety as those arrangements of lines and colors in great pictures, whereby the glance of the beholder is unconsciously compelled toward the central figure, just as water in a funnel must go toward the aperture at the bottom.
H.M.S. 'Furious, at sea. April 11th. Here we are, gliding through the smoothest possible sea, with a gentle wind, and this time favourable, which relieves us of all the smoke and ashes of the funnel, an advantage for our eyes as well as conducive to our comfort. We are in the midst of the Yellow Sea, going about eight knots, dragging a gunboat astern to save her coal.
He blew and blew and blew; he set his lips tight together, as he had observed the little musician with the big horn set his, and blew and sputtered, and sputtered and blew, but nothing of the slightest importance happened in the orifice of the funnel. Still he blew. He began to be dizzy; his eyes watered; his expression became as horrible as a strangled person's. He but blew the more.
The fog was still thick, so thick that the fan-shaped beams from the side lights could not pierce it as far as the bow, and the forward funnel was barely visible a magnified black stump. Jenkins was back among them soon, remarking that she was making twenty knots already.
Let us eschew violence, which is but seldom successful, and resort to craft. We catch sight of the Spider at the entrance to her tube. If practicable, squeeze the bottom of the tuft, containing the neck of the funnel, with both hands. That is enough; the animal is caught.
Here, three thousand feet and more above the sea upon which we looked down between cliff and woodland as through a funnel, and upon the roofs and whitewashed walls of fishing-villages on the edge of the blue lived slow, sedate folks, who called their dogs off us and stared upon us as portents and gave us goat's-milk and bread, refusing the coins we proffered.
The last shell had fallen two hundred yards short. Five minutes more would settle it. Hansen had the wheel. Lund stood by the taffrail, his arm about Peggy Simms. He shook a fist at the gunboat, vomiting black smoke from her funnel, foam about her bows. "We'll beat 'em yet," he cried. The next shell, with more elevation, whined parallel with them, sped ahead, and smashed into the waves.
Hot, hot, hot! how the sun glowed in the bright blue sky! and how the down train puffed and panted, while the heat of the weather made even the steam from the funnel transparent as it streamed backwards over the engine's green back!
The Pope should have anathematized the steam-engine. He should have cursed it after the approved pontifical fashion, in standing and in running, in watering and in coaling. He should have cursed it in the whole structure of its machinery, in its funnel, in its boiler, in its piston, in its cranks, and in its stopcocks.
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