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To those who are not, like Wordsworth's primrose, "dwellers on the river's brim," it may be necessary to explain that an outrigger is an apology for a boat, and, apparently, a feeble imitation of a plank–that the individual who hazards his own life in it is happily prevented, by its absurd form, from making any other person a sharer in his danger–that he is liable to be overset by any passing steamer, or by the slightest change of his own posture–that it is difficult to conceive how he ever got into such a thing, or how he is ever to get out of it again, and that the effect he produces on an unprejudiced spectator is that of an aquatic mouse caught in a boat-trap, from which he will never emerge alive, notwithstanding the continual struggle he appears to keep up.
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