ng to
topple down six feet perpendicular of immortal manhood, though that
lofty living tower needed perhaps thirty good growing summers to bring
it to maturity? Poor savage! And you account it so glorious, do you, to
mutilate and destroy what God himself was more than a quarter of a
century in building?

And yet, fellow-Christians, what is the American frigate Macedonian, or
the English frigate President, but as two bloody red hands painted on
this poor savage's blanket?

Are there no Moravians in the Moon, that not a missionary has yet
visited this poor pagan planet of ours, to civilise civilisation and
christianise Christendom?

CHAPTER LXV.

A MAN-OF-WAR RACE.

We lay in Rio so long--for what reason the Commodore only knows--that a
saying went abroad among the impatient sailors that our frigate would
at last ground on the beef-bones daily thrown overboard by the cooks.

But at last good tidings came. "All hands up anchor, ahoy!" And bright
and early in the morning up came our old iron, as the sun rose in the
East.

The land-breezes at Rio--by which alone vessels may emerge from the
bay--is ever languid and faint. It comes from gardens of citrons and
cloves, spiced with all the spices of the Tropic of Capricorn. And,
like that old exquisite, Mohammed, who so much loved to snuff perfumes
and essences, and used to lounge out of the conservatories of Khadija,
his wife, to give battle to the robust sons of Koriesh; even so this
Rio land-breeze comes jaded with sweet-smelling savours, to wrestle
with the wild Tartar breezes of the sea.

Slowly we dropped and dropped down the bay, glided like a stately swan
through the outlet, and were gradually rolled by the smooth, sliding
billows broad out upon the deep. Straight in our wake came the tall
main-mast of the English fighting-frigate, terminating, like a steepled
cathedral, in the bannered cross of the religion of peace; and straight
after _her_ came the rainbow banner of France, sporting God's token
that no more would he make war on the earth.

Both Englishmen and Frenchmen were resolved upon a race; and we Yankees
swore by our top-sails and royals to sink their blazing banners that
night among the Southern constellations we should daily be
extinguishing behind us in our run to the North.

"Ay," said Mad Jack, "St. George's banner shall be as the _Southern
Cross_, out of sight, leagues down the horizon, while our gallant
stars, my brave boys, shall bur