s
Ophir, the Grand Cyclades; and the Lady Isabella, at sunset, blushed
like the Orient, and gazed down to the gold-fish and silver-hued
flying-fish, that wove the woof and warp of their wakes in bright,
scaly tartans and plaids underneath where the Lady reclined; this
charming balcony--exquisite retreat--has been cut away by Vandalic
innovations. Ay, that claw-footed old gallery is no longer in fashion;
in Commodore's eyes, is no longer genteel.

Out on all furniture fashions but those that are past! Give me my
grandfather's old arm-chair, planted upon four carved frogs, as the
Hindoos fabled the world to be supported upon four tortoises; give me
his cane, with the gold-loaded top--a cane that, like the musket of
General Washington's father and the broadsword of William Wallace,
would break down the back of the switch-carrying dandies of these
spindle-shank days; give me his broad-breasted vest, coming bravely
down over the hips, and furnished with two strong-boxes of pockets to
keep guineas in; toss this toppling cylinder of a beaver overboard, and
give me my grandfather's gallant, gable-ended, cocked hat.

But though the quarter-galleries and the stern-gallery of a man-of-war
are departed, yet the _chains_ still linger; nor can there be imagined
a more agreeable retreat. The huge blocks and lanyards forming the
pedestals of the shrouds divide the chains into numerous little
chapels, alcoves, niches, and altars, where you lazily lounge--outside
of the ship, though on board. But there are plenty to divide a good
thing with you in this man-of-war world. Often, when snugly seated in
one of these little alcoves, gazing off to the horizon, and thinking of
Cathay, I have been startled from my repose by some old quarter-gunner,
who, having newly painted a parcel of match-tubs, wanted to set them to
dry.

At other times, one of the tattooing artists would crawl over the
bulwarks, followed by his sitter; and then a bare arm or leg would be
extended, and the disagreeable business of "_pricking_" commence, right
under my eyes; or an irruption of tars, with ditty-bags or
sea-reticules, and piles of old trowsers to mend, would break in upon
my seclusion, and, forming a sewing-circle, drive me off with their
chatter.

But once--it was a Sunday afternoon--I was pleasantly reclining in a
particularly shady and secluded little niche between two lanyards, when
I heard a low, supplicating voice. Peeping through the narrow space
bet