e last century.

Some of them would bring their wives with them for the voyage; uniformly
rather pretty women, a trifle dressy, somewhat fragile in appearance,
but really sound enough; naive, simple, good souls, loving their
husbands and magnifying them, and taking a vicarious pride in their
ships and sea-craft. The lady-paramount of these, in my estimation, was
the wife of old Captain Howes, the inventor of Howes' patent rig, which
he was at that time perfecting. He would sometimes invite me up to his
room to see the exquisitely finished model which he had made with his
own hands. He was the commodore of the captains, the oldest, wisest, and
most impressive of them; a handsome, massive, Jovelike old gentleman,
with the gentlest and most indulgent manners, and a straightforward,
simple mariner withal. He had ceased to make voyages, and was settled,
for the time being, in Liverpool. Mrs. Howes seemed, to my boyish
apprehension, to be a sort of princess of exquisite and gracious
refinement; I could imagine nothing in feminine shape more delicate,
of more languid grace, of finer patrician elegance. She was certainly
immensely good-natured and indulgent towards me, and, in the absence of
my mother, tried to teach me to be less of an Orson; she had hands which
were true works of art, flexible, fine-grained, taper-fingered, and
lily-white; these she used very effectively, and would fain have induced
me to attempt the regeneration of my own dirty and ragged little fists.
She would beseech me, also, to part my hair straight, to forbear to soil
my jacket, and even to get my shoes blacked. I was thankful for these
attentions, though I was unable to profit by them. Sometimes, at table,
I would glance up to find her eyes dwelling with mild reproach upon me;
doubtless I was continually perpetrating terrible enormities. Had she
herself been less perfect and immaculate, I might have felt more hopes
of my own amendment; but I felt that I was not in her class at all, and
I gave up at the start. She was a wonderful human ornament, the despair,
I thought, of all pursuit, not to mention rivalry. Beside the heroic
figure of her captain, she looked like a lily mated with an oak; but
they were as happy a pair, and as well mated, as one could hope to see.

I was, perhaps, more in my proper element among the captains down in
the smoking-room, which was at the back of the house, at the end of the
hallway, on the left. My father sat there foot to