nited strength with capacity and
buoyancy. The under part of her hull and sides were strengthened with
double timbers, and fortified externally with plates of iron; while,
internally, stanchions and cross-beams were so arranged as to cause
pressure on any part to be supported by the whole structure; and on her
bows, where shocks from the ice might be expected to be most frequent
and severe, extra planking, of immense strength and thickness, was
secured. In other respects the vessel was fitted up much in the same
manner as ordinary merchantmen. The only other peculiarity about her,
worthy of notice, was the crow's-nest, a sort of barrel-shaped structure
fastened to the fore-masthead, in which, when at the whaling-ground, a
man is stationed to look out for whales. The chief men in the ship were
Captain Guy, a vigorous, practical American; Mr Bolton, the first mate,
an earnest, stout, burly, off-hand Englishman; and Mr Saunders, the
second mate, a sedate, broad-shouldered, raw-boned Scot, whose opinion
of himself was unbounded, whose power of argument was extraordinary, not
to say exasperating, and who stood six feet three in his stockings.
Mivins, the steward, was, as we have already remarked, a tall, thin,
active young man, of a brisk, lively disposition, and was somewhat of a
butt among the men, but being in a position of power and trust he was
respected. The young surgeon, Tom Singleton, whom we have yet scarcely
introduced to the reader, was a tall, slim, but firmly-knit, youth, with
a kind, gentle disposition. He was always open, straightforward, and
polite. He never indulged in broad humour, though he enjoyed it much,
seldom ventured on a witticism, was rather shy in the company of his
companions, and spoke little; but for a quiet, pleasant _tete-a-tete_
there was not a man in the ship equal to Tom Singleton. His countenance
was Spanish-looking and handsome, his hair black, short, and curling,
and his budding moustache was soft and dark as the eyebrow of an
Andalusian belle.

It would be unpardonable, in this catalogue, to omit the cook, David
Mizzle. He was round, and fat, and oily, as one of his own "duff"
puddings. To look at him you could not help suspecting that he
purloined, and ate, at least half of the salt pork he cooked, and his
sly, dimpling laugh, in which every feature participated, from the point
of his broad chin to the top of his bald head, rather tended to favour
this supposition. Mizzle