I gazed upon the
"unfortunate brave" with mingled pity and veneration; yet, so true is
the observation of the ancient,
"_Res sunt humanae flobilo ludibrium_"
That is, human feelings and affairs are a singular compound of the
ludicrous and the lamentable, that I could not avoid giving way to my
mercurial disposition, and congratulating my fellow-voyager on the ease
with which he had recognized his old comrade by his present remaining
half. "Lord help your honour!" said he, "a seaman's weather-gauge is
made for squalls--foul weather or fair--in stays or out of trim--sailing
all right before the wind, or coming up under jury-masts; he's no tar
that cannot make out an old friend at a cable's length, and bring to
without waiting for signals of distress. Shiver my timbers, if I should
not know my old messmate here while there's a timber rib left in his
hulk, or a shoulder-boom to hang a blue jacket on. But, my toplights,
Tom!" continued he, "where's all the girls, and the tiddlers, and the
Jews, and bumboat-women that used to crowd all sail to pick up a spare
hand ashore? Not a shark have I seen in the harbour, and all the old
grog-shops with their foul-weather battens up and colours half-mast."
"All in mourning for Mr. Nap, shipmate," said Tom; "we've had no fun
here since they cooped him up on board the Bellerophon, and stowed
him away at St.
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