Chapter 11 - Page 2

heedful attention, like Maecenas listening to Virgil, with a book
of Aeneid in his hand. Taking the liberty of a well-wisher, he
would sometimes gently criticise the piece, suggesting a few
immaterial alterations. And upon my word, noble Jack, with his
native-born good sense, taste, and humanity, was not ill
qualified to play the true part of a _Quarterly Review_;--which
is, to give quarter at last, however severe the critique.

Now Lemsford's great care, anxiety, and endless source of
tribulation was the preservation of his manuscripts. He had a
little box, about the size of a small dressing-case, and secured
with a lock, in which he kept his papers and stationery. This
box, of course, he could not keep in his bag or hammock, for, in
either case, he would only be able to get at it once in the
twenty-four hours. It was necessary to have it accessible at all
times. So when not using it, he was obliged to hide it out of
sight, where he could. And of all places in the world, a ship of
war, above her _hold_, least abounds in secret nooks. Almost
every inch is occupied; almost every inch is in plain sight; and
almost every inch is continually being visited and explored.
Added to all this, was the deadly hostility of the whole tribe of
ship-underlings--master-at-arms, ship's corporals, and boatswain's
mates,--both to the poet and his casket. They hated his box, as if
it had been Pandora's, crammed to the very lid with hurricanes and
gales. They hunted out his hiding-places like pointers, and gave
him no peace night or day.

Still, the long twenty-four-pounders on the main-deck offered
some promise of a hiding-place to the box; and, accordingly, it
was often tucked away behind the carriages, among the side
tackles; its black colour blending with the ebon hue of the guns.

But Quoin, one of the quarter-gunners, had eyes like a ferret.
Quoin was a little old man-of-war's man, hardly five feet high,
with a complexion like a gun-shot wound after it is healed. He
was indefatigable in attending to his duties; which consisted in
taking care of one division of the guns, embracing ten of the
aforesaid twenty-four-pounders. Ranged up against the ship's side
at regular intervals, they resembled not a little a stud of sable
chargers in their stall. Among this iron stud little Quoin was
continually running in and out, currying them down, now and then,
with an old rag, or keeping the flies off with a brush. To Quoin,
the honour and dignity of the United States of America seemed
indissolubly linked with the keeping his guns unspotted and
glossy. He himself was black as a chimney-sweep with continually
tending them, and rubbing them down with black paint. He would
sometimes get outside of the port-holes