Chapter 76 - Page 2

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 between the ropes, I perceived an aged seaman on
his knees, his face turned seaward, with closed eyes, buried in
prayer. Softly rising, I stole through a port-hole, and left the
venerable worshipper alone.

He was a sheet-anchor-man, an earnest Baptist, and was well
known, in his own part of the ship, to be constant in his
solitary devotions in the _chains_. He reminded me of St. Anthony
going out into the wilderness to pray.

This man was captain of the starboard bow-chaser, one of the two
long twenty-four-pounders on the forecastle. In time of action,
the command of that iron Thalaba the Destroyer would devolve
upon _him_. It would be his business to "train" it properly; to
see it well loaded; the grape and cannister rammed home; also, to
"prick the cartridge," "take the sight," and give the word for
the match-man to apply his wand; bidding a sudden hell to flash
forth from the muzzle, in wide combustion and death.

Now, this captain of the bow-chaser was an upright old man, a
sincere, humble