ship lying at the Circular Quay in Sydney. His voice was deep,
hearty, and authoritative--the voice of a very prince amongst
sailors. He did everything with an air which put your attention on
the alert and raised your expectations, but the result somehow was
always on stereotyped lines, unsuggestive, empty of any lesson that
one could lay to heart. He kept his ship in apple-pie order, which
would have been seamanlike enough but for a finicking touch in its
details. His officers affected a superiority over the rest of us,
but the boredom of their souls appeared in their manner of dreary
submission to the fads of their commander. It was only his
apprenticed boys whose irrepressible spirits were not affected by
the solemn and respectable mediocrity of that artist. There were
four of these youngsters: one the son of a doctor, another of a
colonel, the third of a jeweller; the name of the fourth was
Twentyman, and this is all I remember of his parentage. But not
one of them seemed to possess the smallest spark of gratitude in
his composition. Though their commander was a kind man in his way,
and had made a point of introducing them to the best people in the
town in order that they should not fall into the bad company of
boys belonging to other ships, I regret to say that they made faces
at him behind his back, and imitated the dignified carriage of his
head without any concealment whatever.

This master of the fine art was a personage and nothing more; but,
as I have said, there was an infinite diversity of temperament
amongst the masters of the fine art I have known. Some were great
impressionists. They impressed upon you the fear of God and
Immensity--or, in other words, the fear of being drowned with every
circumstance of terrific grandeur. One may think that the locality
of your passing away by means of suffocation in water does not