Now Yesterday At Lisbon We Saw H.M.S. "Caledonia." THIS, On The
Contrary, Inspired Us With Feelings Of Respect And Awful Pleasure.
There She Lay - The Huge Sea-Castle - Bearing The Unconquerable Flag
Of Our Country.
She had but to open her jaws, as it were, and she
might bring a second earthquake on the
City - batter it into
kingdom-come - with the Ajuda palace and the Necessidades, the
churches, and the lean, dry, empty streets, and Don John,
tremendous on horseback, in the midst of Black Horse Square.
Wherever we looked we could see that enormous "Caledonia," with her
flashing three lines of guns. We looked at the little boats which
ever and anon came out of this monster, with humble wonder. There
was the lieutenant who boarded us at midnight before we dropped
anchor in the river: ten white-jacketed men pulling as one, swept
along with the barge, gig, boat, curricle, or coach-and-six, with
which he came up to us. We examined him - his red whiskers - his
collars turned down - his duck trousers, his bullion epaulets - with
awe. With the same reverential feeling we examined the seamen - the
young gentleman in the bows of the boat - the handsome young
officers of marines we met sauntering in the town next day - the
Scotch surgeon who boarded us as we weighed anchor - every man, down
to the broken-nosed mariner who was drunk in a wine-house, and had
"Caledonia" written on his hat. Whereas at the Frenchmen we looked
with undisguised contempt.
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