"Yes," said the Captain; "all, if I may so say, provincial; all peculiar; all highly characteristic; and all excellent. Even the occasional songs are good as compositions; that is to say, songs which refer to politics, passing events, and so forth. Did you ever hear this?" He gave _Ya vienen los Ingleses_. "Very pleasing, and very lively," said I. "This is in the same style." I began to strike up _Quando el Pepe José_. "Don't let's have any more Spanish," said the Captain. "Sing something Portuguese." I gave _Os soldados do comercio_. "Quite humorous," said he, "but very pleasing music. This is the Portuguese national song." He gave _Eis, Principe excelso_. "Some of the satirical songs," said I, "are very well set." I gave _Estas senhoras da moda_. The Captain, I observed, looked at his watch. Little dreamt I the traitor was working against time. "This, now," said he, "is what may be called the sentimental style; short, but expressive, like the serious epigram of the Greek Anthology." He gave _Tu me chamas tua vida_. "The finest I have heard, though," said I, "in that style, is the Spanish song--" "No, no," said the Captain; "give us something Portuguese; something by an old Padre. They are the fellows that knock off the best modinhas." I gave _Fui me confessar_. The conclusion of this my third song was followed by loud shouts of laughter, a general clapping of hands, and cries of "Encore! encore! bravo! viva! encore! encore!" I turned, and stood the centre of a semicircle! Around me were ranged the delighted, applauding passengers; the Colonel, the Major, Capsicum, Pledget, Gingham, Mr Belvidere, Joey, and, oh! leaning on Joey's arm, the lovely Juno; the whole Party, at my expense, in the highest possible state of hilarity. The skipper in the background, leaning on the binnacle, stood surveying the whole transaction with his face set in a sarcastic scowl, as though it had first been cast in plaster of Paris, and then painted with red ochre. Kitty's bonnet appeared on the level of the deck, projecting from the cabin stairs. Near her, profuse in soft attentions, stood the Colonel's flunkey, lavishing winks and winning simpers. Immediately above me, in the shrouds, with his face downwards, like a monkey in a tree, hung Snowball the nigger; his two eyes, full of wonder and delight, gloating like a basilisk's, and projecting like a skinned rabbit's; his mouth extended across his face in so broad a grin, you'd have thought his throat had been cut from ear to ear. The applause having a little subsided, each in turn paid me a compliment. Juno, the enchanting saucy witch, dropped me a demure and very low curtsy, begged to thank me, and precipitately put her handkerchief to her face. Gingham advised me to cultivate my voice; begged to assure me I had very good taste, and only wanted modulation, flexibility, accuracy, and execution, with a little attention to time and tune, and care to avoid passing into the wrong