“Ever heard of Cap’n Joseph Round?” echoed the man. “Whoy, ye might as well ask me if I’ve ever heard or Deal beach.” “Is he living?” “There’s ne’er a fish a-swimming under this here keel that’s more living.” “And he’s well, I hope?” “It’s going to be a bad job when old Cap’n Round falls ill. Old Cap’n Round’s one of them gents as never knows what it is to have so much as a spasm; though when the likes of them _are_ took bad, it’s common-loy good-noight,” said he with an emphatic nod. “I don’t reckon your services will be required,” said I; “but I may be wanting to go ashore after we’ve brought up, and you can keep your eye upon this ship if you like.” “Thank ye, sir. Loike to see a paper, sir?” and here the man thrust his hand under his jersey and pulled down a tattered newspaper a few weeks old, gloomy with beer stains and thumb marks; but news, even a few weeks old, must needs be very fresh news to me after an absence of two years, during which I had caught but a few idle and ancient whispers of what was happening at home. I thanked the man, put the newspaper in my pocket, meaning to look at it when I should have leisure, and stepped on to the forecastle, where I stood staring about me awaiting orders from the captain. The scene on the water was very grand. There were, probably, two hundred sail of wind-bound ships at anchor. Every kind of rig, I think, was there, from the tall spars of the British frigate down to the little, squab, apple-bowed, wallowing hoy. I am writing this in the year 1849. A great change in shipping has happened since 1814. You have men-of-war now with funnels and paddle-wheels; steam has shortened the passage to India from four months to two months and a half, which is truly wonderful. Nay, the Atlantic has been crossed in three weeks, and I may yet live to see the day when the run from Liverpool to New York shall not exceed a fortnight. But the change since 1814 is not in steam only. Many are the structural alterations. Ships I will not deny have gained in speed and convenience; but they have lost in beauty. They are no longer romantic, and picturesque, and quaint. No; ships are no longer the gay, the shining, the castellated, the spacious-winged fabrics of my young days.