It is pleasant at certain seasons to glide over the summer seas of these delightful latitudes, whilst the vessel spreads abroad all her snowy canvas to arrest every light and vagrant zephyr, to hang over the side, and whilst the ear is soothed by the lapping ripple of small, crisp waves, idly breaking on the vessel’s bows as she moves scarce perceptibly through them, to gaze on the sky and ocean, and indulge in that half-dreamy listlessness when gentle thoughts unbidden come and go. How beautiful is the dark blue main, relieved by the milk-white flash of the seabird’s wing! how picturesque the Indian craft, with their striped latteen sails, as they creep along those palm-covered coasts, studded with temples and pagodas! and seaward resting on the far-off horizon, how lovely the fleecy piles of rose-tinted clouds, seeming to the fancy the ethereal abodes of pure and happy spirits! There is in the thoughts to which such scenes give birth a rationality as improving to the heart as it is remote from a forced and mawkish sentimentality. Such were my sensations as we crept along the Indian coast, till in a few days the _Rottenbeam Castle_ came to anchor in the roads of Madras, amidst a number of men-of-war, Indiamen, Arab grabs, and country coasters. The first thing we saw, on dropping anchor, was a man-of-war’s boat pulling for us, which created a considerable sensation amongst the crew, to whom the prospect of impressment was anything but agreeable. The boat, manned by a stout crew of slashing young fellows, in straw hats, and with tattooed arms, was soon alongside, and the lieutenant, with the air of a monarch, mounted the deck. He was a tall, strapping man, with a hanger banging against his heels, loose trousers, a tarnished _swab_ (epaulette) on his shoulder, and a glazed cocked-hat stuck rakishly fore and aft on his head: in my idea, the very _beau idéal_ of a “first leftenant.” CHAPTER IV. In the last chapter I left the _Rottenbeam Castle_ just arrived in the roads of Madras, and the frigate’s boat alongside. Our commander, with a grave look, advanced to meet the officer, who, saluting him in an easy and off-hand manner, announced himself as lieutenant of H.M. ship _Thunderbolt_, and desired him “to turn up the hands.” Captain McGuffin was beginning to remonstrate, declaring that some of his best sailors had been pressed a few days before (which was the fact), and that he had barely sufficient to carry the ship round to Bengal, &c., when the lieutenant cut him short, declaring he had nothing to do with that matter; that his orders were peremptory, and must be obeyed. “I shall appeal to the admiral,” said our skipper, rather ruffled. “You may appeal to whom you choose, sir,” replied the lieutenant, somewhat haughtily, and giving his hanger a kick, to cause it to resume its hindward position; “but now, and in the meantime, if you please, you’ll order up your men.”