“Let Zeus adjudge your landward kin, whose votive meal and salt At easy-cheated altars win oblivion for the fault, But ye the unhoodwinked waves shall test—the immediate gulfs condemn— Unless ye owe the Fates a jest, be slow to jest with them. “Ye shall not clear by Greekly speech, nor cozen from your path The twinkling shoal, the leeward beach, and Hadria’s white-lipped wrath; Nor tempt with painted cloth for wood my fraud-avenging hosts; Nor make at all or all make good your bulwarks and your boasts. “Now and henceforward serve unshod through wet and wakeful shifts, A present and oppressive God, but take, to aid, my gifts— The wide and windward-opened eye, the large and lavish hand, The soul that cannot tell a lie—except upon the land!” In dromond and in catafract—wet, wakeful, windward-eyed— He kept Poseidon’s Law intact (his ship and freight beside), But, once discharged the dromond’s hold, the bireme beached once more, Splendaciously mendacious rolled the brass-bound man ashore. The thranite now and thalamite are pressures low and high, And where three hundred blades bit white the twin-propellers ply: The God that hailed, the keel that sailed, are changed beyond recall, But the robust and brass-bound man he is not changed at all! From Punt returned, from Phormio’s Fleet, from Javan and Gadire, He strongly occupies the seat about the tavern fire, And, moist with much Falernian or smoked Massilian juice, Revenges there the brass-bound man his long-enforced truce! THE BONDS OF DISCIPLINE As literature, it is beneath contempt. It concerns the endurance, armament, turning-circle, and inner gear of every ship in the British Navy—the whole embellished with profile plates. The Teuton approaches the matter with pagan thoroughness; the Muscovite runs him close; but the Gaul, ever an artist, breaks enclosure to study the morale, at the present day, of the British sailorman. In this, I conceive, he is from time to time aided by the zealous amateur, though I find very little in his dispositions to show that he relies on that amateur’s hard-won information. There exists—unlike some other publication, it is not bound in lead boards—a work by one “M. de C.,” based on the absolutely unadorned performances of one of our well-known _Acolyte_ type of cruisers. It contains nothing that did not happen. It covers a period of two days; runs to twenty-seven pages of large type exclusive of appendices; and carries as many exclamation points as the average Dumas novel. I read it with care, from the adorably finished prologue—it is the disgrace of our Navy that we cannot produce a commissioned officer capable of writing one page of lyric prose—to the eloquent, the joyful, the impassioned end; and my first notion was that I had been cheated. In this sort of book-collecting you will see how entirely the bibliophile lies at the mercy of his agent.