A M A N-O F-W A R RACE.
We lay in Rio so long--for what reason the Commodore only knows--that
a saying went abroad among the impatient sailors that our frigate would
at last ground on the beef-bones daily thrown overboard by the cooks.
But at last good tidings came. "All hands up anchor, ahoy!" And bright
and early in the morning up came our old iron, as the sun rose in the
East.
The land-breezes at Rio--by which alone vessels may emerge from the
bay--is ever languid and faint. It comes from gardens of citrons and
cloves, spiced with all the spices of the Tropic of Capricorn. And,
like that old exquisite, Mohammed, who so much loved to snuff perfumes
and essences, and used to lounge out of the conservatories of Khadija,
his wife, to give battle to the robust sons of Koriesh; ev
