“Realize the situation, and the strange incongruity between the senses and the mind in these poor fellows!  The day had ripened its beauty; beneath a purple heaven shone, sparkled, and laughed a blue sea, in whose waves the tropical sun seemed to have fused his beams; and beneath that fair, sinless, peaceful sky, wafted by a balmy breeze over those smiling, transparent, golden waves, a bloodthirsty pirate bore down on them with a crew of human tigers; and a lady babble babble babble babble babble babbled in their quivering ears!”

We have heard numberless inquiries as to Mr. Reade’s private life, with which, whether they have the right or not, the public will concern itself.  So at home is he on every subject that each appears to be his specialty.  One asserts that he follows Galen:  witness his mania on medicine.  Certainly not, another replies; are not his principles erroneous, and second-hand at that?  Does he not dredge the science with ridicule?  No practitioner would gravely assert the feasibility of transfusion, an operation never yet performed with success, since the red globules of his own blood seem to be as proper to each individual as his identity, and allow no admixture from alien veins; in surgery he has but one foe,—­phlebotomy; in pharmacy, but one friend,—­chloroform; he asserts of Dr. Sampson, (Dr. Dickson, the writer of “Fallacies of the Faculty"?) that “he was strong, but not strong enough to make the populace suspend an opinion; yet it might be done:  by chloroforming them.” (Which leads one parenthetically to remark that it is great pity, then, that, in the prevalent headlong precipitancy of public judgment, anaesthetics have not been more generally employed on this side of the water of late.) Certainly he is no physician, they say.  But, on the other hand, a conjecture that he has been before the mast is as plausible a one as that ever Herman Melville was; there is the true sailor’s-roll about him; nobody less skilful than the captain of a three-decker could have run the Agra through such a gantlet of broadsides and hurricanes; the manoeuvring of the ship, when her master puts her before the wind that he may rake one schooner’s deck and hurl the majestic monster bodily upon the other, is unequalled by anything in nautical literature, and approached by nothing in verity, except it may be Admiral Dupont’s waltz of fire around the two forts of Hilton Head.  Another, who laughs at both of these amateur statements, has a Grub-Street one; but, except to a favored few, to everybody in this country he is only an impersonal existence.  In this general dearth of useful information, there are, however, one or two biographical sketches afloat,—­possibly hints of those waiting their chance in the pigeon-holes of the Thunderer,—­of which we are tempted to give the reader a sample, brought to us by Una in substantiation of her hostilities.