- end_line
- 11001
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 10971
- text
- this prying, pettifogging, Irish-informer of a master-at-arms.
You have seen some slim, slip-shod housekeeper, at midnight ferreting
over a rambling old house in the country, startling at fancied witches
and ghosts, yet intent on seeing every door bolted, every smouldering
ember in the fireplaces smothered, every loitering domestic abed, and
every light made dark. This is the master-at-arms taking his
night-rounds in a frigate.
It may be thought that but little is seen of the Commodore in these
chapters, and that, since he so seldom appears on the stage, he cannot
be so august a personage, after all. But the mightiest potentates keep
the most behind the veil. You might tarry in Constantinople a month,
and never catch a glimpse of the Sultan. The grand Lama of Thibet,
according to some accounts, is never beheld by the people. But if any
one doubts the majesty of a Commodore, let him know that, according to
XLII. of the Articles of War, he is invested with a prerogative which,
according to monarchical jurists, is inseparable from the throne—the
plenary pardoning power. He may pardon all offences committed in the
squadron under his command.
But this prerogative is only his while at sea, or on a foreign station.
A circumstance peculiarly significant of the great difference between
the stately absolutism of a Commodore enthroned on his poop in a
foreign harbour, and an unlaced Commodore negligently reclining in an
easy-chair in the bosom of his family at home.
- title
- Chunk 3