Un homme sur deux est une femme

colourised pencil drawing of Trumpolino in front of the magic mirror

The second mate, a fine rough old sailor, is walking the quarter-deck stopping his whistle now and then with a groff “you do head?” or “ keep her up, you lubber,” to the man at the helm; the “silver-shell” of a waning moon, is just visible through the dead lights over my shoulder (it has been up two hours, to me, and by the difference of our present meridians, is just rising now over a certain hill, and peeping softly in at an eastern window that I have watched many a time when its panes have been silvered by the same chaste alchymy), and so after a walk on the deck for an hour to look at the stars and watch the phosphorus in the wake, and think of ———, I'll get to my own uneven pillow, and sleep fifty-two feet long, with a speculum six feet in diameter basking on its sunny wall.