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  FRAGMENTS

  OF

  VOYAGES AND TRAVELS,

  INCLUDING

  ANECDOTES OF A NAVAL LIFE:

  CHIEFLY FOR THE

  USE OF YOUNG PERSONS.

  BY CAPTAIN BASIL HALL, R.N.
  F.R.S.

  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. I.

  ROBERT CADELL, EDINBURGH:

  WHITTAKER, TREACHER, & CO. LONDON.

  M.DCCC.XXXI.




  LONDON:
  J. MOYES, TOOK’S COURT, CHANCERY LANE.




PREFACE.


This little work has been drawn up chiefly for the use of Young
Persons; it is therefore hoped, that should it fall under the eye of
older readers, the purpose for which it is written will be kept in mind.

On the other hand, should any young person meet with passages he does
not perfectly understand, he is recommended not to puzzle over them,
but rather to conclude that those parts of the book may be intended for
people a little further advanced.

It does not seem a settled point, whether, in the estimation of
Juvenile Readers, most interest attaches to a true story, or to one
entirely fictitious; but it may be right to mention, that all the
incidents here related are real.

The advice which the author has taken the liberty of offering to
his Young Friends, as well as the speculations he has occasionally
introduced, contain no opinions but such as he considers might have
proved useful to himself, at some stage of his own professional life.

  _Putney Heath,
  28th March, 1831._




CONTENTS OF VOL. I.


                                                                    Page

  EARLY PREDILECTIONS                                                  1

  FIRST GOING AFLOAT                                                  33

  SPECIMENS OF COCK-PIT DISCIPLINE                                    61

  BERMUDA IN THE PEACE                                               100

  MIDSHIPMEN’S PRANKS                                                137

  DIVERSITIES IN DISCIPLINE                                          161

  GEOLOGY—NAUTICAL SQUABBLES                                         179

  MAST-HEADING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN                                     196

  KEEPING WATCH                                                      217

  DANGERS OF A NOVA SCOTIA FOG                                       261

  BLOCKADING A NEUTRAL PORT                                          283

  THE SCHOOLMASTER AFLOAT                                            302




FRAGMENTS

OF

VOYAGES AND TRAVELS.




CHAPTER I.

EARLY PREDILECTIONS.


Various circumstances conspired to give me, very early in life, what is
called a taste for the sea. In the first place, I came into the world
in the midst of a heavy gale of wind; when such was the violence of the
storm, and the beating of the rain, that there were some thoughts of
removing the whole party to a less ricketty corner of the old mansion,
which shook from top to bottom. So strong, indeed, was the impression
made on the imagination of those present, by the roaring of the surf,
close at hand, the whistling of the wind in the drenched forest, and
the obvious rocking of the house, under the heavy gusts of that
memorable gale, that, as soon as I was old enough to understand any
thing at all, the association between the events of my future life,
and those of my birth-night, began to be sown in my mind. Thus, long
before I shipped a pair of trousers, I felt that a salt-water destiny
was to be mine; and as every body encouraged me to cherish these
early predilections for the sea, I grew up with something of the same
kind of certainty of becoming a sailor, as an elder brother does of
becoming a country gentleman, from his knowing—‘for quickly comes such
knowledge’—that the estate is entailed upon him.

The holydays, also, which released me from the irksome confinement of
the High School of Edinburgh, were passed in the country, on a part
of the rugged sea-coast of Scotland, peculiarly calculated to foster
nautical propensities. During the weary months which preceded and
followed these six delicious weeks of liberty, my thoughts, instead of
being devoted to the comprehension of abstract rules of grammar, which
it was our worthy preceptor’s sole object in life to drive into us,
invariably strayed back to the picturesque and iron-bound shore, as it
is happily termed in naval language, along which I was wont to ramble
in full enjoyment during these holydays.

So incessantly, indeed, was the contrast presented to my imagination,
between the cramped routine of school discipline, and the glorious
freedom of the sea-beach, that I took little or no interest even in
the games which filled up the play-hours of the other boys; and, from
dwelling upon these thoughts day and night, I became so gloomy and
wretched, that the bare recollection of my feelings at that period
often makes me shudder, though more than thirty busy years have since
passed over my head. The master of our class was as excellent a man,
I believe, as could be; but he would have deemed it a shocking crime
against his calling—which he very naturally considered the first on
earth—to have allowed that any one boy possessed a particle more
of feeling, or was conscious of more independence of thought, than
his companions. Still less could he understand that any boy should
pretend to have aspirations and wild fancies—dreams he called them—the
object of which lay far beyond the boundary walls of the play-ground.
Accordingly, I dragged on a tolerably profitless and painful existence
for several years; though, perhaps, with a little management, this
period might have been rendered not only useful, but happy.

Once only, during my continuance in this Limbo, as the Spaniards call
the Purgatory of Children, I was addressed in a very kind manner by the
head master, though a severe personage in his way, as far as regarded
the use of the formidable strap, or taws, which in Scotland supply the
place of the wholesome birch of English seminaries. He took me on one
side, and said, in a tone so unusual in the despotic government of
schools in those days, that it made me start,—“How comes it, little
fellow, that you are always so gloomy; and that you never play as the
rest do, but look for ever as if some misfortune had befallen you?”

I answered, ‘that the confinement of the school was much too great, and
that I could not bear being always treated as if I had no feelings or
peculiar wishes worthy of separate consideration. That it was not the
number of hours’ confinement I complained of, but the awkward selection
of the periods.’ “Let me, sir,” I said, “but choose the time for study,
and I will cheerfully work even much longer. At present, the day is
totally cut up and destroyed.”

He smiled, patted me on the head, and said the hours and discipline
could not be changed, merely to suit the fantastic taste of one boy.
I knew this well enough already; in fact, I was not so absurd as to
suppose that a public school could be maintained on my visionary
principles, or that any rules could be established for their
government but such as took account of average abilities, and made
allowance for an ordinary share of feeling and patience. Whether or
not my quantum of sensibility were needlessly great, is of little
consequence: it certainly was so different from that of my companions,
that it completely prevented my profiting, in the mean time, by the
opportunities of this school, and drove me to rest my only prospect of
happiness in getting away from its thraldom.

Certain very troublesome misgivings, also, as to the future, came
across my juvenile thoughts about this epoch; especially as to the
probabilities of happiness in that wide world of freedom for which my
soul panted, and of which I knew nothing, except by description. I
happened, one day, to get hold of Gray’s Ode on a distant Prospect of
Eton College,—a poem fraught, it is true, with images of the highest
possible beauty, both of thought and of expression, but most of which
are certainly far better calculated to beget despondency than hope,
by teaching that school days are unavoidably happier than those of
after-life.

What the ‘march of intellect’ may have done lately to remedy this
matter, I cannot say; but in my time, and at the particular school
alluded to, the season of boyhood was, to me at least, any thing but a
happy one; and I well remember, after reading the poem in question,
exclaiming, in a state of great despair, “If it is certain that my
future life is to be more wretched than this, which is now so full of
misery, what, alas! is existence worth?”

In this terrified frame of mind, I dived into various other works,
but, to my sorrow, very seldom met with anything of a more consolatory
nature. Nor was it till many years’ trial of the wear and tear of
actual life, that I came to learn the fallacy of most of these
assertions respecting the comparative happiness of school; and to feel
assured that the whole, or nearly the whole matter, lies essentially
with ourselves, since, in any situation in life, the amount of our
happiness will be found to bear, in the long run, a pretty exact ratio
to the heartiness with which we perform our duty. Whereas Gray’s
Ode, Young’s Night Thoughts, and other sombre productions, too often
thrust into the hands of young people, would almost seem to inculcate
the notion that the most virtuous persons are the least happy, and
that life is necessarily filled with care and remorse, instead of
being, as it really is, to those who choose to make it so, a scene
of high enjoyment—not, indeed, one of unmixed enjoyment, but one
in which the pleasures generally far outweigh the sorrows. It has,
accordingly, always seemed to me a libel on our nature, and a perverse
misapplication of the gifts of Providence, to consider that the
earliest days of life must of course be the happiest. It may do very
well, in poetical fiction, to talk of childhood being the ‘sunshine
of the breast;’ but surely the true, broad daylight of life, not
poetically, but practically speaking, is to be found at a later period,
when the faculties are far more matured, and the will is left free.

Be all this, however, as it may, I never lost a minute in hurrying
away from school, the instant our examinations were ended. At these
periodical trials, it may be well supposed, I never cut any great
figure; for, I contented myself with trying to keep a little above
the middle, partly because some boys sat thereabouts to whom I was
attached, anti partly because the particular bench alluded to was near
the fire. As soon as the term of imprisonment was over, I flew to the
coach-office, and never felt perfectly satisfied that all was right
and safe, till fairly seated on the top, by the side of my friend the
guard, and bowling along the high road. On reaching the country, the
first object always was to hunt out some of the fishermen on the shore,
who readily engaged to give me a row next morning. After a sleepless
night of anticipated delights, I commonly found myself, at sunrise, in
a fishing-boat, half a league from the coast, surrounded by congenial
spirits—fellows who had no idea of grammar—and who were willing, either
from bribery, or from motives of professional sympathy, to consider
me as somebody, and not to reckon me as a mere zero, serving no other
purpose but to augment the numbers of a school, without having any
value in myself.

At all events, these hardy boatmen were so much amused with my
enthusiasm about their art, that they took great pleasure in feeding
my young fancy with tales of nautical dangers and hardships, the
joyous excitement of which placed the dull drudgery of syntax in sad
contrast. On these expeditions, however, I was always wofully sea-sick;
for the boats, or cobbles, as they are called, were not altogether so
tidy as a man-of-war’s gig; besides which, they generally enclosed a
due allowance of bilge water, and decayed remnants of forgotten fish.
So that my taste for the sea had often tough work to hold its ground,
against the deranged action of the stomach; and it must be owned that
I often leaped on shore again, to the enjoyment of steady footing and
an atmosphere less fishified, with a half-uttered vow at my lips that I
would never tempt the ocean more.

This slight infidelity to my beloved element, however, was always very
transient, as it seldom lasted longer than the time it cost to climb
the high, steep bank, which guarded the coast. From this elevation,
the view extended far up the Firth of Forth on one hand, with many a
mountain lying beyond it; right out into the German Ocean in front;
while the scene was bounded on the right, or eastern side, by the
noble promontory called Fast Castle, better known as the Wolf’s Crag
of the Waverley Novels. To my young fancy this seemed the grandest of
all landscapes—and still, after I have rambled for more than a quarter
of a century over the earth’s surface, and made personal acquaintance
with some of the sublimest works of nature, my opinion of the beautiful
scenery in question is not changed, otherwise than by increased
admiration. Indeed, it will often require much time, and more extended
means of comparison, as well as the assistance of just conceptions of
what is really meant by the great and beautiful in nature, which spring
from experience alone, before we can fairly estimate the advantages
which frequently lie at our very doors. This will apply, perhaps, to
other things besides scenery—but it is with that alone I have to do
just now—and certainly few things can be imagined more brilliant than
the view from the part of the coast in question. For the sea at that
point being a great commercial thoroughfare, is generally studded over
with vessels of various sizes and descriptions, and, I may add, of
colours. For what the lights and shades of heaven do not perform in
this respect, the seamen do for themselves, by tanning their sails, and
painting the ships of many different hues. As these vessels drifted
past, and dropped, one by one, out of sight, beyond the horizon, I felt
the most eager desire to follow their wanderings into those wide seas,
about which I had so often read—where the land is lost sight of for
months together, and where every evening brings fresh stars into view,
and every bird and fish, as well as every breath of air, indicates
another climate, and almost another world.

In the meantime, however, my operations in nautical affairs were
necessarily limited to the horse pond, upon which, by the assistance
of an obliging carpenter lad, I managed to make the first fair trial
of that element with which, in after life, it was my happy lot to
become so familiar. Our vessel consisted of two or three rough logs,
filched from the farm-yard, and sundry planks nailed or lashed across
them. A mast was readily obtained by the abstraction of a bar from
the nearest paling. But considerable difficulty arose as to the sail;
for canvass was a material much beyond our finances or influence. At
length my ingenious companion—who, by the way, distinguished himself in
after-life as a ship-builder—suggested the idea of employing one of the
mats used by the gardener to protect his plants from the frost. Thus,
step by step, our gallant vessel was at length rigged out; and on the
second day of our labours, every thing being ready, and the wind fair,
we started from one end of this inland sea, and, after a prosperous
voyage of about ten minutes, by ‘God’s grace’—to use the quaint
language still printed in bills of lading—more than by any skill of our
own—we reached the other extremity, without any serious disaster.

The pleasure which this primitive voyage inspired, has never since
been much exceeded. It was the first unalloyed happiness I had
ever experienced, and at once opened up a new prospect of hope and
resolution, which rendered the weary load of school existence somewhat
less intolerable than it had been before. It also gave me a foretaste
of the joys of enterprise, and independent command, which, in their
turn, called up innumerable visions of successful resource, surmounted
difficulties, and all the demi-savage delights of such a life as
that of Robinson Crusoe, with the additional advantage of that great
adventurer’s experience.

Little did I then think, and, in fact, it was nearly impossible I
should reasonably think, that the realities of life could ever reach
these imaginary conceptions. And yet I have lived to experience that,
sanguine as I then was, these anticipations fell much short of the
glorious reality which is almost every where to be met with. Indeed,
I may say, with perfect truth, that in all these voyages and travels,
I have generally found things more curious, and more interesting, in
all respects, than I had looked for—or, if the career of curiosity has
at any time been checked, it has only been followed by a more ardent
pursuit, and ultimately by still higher rewards.

This process of feeding the curiosity, was well enough exemplified
by a series of very exciting, though often painful and seemingly
discouraging, incidents that occurred every year on the coast already
mentioned, as forming the scene where I passed the holydays. Ten
leagues, or thirty geographical miles, due north of the house in which
I was born, lies the Bell Rock, just off the mouth of the Tay, and
close to the northern side of the great estuary called the Firth of
Forth. At the time I am speaking of, this rock was justly considered
one of the most formidable dangers that the navigators of those seas
had to encounter; for its head was merged under the surface during
greater part of the tide, and at no time did it make any shew above the
water. There was nothing to be done, therefore, but to keep well clear
of the mischief, or, as seamen express themselves, to give the rock a
wide birth. Ships, accordingly, bound for the Forth, in their constant
terror of this ugly reef, were not content with giving it ten or even
twenty miles of elbow room, but must needs edge off a little more to
the south, so as to hug the shore, in such a way, that, when the wind
chopped round to the northward, as it often did, these overcautious
navigators were apt to get embayed in a deep bight to the westward of
Fast Castle. If the breeze freshened before they could work out, they
paid dearly for their apprehensions of the Bell Rock, by driving upon
ledges fully as sharp, and far more extensive and inevitable. Thus, at
that time, from three to four, and sometimes half a dozen vessels used
to be wrecked every winter, within a mile or two of our very door.

Perhaps there are few more exciting spectacles than a vessel stranded
on a lee-shore—and especially such a shore—which is fringed with reefs
extending far out, and offering no spot for shelter. The hapless
ship lies dismasted, bilged, and beat about by the waves, with her
despairing crew clinging to the wreck, or to the shrouds, and uttering
cries totally inaudible in the roar of the sea—while at each successive
dash of the breakers, the number of the survivors is thinned, till, at
length, they all disappear—the gallant bark goes to pieces—and the
coast, for a league on either side, is strewed with broken planks,
masts, boxes, and ruined portions of the goodly cargo, with which, a
few hours before, she was securely freighted, and dancing merrily over
the waters.

But it is the greatest of all mistakes to suppose that the actual
contemplation of such disasters, still less the description of
hardships, has any tendency to divert a young mind from following its
original bent, towards a profession of such varied and high excitement
as that of the sea. At all events, the effect of each succeeding
shipwreck I witnessed, was only to stimulate me more and more to pursue
the object of all my thoughts, waking or dreaming.

I can recollect, however, being conscious of a feeling of awe,
approaching at times to dread, as I saw the waves curling themselves
over these devoted vessels, and gradually tearing them to pieces as
the tide advanced. But still there was always more of confidence and
pleasure in the prospect which my mind’s eye conjured up to itself
beyond these stirring adventures. To this day there is told a
traditional story amongst our fishermen, of my having once contributed
to save a ship’s crew, by engaging some country people to transport a
boat from a distance, across the hills, in a cart. The account farther
sets forth, that I had only a few halfpence in my pocket; and that when
these proved insufficient to induce the carter to go out of his way, I
stoutly asserted I had authority from my father to offer five pounds
for any such assistance. Upon this pledge, the cart was freighted with
its unwonted cargo, and the boat was brought in time to the spot. I
have no recollection whatsoever of this incident; but something of
the kind may possibly have occurred, or, more probably, may have been
merely talked of amongst the fishermen, my great patrons and admirers.
These things, by making me feel not so utterly useless in the world, as
I was made to appear at school, must have united me by still stronger
ties to the animating profession to which I grew up, apparently as a
matter of course.

Future generations of the family, however, will not have this costly
and melancholy source of encouragement for their children to go to
sea:—since the shipwrecks that helped to do me this good turn, are now,
fortunately for commerce and humanity, hardly ever known. The fatal
Bell Rock—the direct and indirect cause of so many losses—has recently
been converted into one of the greatest sources of security that
navigation is capable of receiving. By dint of scientific skill, backed
by well-managed perseverance, and the example of the Eddystone to copy
from, a light-house, one hundred and twenty feet high, has been raised
upon this formidable reef as a foundation. So that the mariner, instead
of doing all he can to avoid the spot, once so much dreaded, now
eagerly runs for it, and counts himself happy when he gets sight of the
revolving star on the top, which, from its being variously coloured,
he can distinguish from every other light in that quarter. He is then
enabled to steer directly for his port, in perfect security, though the
night be ever so dark.

On returning from these scenes of real life and activity, to that most
picturesque of cities, the Old Town of Edinburgh, I was plunged into
tenfold gloom; and really do not know what I should have done had I
not lighted accidentally upon Shakspeare’s description of the ship-boy
reposing on the high and giddy mast. This idea was so congenial to
the fancy of a sailor elect, and withal so exquisitely poetical, that
I could not rest till possessed of a copy of the whole of his Plays,
which were forthwith read over from beginning to end—to the total
destruction, I am half ashamed to say, of all the little respect I
then had for the ancient classics. The Tempest was soon learned almost
by heart—the nautical part of it in particular—and I swore an eternal
friendship with the boatswain, whose seamanship, by the way, though
wild and strange, is, upon the whole, wonderfully correct. One would
like to know how Shakspeare picked it up.

About this period, also, when my thoughts presented a strange jumble
of real and imaginary shipwrecks, with the intricate niceties of Latin
grammar, I met my father one day in the streets, close to the late
Lord Duncan’s house.

“Well met!” he cried, “come along, master sailor, and you shall see the
hero of Camperdown.”

I was accordingly introduced as a future brother-seaman to this great
officer, whose noble appearance was in such good keeping with his
renown, that I felt my respect for him rise at every moment of the
interview.

“You are a youngster of some taste,” observed his lordship
good-naturedly; “and if you will come here with me, I can shew you
something to encourage you to stick to your business.”

So saying, he led the way to another room, where a flag he had taken
from Admiral de Winter, on the 11th of October, 1797, was hanging up.
This sight was interesting, to be sure, but I was still more enchanted
with the frankness and kindliness of the veteran’s manner,—and I could
not help saying to myself, that if such a man saw reason to treat a boy
with attention, I was surely entitled to something less disrespectful
than I met with at school,—and I remember, next morning, shedding
a torrent of tears as I entered the scene of what I considered my
imprisonment, and contrasted the master’s reception with that of the
admiral.

Not long afterwards, I happened to meet Professor Playfair, of
Edinburgh College, at a house in the country. It was the singular
fortune of this amiable and accomplished philosopher, to be equally
a favourite with the young as with the old. He won the regard and
the confidence of children, not only by the matchless sweetness of
his disposition, but by the generous encouragement he delighted to
give to their opening thoughts; whilst among men of science, or of
letters, he was not less admired for the extent and variety of his
attainments, than for the clear, popular, and often eloquent facility
which he possessed of giving expression to the most abstract branches
of knowledge.

I found him one morning seated on the ground, taking the sun’s altitude
with a pocket sextant, from an artificial horizon, which had been
made by pouring some treacle into a bowl. Upon my expressing great
curiosity to know what magical operation he could be about, he at
once explained, or rather endeavoured to explain, the object of such
pursuits. Instead of cutting me short with some idle reply about the
thing being above my comprehension, he intermitted his work, and
sought earnestly to make me perceive how closely such observations
were connected with the duties of a naval life. Next day he gave me
a copy of Bonnycastle’s Astronomy, which I possess to this hour;
and I think I may date from the conversation above alluded to, the
growth of a taste for this branch of professional pursuits—I mean
nautical astronomy—which has not only proved at all times a source of
the highest enjoyment, but, as will be seen in the sequel, has been
accompanied by no small utility in helping me on in the world.

I shall be sorry if what I have here said dispose any idle youth who
may not find himself happy at school, to try so rugged a profession
as that of the sea, unless he have many other, and more substantial
reasons for preferring it to all others. The whole system of school
discipline, however, has been so much changed since the present century
commenced, that boys have probably much less excuse than I had for not
sticking to their lessons. And yet truth forces me to confess, that the
fault lay fully more with the scholar than with the school. But my head
had got so filled with notions of voyaging and travelling, that, even
if I had been at Eton, I dare say I should have sighed to be allowed to
fly away.

It is clear enough, that no boy, instruct him as we will, can form
correct ideas of what he is likely to meet with in any profession;
still, if his mind be ardently bent upon one particular pursuit, and
it be decided to indulge this fancy, he will be bound in honour,
if he have the spirit of a gentleman within him, to persevere in
following up the line he has been allowed to choose for himself. The
incipient difficulties and discomforts of all professions are probably
pretty much alike; and the boy who has not energy enough to set his
face resolutely against the early discouragements of any particular
calling, will, in all probability, be successful in no other. It is,
however, so great an advantage to have a young person’s own feelings,
and his point of honour heartily engaged in the cause in which he has
embarked, that, if circumstances render such a thing at all expedient,
or not quite unreasonable, the choice of a profession may often be
conceded with advantage. But such free choice ought to be afterwards
burdened, with a positive interdict against change. In the case of a
sea life, this appears to be quite indispensable; for the contrast
is so striking, in most cases, between the comforts of home and
the discomforts of a ship—to say nothing of rough fare, hard work,
sea-sickness, and strict discipline—that, if an opening be constantly
presented for escape, few youngsters will have resolution enough to
bear up against those trials to which they must be exposed, and which
they ought to hold themselves prepared to meet with cheerfulness.

Perhaps the naval profession owes a good deal of its peculiar character
to these very disadvantages, as they are called; and though we may
often regret to see young men, of good abilities, dropping out of the
navy, who, if they had only cast on the right tack, might have done
the service and themselves much honour—yet there is no denying that
their more vigorous-minded and sterner-framed companions, whom they
leave afloat, are, upon the whole, better fitted to make useful public
servants.

In many other professions, it is possible to calculate, beforehand,
with more or less precision, the degree and kind of work which a young
man is likely to be called upon to perform; but there is peculiar
difficulty in coming to any just conclusion upon these points, even in
a vague way, in the life of a sailor. His range of duties includes the
whole world,—he may be lost in the wilderness of a three-decker, or
be wedged into a cock-boat;—he may be fried in Jamaica, or frozen in
Spitzbergen;—he may be cruising, or be in action during six days of the
week, in the midst of a fleet, and flounder in solitude on the seventh;
or he may waste his years in peaceful idleness, the most fatal to
subordination, or be employed on the home station, and hear from his
friends every day, or he may be fifteen months, as I have been, at a
time, without getting a letter or seeing a newspaper. He may have an
easy-going commander, which is a very great evil; or his captain may be
one of those tight hands, who, to use the slang of the cock-pit, keeps
every one on board ‘under the fear of the Lord and a broomstick.’ In
short, a man may go to sea for twenty years, and find no two men, and
hardly two days alike. All this, which is delightful to some minds, and
productive in them of every kind of resource, is utterly distracting,
and very often ruinous, to others. Weak frames generally sink under
its severity; and weak minds become confused with its complication,
and the intensity of its action. But, on the other hand, the variety
of its objects is so boundless, that if a young man have only strength
of body, to endure the wear and tear of watching and other inevitable
fatigues; and have also strength of character enough to persevere,
in the certainty of openings occurring, sooner or later, by which his
talents or his industry may find profitable employment,—there can be
little doubt that the profession of a sailor might be made suitable to
most of those who, on entering it, are positively cut off from retreat.

Supposing that this ticklish question, of the choice of a profession,
has been conceded to a boy, there remains the still more perplexing
problem—what is the fittest method of training him beforehand, so that
he may enter his new life with best effect? The difficulty arises, I
suspect, from two causes, one of which applies to education generally,
the other to the particular case of a lad intended for the navy. Most
people seem to think, and very naturally, that the object of a school
is to teach knowledge which shall afterwards be practically available
in the business of life; and they cannot well understand what is
the use of teaching Latin and Greek, which appear to be so little
applicable to real work. Much of this difficulty vanishes, however, if
it be considered that the chief purpose of education is to discipline
the mind, and to train up the character, so that it may be found equal
to any task, no matter how unlooked-for it may be. In such a view, the
Classics are as good, and probably better than any other.

If the principles, the faculties, and the feelings of a boy be
duly cultivated at school, he may be expected to enter the world
in as fit a state to profit by the opportunities in his path, as
his nature will allow of; nor does it, perhaps, much matter by what
artificial machinery this degree of perfection in mental culture has
been attained. All that seems essentially of importance is, that the
endowments given him by nature, should have been so well exercised,
that when brought to bear on the real, manly business of life, they may
act with effect. If the process of education has been well managed, its
utility will probably not be the least sensibly felt, in cases where
the pursuits to be followed in earnest are dissimilar to those, by
means of which the boy’s faculties were originally developed at school.

In the instance of young men intended for the navy, I think this rule
applies with particular force. The early age of thirteen, at which
they must of necessity go on board ship, renders it almost impossible
that they can have acquired any great stock of what is usually called
knowledge. But, by proper management, they may, previous to that age,
have secured a very large stock of that particular description of
information which will be of most use to them in the outset of life;
and their growing minds may have been fitted, by a good system of
school discipline, to submit with cheerfulness, as well as advantage,
to that singular mixture of constraint and freedom, which forms the
most striking feature of a sea life. If this be true, it is perhaps of
no great consequence whether the ground-work of such an education be
the ancient classics, the mathematics, or modern languages: for the
real object to be arrived at, viz. mental training, may, by proper
management, be equally well attained by any of these methods.

No two boys, perhaps, out of a dozen, intended for the sea, may
require the same training; but still there is no reason why the whole
number should not be equally well fitted, by previous education, to
advance themselves in the service, according to their respective
talents, though some of them, at starting, may be altogether ignorant
of those subjects, generally supposed to be of the most indispensable
utility at sea.

Antecedent, therefore, to the age of thirteen, after which a boy ought
never to commence his naval career, it appears to matter extremely
little what he learns, provided his mind be kept fully occupied. It
will be better, no doubt, if a boy’s taste happen to lie in that
direction, that his occupations at school have as direct a reference
as possible to his future pursuits. If, for instance, he have a turn
for mathematics, or for modern languages, he ought certainly to be
indulged in his fancy. But the essential objects to be attended to, at
this stage of his education, lie a great deal further from the surface,
and consequently make much less show. The formation of character,
upon the solid basis of religion, and a due cultivation of manners,
especially of those branches which relate to temper and self-denial,
are quite within the range of education antecedent to the age of
thirteen. If, then, a boy be only well grounded in his principles, and
if he be taught to think and feel and act like a gentleman, before he
is turned adrift on the wide ocean, and he have also acquired habits
of industry and obedience, together with the ordinary elements of
knowledge—reading, writing, and so on—it matters little, as I conceive,
whether he has acquired much information besides—for all else that is
wanting will follow in good time.

The consideration of what system of instruction should be pursued
afterwards, at the naval college, or on board ship, is a totally
different affair, and deserves to be treated by itself.




CHAPTER II.

FIRST GOING AFLOAT.


I know not what other persons may have felt on these occasions; but I
must own, that, in spite of all my enthusiasm, when the actual time
came for fairly leaving friends and home, and plunging quite alone and
irrevocably into a new life, I felt a degree of anxiety, and distrust
of myself, which, as these feelings were quite strange, I scarcely
knew how to manage. I had been allowed to choose my own profession,
it is true, and was always eager to be off; yet I almost wished, when
the actual moment arrived, that I had not been taken at my word.
For the first time in my life, I knew what was meant by the word
responsibility, and all the shame of failure stared me in the face.
When at school, nine-tenths of my thoughts had always rambled abroad,
to those unknown regions, upon which my imagination loved to feast, day
and night. Still, I can well remember, my heart sunk within me, and I
felt pretty much as if I were on the verge of death, when the carriage
that was to convey me away, drove up to the door. I still believed that
there was, even on this earth, a new and a much better world before me;
but when I tasked my judgment, to say upon what grounds this belief
rested, the answer was so meagre, that I began to dread I had done a
mighty foolish thing in setting out to seek for it.

“What a scrape I shall be in,” I said to myself, “if the gloomy
representations of these sad fellows the poets be true pictures
of life! What if this existence of ours be but a scene of
gradually-increasing misery! How shall I be able to get on at all,
if a sea life be not more enjoyable than that of the High School of
Edinburgh? and what kind of figure shall I cut, when driven back, by
sheer distress, to petition my father to take me home again, to eat
the bitter bread of idleness, or to seek for some other profession,
wherein all the rubs and tugs may prove just as bad as those of the
sea, and possibly not very much better than those of school?”

I took good care, however, to let none of these unworthy doubts and
alarms find any expression in word or in look; and, with a heart almost
bursting, I took leave of the holyday scenes of the country I had loved
so well, and which, to my young fancy, appeared the most beautiful spot
on earth,—a judgment which, as I before observed, a tolerably extensive
acquaintance with the rest of the world has only tended to confirm.
Of course, I had a regular interview and leave-taking with my capital
friends the fishermen, whom I had long held to be the best-informed
persons of my acquaintance, merely because they knew most about ropes
and ship matters generally. I cannot say that these worthy mariners
stood the test of after-communication, quite so well as the romantic
coast-scenery near which they resided. I remember, on returning from my
first voyage, going down to the beach, in my uniform jacket, and in
no very modest spirit, to shew off my superior nautical attainments to
these poor fellows, who had been sticking fast to their rocks during
the interval, much after the fashion of their own shell-fish. Their
reception, of course, was highly flattering; but their confined views
of the profession, and scanty knowledge of many of its details, made me
look back with wonder to the time when I had hailed them as first-rate
masters in the noble art of seamanship.

On the 16th of May, 1802, I left home; and next day my father said to
me, “Now you are fairly afloat in the world, you must begin to write a
journal;” and, suiting the action to the word, he put a blank book into
one hand, and a pen into the other, with a hint for me to proceed at
once to business. The following is a fair specimen of the result, which
I certainly little imagined was ever destined to attain the honour of
being printed:—

“_May 17._—Journey to London.—Left Dunglass. Breakfasted at the Press
Inn, and changed horses. Got to Belford; changed horses. Alnwick—dined
there, and got to Morpeth, where we slept. Up early; breakfasted at
Newcastle. Stopped at Durham. Walked forward till the chaise should
overtake us; got into the chaise. Stopped to give the horses some
drink. Saw two deep draw-wells. Observed some coal-carts at Newcastle
coal-pits. The wheels are so constructed, that they run down-hill upon
things in the road, which are made for the purpose. The horse follows
the cart, to draw it up the hill, after it has emptied the load.”

The rest of the journal is pretty much in the same style—a record of
insignificant facts which lead to nothing, useless as memorandums
at the time, and of course not more useful at the distance of
eight-and-twenty years. I would give a good deal, at this moment, to
possess, instead of these trashy notices, some traces, no matter how
faint, of what was actually passing in my mind upon the occasion of
this journey. The resolutions we make at such a period, together with
the doubts and fears which distract us, may have a certain amount
of value, if then jotted down in good faith; but if these fleeting
thoughts be once allowed to pass without record, they necessarily lose
most of their force. There is always, indeed, something interesting,
and often much that is useful, in tracing the connexion between
sentiment and action, especially in the elementary stages of life, when
the foundations of character are laid. But the capacity of drawing
such inferences belongs to a very different period of life; and hence
it arises, that early journals are generally so flat and profitless,
unless they be written in a spirit which few people think of till too
late.

I shall have so many better opportunities than the present of speaking
on the copious subject of journal-writing, that I shall merely remark,
in passing, for the consideration of my young readers, that what most
people wish to find recorded there, is not so much a dry statement of
facts, however important these may be, as some account of the writer’s
opinions and his feelings upon the occasion. These, it may be observed,
are like the lights and shades and colours of a painting, which, while
they contribute fully as much to the accuracy of a representation as
the correctness of the mere outline, impress the mind of the spectator
with a still more vivid image of the object intended to be described.

I ought to have mentioned before, that the object of this journey
was to ship me off to sea; and it was arranged that I should join
the flag-ship of Sir Andrew Mitchell, then fitting in the River for
the Halifax station. We, of course, set out for London, as the grand
focus from which every thing in the English world radiates. But I find
nothing in the memorandums of that period worthy of being extracted,
nor do I recollect any incident which excited me strongly, except the
operation of rigging myself out for the first time in midshipman’s
uniform. There was something uncommonly pleasing, I remember, in the
glitter of the dirk and its apparatus; and also in the smart air, as
well as new cut of the dress; but the chief satisfaction arose from the
direct evidence this change of garb afforded that there was no joke
in the matter, but that the real business of life was actually about
to begin. Accordingly, in a tolerable flutter of spirits, I made my
first appearance on the deck of one of his Majesty’s ships. The meagre
journal of that day is as follows:—

“Went to Deptford after breakfast in a hackney-coach—when we got there,
we got out of the coach, walked down the street, and met the captain of
the Leander. Went with him to the clerk of the cheque’s office, and had
my name put in some book or other. Went with him to his lodgings, where
he gave us a list of some things I was to get. Got a boat and went on
board the Leander for the first time. Came home on a stage-coach—got a
boat at London bridge—went up in it to the Adelphi—got out and went to
the hotel.”

In most other professions, the transition from the old to the new
mode of life is more or less gradual; but in that of the sea, it is
so totally abrupt, and without intervening preparation, that a boy
must be either very much of a philosopher, or very much of a goose,
not to feel, at first, well nigh overwhelmed with the change of
circumstances. The luxuries and the kindnesses of home are suddenly
exchanged for the coarse fare of a ship, and the rough intercourse
of total strangers. The solicitude with which he has been watched
heretofore, let the domestic discipline have been ever so strict, is
tenderness itself, compared to the utter indifference, approaching to
dislike, with which a youngster, or ‘squeaker,’ as he is well called,
is received on board. Even if he possess any acquaintances amongst his
own class, they have few consolations in their power; and, generally
speaking, are rather disposed to laugh at the home-sick melancholy of
a new comer, than to cheer him up, when his little heart is almost
breaking.

It so happened that I knew no one on board the ship, excepting two
middies similarly circumstanced with myself. I was introduced also to
a very gruff, elderly, service-soured master’s mate, to whose care,
against his own wishes, I had been consigned by a mutual friend, a
captain with whom he had formerly served. Our own excellent commanding
officer had a thousand other things to look after, far more pressing
than the griefs and cares of a dozen of boys under his charge.

I felt bewildered and subdued, by the utter solitude of my situation,
as my father shook me by the hand, and quitted the ship. I well
recollect the feeling of despair when I looked round me, and was made
conscious of my utter insignificance. “Shall I ever be able,” thought
I, “to fill any respectable part in this vast scene? What am I to do?
How shall I begin? Whom can I consult?” I could furnish no satisfactory
answer to these queries; and though I had not the least idea of
shrinking from what I had undertaken, yet, I confess, I was not far
from repenting that I had been so decided about the matter.

There is a vehement delight, no doubt, in novelty—but we may have
too much of it at once; and certainly, if my advice were asked as to
this point, in the case of another, I should recommend that a boy be
gradually introduced to his future home; and, if possible, placed
under the auspices of some one older than himself, and who, from
having a real interest in him, might soften the needless rigours of
this formidable change. I had no such preparation; and was without
one friend or even acquaintance on board, who cared a straw for me. I
was also very little for my age, spoke broad Scotch, and was, withal,
rather testy in my disposition. The cock-pit, it is true, is a pretty
good place to work the bad humours out of a crotchety young fellow,
and to bring him to his due bearings; but I think I have seen a good
many tenderer plants than I was, crushed down under the severity of
this merciless discipline. Perhaps it is all for the best; because
youngsters who cannot, or will not stand this rough rubbing, are just
as well out of the way, both for themselves and the public.

There is one practice, however, which, as I invariably followed it
myself, I know to be in every boy’s power, and I venture strongly to
recommend it to others in the same situation; nor is it very likely
that many will be exposed to greater trials, in a small way, than I
was at first. The maxim is, always, in writing home, to put the best
face upon matters, and never, if possible, to betray any inevitable
unhappiness. Such a practice is doubly useful—for it contributes
essentially to produce that character of cheerfulness in reality,
which is partly assumed at the moment of writing, in order to save
our friends from distress on our account. It would be wrong, indeed,
to say, in writing home, that we are very happy, when in truth we are
very much the reverse; but, without stating any falsehood, or giving
into any subterfuge—which is still worse—those particular things may
very fairly be dwelt upon which are agreeable, almost to the exclusion
of those which are otherwise. We should learn, in short, to see and
to describe the cheerful things; and, both in our practice and in
description, leave the unpleasant ones to take care of themselves.

For example, I remember, as well as if the incidents had occurred
yesterday, most of the details which are stated in the following
letter, written only the day after I was left to my fate—amongst
strangers—in the unknown world of a man-of-war. I certainly was far
from happy, and might easily have made my friends wretched by selecting
chiefly what was disagreeable. I took a different course.

  “_H. M. Ship Leander, June 12, 1802,
  Cock Pit._

  “DEAR FATHER,

 “After you left us, I went down into the mess-room; it is a place
 about twenty feet long, with a table in the middle of it, and wooden
 seats upon which we sit. When I came down there were a great many cups
 and saucers upon the table. A man came in, and poured hot water into
 the tea-pot. There are about fourteen of us mess at the same time. We
 were very merry in this dark hole, where we had only two candles.

 “We come down here, and sit when we like; and at other times go upon
 deck. At about ten o’clock we had supper upon bread and cheese, and
 a kind of pudding which we liked very much. Some time after this I
 went to a hammock, which was not my own, as mine was not ready, there
 not being enough of clues at it, but I will have it to-night. I got
 in at last. It was very queer to find myself swinging about in this
 uncouth manner, for there was only about a foot of space between my
 face and the roof—so, of course, I broke my head a great many times on
 the different posts in the cock-pit, where all the midshipmen sleep.
 After having got in, you may be sure I did not sleep very well, when
 all the people were making such a noise, going to bed in the dark,
 and the ship in such confusion. I fell asleep at last, but was always
 disturbed by the quarter-master coming down to awake the midshipmen
 who were to be on guard during the night. He comes up to their
 bed-sides and calls them; so I, not being accustomed to it, was always
 awaked, too. I had some sleep, however, but, early in the morning, was
 again roused up by the men beginning to work.

 “There is a large hole which comes down from the decks, all the way
 through to the hold, where they let down the casks. The foot of the
 hammock that I slept in was just at the hole, so I saw the casks all
 coming down close by me. I got up at half-past seven, and went into
 the birth (our mess-room), and we were all waiting for breakfast till
 eight, when the man who serves and brings in the dishes for the mess
 came down in a terrible passion, saying, that as he was boiling the
 kettle at the stove, the master-at-arms had thrown water upon the fire
 and put it out. All this was because the powder was coming on board.
 So we had to want our breakfast for once. But we had a piece of bread
 and butter; and as we were eating it, the master-at-arms came down,
 and said that our candles were to be taken away: so we had to eat our
 dry meal in the dark.

 “I then went upon deck, and walked about, looking at the Indiamen
 coming up the river, till eleven, when I and one of my companions
 went and asked the lieutenant if he would let us go on shore in
 the jolly-boat, as it was going at any rate. We intended to take
 a walk in some of the fields. We got leave, and some more of the
 midshipmen went with us. There are about six men row the boat, and
 we sit any where we like. Got on shore, and ran about the park you
 were mentioning when in the boat. Then came back to an inn, where
 we had some rolls and butter and coffee, to make up for the loss of
 our breakfast in the morning. We then took a walk to the church at
 Dartford, where we lounged about till we were tired—then came back
 through the fields to the boat, which we got into, and made the ship.”

Professional eyes will detect a curious mixture of ignorance and
knowledge in the above production, in which, if the nautical terms—such
as ‘hole’ for hatchway—be not too severely criticised, the information
may pass pretty well for twenty-four hours’ experience.

In a letter written a few days afterwards, from the Nore, I find some
touches of the same kind.

“On Sunday, about three o’clock in the morning, I was awakened by a
great noise of the boatswain’s mates and the captain bawling for all
hands up to unfurl the sails. As I thought I could not sleep much more,
I got up in the dark and went upon deck. All the men were hauling the
anchor in: they were a good while about it. As soon as the anchor was
got in, all the men ran up the masts like so many cats, and went out
on the yard-arms and untied the sails. In a little while all the sails
were set, and we scudded down the river, very quick. Got to the Nore
about twelve o’clock, where we now lie for three or four days.”

In another letter, of the same date, after giving an account of the
“confounded noise made by the men, and the boatswain’s mates ordering
the anchor to be drawn up”—and describing, more correctly than in the
above extract, that the sailors “ran up the shrouds,” I proceed to
plume myself, rather prematurely, upon being already a voyager.

“About twelve o’clock we made the Nore—the first time I have been in
open sea!” I half suspect that the motion of the ship, which, even at
that stage of our progress, began, as I well remember, to overturn the
serenity of my stomach, may have led me to conclude we were at sea. In
the same epistle, in spite of the open ocean, there occur the following
sentences:—

“I like my station very much indeed. Have some very agreeable
messmates, and the schoolmaster is a very pleasant man, who has
travelled a great deal. We have not begun our school yet, as we are
all in confusion, but shall, as soon as we have tripped our anchor for
Halifax.”

The next letter was written from Spithead, and is characteristic enough.

  “_H. M. S. Leander, Spithead, June 18._

 “I am much better pleased with my situation than I suspected I would
 at my first coming on board. We have in our mess four Scotchmen, six
 Englishmen, and two Irish, so that we make a very pleasant company
 down in the cock-pit. We dine at twelve, and breakfast at eight in
 the morning. At breakfast we get tea and sea cake: at dinner we have
 either beef, pork, or pudding. But when we come into a harbour or near
 one, there are always numbers of boats come out with all sorts of
 vegetables and fresh meat, which are not left long in the boat—for the
 people all run, and buy up the soft bread, and fresh provisions.

 “About nine o’clock on the 17th, we anchored in the Downs—the famous
 Downs—but, instead of seeing a large fleet of great ships thundering
 out a salute to us on our entrance, there was not one but a Dane and a
 Swede; so we had to moor ship in the now solitary Downs. All the hills
 along the coast are chalk. I should have liked to have gone on shore
 at Dover to get you a piece of the rock, but could not, as the ship
 was sailing as we passed it.

 “We saw the coast of France, but were not near enough to see any thing
 that was going on in the French territories.

 “We midshipmen are upon watch every night for four hours together; we
 do nothing but walk the quarter-deck, if the ship is not sailing.
 There is always half the crew upon deck when the ship is sailing, and
 we and the lieutenants order them to do so and so about the ropes
 and sails. All the men’s hammocks are brought upon deck, and laid in
 places at the side for the purpose, both to give room for the men to
 work under the decks, and to give them air. All the decks are washed
 and well scrubbed every morning, which is very right, as they are
 often dirtied.

 “There is a sort of cylinder of sail-cloth, about two feet in
 diameter, which is hung above the deck, and is continued down through
 the decks to the cock-pit. The wind gets in at the top, and so runs
 down and airs the cock-pit, which is a very pleasant thing, down here,
 at the bottom of the ship.

 “This morning, about eight o’clock, we arrived at Spithead, and saw
 the celebrated Portsmouth, but I did not go ashore the first day, as
 so many others were going; but I intend to go as soon as I get leave.
 As we were coming along we saw the Isle of Wight; it is very pretty
 indeed, viewed from the ship, whatever it might be were we on it. I
 saw some pretty places there, with plenty of wood round them. The sun
 was fast setting on the water in the opposite horizon, which had a
 fine effect, and cast a light upon the island, which I cannot describe
 to you, as it is such a rich country, and contains so many objects—it
 is too pretty to describe. There are some ships at Spithead, both
 large and small. In my next letter, if I go to Portsmouth, I will give
 you an account of all the harbour and docks, &c. &c. We remain here
 for ten days, I believe.”

These extracts, though of course sufficiently boyish, help to shew what
may be made out of the most common-place details, when all things are
totally new both to the writer and the reader. It is on this account
I give a place to these juvenile lucubrations; for it is not about
the particular incidents that we care, in such cases, so much as the
state of feeling and genuine opinions of a young person, exposed,
for the first time, to the actual contact of the world. It would be
unreasonable to expect such ideas to be expressed in so many words;
but they may be picked up, in some degree, by the very terms used in
describing the most ordinary transactions.

The following letter shews how little difficulty people find in
expressing themselves when well charged with their topic. On reading it
over at the distance of nearly thirty years, I cannot help remarking
how different, and yet how much alike, the same person may be at
various periods of his life—how much changed in thought—in sentiment—in
action! It is curious also to discover, how independent the man at one
stage of life is of the same man at another stage—though, after all,
they may possibly be more nearly allied in character, at bottom, than
any two other persons who could be placed in comparison. At the same
time, under the circumstances described in this letter, I really do not
see that I should act differently at this hour.

  _“Portsmouth, June 19._

 “We were very near all being destroyed, and blown up, last night,
 by an alarming fire on board. As I was standing making my hammock,
 last night about ten o’clock, near two others making theirs, we were
 alarmed by seeing a large burst of sparks come from one corner of the
 cock-pit. Without going to see what was the matter, I ran into our
 birth, or place where we mess, and got hold of all the pots of beer
 which the midshipmen were going to drink. I returned with these, and
 threw them on the fire, while others ran for water.

 “When I came back, I saw the purser’s steward covered with fire, and
 rubbing it off him as fast as he could, with a pile of burning sheets
 and blankets lying at his feet. One of us ran up to the quarter-deck,
 and seizing the fire-buckets that were nearest, filled them, and
 brought them down. We also got some of the men out of their hammocks,
 but took good care not to awaken any of the rest, for fear of bustle
 and confusion.

 “The sentry, as soon as he discovered the smell, went down to the
 captain and lieutenants, who immediately came to the cock-pit, and
 whispered out ‘Silence!’ They then got more buckets of water, and
 quenched the flames, which, as they thought, were only in the purser’s
 steward’s cabin. But one of the men opened the door of the steward’s
 store-room, and saw a great deal of fire lying on the floor. Water, of
 course, was applied, and it also was quenched; the store-room was then
 well flooded.

 “The captain ordered the purser’s steward to be put in irons directly,
 as well as his boy, who had stuck the light up in the cabin. The
 captain next went with the master-at-arms into the powder magazine,
 which was close to the purser’s steward’s cabin, and found the
 bulkhead or partition half-burnt through by the fire in the cabin!

 “All this mischief was occasioned by sticking a naked light upon the
 beam above the cabin, from whence it had fallen down and set fire to
 the sheets. The steward, in trying to smother it with more, had set
 fire to the whole bundle, which he then flung in a mass into the
 store-room. There was a watch kept all night near the spot. Nobody has
 been hurt.

 “I am very sorry for the purser’s steward, for he was a very
 good-natured and obliging man, and much liked by all of us. He gave us
 plums, &c. when we asked them from him. He is broke, I fear. I will
 give you the issue in my next letter.”

This incident served, in a small way, to bring me into notice;
for the very next day, to my great satisfaction, I was ordered by
the first lieutenant to go in the jolly-boat, which was manned
alongside, with some message to a ship which he named, lying near us
at Spithead. I hesitated; and upon his asking me why I did not ‘be
off,’ I replied that I did not know which was the ship in question.
“Oh,” said he, looking over the gangway hammocks, “that ship with the
top-gallant-masts struck.”

Now, I had not the remotest idea what the term ‘top-gallant-mast
struck’ might mean; but as the officer seemed impatient, I hurried
down the side. The bow-man shoved the boat off, and away we rowed,
making a very zig-zag course; for, though I had the tiller in my hand,
I knew very imperfectly how to use it. The strokesman of the boat at
last laid his oar across, touched his hat, and said, “Which ship are we
going to, sir?”

I answered, in the words of the first lieutenant, “the one with the
top-gallant-masts struck.”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the fellow, smiling, “we have past her some
time—there she lies,” pointing astern.

Round we pulled—and I was much inclined to ask the man to steer the
boat; for, although my old associates, the fishermen on the coast of
Scotland, had edified me a little on this matter, I found it quite a
different affair to take a boat alongside a man-of-war at Spithead,
in a tide’s way, from what it had been to run a cobble on the beach.
Accordingly, I first ran the jolly-boat stem on, and, in trying to
remedy this lubberly blunder, gave orders which had the effect of
bringing the boat head and stern—which is about as wrong in seamanship,
as it would be in a horseman to put his right foot into the stirrup in
mounting, which, of course, would bring him with his face to the tail.

Nevertheless, I crawled up the side, gave my message, and returned
to report the answer. The only salutation I received from the first
lieutenant was in the following words—uttered in a sharp, angry tone:—

“Where the deuce have you been, youngster, all this time? and what
possessed you to go cruising about amongst the whole fleet at such a
rate?”

“I hope I shall learn to do better, sir,” I stammered out.

“There is much room for improvement, I am sure,” he cried.

I was made painfully sensible, by the tartness of this reproach, that
there was no very extraordinary degree of professional sagacity in what
I had recently done about the fire near the magazine. I had been taking
some credit to myself for not bawling out ‘fire! fire!’ and especially
for having thought of the pots of beer—but this brilliant piece of
service seemed now all forgotten!

Officers, and other persons in authority, should therefore be careful
how they strike young folks with their tongues; for, although the
wounds made do not shew upon the skin like those caused by steel or
lead, they often sink deeper into the feelings, and frequently remain
rankling there much longer than was intended, or than is useful.

Of course, I was excessively mortified; but the justice of the
officer’s censure was so obvious, and the ridicule of the seamen in the
boat, even subdued as it was, so fair, that I soon saw I had nothing to
do but to set about learning to steer forthwith, and to lose no time in
finding out what ‘striking top-gallant-masts’ could possibly mean.




CHAPTER III.

SPECIMENS OF COCK-PIT DISCIPLINE.


I skip over many other anecdotes at Portsmouth, in order to get fairly
out to sea; for I never felt completely disengaged from the thraldom of
school, and fully adrift on the wide world of independent life, till
we had left the white cliffs of old England many leagues astern. The
following brief despatch was penned just before starting; and I can
remember the mixture of exultation, and undefined dread of something
that was to come which I experienced, while I was writing it:—

  _“H. M. S. Leander, Spithead, July 11, 1802._

 “Yesterday the captain received his sailing orders, and we have now
 got up a Blue Peter at the fore-top, which is a signal for immediate
 sailing. We are just going to unmoor ship, and shall sail for Halifax
 immediately. So, farewell to England!”

Off we set, accordingly; and it may be interesting, and perhaps
useful, for youngsters in similar circumstances, to know, that all the
pleasurable anticipations came to pass sooner than any of those which
were gloomy in their promise. Yet it is curious, that, since those
days, when I was first launched upon blue water, I have very rarely set
out upon a voyage without experiencing many misgivings, often amounting
almost to a wish that some accidental incident might arise to check
the expedition altogether. This is the more strange, as I have seldom,
if ever, failed to find the reality more delightful than was expected,
the difficulties more easily overcome, and the harvest of amusement and
instruction more fertile, than any previous reading or conversation,
had led me to suppose the jog-trot course of a professional life could
possibly afford.

I don’t deny that I had sometimes a plaguy tough job of it to keep
my spirits up to this mark; and though I never quite lost heart, I
was often very low in the scale of resolution. So much so, that, on
looking back to those times, I fear I can discover moments when, had
good opportunities offered, I might perhaps have been tempted to cut
and run. Fortunately for me, however, there never was the least choice
left between perseverance and poverty; and I had been long taught to
consider, that the bread of idleness, however supplied, was the most
degrading food a gentleman could eat. It is true I was not then so
strongly convinced as I am now, that many of the essential advantages
of the primogeniture law, lie on the side of the younger sons, yet
I always felt, that it was my duty, as well as my interest, to
illustrate, practically, the truth of this seeming paradox.

The first damper to this magnanimous resolution, of making myself
useful in the world, was caused by a speech of our excellent captain,
who, calling all the youngsters into his cabin, a few days after we
were out of sight of land, addressed us in the following words:—

“Now, younkers, I have sent for you all, to tell you that you are not
of the smallest use on board the ship; in fact, if any thing, you are
rather in the way: but since you are here, I have no objection to
your learning your business, if you have a mind to do so. You shall,
therefore, have your choice, either to keep watch or not, exactly as
you please; only, recollect this,—if any of you decide to do your duty
in the way proposed, you shall be made to perform it in earnest. So,
mind what you are about, and give me an answer to-morrow morning. Now,
little fellows, be off with you!”

Out of about a dozen, I think there was only one other besides myself
who decided upon keeping watch. Most of this party had been a cruise or
two at sea before, and knew that pacing up and down the deck for four
hours in the night, over and above the tasks of the day, was no joke;
and they rather chuckled at the prospect of being let off so easily.
For my part, I was so grievously annoyed at the contemptuous official
assurance of being of no use, that I never hesitated an instant, but
caught eagerly at any opening which promised me the means of belying
this disparaging assertion. Of course, I knew little or nothing of the
duties which would be required; but I had a pretty distinct notion,
that, provided any person has a specific course chalked out for him to
follow, no matter how humble that path may be, there must be a better
and a worse way of going over it; and, if so, that there will be a
certain amount of distinction due to him who, in the first instance,
resolves to do his business properly, and has afterwards perseverance
enough to make good his pledge.

To a lad who has health and spirits, keeping watch is rather agreeable
than otherwise. I speak from about twelve years of almost uninterrupted
experience of the practice, when I say that, upon the whole, its
pleasures outweigh its annoyances. There is no opiate, that ever was
devised, which gives such hearty relish to sleep, as a good four
hours’ night-watch. Without refining or philosophising too deeply,
every one, I am sure, who has tried the experiment, will recollect
the sort of complete self-satisfaction with which he has ‘turned in,’
after having gone through his work, and stripped off his dripping
clothes. Still less will he forget the delighted kind of hug, which
he has bestowed upon himself, when fairly under the blankets. All the
world is then forgotten; the gale may be rising; the ship in no great
safety; the labours of the night just beginning—no matter, his watch is
out—his task is done. “I’ll go to sleep,” he says; and, sure enough,
a young middy, after the weary watch is out, lies down as perfect a
personification of Shakspeare’s ship-boy as imagination could desire.
Though not literally perched on the high and giddy mast, he is pretty
nearly as soundly rocked; for, after being bagged up in a hammock, and
hoisted close to the beams, in the cable tier, with only a foot and a
half of space above, and not half a foot below him, he is banged, at
every roll, against the stanchions, or driven by the motion of the
ship against the deck overhead. In spite of all this, added to the loud
creaking of the lower-deck guns, and the hundred-and-fifty other noises
above and below him, he sleeps through all, and sleeps soundly; or, as
the Spaniards say, ‘Rienda suelta,’—at full gallop.

There is another very satisfactory result of keeping watch, besides the
certainty of insuring good sleep. It not only defines the duty to be
performed, but the period in which it is to be done, so exactly, that
all the rest of the time is free for us to make use of, in the way that
most suits our own pleasure. To a person disposed to turn his spare
moments to account, such privilege is a great affair, independently
of the moral advantage of having a precise task to execute at stated
hours. This obligation of working periodically seems, indeed, to act
as a sort of hone, on which our intellects, as well as our industry,
may be sharpened. Some reasoners and refiners on this matter go so far
as to say, that a man of talents and fancy will often be able to turn
his gifts to greater account, if forced to give up a considerable
portion of his day to dull, or even disagreeable drudgery, than if he
had the whole twenty-four hours to himself. It has even been said, that
the most successful and imaginative writer of our times, considers
himself indebted, for some of his happiest flights, to the necessity
of plodding round and round the dull routine of a court of law, for
many hours of every day; for, when he takes wing to the country, in the
vacation, the spring of his energies is vastly more elastic, than if he
had not been chained to a desk for many months before.

Be this as it may, I, for my own part, certainly took great delight
in keeping watch, and even rejoiced, now and then, in catching a good
sound ducking, as it tended to assure me that there was no play, but
real earnest, in what I was about. During these early times, my chief
apprehension seems to have been that I should be considered useless.

In some other respects, likewise, keeping watch possesses its
advantages. Nothing else produces such punctual habits, or contributes
more directly, to cast both mind and body, into those trains of
thought and of action which lead to certainty of purpose, by teaching
us how much we may accomplish when we set about things regularly. The
practice, also, of early trust is extremely salutary; and although
the youngster of a watch has but a small charge, what little he has
soon makes him acquainted with the meaning of the word responsibility,
and he is thus gradually brought up to court, rather than to shrink
from, the exercise of high duties. He learns that the first object of
his professional life is to perform what is required by the rules of
the service in a proper manner, careless of the consequences. He is
likewise taught the wholesome lesson, that any praise for so doing
is not only quite a secondary affair, but that such commendation
essentially belongs only to those grand efforts of exertion, when an
officer of enterprise and resource, in the midst of difficulties,
adopts that particular line of conduct which the result proves to be
best calculated to accomplish some high purpose.

At the same time, although praise is not an article much used in naval
discipline, I know few things which tend more directly to stimulate
exertion, and confirm the best resolutions of a young officer, as
some mark, no matter how small, of well-timed approbation. There is
hardly any man so dull or so wicked, so old or so young, who is not
keenly alive to the influence of such commendation at the right moment.
It is both interesting and practically important, also, to observe,
that praise, like charity—of which it may be called a branch—can be
dispensed by every man. There is no person so low in station, who, if
he be inclined, may not do works of kindness to some of his shipmates.
In fact, a ship’s crew are so isolated from the rest of the world, and
thrown so constantly together, that they can influence one another’s
happiness even more effectually than neighbours on shore have it in
their power to do. Accordingly, there is no officer, man, or boy, in
a ship of war, so circumstanced, who, in the exercise of his ordinary
duties, and without departing from strict truth, may not give much
pleasure to those under him or about him, and thus essentially tend
to advance the best interests of the service, by making the motives to
action spring from a desire to do well. This, after all, is the great
secret of discipline.

In large ships especially, if they be destined, as the Leander was,
to bear an admiral’s flag, there are always many more midshipmen on
board than are absolutely necessary for performing the duty. These
young gentlemen, therefore, are divided into three watches, and the
individuals of each set are stationed on different parts of the deck.
The mate of the watch, who is the principal person amongst them, with
two or three youngsters, walk on the quarter-deck, always, of course,
on the lee side. Another midshipman, generally the second in seniority,
has the honour of being posted on the forecastle; while a third,
stationed abaft, walks on the poop. To these is added, sometimes,
a signal-mid, whose business, as will be understood without minute
explanation, is to watch the communications made by other ships in
company, or to convey orders to them, by means of flags, which are
generally hoisted from the poop.

After a certain probation, I was promoted from youngster on the
quarter-deck to have charge of the poop; and in the hope of being
advanced, in due time, to the dignity of forecastle-midshipman, became
extremely assiduous—rather too much so, as it would appear.

It was a positive order, and a very proper one, that no clothes should
be hung up to dry except on the clothes’ lines, or in the weather
rigging, and even there only by permission of the officer in charge
of that part of the ship. Every one, of course, is aware that nothing
is considered so sluttish as hanging clothes below the gunwale, and
especially on the davits or guys of the quarter boats. But all poop
middies who have tried to keep these ropes clear of shirts and jackets,
know that it is not very easy to exact obedience to these orders. In
all well-regulated ships, however, these apparently small matters are
found to contribute to the maintenance of uniformity and good order.
They form the tracery or fringe, as it were—the ornamental parts of
discipline—which, if properly attended to, generally imply that the
more substantial requisites are not neglected. At all events, our first
lieutenant was most particular on this subject; and when any shirt or
pair of trousers was detected by his piercing eye, which had escaped
the vigilance of the midshipman of the poop, the young gentleman
was sure to fall under his biting censure, or, in the slang of the
cock-pit, was certain to ‘catch it.’

I had constitutionally from my infancy—and doubly so from the first
day I went afloat—a great horror at being reproached, or ‘wigged,’
as we called it; and therefore laboured at all times with prodigious
ardour to escape the torture of that direct, cutting, merciless sort
of censure, which so many persons consider the only proper vehicle of
instruction when reproving the rising generation. Of course, therefore,
as soon as I was placed in command of the poop, I waged fierce war
against the wet shirts of the sailors, or the still more frequent
abomination of the well-pipe-clayed trousers of the marines, who
naturally affect that part of the ship, and are seldom seen forward
amongst the seamen. All experience shews, however, that there is no due
proportion between the difficulty of getting a trifling order obeyed,
and that of accomplishing a great affair. People are apt to forget,
that the obligation of obedience does not always turn upon the greater
or less importance of the measure commanded, but upon the distinctness
of the injunction. At all events, the unhappy poop-mids of my day
were in hot water, almost every morning, about this petty affair,
which the men, to our great plague, were exceedingly slow to take up,
without more severe punishments than the first lieutenant was generally
disposed to inflict. “It is entirely owing to your negligence, young
gentlemen,” said he to us one day, “that these wet things are so
continually hung up, to the disgrace of the poop. If you would only
contrive to keep your sleepy eyes open, and look about you, during your
watch, instead of snoosing in the hammock netting, with the fly of the
ensign wrapped about you, the men would never think of hanging up
their clothes in such improper places.”

We used to marvel much how he managed to point his sarcastic censure
so exactly as to hit the precise fault we had been guilty of, and we
resolved in future to keep out of its reach, as far as these eternal
wet things went. Yet, in spite of all sorts of attention, the day
seldom broke without some provoking article of dress making its
fluttering appearance—though how on earth it got there, often baffled
conjecture. Upon one occasion, my juvenile bile was fairly capsised,
and having given warning, as I declared, for the hundred-and-fiftieth
time, and all to no effect, I pulled out my knife, and cut the stops
which tied a shirt to the jolly-boat’s tackle-fall. Had I proceeded no
further, all would have been right and proper; but, in my zealous rage,
I leaped beyond the lines of my duty, and fairly threw the offending
garment overboard!

Just as the sun peeped above the horizon, our most systematic of first
lieutenants made his periodical appearance. I watched his eye as it
glanced towards my department, and I chuckled a good deal, when I saw
that my activity had baffled every attempt to detect a square inch of
the forbidden drapery.

The decks, however, were hardly swabbed up before I saw a scamp of a
mizen-top-man, with his hat in one hand, and smoothing down the hair
in front of his head with the other, while he shifted his balance from
leg to leg, address himself to the first lieutenant, evidently in the
act of lodging a complaint. In the next minute I was called down, and
interrogated as to my proceedings. The fact of my having thrown the
lad’s shirt overboard being admitted, I was desired to recompense
him for his loss, by paying him the value in money—while he, in like
manner, was punished for disobedience in hanging it up in so improper a
situation.

A common-place person would have stopped short there; but this
judicious officer was of a different stamp—and I have often lamented,
since those days, that he did not live to receive the grateful
acknowledgments experience has taught me were his due, for this and
many other lessons which at that time I could not justly appreciate.

It was his practice every evening, just before going to bed, to give to
the mate of the watch a written order of what he wished executed in the
course of the night, or early in the morning; and many an injunction,
it may be supposed, his little neatly-bound order-book contained
against the particular kind of delinquency above noticed. On the
present occasion, however, the night orders consisted of these words
only:—

“Mr. Hall is the only gentleman who attends to his duty on the poop.”

It was needless to point more distinctly, even to the youngest squeaker
amongst us, how adroitly the scales of justice and good sense were
balanced in this case. On my side, it was quite clear I had no business
wantonly to cast away another man’s property, merely because that
property was not in its right place; and accordingly I was compelled to
make full restitution. This, of itself, was a considerable censure.
But as the fault really arose from disinterested zeal, in furthering
the objects of the service, the first lieutenant, by one of those
well-timed notes of approbation, which bind inferiors to their duty far
more strongly than punishments ever deter them from neglecting it, took
care to improve the lesson to my advantage, by putting his official
sense of that zeal upon record. Small as the incident was, there are
few things which have since happened, that have given me more permanent
satisfaction than this slight, passing notice. From the strong
manner, also, in which it disposed me to esteem the person who thus
distinguished me, I can understand the secret by which great commanders
rivet the affections and secure the best services of the people about
them. The opposite course, it should not be forgotten, holds still more
true. While half a dozen words, such as these, written at the proper
time, may fix the gratitude of a whole life, a single careless word,
spoken at the wrong season, or in the wrong tone of voice, though
perhaps void of hurtful intention, will often rankle for years, and
permanently estrange men from one another, who might otherwise be truly
attached.

The excellent officer above alluded to, I am grieved to say, was
lost to the service a few years afterwards. When lieutenant of the
Conqueror in 1808, on her passage to Lisbon, he, and about half the
ship’s company, were seized with ophthalmia. He never fully recovered
his sight, and, though eventually promoted to the rank of commander,
he was not able to serve long, and finally became stone-blind. He
still, however, expected his post promotion with so much anxiety, that
when he found the Admiralty passed him over, the disappointment preyed
so deeply on his mind, once so vigorous, that it broke to pieces!
His intellects were literally destroyed, by the mere denial of an
honour which must have been purely nominal, as he never could have
gone afloat. Had he but retained his sight, however, he would, in all
probability, have now been one of the most valuable officers in his
majesty’s service. But his fate was different, and he died blind,
insane, and broken-hearted!

I have already mentioned, I think, that I was very little for my age,
and somewhat impatient in disposition, and, further, that I spoke the
hideous patois of Edinburgh, with the delectable accompaniment of
the burr of Berwick. These circumstances, which ought, perhaps, to
have excited pity, acted and reacted upon one another somewhat to my
disadvantage, and in no very agreeable style.

In addition to other sources of annoyance, I was more than usually
subject to sea-sickness whenever there was the least breeze of wind,
and about once a-week was pestered with the toothache. In the midst of
these mortifications, I reckoned with confidence on the support of my
own countrymen, of whom there were several amongst the elder mids—an
error into which I was led by having often heard of the way in which
Scotchmen hang together in foreign parts. But these wicked fellows,
though very truly my friends, were not always disposed to aid and
assist me in the precise way I wished; and young folks, as well as
their seniors, do not like to be obliged except on their own terms.
I had also unluckily taken it into my head that I spoke English with
remarkable purity—a sad mistake! Upon one occasion I missed some money;
and a brother-mid seeing me in distress, asked what was the matter.

“Oh,” said I, “I have tint a half-guinea.”

“Tint!” cried the other, “what’s that?”

At this moment one of my quizzing countrymen happening to pass, and
hearing the question, burst into a laugh, and explained, that ‘tint,’
being interpreted, meant ‘lost;’ adding, “none but Sawney from the
north” would have used such a barbarous word, unknown in England.

“Eh, Saunders, where are ye gawin?” and many other taunting expressions
to the disparagement of my country, which will hardly bear the press,
were flung at me from the English portion of the circle now assembled
to hear this confusion of tongues. If the Scotch, in its purity, be
bad enough, it is truly savage in the mouth of a pretender; and I was
doubly provoked to hear its Doric beauties marred by southern lips. I
made play, therefore, for some time, but presently became quite angry,
which was exactly what the rogues desired. Then, suddenly seized with
a bright thought, I turned short round on the original framer of the
mischief, whose interpretation of my native word ‘tint’ had brought the
laugh upon me, and said, in a rage, “I dare say it was you that stole
the half-guinea!”

For one moment, and no more, I had the laugh with me; but, in the next
instant, a shower of thumps from the accused party vindicated the
freedom of cock-pit justice, and set the whole posse of us small fry
to the right and left, like a shoal of flying fish sprung upon by a
dolphin.

This affair had scarcely blown by, when I got into a second scrape,
also with a countryman, who was then, and still is, one of the best
friends I have, but whose fate it was, at that early period, to inspire
me with many doubts as to the value of his good offices, albeit they
were every way kind and disinterested.

There is no class of persons in His Majesty’s naval service who have
such ravenous appetites as the younger class of middies—indeed their
plates and platters leave the birth, generally, as clean as they were
before the dinner entered. What may be the cause of this voracity
it is needless to inquire—the fact of their prodigious appetites is
universal. And it will easily be imagined that, in such a community,
the Esquimaux maxim of first come, first served, would sometimes
introduce itself into the practice of those polished young gentlemen.
One day, after keeping the forenoon watch, I went down at half-past
twelve to dinner, but found nothing left on the board but a morsel of
the ship’s beef which we generally called salt junk, and sometimes
believed to be salt horse, resembling very much a piece of mahogany,
and often quite as sapless. To this was added a very small portion of
suet pudding, called in our lingo, dough, or duff, and differing but
little in aspect and weight from good honest pipe-clay. It has been
very properly observed of a young midshipman, that, ‘although God may
turn his heart, the devil cannot turn his stomach;’ and certainly,
upon this occasion, I made no sort of objection to the victuals set
before me—except as to the quantity. In five minutes, the dish and
the plate had returned to that habitual state of purity, which would
have rendered the office of scullion a complete sinecure, had we been
honoured with such an attendant.

While I was ruminating upon this meagre fare, one of the oldsters
bawled out to me, “Come, youngster, you have done your dinner—march
off! I want your place at the table to write my log up—so scull away
with you!” And, in spite of Lord Chesterfield, which he was constantly
reading, he instantly shovelled me right into the cock-pit. What with
the indignity of my exit, which I cannot more particularly describe,
without a greater breach of the graces than I choose to risk even
at this long interval of time, and what with the empty state of my
stomach, I mounted upon deck again, of course, in a precious bad
humour, not a quarter of an hour from the time I had dived.

“Hollo! Maister Saunders,” cried one of my Scotch friends, “what’s
the matter with you? You look as black as your countryman when he was
caught half-way through a hole in the orchard wall.”

“Why,” said I, glad to find some vent for my disappointment, “to tell
you the truth, I have not got my share of the pudding to-day.”

“Oh! ho! that’s it—is it? Capital! Your share of the
pudding?—excellent!” And away he shot down the ladder, to pass the
joke amongst the rest below; so that, by and by, I was assailed at
every turn with inquiries touching my ‘share of the pudding;’ and my
unfortunate speech, translated into various dialects of what they all
thought Scotch, merely because it was not like English, was sung out
like a ballad, for the amusement of the whole fraternity, for the next
week.

This, like the half-guinea story, would soon have passed off for
something else, had not one of the mess been reading Sir Launcelot
Greaves, in which book one Justice Gobble is described as a great
glutton. The malicious young reader no sooner came to the place than he
roared out that he had found a name for me! and I was dubbed forthwith
Mr. Justice Gobble, which title I retained till another, somewhat more
to my taste, and more appropriate, I hoped, was given in exchange.

I had heard or read somewhere, that if a bottle, well corked, were let
down into the sea for a hundred fathoms or so, and then drawn up again,
it would be found full of fresh water. Like most modern discoverers,
I took upon me to suppose that this experiment had not been properly
tried before. So, one fine, calm morning, I borrowed a couple of
cod lines, which were then in grand preparation for the banks of
Newfoundland, and having stowed myself out of sight, under the breast
of one of the lower deck guns, I plunged my apparatus overboard. Some
one detected me when I was just beginning to haul in the apparatus;
and, before it reached the surface, half-a-dozen of my less scientific
messmates were perched on the neighbouring guns and chests, cracking
their jokes upon my proceedings. A huge horse-laugh was got ready to
explode upon me as I examined the bottle, and found the cork in its
place, but inverted, and the contents as salt as need be.

“Well, now,” said one of the party, “this is funny enough—Justice
Gobble is turned Experimental Philosopher; who would have thought it?”
and off they scattered to laugh at something else—light-hearted, and
careless of all things about them—up to any mischief or any business,
and gradually forming themselves, by an involuntary process, for the
right performance of those varied duties which belong to their calling,
and which, like the elements they have to deal with, are scarcely ever
two days alike.

Some of these lads had a turn for mechanics, some for navigation;
others devoted much of their time to rigging, and different branches
of seamanship—their hands being constantly in the tar-bucket. A few
applied themselves to reading and drawing; several desperate hands
stuck resolutely to the flute; one or two thought of nothing but dress;
and a few swore a pretty steady friendship to the grog-bottle; while
every now and then a sentimental youth deemed himself inspired, and
wrote execrable verses which we thought capital. By far the greater
number of these promising young men have found graves, some on
land—some in the deep sea!

On crossing the banks of Newfoundland the ship was hove to, for the
purpose of sounding; and the quarter-master having tied a baited
hook to the deep-sea lead, a noble cod was drawn to the surface,
from the depth of ninety fathoms. Upon this hint, the captain, very
considerately, agreed to lie by for an hour or two; and some fifty
lines being put over, the decks were soon covered, fore and aft, with
such a display of fish as Bilingsgate has rarely witnessed.

People who know nothing of a sea life fancy that fish is not a rarity
with us; but there is nothing of which we taste so little; so that the
greatest treat by far, when we come into port, is a dish of fresh
soles or mackerel; and even the commonest fish that swims is looked
upon as a treasure. It is only in soundings that any are to be met
with; for, in the open and bottomless ocean, we meet with nothing but
whales, porpoises, dolphins, sharks, bonitas, and flying fish. I shall,
perhaps, have occasion to describe the mode of catching, dressing,
and eating, all of these: for we demolish them all, excepting only
the shark, between which and the sailors there rages an interminable
war—something not unlike that which exists, from age to age, between
the Indians and the Esquimaux—in which the sharks may be compared to
the Indians, who eat their prisoners, and we to the Esquimaux, who only
kill their captives, but prefer eating something else.

I never could conceive, or even form a probable conjecture, how it is
that some persons manage to catch fish, and others none. It is easy to
understand, that in angling, a certain degree of skill, or choice of
situation, may determine the probable amount of success. But when a
line is let down to the depth of eighty or a hundred fathoms, or even
to twenty or thirty feet, quite out of sight, what has skill to do
there? And yet, in a ship, on the banks of Newfoundland, or in a boat
on the Thrumcap shoals in Halifax harbour, I have seen one man hauling
in cods or haddocks as fast as he could bait his hooks; while others,
similarly circumstanced in all apparent respects, might fret and fidget
for half a day without getting more than a nibble.

There can be no doubt, of course, that intellectual power must be
in operation at one end of the line, otherwise no fish will come to
the other; but the puzzle is, by what mysterious process can human
intelligence manage to find its way, like electricity, down the line
to the bottom of the sea? I have often asked successful fishermen
what they did to make the fish bite; but they could seldom give any
available answer. Sometimes they said it depended on the bait. “Well,
then,” I have answered, “let me take your line, and do you take mine.”
But in two minutes after we had changed places, my companion was
pulling in his fish as fast as before, while not a twitch was given to
my new line, though, just before, the fish appeared to be jostling one
another for the honour of my friend’s hook, to the total neglect of
that which had been mine, now in high vogue amongst them.

There is some trick, or sleight of hand, I suppose, by which a
certain kind of motion is given to the bait, so as to assimilate it
to that of the worms which the fishes most affect in their ordinary
researches for food. But, probably, this art is no more to be taught by
description, or to be learnt without the drudgery of practice, than the
dexterity with which an artist represents nature, or a dancer performs
pirouettes. Uninstructed persons, therefore, who, like myself, lose
patience because they cannot catch fish at the first cast of the line,
had better turn their attention to something else.

Almost the only one I ever caught was during this first voyage across
the Atlantic, when, after my line had been down a whole weary hour,
I drew it up in despair. It felt so light, that I imagined the line
must have been accidentally broken; but presently, and greatly to my
astonishment, I beheld a huge cod float to the top, swollen to twice
the usual dimensions by the expansion of its sound, as the air-bag
is called, which lies along the back-bone. At the depth of eighty or
ninety fathoms, this singular apparatus is compressed by the enormous
addition of fifteen or sixteen atmospheres. But when the air is
relieved of this weight, by approaching the surface, the strength of
the muscles proves inadequate to retain it in its condensed form; and
its consequent expansion not only kills the fish, but often bursts it
open as completely as if it had been blown up with gunpowder.

After a passage of about six weeks, we reached Halifax, in Nova
Scotia; and I can perfectly recollect the feelings with which I first
put my foot on shore in the New World. “At last,” I said to myself,
“I am decidedly abroad; and it shall go hard with me but this round
globe shall be well tramped over by these feet before I rest!” This
resolution has been tolerably well kept; but it is perhaps worthy of
remark, that almost the whole of the journeys alluded to have been
accomplished in the jog-trot routine of professional avocations, and
generally without any express design on my part. It is true I once took
a hasty scamper over Europe, and, more lately, a deliberate jaunt in
North America; but with these exceptions, and a small trip to Prince
Edward’s Island, in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, to which I shall possibly
advert again,—every league of my voyaging and travelling has been at
the expense of His Majesty, that is to say, in the exercise of purely
professional duties.

I have mentioned this, merely because I think it furnishes a sort of
encouragement to naval officers, of all ranks and ages, who, unless
they be very stupid, or very unfortunate, or both, may, in the course
of their lives, probably have nearly as ample means of observation in
foreign parts, as if they had been born to fortunes, and spent them in
the sole occupation of travelling. It is surely a pleasant affair to
be carried about from place to place free of cost; and perhaps there
is also some advantage in our being thus tossed about without any
free choice of our own. There is often bitter disappointment, it is
true, in being hurried away before our remarks are half made, with our
curiosity only half satisfied, to be plunged into new scenes, piping
hot from those we have left. But by this means the attention is kept
briskly alive; and the powers of observation, being forced to act on
the instant, are certainly rendered more acute. From so much, and such
varied practice, also, the mind becomes more decided and clear, as
well as more prompt, in its conclusions. And in consequence of this
accumulation of knowledge, every new country visited appears to be more
fertile than the last in objects of interest, till at length the field
of view seems so thickly crowded, that the naval traveller, instead
of having to search for materials, is generally overpowered by their
abundance, and scarcely knows which to lay his hand upon, in order to
describe the effect produced.

It is the curious property of well-directed inquiry into any branch of
natural knowledge, that the thirst for such investigations generally
goes on increasing with the indulgence; and what is equally or more to
the purpose, the motives to perseverance are proportionably augmented.
I believe there are few exceptions to this rule; and I think it may
be observed, that, in the navy, precisely as an officer rises in the
service, so his means of travelling to good purpose are improved
likewise. As he advances in rank, his introductions to society become
more easy and extensive, and his facilities for seeing strange things
are multiplied at every step, till at length, when he arrives at the
command of a ship, he finds himself in one of the most agreeable
situations, perhaps, that the nature of things admits of, for viewing
the world to advantage.

It must be recollected, too, that the chief interest of most countries,
and especially of new countries, lies on their sea-coasts, where the
first towns are naturally erected. In those cases where this rule does
not hold good, naval officers often contrive to visit the interior:
and wherever they go, they are sure of a hearty welcome, and a ready
access to all that is worthy of investigation. Their best passport,
in fact, is their uniform—their best letters of introduction, the
columns of the navy list; and if in any case they fail to profit by the
opportunities thus placed within their reach, the fault lies with the
dull nature of the particular parties themselves, and not with their
glorious profession. In all probability, the very same persons who,
as officers, can turn their naval life to no account in the way of
travelling, would have done no better in any other situation in life.

This reminds me of a tailor at Halifax, who, on being sadly provoked
by some of the scampish band amongst us, for not paying his abominably
long bills, said, in a rage, in the cock-pit before us all, that after
having tried his son in half a dozen professions, without any chance of
success, he was now resolved, as a last resource, to make a midshipman
of him! This sarcasm was uttered during the short peace of Amiens,
when we first visited Halifax,—a period when the mids had so little
real business to attend to, that they seized eagerly upon any opening
for a joke. As soon, therefore, as the tailor had quitted the ship, it
was resolved to punish him for his uncourteous speech.

It had not escaped the notice of his tormentors, that this vulgar
fraction of his species prided himself, in a most especial degree, on
the dignity of a very enormous tail or queue, which reached half-way
down his back; and it was resolved in secret council, that this
appendage should be forthwith docked.

Nothing, I must fairly own, could be more treacherous than the means
devised to lower the honour and glory of the poor tailor. He was
formally invited to dinner with us; and, being well plied with grog,
mixed according to the formidable rule for making what is called a
North-wester, which prescribes that one half of each glass shall
consist of rum, and the other half of rum and water, our poor guest was
soon brought under the table. Being then quite incapable of moving, he
was lifted in noisy triumph out of the birth, and placed in the tier,
across the bends of the small bower cable, where, after many a grunt
and groan at the rugged nature of his couch, he at length fell asleep.

His beautiful tail, the pride of his life! was presently glued by
means of a lump of pitch to the strands of the cable; and such was the
tenacity of the substance, that in the morning, when, on the daylight
gun being fired directly over his head, poor snip awoke, he could no
more detach himself from the spot on which he lay, than could Lemuel
Gulliver in like circumstances. His noddle was still so confused, that
he knew not where he lay, nor what held him down. After tugging at his
hair for a minute or two, he roared out lustily for help. One of the
mids, seized with the brilliant idea of making the tailor the finisher
of his own fate, hurried to his assistance, and, handing him a knife,
roared out, “by all means to make haste, as the devil had got hold of
him by the tail!”

The poor tradesman, terrified out of his wits, and in great horror
at his mysterious situation, instantly did as he was desired, and cut
away lustily, little dreaming that his own rash hand was shearing the
highest and most cherished honours of his house! On turning round, he
beheld with dismay the ravished locks, which, for half a century and
more, had been the joint delight of himself and his tender partner
Rebecca. As the thought of returning tail-less to his home crossed
his half-bewildered brain, he exclaimed, in agony of spirit, to his
malicious tormentors—“Oh Lord! oh Lord! I am a lost man to my Becky!”

The revenge of the malicious middies was now complete; and this
expression of being a ‘lost man to one’s Becky’ became a byword in the
ship, for many years afterwards, to denote the predicament of any one
who got into a scrape, and came out of it with loss.




CHAPTER IV.

BERMUDA IN THE PEACE.


The Leander was a fifty-gun ship, and well known to the profession,
as having formed one of the line of battle in the action of the Nile,
though not strictly of that class, and for having afterwards maintained
a glorious, though unsuccessful fight with a large French seventy-four,
the Généreux, by which she was taken when on her way to England
with Nelson’s despatches. She was a pretty ship of her class, and
became permanently endeared to the memory of all who sailed on board,
especially to those who first went to sea in her, and there found a
practical illustration of the beautiful thought—that our ‘march is on
the mountain wave, our home is on the deep.’

This character, indeed, gives the navy of England its peculiar
distinction, and mainly contributes to its success. We do truly make
the ship our home; we have no other thoughts of professional duty
or of happiness but what are connected with the vessel in which we
swim; we take a pride in her very looks, as we might in those of a
daughter; and bring up her crew to honourable deeds, as we should wish
to instruct our sons. The rate of sailing of each ship in a fleet,
is a subject of never-ending discussion amongst all classes of the
officers, midshipmen, and crews, every one of whom considers his own
individual honour involved in all that his ship does, or is capable of
doing. This is true, almost universally; but it is most striking, no
doubt, in our first ship, which, like our first love, is supposed to
drink up, from the opening flower of our young feelings, the richest
drops of sentiment, never to be outdone, or even equalled, by future
attachments! I owe, indeed, much good companionship and many sincere
obligations to other vessels; yet I am sure that, if I live to be Lord
High Admiral, the old Leander must still remain nearest and dearest to
my nautical heart. I remember every corner about her—every beam—every
cabin—every gun. I even look back to the strict school on board of
her, with much of that affectionate sort of interest with which I
observe Eton men regard the place of their education. Whenever any
of the old set meet, who were shipmates together at the happy time I
speak of, every other topic is swept from the board, and, for hours
together, the boyish adventures, and even the most ordinary events of
the dear old ship, form, out of all sight, the most delightful subject
of conversation. It signifies nothing, that every one of the party has
gone over the same round of stories and jokes, in the same company,
fifty times; they invariably come back again, recommended by increasing
interest, and by that genuine freshness of spirits, so ‘redolent of joy
and youth, it breathes a second spring.’

Most of the survivors, indeed, have experienced, that the summer
of life which succeeded to this opening season of our professional
existence in the Leander, has been as full of enjoyment as we had hoped
for, and that life has gone on to furnish us only with more extensive
views and higher motives to action. It has also taught us, to discover
that the real and permanent pleasures of life lie close alongside of
its duties, and that as very much of our success certainly depends upon
ourselves, so does very nearly all our happiness likewise.

On the 6th of December, we sailed from Halifax, with a fresh
north-westerly wind, in a bitter cold day, so that the harbour was
covered with a vapour called ‘the barber,’ a sort of low fog, which
clings to the surface of the water, and sweeps along with these biting
winter blasts, in such a manner as to cut one to the very bone. It is
evidently caused by the condensation of the moisture close to the water
in the severe cold. The thermometer, when we sailed, was eleven degrees
below zero; and nothing but the violence of the wind, which broke the
surface into a sheet of foam, prevented our being frozen in, like the
north-western voyagers at Melville Island.

As we shot past one of the lower wharfs of the town of Halifax, just
before coming to the narrow passage between George’s Island and the
main land, on the south side of this magnificent harbour, a boat put
off with a gentleman, who, by some accident, had missed his passage.
They succeeded in getting alongside the ship; but, in seizing hold of
a rope which was thrown to them from the main-chains, the boatmen, in
their hurry, caught a turn with it round the after-thwart, instead
of making it fast somewhere in the bow of the boat. The inevitable
consequence of this proceeding was, to raise the stern of the boat out
of the water, and, of course, to plunge her nose under the surface.
Even a landsman will comprehend how this happened, when it is mentioned
that the ship was running past at the rate of ten knots. In the
twinkling of an eye, the whole party, officer, boatmen, and all, were
seen floating about, grasping at the oars or striking out for the
land, distant, fortunately, only a few yards from them; for the water
thereabouts is so deep, that a ship, in sailing out or in, may safely
graze the shore.

As the intensity of the cold was great, we were quite astonished to
see the people swimming away so easily; but we afterwards learned from
one of the party, that, owing to the water being between forty and
fifty degrees warmer than the air, he felt, when plunged into it, as if
he had been soused into a hot bath. The instant, however, he reached
the pier, and was lugged out, like a half-drowned rat, he was literally
enclosed in a firm case of ice from head to foot! This very awkward
coat of mail was not removed without considerable difficulty; nor was
it till he had been laid for some hours in a well-warmed bed, between
two other persons, that he could move at all, and, for several months
afterwards, he was not well enough to leave his room.

For us to stop, at such a time and place, was impossible; so away we
shot like a spear—past Chebucto Head, Cape Sambro, and sundry other
fierce-looking black capes of naked rock, smoothed off, apparently, by
the attrition of some huge deluge, that must, I think, have submerged
all that part of America, as far as I have examined it, between the
shores of Lake Erie on the west, and Boston and New York on the south
and east.

But we had no time, on the day I speak of, for any such speculations.
The breeze rapidly rose to a hard gale, which split our main-topsail
to threads, and sent the fragments thundering to leeward in the storm,
in such grand style, that, to this hour, I can almost fancy I hear the
noise in my ears. I know few things more impressive than the deep-toned
sounds caused by the flapping of a wet sail, in such a fierce squall
as this, when the sheets are carried away, and the unconfined sail is
tugging and tearing to get clear of the yard, which bends and cracks so
fearfully, that even the lower mast sometimes wags about like a reed. I
certainly have heard thunder far louder than the sounds alluded to; but
have seldom known it more effective or startling than those of a sail
going to pieces in such a tempest of wind and rain.

I was standing, where I had no business to be, on the weather side of
the quarter-deck, holding on stoutly by one of the belaying pins, and
wondering where this novel scene was to end, but having an obscure
idea that the ship was going to the bottom. The admiral was looking up
at the splitting sail as composedly as possible, after desiring that
the main-top-men, whose exertions were quite useless, should be called
down, out of the way of the ropes, which were cracking about their
heads. Every now and then I could see the weather-wise glance of the
veteran’s eye directed to windward, in hopes that matters would mend.
But they only became worse; and at last, when the foremast seemed to be
really in danger, for it was bending like a cane, though the foresail
had been reefed, he waited not to run through the usual round of
etiquettes by which an admiral’s commands generally reach the executive
on board ship, but exclaimed, with a voice so loud, that it made me
start over to the lee side of the deck:—

“Man the fore-clue garnets!”

In the next minute the sail rose gradually to the yard, and the
groaning old ship, by this time sorely strained to her innermost
timber, seemed to be at once relieved from the pressure of the canvass
which had borne her headlong, right into the seas, and made her tremble
from stem to stern, almost as if she were going to pieces.

The next thing to be done was to get in the jib-boom, in order to ease
the bowsprit. In effecting this rather troublesome operation, one of
the primest seamen we had fell overboard. He was second captain of the
forecastle, the steadiness of whose admirable skill as a steersman had,
one day, elicited the complimentary remark from the captain, that he
must surely have nailed the compass card to the binnacle. On this, and
other accounts, he was so much esteemed in the ship, that more than
the usual degree of regret was felt for his melancholy fate. I saw the
poor fellow pitch into the water, and watched him as he floated past,
buoyant as a cork, and breasting the waves most gallantly, with an
imploring look towards us, which I shall never forget. In less than a
minute he was out of sight. A boat could hardly have lived in such
weather, and no further attempt was made, or could have been made,
to save him, than to throw over ropes, which all fell short of their
mark. Although we soon lost all traces of him, it is probable he may
have kept sight of us, as we drifted quickly to leeward under our bare
poles, long after we had ceased to distinguish his figure in the yest
of waves.

This gale, the first I ever saw, was also, I can recollect, one of
the fiercest. It lasted for three days, totally dispersed our little
squadron, well nigh foundered one of them, the Cambrian, and sent
her hobbling into Bermuda some days after us, with the loss of her
main-mast and all three top-masts.

Bermuda seemed to us mids a very barren place, as it produced few
articles of any great utility—at least such as we required. There were
then so few bullocks or sheep reared on the island, that I remember it
was rather a wonder to see fresh meat on any table; and amongst the
lower classes such a luxury was never known in those days. What may be
the case now, I know not. The ships did get fresh meat now and then,
but only very seldom; whereas in all other places, we were supplied
regularly with fresh grub, as we called it, every day.

The Bermudas consist of upwards of a hundred little islands, clustered
round two or three large ones. The seat of government is in St.
George’s Island, which is about four or five miles long, by two
broad, and very low. The town is built on the south-east side, on a
gentle and very pretty declivity which fronts the harbour. None of
the houses have more than two stories, and they are all built of the
soft freestone, of which all these islands are composed. Most of these
dwellings have but one chimney. In walking through the streets in hot
days, such is the extreme whiteness of the walls, that the glare is
most painful to the eyes. But as many of the buildings are surrounded
by bananas, calabashes, orange trees, and by various members of the
palm tribe, the disagreeable effect of the light is not felt, except
in the open streets. This pretty town is about half a mile each way,
and is mostly inhabited by blacks; but a great many of these possess
houses, and have gained their freedom by some means or other. What is
curious enough, all these manumitted negroes hold slaves as black as
themselves; of course the whites own them in still greater numbers. The
slaves are never allowed to have firearms in their hands, for fear of
revolt; indeed it is said they are considerably more numerous than the
freemen in the island; and no slave is allowed to go about the streets
after nine o’clock at night.

We found the black people, generally speaking, gentle, docile, and
kind. If we entered any of their houses, though they had but little to
offer us, that little was always given with much simple hospitality.
To say the truth, we saw much less reserve amongst the blacks than
amongst those of our own colour. It is true, the means of entertaining
strangers are but scanty; for the inhabitants, even of the better
class, we were told, live mostly upon salt meat, brought from America
in vessels which pass, like market boats, backwards and forwards during
all the year.

We had read somewhere in fanciful tales, of countries in which the
forests were of cedar; but, until we visited Bermuda, we hardly
believed in such stories. At that fairy island, however, this tree
constitutes the chief wood; so that every ship and boat built there is
made of cedar: the beams also, and the furniture of the houses, are
likewise constructed out of this fragrant timber. It is not the cedar
of Lebanon, but resembles in appearance the yew of England, though it
seldom grows to the same height. It has an agreeable smell, and bears
a little blue berry, about the size of a pea, which, though sweet to
the taste, is very dry. The wood, after it is cut up and planed, looks
well for a little while, but it soon turns pale and chalky; nor is
it capable of receiving a good polish. For ship-building, it is much
esteemed on account of its durability. We saw orange and lemon-trees
growing, also, in such abundance, that at first we were enchanted to
see the fruit thickly clustered upon all the branches. But when we
climbed up and picked them off, in hopes of a grand feast, we found
them all of that bitter kind which, though very excellent for making
marmalade, are good for nothing else.

Except a few wild pigeons, hardly any birds are to be seen, the most
common being of blue and red colours, about the size of a fieldfare.
The blue kind is pretty enough, but they do not sing any more than the
red birds; so that, in the midshipman’s birth, we had no scruple of
conscience about baking many a score of them in our pies.

Besides St. George’s, there are numerous lesser islands, and a large
district, called the Continent, from its being by far the most
extensive in the cluster, no less, I believe, than twelve or fifteen
miles from end to end! At the north-western end of the group lies
Ireland Island, on which an extensive naval establishment has of late
years been erected; close to that spot is now the anchorage for ships
of war. The population of those islands was calculated, at the time
I speak of, at near twenty thousand, the greater part of whom were
blacks, and principally slaves.

The rock of the islands of Bermuda is of a very soft coarse freestone,
full of pores; so soft, indeed, that if it be required to make an
additional window in a house, there is nothing to be done, we were
told, but to hire a black fellow, who, with a saw, could speedily cut
an opening in any part of the wall.

How far this sketch of Bermuda, taken from old scanty notes and faint
recollections, may now be true, I cannot say. The cedar-trees and
oranges, the blue birds, the rocks, the negroes, and the islands, I
dare say, all remain just as before; but I think I have heard that the
seat of government has been changed to the western end of the island;
and now the men-of-war, instead of lying in Murray’s anchorage, on the
north side of St. George’s, find, as I have said before, a far more
secure roadstead.

There is nothing more remarkable in this singular cluster of islands
than the extensive coral reefs which fend off the sea on the northern
side, and stretch out in a semicircular belt, at the distance of two
or three leagues from the land. If I recollect rightly, only one of
these ledges, called the North Rock, shews its head above water. All
the others lie out of sight below the surface, and consequently form
one of the most dangerous traps that nature has ever set in the path of
mariners. On these treacherous reefs we saw many a poor vessel bilged,
at moments when, from seeing the land at such a distance, they fancied
themselves in perfect security.

Dangerous though they be, however, there are few things more beautiful
to look at than these corallines when viewed through two or three
fathoms of clear and still water. It is hardly an exaggeration to
assert, that the colours of the rainbow are put to shame on a bright
sunny day, by what meets the view on looking into the sea in those
fairy regions. On the other hand, there are not many things, in the
anxious range of navigation, more truly terrific, or, in fact, more
dangerous, than these same beautiful submarine flower beds, raising
their treacherous heads, like the fascinating sirens of old, or the
fair and false mermaids of a later epoch. If, by sad fortune, the
sailor once gets entangled amongst them, it is too well known that his
chance of escape is but small.

They tell a story at Bermuda—‘the still vexed Bermoothes,’—of a boatman
who, it was said, lived by these disasters, once going off to an
unlucky vessel, fairly caught amongst the coral reefs, like a fly in
a cobweb, not far from the North Rock. The wrecker, as he was called,
having boarded the bewildered ship, said to the master,

“What will you give me, now, to get you out of this place?”

“Oh, any thing you like—name your sum.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Agreed! agreed!” cried the other. Upon which this treacherous pilot
‘kept his promise truly to the ear, but broke it to the hope,’ by
taking the vessel out of an abominably bad place, only to fix her in
one a great deal more intricate and perilous.

“Now,” said the wrecker to the perplexed and doubly-cheated stranger,
“there never was a vessel in this scrape, that was known to get out
again; and, indeed, there is but one man alive who knows the passages,
or could, by any possibility, extricate you—and that’s me!”

“I suppose,” drily remarked the captain, “that ‘for a consideration’
you would be the man to do me that good service. What say you to
another five hundred dollars to put me into clear water, beyond your
infernal reefs?”

This hard bargain was soon made; and a winding passage, unseen before,
being found, just wide enough, and barely deep enough, for the vessel
to pass through, with only six inches to spare under her keel, in half
an hour she was once more in blue water, out of soundings, and out of
danger.

“Now, master rascallion of a wrecker,” cried the disentangled mariner,
“tit for tat is fair play all the world over; and, unless you hand
me back again my thousand dollars, I’ll cut the tow rope of your
thievish-looking boat, and then, instead of returning evil for evil,
as I ought by rights to do, I’ll be more of a Christian, and do you a
very great service, by carrying you away from one of the most infamous
places in the world, to the finest country imaginable—I mean America.
And as you seem to have a certain touch of black blood in your veins, I
may chance to get good interest for my loan of these thousand dollars,
by selling you as a slave in Charleston negro market! What say you, my
gay Mudian?”

We lay, moored in Murray’s anchorage at Bermuda, for the greater part
of the winters both of 1802 and of 1803. The war had not yet broken
out, and, in the absence of active service, we were fain to catch hold
of any thing to amuse and occupy ourselves. The master, and a gang of
youngsters who were fond of navigation, set about surveying the coral
reefs already mentioned. This party of philosophers, as they were
of course dubbed, landed on St. David’s Head, and other conspicuous
points of land, to ascertain the longitude with more care; to observe
the latitude and the variation of the compass; or to measure the
perpendicular rise and fall of the tides; or, lastly, and much the most
frequently, to have a good hour’s swim in the deliciously-warm sea.
It will be easily understood, that all and each of these inquiries
furnished to those persons, whose duty and pleasure it was to attend to
them, an inexhaustible field of occupation, and of interest likewise.

At first sight, many of these pursuits may appear trivial; but it
ought to be recollected, that, although it be easy enough to make
the observations enumerated, and many others of the same nature, in
a rough sort of way, there is hardly any one of them which, if it
be required to be done in the best possible style, does not demand
much attention and labour. For example, it seems a very simple affair
to draw a base or straight line on the ground; but if this line is
required to be, very exactly, of a particular length, so as to be
neither more nor less, the problem is one of the utmost difficulty,
which has fully exercised, and still employs, the talents of some
of the ablest engineers of the day. In fact, these refinements in
surveying and in observing, are pretty much like the pound of flesh
question in the Merchant of Venice; with one comfortable difference,
that the philosopher’s neck is not in such danger, even if, in a base
of half-a-dozen miles, he should happen to err in the estimation
of half-a-dozen hairs-breadths! It is well for young officers to
recollect, however, that there is still a tolerably formidable
professional tribunal, before which a man who undertakes such tasks is
apt to be arraigned, and, if found wanting, pretty severely dealt with.

Sailors, like the element upon which they are tossed about, are
scarcely ever at rest, and are seldom satisfied with what has been
done before them. Consequently, the moment a ship arrives at a port,
the navigators straightway erect their observatory, fix up their
instruments, set their clocks a-going, and commence an attack, like
the giants of old, upon the very heavens themselves,—and all for what?
They say to themselves, that this is done for the benefit of science,
for the advancement of geographical or astronomical knowledge—and so
it is. But, along with these pure and lofty motives, there may enter
some others, not quite so sublime, but perhaps equally operative in
producing diligence. We have a lurking kind of malicious expectation of
discovering that our predecessors have not made out their latitudes,
or longitudes, or whatever the observations be, with the precision we
ourselves hope to attain. It does not much matter whether the superior
accuracy we expect to reach arises from our having better instruments
in our hands, or from having more leisure, or better opportunities at
command. So long as we contrive to do the required job better than it
has been done before, so long do we count upon getting the credit due
to superiority. These honours, it is true, are worn only till somebody
coming later shall jostle us out of our seats, by substituting still
better work. The desire to avoid being thrust on one side in this
way, and forgotten, is a strong motive to vigorous application on the
occasions alluded to, and helps essentially to quicken that delightful
interest which almost always attends an investigation of the properties
of natural objects.

It is probably requisite to this enjoyment, that the pursuit followed
should have some specific purpose in view;—if professional, so much
the better. If a man, quite uninstructed, shall start up and say, in
the abstract, “I mean to study botany—or astronomy”—or whatever else
his fancy may select, he will, in all probability, find the pursuit as
great a bore to himself as it will inevitably prove to those friends
whom he endeavours to persuade that it is the most delightful thing
in the world to be a savant. Still, young folks, in any situation,
and most of all in the navy, need not be afraid; for they can hardly
ever be cast into situations where, if their minds have been properly
trained, first at school, and then on board ship, they may not hit upon
ample materials to keep their heads and hands in motion, and at the
same time to advance their professional objects.

One of our party of mids, who has since turned out a valuable and
enterprising officer, took it in his head to make a trip in one of the
whale-boats of the Bermuda fishery. Having ascertained the time of
starting, he obtained leave to go on shore, and completely succeeded
in his object by being present at the capture of a whale. The monster,
however, led them a considerable dance off to sea, and it was long
after the time appointed for his return, when the youth made his
appearance, delightfully perfumed with blubber, and with a glorious
tale to tell of his day’s adventures.

This was voted by acclamation to be ‘something like an expedition;’
and the youngster, of course, gained great credit for his spirit. I
was one of another party who, I suppose, being a little jealous of
our companion’s laurels, took the earliest opportunity of trying to
signalise ourselves in a similar way. A monstrous whale was seen one
morning playing about the Leander, in Murray’s anchorage, and, of
course, far within the belt of reefs already described as fringing the
roadstead on its eastern and northern sides. How this great fellow
had got into such a scrape, we could not conjecture. Possibly, in
placing himself alongside of the rugged coral ledges, to scrub off
the incrustations of shell-fish which torment these monsters of the
deep, he had gradually advanced too far;—or, more probably, he may
have set out in pursuit of some small fry, and, before he was aware of
it, have threaded his way amongst this labyrinth of rocks, till escape
was impossible. At all events, he now found himself in comparatively
deep water, from eight to ten fathoms, without any visible means of
retreat from his coral trap. All hands crowded into the rigging to see
the whale floundering about; till at length some one proposed—rashly
enough, certainly,—to pay him a visit in one of the ship’s boats,
with no better implements, offensive or defensive, than the ordinary
boat-hooks. These are light poles, with a spike, not unlike a
shepherd’s crook, at the end of them, and not bad things for fishing
up a turtle when caught napping, but slender reeds, in all conscience,
against a fish forty or fifty feet long!

Away we went, however, in our wild-goose, whale chase, without any
precise idea as to what we were to do if we should come up with the
game. When we got near the great leviathan, his aspect became more and
more formidable; and it was necessary to think of some regular plan
of attack, if any were to be made. As to defence, it may easily be
imagined that was out of the question; for one whisk of his tail would
have sent the cutter and her crew, boat-hooks and all, spinning over
the fore and yard arm of the flag-ship. All eyes were now upon us, and,
after a pause, it was agreed unanimously, that we should run right on
board of him, and take our chance. So we rowed forward; but the whale,
whose back was then shewing just above the water, like a ship keel
upwards, perhaps not approving of our looks, or possibly not seeing us,
slipped down, clean out of sight, leaving only a monstrous whirlpool of
oily-looking water, in the vortex of which we continued whirling round
for some time, like great ninnies as we were, and gaping about us. At
this time, we were not above half a ship’s length from the Leander;
so that our disappointment caused considerable amusement on board,
and the people came laughing down from the rigging, where they had
been perched, to see the grand fight between the whale and the young
gentlemen!

As we were lying on our oars, and somewhat puzzled what to do next,
we beheld one of the most extraordinary sights in the world;—at least
I do not remember to have seen many things which have surprised me so
much, or made a deeper impression on my memory. Our friend the whale,
probably finding the water disagreeably shallow—for, as I have said, it
was not above fifty or sixty feet deep—or perhaps provoked at not being
able to disentangle himself from the sharp coral reefs, or for some
other reason of pleasure or of pain,—suddenly made a spring out of the
water.

So complete was this enormous leap, that for an instant we saw him
fairly up in the air, in a horizontal position, at a distance from the
water not much short, I should think, of half his own breadth! His
back, therefore, must have been at least twenty feet, in perpendicular
height, over our heads! While in his progress upwards, there was in
his spring some touch of the vivacity with which a trout or a salmon
shoots out of the water; but he fell back again on the sea, like a huge
log thrown on its broadside; and with such a thundering crash, as made
all hands stare in astonishment, and the ‘boldest held his breath for a
time.’ Total demolition, indeed, must have been the inevitable fate of
our party, had the whale taken his leap one minute sooner, for he would
then have fallen plump on the boat! The waves caused by the explosion
spread over half the anchorage; nor, if the Leander herself had blown
up, could the effects have extended much further. As we rolled about in
the cutter from side to side, we had time to balance the expediency of
further proceedings, against the tolerable chance of being smashed to
atoms under the whale’s belly at his next leap.

All idea of capturing him was now, of course, given up; if, indeed,
any such frantic notion could ever seriously have entered our heads.
But our curiosity was vehemently roused to witness such another feat;
and, after lying on our oars for some time, we once more detected the
whale’s back at a little distance from us.

“Let us poke him up again!” cried one of the party.

“Agreed! agreed!” roared out the others; and away we dashed, in hopes
of producing a repetition of this singular exploit. The whale, however,
did not choose to exhibit any more, though we were often near him.
At last he fairly bolted, and took the direction of the North Rock,
hoping, perhaps, to make his escape by the narrow passage known only to
the most experienced pilots of those intricate regions.

It was not until after we had entirely lost sight of the chase, and
when we had rowed so far, that we could just see the top of St.
George’s Island astern of us, that we had leisure to remark the change
of weather, which had taken place during this absurd pursuit. The sky
had become overcast, and the wind risen to such a smart breeze from
the south-west, that, when we again put the boat’s head towards the
island, it was quite as much as we could do to make any headway at all,
and sometimes we hardly held our own. Had the wind increased only a
little more, we must inevitably have been blown to sea—and even as it
was, it cost us many hours of severe tugging at the oars to regain the
anchorage, just before night-fall, completely worn out.

I have not related this story of the whale’s leap without considerable
hesitation, the source of which distrust will be found, better than I
can express it for myself, in the following anecdote, related to me by
Sir Walter Scott; which I recommend to the attention of travellers who
have any thoughts of communicating to the public, what they have seen
in distant lands.

It appears that Mungo Park, the first, and still, perhaps, the most
interesting of African travellers, was in the habit of relating, in a
quiet way, to his most confidential friends, sundry curious and highly
amusing incidents, that had occurred to him during his celebrated
journey in search of the Niger. Of these anecdotes, however, no
mention is to be found in his printed statements—while many others are
inserted, not nearly so interesting as these rejected stories.

“How is this?” asked his friends. “Why did not you put these things
also into your book?”

“Oh,” replied Park, “the case is simply this:—I was sent to Africa
for certain public purposes, and expressly required to investigate
particular points. Now, it seemed to me of consequence not only that
these inquiries should be carefully made, but that a credible, as well
as a faithful account, should be rendered to the world.”

“Very true,” resumed his friends; “but as there is nothing which you
have now told us, in addition to what you have printed, which is not
strictly true, while it is certainly very entertaining, why should you
wantonly deprive your book of so much that would recommend it still
more to general favour?”

“There is nothing wanton in the matter,” answered the traveller;
“indeed, it is precisely because I believed it would have had no such
good effect as you suppose, that I have kept out the matter alluded
to. It might, indeed, have gained for the work a little more temporary
popularity; but that was not what I desired. At all events, I had, as
I conceived, a still higher duty to perform. Being sent to execute
a given service, I performed my task to the best of my ability. But
on returning, I felt I had another obligation to attend to, not less
binding, which was, to give such an account as, over and above being
strictly true, should carry with it such evidence of its own good
faith, as should insure every part of my story being credited. These
anecdotes, however, which I only venture to tell you because you have
known me all my life, I have shrunk from repeating to the world, whose
knowledge of my character is drawn from this book alone. In short, I
did not feel that I was at liberty to shake my own credit, or even
to risk its being shaken, by relating anecdotes so much out of the
ordinary line of events as some of these stories are. As a servant of
the public in the great field of discovery, I considered my character
for veracity as part of their property, which was not to be trifled
with, merely for the sake of making idle people laugh or stare a little
more. And I feared, that even one doubtful point in such a work, no
matter how small, or how true, might have weakened the authority of the
whole, and this I did not choose to hazard.”

After Park’s death, and when a biographical sketch of this most amiable
and persevering of travellers was in the course of preparation, one
of this circle of friends, whose memory for such things was known to
be very retentive, was applied to for these suppressed anecdotes, the
existence of which had, somehow or other, leaked out. After a moment’s
reflection, he said—

“No!—I won’t tell you one word of them. If my friend Park, in his
soberest and most reflecting moments, considered it proper to keep
these things out of his book, and only betrayed them even to his
intimates, over a glass of toddy, I don’t see that we should be acting
a generous part by his memory to publish them after he is gone, however
true we are convinced they must be.”

After preparing the above adventure of the whale’s leap for the press,
I felt, on Park’s principle, a certain hesitation as to trusting it
before the public; but in order to fortify myself by an authority of
the highest rank in whaling matters, I sat down and wrote the following
letter to my friend Captain Scoresby:—

 “More than twenty-eight years ago, I saw a whale leap right out of
 the sea, in Murray’s anchorage at Bermuda. The depth of water, if I
 recollect right, was about ten fathoms, and he had, somehow or other,
 got inside the barrier of coral reefs which gird these islands on the
 north. When the whale was at his greatest elevation, his back may
 have been twenty or thirty feet above the surface of the water, and
 at that moment he was in a horizontal position. His length could not
 have been less, I should imagine, than fifty or sixty feet. As I never
 saw such a thing before or since, I am a little afraid of relating
 it, and have no mind to risk my credit by telling a story too big to
 be swallowed by the average run of gullets, however true in point of
 fact. You will oblige me, therefore, very much, by telling me whether,
 in the course of your extensive experience, you have seen one or more
 such incidents. If not, I fear my story of the whale’s jump at Bermuda
 must be kept out of a little work I am now preparing for the use of
 young folks. But if I have your authority to back me, the anecdote
 shall stand, and so take its chance for being valuable in the way of
 information.”

To this I received the following reply from Captain Scoresby, who, as
all the world will admit, is the highest authority on such questions:—

  “_Liverpool, 25th August, 1830._

       *       *       *       *       *

 “And now having come to the subject, which, I allow, is one of
 magnitude, I have much pleasure in being able to speak to the
 point, in attestation of the not infrequency of the exhibition of
 the huge leaps which you witnessed, however ignorance might charge
 it as ‘very like a whale.’ Whilst engaged in the northern whale
 fishery, I witnessed many similar exploits of the whales in their
 frisks. Generally, they were of a middle size; but I think I have
 seen instances of full-grown fish, of forty or fifty feet in length,
 forgetting their usual gravity, and making out these odd exhibitions
 of their whole form from head to tail. Certainly, I have several times
 seen whales leap so high out of the water as to be completely in air,
 which, reckoning from the surface of the back (the real extent of the
 leap), could scarcely be less than twenty feet, and possibly might be
 more. I have, at different times, gone in pursuit of these frolicsome
 fish; but in all cases they avoided either catastrophe—the leaping
 upon the boat, or allowing the boat to pull upon them.

 “By the way, whilst the breathing of the whale has been magnified into
 a resemblance of water-works, to the abuse of the credulous, the
 frolic feats of the leaping whales have been neglected as a source
 of interest. In referring to my account of the arctic regions, I
 perceive the fact is named, but with little commentary for general
 amusement.”[1]


FOOTNOTES:

[1] See Capt. Scoresby’s exceedingly curious and valuable Account of
the Whale Fishery in the Arctic Regions, vol. i. p. 467.




CHAPTER V.

MIDSHIPMEN’S PRANKS.


During the long winters of our slothful discontent at Bermuda, caused
by the Peace of Amiens, the grand resource, both of the idle and the
busy, amongst all classes of the Leander’s officers, was shooting—that
never-ending, still-beginning amusement, which Englishmen carry to the
remotest corners of the habitable globe—popping away in all countries,
thinking only of the game, and often but too reckless of the prejudices
or fears of the natives. This propensity is indulged even in those
uninhabited regions of the earth which are visited only once in an age;
and if Captain Parry had reached the Pole, he would unquestionably have
had a shot at the axis of the earth!

In the mean time, the officers and the young gentlemen of the flag-ship
at Bermuda, in the beginning of 1803, I suppose, to keep their hands
in for the war which they saw brewing, and hourly prayed for, were
constantly blazing away amongst the cedar groves and orange plantations
of those fairy islands, which appeared more and more beautiful
after every such excursion. The midshipmen were generally obliged
to content themselves with knocking down the blue and the red birds
with the ship’s pistols, charged with His Majesty’s gunpowder, and,
for want of small shot, with slugs formed by cutting up His Majesty’s
musket-bullets. The officers aimed at higher game, and were, of course,
better provided with guns and ammunition. Several of these gentlemen
had brought from England some fine dogs—high-bred pointers; while the
middies, also, not to be outdone, must needs have a dog of their own:
they recked very little of what breed; but some sort of animal they
said they must have.

I forget how we procured the strange-looking beast whose services we
contrived to engage; but, having once obtained him, we were not slow
in giving him our best affections. It is true, he was as ugly as any
thing could possibly be. His colour was a dirty, reddish yellow; and
while a part of his hair twisted itself up in curls, a part hung down,
quite straight, almost to the ground. He was utterly useless for all
the purposes of real sport, but quite good enough to furnish the mids
with plenty of fun when they went on shore—in chasing pigs, barking
at old, white-headed negresses, and other amusements, suited to the
exalted taste and habits of the rising generation of officers.

People will differ as to the merits of dogs; but we had no doubts as
to the great superiority of ours over all the others on board, though
the name we gave him certainly implied no such confidence on our part.
After a full deliberation, it was decided to call him Shakings. Now, it
must be explained that shakings is the name given to small fragments of
rope yarns, odds and ends of cordage, bits of oakum, old lanyards,—in
short, to any kind of refuse arising out of the wear and tear of the
ropes. This odd name was perhaps bestowed on our beautiful favourite
in consequence of his colour not being very dissimilar to that of
well-tarred Russia hemp; while the resemblance was increased by many a
dab of pitch, which his rough coat imbibed from the seams between the
planks of the deck, in the hot weather.

If old Shakings was no great beauty, he was, at least, the most
companionable of dogs; and though he dearly loved the midshipmen, and
was dearly beloved by them in return, he had enough of the animal in
his composition to take a still higher pleasure in the society of his
own kind. So that, when the high-bred, showy pointers belonging to
the officers came on board, after a shooting excursion, Mr. Shakings
lost no time in applying to them for the news. The pointers, who liked
this sort of familiarity very well, gave poor Shakings all sorts of
encouragement. Not so their masters;—they could not bear to see such an
abominable cur, as they called our favourite, at once so cursedly dirty
and so utterly useless, mixing with their sleek and well-kept animals.
At first their dislike was confined to such insulting expressions as
these; then it came to an occasional kick, or a knock on the nose with
the butt-end of a fowling-piece; and lastly, to a sound cut with the
hunting-whip.

Shakings, who instinctively knew his place, took all this, like a
sensible fellow, in good part; while the mids, when out of hearing
of the higher powers, uttered curses both loud and deep against the
tyranny and oppression exercised against an animal which, in their
fond fancy, was declared to be worth all the dogs in the ward-room put
together. They were little prepared, however, for the stroke which soon
fell upon them, perhaps in consequence of these very murmurs. To their
great horror and indignation, one of the lieutenants, provoked at some
liberty which Master Shakings had taken with his newly-polished boot,
called out, one morning,—

“Man the jolly-boat, and land that infernal, dirty, ugly beast of a dog
belonging to the young gentlemen!”

“Where shall I take him to, sir?” asked the strokesman of the boat.

“Oh, any where; pull to the nearest part of the shore, and pitch him
out on the rocks. He’ll shift for himself, I have no doubt.” So off
went poor dear Shakings!

If a stranger had come into the midshipmen’s birth at that moment, he
might have thought His Majesty’s naval service was about to be broken
up. All allegiance, discipline, or subordination, seemed utterly
cancelled by this horrible act. Many were the execrations hurled
upwards at the offending ‘knobs,’ who, we thought, were combining to
make our lives miserable. Some of our party voted for writing a letter
of remonstrance to the admiral against this unheard-of outrage; and one
youth swore deeply that he would leave the service, unless justice were
obtained. But as he had been known to swear the same thing half-a-dozen
times every day since he joined the ship, no great notice was taken of
this pledge. Another declared, upon his word of honour, that such an
act was enough to make a man turn Turk, and fly his country! At last,
by general agreement, it was decided that we should not do a bit of
duty, or even stir from our seats, till we obtained redress for our
grievances. However, while we were in the very act of vowing mutiny and
disobedience, the hands were turned up to ‘furl sails!’ upon which the
whole party, totally forgetting their magnanimous resolution, scudded
up the ladders, and jumped into their stations with more than usual
alacrity, wisely thinking, that the moment for actual revolt had not
yet arrived.

A better scheme than throwing up the service, or writing to the
admiral, or turning Mussulmen, was afterwards concocted. The midshipman
who went on shore in the next boat easily got hold of poor Shakings,
who was howling on the steps of the watering place. In order to conceal
him, he was stuffed, neck and crop, into the captain’s cloak-bag,
brought safely on board, and restored once more to the bosom of his
friends.

In spite of all we could do, however, to keep Master Shakings below,
he presently found his way to the quarter-deck, to receive the
congratulations of the other dogs. There he was soon detected by the
higher powers, and very shortly afterwards trundled over the gangway,
and again tossed on the beach. Upon this occasion he was honoured by
the presence of one of his own masters, a middy, sent upon this express
duty, who was specially desired to land the brute, and not to bring him
on board again. Of course, this particular youngster did not bring the
dog off; but, before night, somehow or other, old Shakings was snoring
away, in grand chorus with his more fashionable friends the pointers,
and dreaming no evil, before the door of the very officer’s cabin
whose beautifully-polished boots he had brushed by so rudely in the
morning,—an offence that had led to his banishment.

This second return of our dog was too much. The whole posse of us were
sent for on the quarter-deck, and in very distinct terms positively
ordered not to bring Shakings on board again. These injunctions having
been given, this wretched victim, as we termed him, of oppression,
was once more landed amongst the cedar groves. This time he remained
a full week on shore; but how or when he found his way off again, no
one ever knew; at least no one chose to divulge. Never was there any
thing like the mutual joy felt by Shakings and his two dozen masters.
He careered about the ship, barked and yelled with delight, and, in
his raptures, actually leaped, with his dirty feet, on the milk-white
duck trousers of the disgusted officers, who heartily wished him at the
bottom of the anchorage! Thus the poor beast unwittingly contributed
to accelerate his hapless fate, by this ill-timed shew of confidence
in those who were then plotting his ruin. If he had kept his paws to
himself, and staid quietly in the dark recesses of the cock-pit, wings,
cable-tiers, and other wild regions, the secrets of which were known
only to the inhabitants of our submarine world, all might yet have been
well.

We had a grand jollification on the night of Shakings’ restoration; and
his health was in the very act of being drunk, with three times three,
when the officer of the watch, hearing an uproar below, the sounds of
which were conveyed distinctly up the wind-sail, sent down to put our
lights out; and we were forced to march off, growling, to our hammocks.

Next day, to our surprise and horror, old Shakings was not to be seen
or heard of. We searched every where, interrogated the coxswains of
all the boats, and cross-questioned the marines who had been sentries
during the night on the forecastle, gangways, and poop; but all in
vain!—no trace of Shakings could be found.

At length, the idea began to gain ground amongst us, that the poor
beast had been put an end to by some diabolical means; and our ire
mounted accordingly. This suspicion seemed the more natural, as the
officers said not a word about the matter, nor even asked us what we
had done with our dog. While we were in this state of excitement and
distraction for our loss, one of the midshipmen, who had some drollery
in his composition, gave a new turn to the expression of our thoughts.

This gentleman, who was more than twice as old as most of us, say
about thirty, had won the affections of the whole of our class, by
the gentleness of his manners, and the generous part he always took
on our side. He bore amongst us the pet name of Daddy; and certainly
he was like a father to those amongst us who, like myself, were quite
adrift in the ship, without any one to look after them. He was a man
of talents and classical education, but he had entered the navy far
too late in life ever to take to it cordially. His habits, indeed,
had become so rigid, that they could never be made to bend to the
mortifying kind of discipline which it appears essential every officer
should run through, but which only the young and light-hearted can
brook. Our worthy friend, accordingly, with all his abilities, taste,
and acquirements, never seemed at home on board ship; and unless a man
can reach this point of liking for the sea, he is better on shore. At
all events, old Daddy cared more about his books than about the blocks,
and delighted much more in giving us assistance in our literary
pursuits, and trying to teach us to be useful, than in rendering
himself a proficient in those professional mysteries, which he never
hoped to practise in earnest himself.

What this very interesting person’s early history was, we never could
find out; nor why he entered the navy; nor how it came, that a man of
his powers and accomplishments should have been kept back so long.
Indeed, the youngsters never inquired too closely into these matters,
being quite contented to have the advantage of his protection against
the oppression of some of the other oldsters, who occasionally bullied
them. Upon all occasions of difficulty, we were in the habit of
clustering round him, to tell our grievances, great and small, with the
certainty of always finding in him that great desideratum in calamity—a
patient and friendly listener.

It will easily be supposed, that our kind Daddy took more than usual
interest in this affair of Shakings, and that he was applied to by us
at every stage of the transaction. He was sadly perplexed, of course,
when the dog was finally missing; and, for some days, he could give us
no comfort, nor suggest any mode of revenge which was not too dangerous
for his young friends to put in practice. He prudently observed, that
as we had no certainty to go upon, it would be foolish to get ourselves
into a serious scrape for nothing at all.

“There can be no harm, however,” he continued, in his dry and
slightly-sarcastic way, which all who knew him will recollect as well
as if they saw him now, drawing his hand slowly across his mouth and
chin, “There can be no harm, my boys, in putting the other dogs in
mourning for their dear departed friend Shakings; for, whatever is come
of him, he is lost to them as well as to us, and his memory ought to be
duly respected.”

This hint was no sooner given than a cry was raised for crape, and
every chest and bag ransacked, to procure badges of mourning. The
pointers were speedily rigged up with a large bunch of crape, tied
in a handsome bow, upon the left leg of each, just above the knee.
The joke took immediately. The officers could not help laughing; for,
though we considered them little better than fiends at that moment
of excitement, they were, in fact, except in this instance, the
best-natured and most indulgent men I remember to have sailed with.
They, of course, ordered the crape to be instantly cut off from the
dogs’ legs; and one of the officers remarked to us, seriously, that
as we had now had our piece of fun out, there were to be no more such
tricks.

Off we scampered, to consult old Daddy what was to be done next, as we
had been positively ordered not to meddle any more with the dogs.

“Put the pigs in mourning,” he said.

All our crape was expended by this time; but this want was soon
supplied by men whose trade it is to discover resources in difficulty.
With a generous devotion to the cause of public spirit, one of
these juvenile mutineers pulled off his black handkerchief, and,
tearing it in pieces, gave a portion to each of the circle, and
away we all started to put into practice this new suggestion of our
director-general of mischief.

The row which ensued in the pig-sty was prodigious—for in those days,
hogs were allowed a place on board a man-of-war,—a custom most wisely
abolished of late years, since nothing can be more out of character
with any ship than such nuisances. As these matters of taste and
cleanliness were nothing to us, we did not intermit our noisy labour
till every one of the grunters had his armlet of such crape as we had
been able to muster. We then watched our opportunity, and opened the
door so as to let out the whole herd of swine on the main-deck, just at
a moment when a group of the officers were standing on the fore part of
the quarter-deck. Of course, the liberated pigs, delighted with their
freedom, passed in review under the very nose of our superiors, each
with his mourning knot displayed, grunting or squealing along, as if it
was their express object to attract attention to their domestic sorrow
for the loss of Shakings. The officers were excessively provoked, as
they could not help seeing that all this was affording entertainment,
at their expense, to the whole crew; for, although the men took no part
in this touch of insubordination, they were ready enough, in those idle
times of the weary, weary peace, to catch at any species of distraction
or devilry, no matter what, to compensate for the loss of their wonted
occupation of pommeling their enemies.

The matter, therefore, necessarily became rather serious; and the
whole gang of us being sent for on the quarter-deck, we were ranged in
a line, each with his toes at the edge of a plank, according to the
orthodox fashion of these gregarious scoldings, technically called
‘toe-the-line matches.’ We were then given to understand that our
proceedings were impertinent, and, after the orders we had received,
highly offensive. It was with much difficulty that either party could
keep their countenances during this official lecture, for, while it
was going on, the sailors were endeavouring, by the direction of the
officers, to remove the bits of silk from the legs of the pigs. If,
however, it be difficult—as most difficult we found it—to put a hog
into mourning, it is a job ten times more troublesome to take him out
again. Such at least is the fair inference from these two experiments;
the only ones perhaps on record,—for it cost half the morning to
undo what we had effected in less than an hour—to say nothing of the
unceasing and outrageous uproar which took place along the decks,
especially under the guns, and even under the coppers, forward in the
galley, where two or three of the youngest pigs had wedged themselves,
apparently resolved to die rather than submit to the degradation of
being deprived of their mourning.

All this was very creditable to the memory of poor Shakings; but, in
the course of the day, the real secret of this extraordinary difficulty
of taking a pig out of mourning was discovered. Two of the raids were
detected in the very fact of tying on a bit of black buntin to the leg
of a sow, from which the seamen declared they had already cut off
crape and silk enough to have made her a complete suit of black.

As soon as these fresh offences were reported, the whole party of us
were ordered to the mast-head as a punishment. Some were sent to sit
on the topmast cross-trees, some on the top-gallant yard-arms, and one
small gentleman being perched at the jib-boom end, was very properly
balanced abaft by another little culprit at the extremity of the gaff.
In this predicament we were hung out to dry for six or eight hours, as
old Daddy remarked to us with a grin, when we were called down as the
night fell.

Our persevering friend, being rather provoked at the punishment of his
young flock, now set to work to discover the real fate of Shakings.
It soon occurred to him, that if the dog had really been made away
with, as he shrewdly suspected, the butcher, in all probability, must
have had a hand in his murder; accordingly, he sent for the man in the
evening, when the following dialogue took place:—

“Well, butcher, will you have a glass of grog to-night?”

“Thank you, sir, thank you. Here’s your honour’s health!” said the
other, after smoothing down his hair, and pulling an immense quid of
tobacco out of his mouth.

Old Daddy observed the peculiar relish with which the butcher took his
glass; and mixing another, a good deal more potent, placed it before
the fellow, and continued the conversation in these words:

“I tell you what it is, Mr. Butcher—you are as humane a man as any in
the ship, I dare say; but, if required, you know well, that you must do
your duty, whether it is upon sheep or hogs?”

“Surely, sir.”

“Or upon dogs, either?” suddenly asked the inquisitor.

“I don’t know about that,” stammered the butcher, quite taken by
surprise, and thrown all aback.

“Well—well,” said Daddy, “here’s another glass for you—a stiff
north-wester. Come! tell us all about it now. How did you get rid of
the dog?—of Shakings, I mean?”

“Why, sir,” said the peaching rogue, “I put him in a bag—a bread bag,
sir.”

“Well!—what then?”

“I tied up the mouth, and put him overboard—out of the midship
lower-deck port, sir.”

“Yes—but he would not sink?” said Daddy.

“Oh, sir,” cried the butcher, now entering fully into the merciless
spirit of his trade, “I put a four-and-twenty-pound shot into the bag
along with Shakings.”

“Did you?—Then, Master Butcher, all I can say is, you are as precious a
rascal as ever went about unhanged. There—drink your grog, and be off
with you!”

Next morning when the officers were assembled at breakfast in the
ward-room, the door of the captain of marines’ cabin was suddenly
opened, and that officer, half shaved, and laughing through a collar of
soap-suds, stalked out, with a paper in his hand.

“Here,” he exclaimed, “is a copy of verses, which I found just now in
my basin. I can’t tell how they got there, nor what they are about;—but
you shall judge.”

So he read the two following stanzas of doggerel:—

    “When the Northern Confed’racy threatened our shores,
      And roused Albion’s Lion, reclining to sleep,
     Preservation was taken of all the King’s Stores,
      Nor so much as a _Rope Yarn_ was launched in the deep.

    “But now it is Peace, other hopes are in view,
      And all active service as light as a feather,
     The Stores may be d—d, and humanity too,
      For SHAKINGS and _Shot_ are thrown o’erboard together!”

I need hardly say in what quarter of the ship this biting morsel of
cock-pit satire was concocted, nor indeed who wrote it, for there
was no one but our good Daddy who was equal to such a flight. About
midnight, an urchin—who shall be nameless—was thrust out of one of the
after-ports of the lower deck, from which he clambered up to the marine
officer’s port, and the sash happening to have been lowered down on the
gun, the epigram, copied by another of the youngsters, was pitched into
the soldier’s basin.

The wisest thing would have been for the officers to have said nothing
about the matter, and let it blow by. But angry people are seldom
judicious—so they made a formal complaint to the captain, who, to do
him justice, was not a little puzzled how to settle the affair. The
reputed author, however, was called up, and the captain said to him—

“Pray, sir, are you the writer of these lines?”

“I am, sir,” he replied, after a little consideration.

“Then—all I can say is,” remarked the captain, “they are clever enough,
in their way—but take my advice, and write no more such verses.”

So the affair ended. The satirist took the captain’s hint in good part,
and confined his pen to topics below the surface of the water.

As in the course of a few months the war broke out, there was no longer
time for such nonsense, and our generous protector, old Daddy, some
time after this affair of Shakings took place, was sent off to Halifax,
in charge of a prize. His orders were, if possible, to rejoin his own
ship, the Leander, then lying at the entrance of New York harbour,
just within Sandy Hook light-house.

Our good old friend, accordingly, having completed his mission, and
delivered his prize to the authorities at Halifax, took his passage in
the British packet sailing from thence to the port in which we lay.
As this ship sailed past us, on her way to the city of New York, we
ascertained, to our great joy, that our excellent Daddy was actually on
board of her. Some hours afterwards, the pilot-boat was seen coming to
us, and, though it was in the middle of the night, all the younger mids
came hastily on deck to welcome their worthy messmate back again to his
ship.

It was late in October, and the wind blew fresh from the
north-westward, so that the ship, riding to the ebb, had her head
directed towards the Narrows, between Staten Land and Long Island:
consequently, the pilot-boat,—one of those beautiful vessels so well
known to every visitor of the American coast,—came flying down upon us,
with the wind nearly right aft. Our joyous party were all assembled on
the quarter-deck, looking anxiously at the boat as she swept past us.
She then luffed round, in order to sheer alongside, at which moment the
main-sail jibed, as was to be expected. It was obvious, however, that
something more had taken place than the pilot had looked for, since the
boat, instead of ranging up to us, was brought right round on her heel,
and went off again upon a wind on the other tack. The tide carried her
out of sight for a few minutes, but she was soon alongside, when we
learned, to our inexpressible grief and consternation, that, on the
main-boom of the pilot-boat swinging over, it had accidentally struck
our poor friend, and pitched him headlong overboard. Being encumbered
with his great-coat, the pockets of which, as we afterwards learned,
were loaded with his young companions’ letters, brought from England by
this packet, he in vain struggled to catch hold of the boat, and then
sunk to rise no more!




CHAPTER VI.

DIVERSITIES IN DISCIPLINE.


It was our fortune in the Leander to change captains very frequently;
and, as most of the plans of those officers were dissimilar, the
perplexity which such variations produced is not to be described.
Fortunately, however, there is so much uniformity in the routine
of naval discipline, that, in spite of any variety in the systems
established by a succession of commanding officers, things do somehow
contrive to run on to their final purpose pretty well. It is true
the interests of the service often suffer for a time, and in a small
degree; but public-spirited and vigilant officers know well how to
extract lasting profit even from the unsettled, revolutionary state of
affairs which is apt to occur at these periods. On the other hand, it
is at these times also that the class called skulkers most easily shirk
their duty, while those who really like their business, are even at the
time more certain of being favourably noticed than at any other moment;
because it becomes obvious, that, without them, things would not go
on at all. Although the variety of methods, therefore, introduced by
different captains in succession, is apt to distract and unhinge the
discipline, it likewise teaches much that is useful—at least to those
who are on the alert, and who wish to improve.

I was too young and inexperienced, at that time, to profit by these
repeated changes, as I might have done had I been duly aware that there
were so many advantages to be found in observing their effects. And it
is chiefly on this account that I mention the circumstance just now,
in order to recommend young men to avoid the very common practice, on
board ship, of despising all the plans introduced by the new officer,
and lauding to the skies the practices of the captain who has gone.
It is not such an easy affair, let me tell them, as they suppose, to
regulate the internal affairs of a ship—and, however clever they may
fancy themselves, they will find their best interest in trying, upon
these occasions, not so much to discover points of censure, as to
discover, and impress on their memory, topics of practical utility,
hints for the solution of future difficulties, and methods of turning
their own resources to professional account.

Even at this distance of time, and although most of the officers I
am now speaking of have long since been dead and gone, I still feel
that it would be a sort of disrespectful liberty in me, and perhaps
not very useful, to point out, with any minuteness of detail, those
particular points in their modes of management which struck me as
being faulty at the time, or which now seem worthy of commendation. I
shall merely mention a trait of character by which two of them were
contradistinguished from each other; and I do so the more readily, as
the example seems to contain a lesson nearly as applicable, perhaps,
to domestic matters, as to those of a stern profession like the navy.

Whenever one of these commanding officers came on board the ship, after
an absence of a day or two, and likewise when he made his periodical
round of the decks after breakfast, his constant habit was to cast
his eye about him, in order to discover what was wrong—to detect the
smallest thing that was out of its place—in a word, to find as many
grounds for censure as possible. This constituted, in his opinion, the
best preventive to neglect, on the part of those under his command; and
he acted in this crusty way on principle.

The attention of the other officer, on the contrary, appeared to
be directed chiefly to those points which he could approve of. For
instance, he would stop as he went along, from time to time, and say
to the first lieutenant, “Now, these ropes are very nicely arranged;
this mode of stowing the men’s bags and mess kids is just as I wish to
see it.” While the officer first described would not only pass by these
well-arranged things, which had cost hours of labour to put in order,
quite unnoticed, but would not be easy till his eye had caught hold of
some casual omission, which afforded an opening for disapprobation. One
of these captains would remark to the first lieutenant, as he walked
along, “How white and clean you have got the decks to-day! I think you
must have been at them all the morning, to have got them into such
order.” The other, in similar circumstances, but eager to find fault,
would say, even if the decks were as white and clean as drifted snow—“I
wish to Heaven, sir, you would teach these sweepers to clear away that
bundle of shakings!” pointing to a bit of rope yarn, not half an inch
long, left under the truck of a gun.

It seemed, in short, as if nothing was more vexatious to one of these
officers, than to discover things so correct as to afford him no good
opportunity for finding fault; while to the other, the necessity of
censuring really appeared a punishment to himself. Under the one,
accordingly, we all worked with cheerfulness, from a conviction that
nothing we did in a proper way would miss approbation. But our duty
under the other, being performed in fear, seldom went on with much
spirit. We had no personal satisfaction in doing things correctly,
from the certainty of getting no commendation. The great chance, also,
of being censured, even in those cases where we had laboured most
industriously to merit approbation, broke the spring of all generous
exertion, and, by teaching us to anticipate blame, as a matter of
course, defeated the very purpose of punishment when it fell upon us.
The case being quite hopeless, the chastisement seldom conduced either
to the amendment of an offender, or to the prevention of offences.
But what seemed the oddest thing of all was, that these men were both
as kind-hearted as could be, or, if there were any difference, the
fault-finder was the better natured, and in matters not professional
the more indulgent of the two. The line of conduct I have described
was purely a matter of official system, not at all of feeling. Yet,
as it then appeared, and still appears to me, nothing could be more
completely erroneous than the snarling method of the one, or more
decidedly calculated to do good, than the approving style of the other.
It has, in fact, always appeared to me an absurdity, to make any real
distinction between public and private matters in these respects. Nor
is there the smallest reason why the same principle of civility, or
consideration, or by whatever name that quality be called by which
the feelings of others are consulted, should not modify professional
intercourse quite as much as it does that of the freest society,
without any risk that the requisite strictness of discipline would be
hurt by an attention to good manners.

This desire of discovering that things are right, accompanied by a
sincere wish to express that approbation, are habits which, in almost
every situation in life, have the best possible effects in practice.
They are vastly more agreeable certainly to the superior himself,
whether he be the colonel of a regiment, the captain of a ship, or the
head of a house; for the mere act of approving, seldom fails to put a
man’s thoughts into that pleasant train which predisposes him to be
habitually pleased, and this frame of mind alone, essentially helps the
propagation of a similar cheerfulness amongst all those who are about
him. It requires, indeed, but a very little experience of soldiers or
sailors, children, servants, or any other kind of dependents, or even
of companions and superiors, to shew that this good-humour, on the part
of those whom we wish to influence, is the best possible coadjutor to
our schemes of management, whatever these may be.

The approving system is also, beyond all others, the most stimulating
and agreeable for the inferior to work under. Instead of depressing and
humiliating him, it has a constant tendency to make him think well of
himself, so long as he is usefully employed; and as soon as this point
is gained, but seldom before, he will be in a right frame of mind to
think well of others, and to look with hearty zeal to the execution
of his duty. All the burdens of labour are then lightened, by the
conviction that they are well directed; and, instead of his severest
tasks being distasteful, they may often, under the cheering eye of a
superior who shews himself anxious to commend what is right, become the
most substantial pleasures of his life.

I need scarcely dwell longer on this subject, by shewing that another
material advantage of the approving practice consists in the greater
certainty and better quality of the work done by willing hands,
compared to that which is crushed out of people by force. No man
understood this distinction better than Lord Nelson, who acted upon
it uniformly,—with what wonderful success we all know. Some one was
discussing this question with him one day, and pointing out the eminent
success which had attended the opposite plan, followed by another great
officer, Lord St. Vincent:—

“Very true,” said Lord Nelson; “but, in cases where he used a hatchet,
I took a penknife.”

After all, however, it is but too true, that, adopt what course we will
of commendations or other rewards, we must still call in punishments
to our assistance, from time to time. But there can be little doubt
that any well-regulated system of cheerfulness, and just approbation
of what is right, followed not from caprice, but as an express duty,
gives into our hands the means of correcting things which are wrong,
with greater effect, and at a much less cost of suffering, than if our
general habit were that of always finding fault. For it is obvious,
that when affairs are carried on upon the cheerful principle above
described, the mere act of withholding praise becomes a sharp censure
in itself—and this alone is sufficient to recommend its use. It doubles
the work done, by quickening the hands of the labourers—doubles the
happiness of all parties, both high and low—and it may also be said to
double our means of punishing with effect; for it superadds a class of
chastisements, dependent solely upon the interruption of favours, not
upon the infliction of actual pain. The practical application of these
rules to the ordinary course of naval discipline I shall probably have
frequent opportunities of shewing.

In the mean time, I shall merely remark, that in every situation in
life, perhaps without any exception, much of our happiness or misery,
as well as much of our success in the world, depends less upon the
circumstances about us, than upon the manner in which, as a matter of
habit and principle, we choose to view them. In almost every case there
is something to approve of, quite as distinct, if we wish to see it, as
there is of censure, though it may not otherwise be so conspicuous. It
will, of course, very often be quite necessary to reprobate, without
any sort of qualification, what passes before us; still, without in the
smallest degree compromising our sense of what is wrong, there will
always be a way—if there be a will—of expressing such sentiments that
shall not be unsuitable to the golden precept which recommends us to
take a cheerful view of things.

There is one practical maxim, trite, indeed, though too little acted
upon, but which bears so directly on this subject, that I wish
exceedingly to urge it upon the notice of my young friends, from its
being calculated to prove of much use to them in the business, as well
as the true pleasures of life. In dealing with other men—no matter what
their rank or station may be—we should consider not so much what they
deserve at our hands, as what course is most suitable for us to follow.

“My lord,” says Polonius to Hamlet, in speaking of the poor players, “I
will use them according to their desert.”

“Odd’s bodikin, man, much better!” is the answer of the judicious and
kind-hearted prince. “Use every man after his desert, and who shall
’scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity: the less
they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty.”

Most people, however, reverse this beautiful maxim, which breathes the
very soul of practical charity, and study to behave to others in a
manner suitable to the desert of those persons, while they leave out of
the question entirely the propriety and dignity of their own conduct,
as if that were a minor, and not the primary consideration! Does not
this occur every time we lose our temper? At all events, the maxim
applies with peculiar force on board ship, where the character and
conduct of every officer are daily and hourly exposed to the searching
scrutiny of a great number of persons who have often little else to do
but watch the behaviour of one another.

It may safely be asserted, indeed, that in no instance whatsoever
can we exercise any permanent or useful influence over the opinions,
feelings, or conduct of others, unless in our intercourse with them we
demean ourselves in a manner suitable to our own station; and this,
in fact, which, in the long run, is the measure of all efficient
authority, is also the principal circumstance which gives one man
the ascendency over another, his equal in talents and information,
and whose opportunities are alike. It is probably to the same class
of things that one man owes his transcendent popularity and success
in society, while another, equally gifted, and enjoying similar
opportunities, is shunned or neglected. If we hear a person constantly
finding fault—however much reason he may have on his side—we take no
pleasure in his company. We soon discover, that if there be two things
presented to his view, one which may be made the subject of praise,
the other of censure, he will catch at the disagreeable point, and
dwell upon it, to the exclusion of that which is agreeable, although
the circumstances may not be such as to have required him to express
any comparative opinion at all. And as the taste for finding fault
unfortunately extends to every thing, small as well as great, constant
food is sure to be furnished, at every turn, to supply this disparaging
appetite. If the sky be bright and clear, the growler reminds you that
the streets are dirty under foot;—if the company be well selected,
the dinner good, the music choice, and all things gay and cheerful,
he forces upon your attention the closeness of the rooms, the awkward
dress of one of the party, or the want of tune in one of the strings of
the harp. In speaking of the qualities of a friend, your true snarler
is certain to pick out the faults, to dash the merits; and even when
talking of himself, he dwells with a morbid pleasure on his want of
success in society, his losses in fortune, and his scanty hopes of
doing any better in future. The sunshine of day is pale moonlight
to such a man. If he sees a Sir Joshua, it is sure to be faded;—the
composition and execution he takes care not to look at. If he hears of
a great warrior or statesman, whose exploits have won the applause of
the whole world, he qualifies the admiration by reference to some early
failure of the great man. In short, when we find ourselves in such a
person’s company, we feel certain that the bad side of every thing will
inevitably be exposed to us. And what is the result? Do we not shun
him? And if we should have the means of introducing him to others, or
of putting him into a situation to benefit himself and the public, are
we not shy of trusting him with a degree of power which he appears
determined shall not be productive of good?

The truth is, that by an involuntary process of the mind, we come to
judge of others, not nearly so much by direct examination as by means
of the reflected light which is sent back from the objects surrounding
them. If we observe, therefore, that a man’s general taste is to find
fault rather than to be pleased, we inevitably form the conclusion that
he is really not worth pleasing; and as he is not likely to gratify
others, we keep him, as much as we can, out of the way of those we
esteem.

In very many cases, however, probably in most cases, this temper
is merely a habit, and may, at bottom, often be quite unsuitable
to the real character. So much so, that if the opposite practice,
from whatever motive, be adopted by the same person, even where the
disposition may fundamentally not be good, the result will often be a
thousand times more amiable and useful, not only to the party himself,
but to all those with whom he has any dealings; and his companionship
will then be courted, instead of being shunned, as it had been before.

In the free and open world of busy life, men are generally made so
fully sensible, sooner or later, of the truth of these maxims, that few
of the growling tribe are ever known to advance far in life. But on
board ship, where the distinctions of rank are strongly marked, and the
measure of each man’s authority exactly determined by established laws
and usages, officers are frequently much too slow to discover that the
principles above adverted to are applicable to their own case; and thus
they sometimes fling away advantages of the highest price, which lie
easily within their reach, and adopt instead the cold, stern, and often
inefficient operations of mere technical discipline.

This very technical discipline, indeed, like any other machinery, is
admirable if well worked, but useless if its powers are misapplied. It
is not the mere elastic force of the steam that gives impulse to the
engine, but a due regulation of that elasticity. So it is with the use
of that mysterious, I had almost said magical sort of power, by which
the operations of moral discipline are carried on, especially at sea,
where the different component parts of the machine are so closely
fitted to one another, and made to act in such uniform order, that no
one part can go far wrong without deranging the whole.

I would fain, however, avoid narrowing the principle to any walk
of life, though its operation may be more obvious afloat than on
shore. And any young person, just setting out in the world, whatever
his profession be, will do well to recollect, that his own eventual
success, as well as happiness in the mean time, will mainly depend upon
his resolute determination to acquire the habit of being pleased with
what he meets, rather than of being sharp-sighted in the discovery of
what is disagreeable. I may add, that there is little or no danger of
the habit recommended degenerating into duplicity; for, in order to its
being either useful in the long run, or even agreeable at the moment,
its practice, like every thing else that is good, must be guided
throughout by sterling principle.




CHAPTER VII.

GEOLOGY—NAUTICAL SQUABBLES.


About this period I began to dabble a little in geology, for which
science I had acquired a taste by inheritance, and, in some degree,
from companionship with more than one of the Scottish school, who, at
the beginning of this century, were considered more than half-cracked,
merely for supporting the igneous theory of Dr. Hutton, which,
with certain limitations and extensions, and after thirty years of
controversy, experiment, and observation, appears to be now pretty
generally adopted. Sailors, indeed, have excellent opportunities
of making geological observations, for they have the advantage of
seeing Nature, as it were, with her face washed, more frequently than
most other observers; and can seldom visit any coast, new or old,
without having it in their power to bring off something interesting to
inquirers in this branch of knowledge. That is, supposing they have
eyes to see, and capacity to describe, what meets their observation.
Some people cannot go beyond a single fact or two actually lying
under their very noses; and you might as well expect them to fly
as to combine these particulars, or to apply them to the purposes
of science at large. Others, again, from the same want of accurate
comprehension, or from sheer mental indolence, jump at once from the
most trifling local circumstances to the broadest and most unwarranted
generalisations.

It would be difficult, if not quite impossible, by dint of any number
of precepts, to drive geology, or any other kind of instruction,
into the noddles of some folks; so that it will often seem an even
chance with a blockhead, whether, when he is obliged to think, he will
generalise too much or too little. I remember, for example, once lying
at anchor, for some weeks, in the harbour of Vigo, on the west coast
of Spain, during which time, for a piece of fun, the first lieutenant
desired one of the youngsters on board to write a letter to his friends
at home.

“What in the world, sir, am I to say?” asked the noodle of a fellow,
after pondering over the subject for a long time.

“Say?—Why, describe the country, and the manners of the people—tell how
they behaved to you.”

To work went the youth, sorely bothered; and though he had been on
shore many times, he could extract nothing from his memory. The first
lieutenant, however, who was inexorable, insisted upon the letter being
written, and locked him up in his cabin till he intimated, by a certain
signal, that the epistle was ready for inspection. The following was
the result of four hours’ painful labour:—

“All Spain is hilly—so is this. The natives all wear wooden shoes, and
they are all a set of brutes, of which I take this to witness, that one
of them called me a Picaroon.

  “I remain, &c.”

Although geology be a topic often intensely interesting on the spot, it
is not always easy to give it this character to people at a distance,
who care very little whether the world has been baked or boiled, or
both, or neither. Most persons, indeed, remain all their lives quite
indifferent whether the globe has come into its present shape by
what is called Chance, that is, I suppose, by means which we cannot
investigate, and can only guess at,—or whether its various changes
are susceptible of philosophical examination, and their history of
being recorded with more or less precision. The sound geologist of the
present day, it will be observed, professes to have nothing to do with
the origin of things, but merely investigates the various physical
revolutions which have taken place on the earth’s surface, by the
instrumentality of natural causes. The great charm of this fascinating
science, accordingly, though it may be difficult to say why, consists
in the manner in which the Reason and the Imagination are brought
together, in regions where two such travellers could hardly have been
expected to meet.

Many practical and popular questions also mingle themselves up with
the scientific inquiries of geology. I remember, for instance, even
when a boy, taking a great interest, on this account, in the plaster of
Paris quarries of Nova Scotia. This formation shews itself generally
above ground, and is of a dingy white colour, the parts exposed to
the air being crumbly or decomposed. The workmen having removed the
superincumbent earth, and the rotten rock, as they call it, blast
the solid gypsum with gunpowder, and, having broken it into blocks
sufficiently small to be handled, sell it to the American dealers.
A number of vessels are daily employed in carrying it to New York,
Philadelphia, and Baltimore. In my early notes, I find it gravely
stated, as a thing generally understood, that most of this gypsum
was sold to the millers in the United States, for the purpose of
adulterating their flour! Prejudice apart, however, the fact is quite
the reverse of what I believed in my youth; for, by an ingenious system
of regulations, the Americans contrive that the best quality should
have an advantage over bad in leaving the country. Such, indeed, is
the success of these measures, that I can safely say I never saw a
barrel of it that was not excellent.

Besides this capital flour, the Americans export biscuit of a delicious
quality to all parts of the globe; and those only who have known the
amount of discomfort produced by living on the ‘remainder biscuit
after a voyage,’ perhaps not good of its kind originally, can justly
appreciate the luxury of opening a barrel of crackers from New York!
By the way, it is a curious and not unimportant fact in nautical
affairs, though only discovered of late years, that the best way to
keep this description of bread is to exclude the air from it as much
as possible. In former times, and even for some years after I entered
the navy, the practice was, to open the bread-room frequently, and,
by means of funnels made of canvass, called windsails, to force the
external air amongst the biscuit, in order, as was supposed, to keep it
sweet and fresh. Nothing, it now appears, could have been devised more
destructive to it; and the reason is easily explained. It is only in
fine weather that this operation can be performed, at which seasons the
external air is generally many degrees hotter than the atmosphere of
the bread-room, which, from being low down in the ship, acquires, like
a cellar, a pretty uniform temperature. The outer air, from its warmth,
and from sweeping along the surface of the sea, is at all times charged
with a considerable degree of vapour, the moisture of which is sure
to be deposited upon any body it comes in contact with, colder than
the air which bears it along. Consequently, the biscuit, when exposed
to these humid currents, is rendered damp, and the process of decay,
instead of being retarded, is rapidly assisted by the ventilation. This
ancient system of airing is now so entirely exploded, that in some
ships the biscuit is placed in separate closed cases, in which it is
packed like slates, with great care, and the covers are then caulked or
sealed down. By this contrivance, no more biscuit need be exposed than
is absolutely necessary for the immediate consumption of the crew. If I
am not mistaken, this is the general practice in American men-of-war,
and it certainly ought to be adopted by us.

I remember once, when sailing in the Pacific Ocean, about a couple of
hundred leagues to the south of the coast of Peru, falling in with
a ship, and buying some American biscuit which had been more than a
year from home. It was enclosed in a new wine puncheon, which was, of
course, perfectly air-tight. When we opened it, the biscuit smelled
as fresh and new as if it had been taken from the oven only the day
before. Even its flavour and crispness were preserved so entire, that I
thought we should never have done cranching it.

We were not particularly fortunate in making many captures on the
Halifax station, in our early cruises, after the war broke out. But
the change which the renewal of hostilities made in our habits was
great. Instead of idly rotting in harbour, our ship was now always at
sea, on the look-out,—a degree of vigilance, which, as will be seen,
had its reward in due season. In the meantime, we discovered that
a midshipman’s life was full of interest and curiosity, especially
to those who thirsted to see new countries and new climates. Of this
matter of climate, I find a characteristic enough touch in one of my
early letters.

“We have been on a cruise for many months; but we did not take a single
prize, although all the rest of the ships of the station have been
making captures. I hope we shall be more fortunate next time, as we
intend to go to a better place. Our last cruise carried us a long way
to the southward, where the weather was so very hot, that it became
impossible to do any thing in comfort, night or day. In the night time
we could hardly sleep, and in the day we were scorched by the sun.
When our candles were lighted, they melted away by degrees, and often
tumbled on the table by their own weight, or, perhaps, fell plump into
the victuals!”

Even at this distance of time, I have a most painfully distinct
recollection of these dirty tallow candles in the midshipmen’s
birth—dips, I think, they were called—smelling of mutton fat, and
throwing up a column of smoke like that from a steamboat’s chimney.
These ‘glims’ yielded but little light, by reason, possibly, of a huge
wick occupying more than half the area of the flame, and demanding the
incessant application of our big-bellied snuffers to make the darkness
visible.

This, in its turn, reminds me of a piece of cock-pit manners, which
truth obliges me to divulge, although, certainly, not very much to
our credit. It was the duty of the unfortunate wight who sat nearest
the candle—grievously misnamed the ‘light’—to snuff off its monstrous
cauliflower of a head from time to time; and certainly his office was
no sinecure. Sometimes, however, either from being too much absorbed
in his book, or from his hand being tired, he might forget to ‘top the
glim,’ as it was called—glim being, I suppose, a contraction of the
too obvious word glimmer. On these occasions of neglect, when things
were returning fast to their primeval darkness, any one of the company
was entitled to call out “Top!” upon which all the rest were bound to
vociferate the same word, and he who was the last to call out “Top!”
was exposed to one of the following disagreeable alternatives—either to
get up and snuff the candle, at whatever distance he might be seated,
or to have the burning snuff thrown in his face by any one who was
within reach, and chose to pinch it off with his finger and thumb.
It is true there was always some trouble in this operation, and some
little risk of burning the fingers, to say nothing of the danger to His
Majesty’s ship; but the delightful task of teaching a messmate good
breeding, by tossing a handful of burning tallow-candle snuff in his
eyes, was, of course, a happiness too great to be resisted.

In speaking thus of the midshipmen’s birth, and of their occasional
ruggedness of manners, I should be doing wrong to leave an impression
that they were a mere lawless set of harumscarum scamps. Quite the
contrary; for we had a code of laws for our government, which, for
precision and distinctness of purpose, might have rivalled many of
those promulgated by the newest-born states of the world, in these
days of political parturition. I observe, that young countries, like
young people, whether in a midshipman’s mess, or any where else,
delight in the indulgence of the fond and false idea, that it is easy
to regulate the fluctuations of human nature exactly as they please,
by the mere force of written constitutions. They always ‘remember to
forget,’ that institutions, to be in the smallest degree effective in
practice, must be made to fit the existing state of society, and that
society cannot possibly be made to fit them. They almost all run away,
however, with the vainest of vain notions, that established habits, old
prejudices, with all the other fixed and peculiar circumstances of the
time and place in which they find themselves, have become, of a sudden,
so pliable, that they can be essentially and speedily modified by
artificial legislation alone! On this fallacious principle we framed a
set of regulations for our mess, of which I recollect only one, giving,
I admit, rather a queer idea of the state of things in our maritime
world. It ran thus:—“If any member of the larboard mess shall so far
forget the manners of a gentleman as to give the lie direct to one of
his messmates, he shall be fined one dollar.”

This fine, it must be observed, was intended purely as a propitiation
to the offended dignity of the mess, and was quite independent of the
personal arrangements which, on such occasions, generally took place in
the cock-pit outside. These battles royal were fought across a chest,—I
don’t mean with pistols, but with good honest fisty-cuffs. The only
difficulty attending this method of settling such matters consisted
in the shifts to which the parties were compelled to resort, to
conceal the black eyes which, in most cases, were the result of these
single combats. It would, of course, have been quite incorrect in the
commanding officer to have overlooked such proceedings—even supposing
the parties to retain a sufficiency of optics to do their duty. The
usual resource was to trust to the good-nature of the surgeon, who
put the high contending parties on the sick list, and wrote against
their names “Contusion;” an entry he might certainly make with a safe
conscience!

This innocent way of settling disputes was all very well, so long
as the mids were really and truly boys; but there came, in process
of time, a plaguy awkward age, when they began to fancy themselves
men, and when they were very apt to take it into their heads that, on
such occasions as that just alluded to, their dignity, as officers
and gentlemen, would be compromised by beating one another about the
face and eyes across a chest, and otherwise contusing one another,
according to the most approved fashion of the cock-pit. Youths, at
this intermediate age, are called Hobbledehoys, that is, neither man
nor boy. And as powder and ball act with equal efficacy against these
high-spirited fellows as against men of more experience, fatal duels
do sometimes take place even amongst midshipmen. I was once present at
a very foolish affair of this kind, which, though it happily ended in
smoke, was so exceedingly irregular in all its parts, that, had any
one fallen, the whole party concerned would most probably have been
hanged!

A dispute arose between three of these young men, in the course of
which, terms were bandied about, leaving a reproach such that only the
ordeal of a duel, it was thought, could wipe out. It was late in the
day when this quarrel took place; but as there was still light enough
left to fire a shot, the party went on deck, and quietly asked leave to
go on shore for a walk. I happened to be the only person in the birth
at the time who was not engaged in the squabble, and so was pressed
into the service of the disputants to act as second. There would have
been nothing very absurd in all this, had there been another second
besides me, or had there existed only one quarrel to settle—but between
the three youths there were two distinct disputes!

One of these lads, whom we shall call Mr. A, had first to fight with
Mr. B, while Mr. C was second to Mr. B; and then Mr. A, having disposed
of Mr. B, either by putting him out of the world, or by adjusting the
matter by apologies, was to commence a fresh battle with Mr. C, who,
it will be observed, had been second to his former antagonist, Mr. B!
The contingency of Mr. A himself being put hors de combat appears not
to have been contemplated; but the strong personal interest which Mr.
C (the second to Mr. A’s first antagonist) had in giving the affair a
fatal turn, would have been the ticklish point for our poor necks, in
a court of justice, had Mr. A fallen. Poor fellow! he was afterwards
killed in action.

More by good luck than good management, neither of the first shots took
effect. At this stage of the affair, I began to perceive the excessive
absurdity of the whole transaction, and the danger of the gallows,
to which we were all exposing ourselves. I therefore vehemently
urged upon the parties the propriety of staying further proceedings.
These suggestions were fortunately strengthened by the arrival of a
corporal’s guard of armed marines from the ship, under the orders of an
officer, who was directed to arrest the whole party. There was at first
a ludicrous shew of actual resistance to this detachment; but, after
some words, the affair terminated, and the disputants walked off the
field arm in arm, the best friends in the world!




CHAPTER VIII.

MAST-HEADING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN.


On the 8th of January, 1804, we sailed from Halifax, and, after a
long and tedious passage, arrived at Bermuda. The transition from the
intense frost of a Nova Scotian winter, during which the mercury was
generally below zero, to a temperature of 70° or 80°, was exceedingly
agreeable to those who had constitutions to stand the sudden rise of
more than half a hundred degrees of the thermometer. After a few days’
stay at Bermuda, we set off for the United States, where we were again
frozen, almost as much as we had been at Halifax. The first land we
made was that of Virginia; but owing to calms, and light foul winds,
we failed in getting to Norfolk in the Chesapeak, and therefore bore
up for New York, which we reached on the 19th of February, and there
anchored about seven miles from that beautiful city.

It was not thought right to let any of us young folks visit the
shore alone; but I was fortunate in being invited to accompany one
of the officers. To the friendship of this most excellent person, at
the periods of most need, I feel so much more indebted than I can
venture to express without indelicacy, that I shall say nothing of
the gratitude I have so long borne him in return. Perhaps, indeed,
the best, as being the most practical, repayment we can ever make
for such attentions is, to turn them over, again and again, to some
other person similarly circumstanced with ourselves at those early
periods. This would be acting in the spirit with which Dr. Franklin
tells us he used to lend money, as he never gave it away without
requiring from the person receiving such assistance, a promise to repay
the loan, not to himself, but to transfer it, when times improved,
to some one else in distress, who would enter into the same sort of
engagement to circulate the charity. On this principle, I have several
times, in the course of my professional life, rather surprised young
middies by giving them exactly such a lift as I myself received at
New York—shewing them strange places, and introducing them to the
inhabitants, in the way my kind friend adopted towards me. These boys
may perhaps have fancied it was owing to their own uncommon merit
that they were so noticed; while all the time I may have merely been
relieving my own conscience, and paying off, by indirect instalments,
a portion of that debt of gratitude which, in spite of these
disbursements, I find only increases in proportion as my knowledge of
the world gives me the means of appreciating its value.

That it is the time and manner of doing a kindness which constitute its
chief merit, as a matter of feeling at least, is quite true; and the
grand secret of this delicate art appears to consist in obliging people
just at the moments, and, as nearly as possible, in the particular way,
in which they themselves wish the favour to be done. However perverse
their tastes may be, and often, perhaps, because they are perverse,
people do not like even to have favours thrust upon them. But it was my
good fortune on this, and many other occasions in life, early and late,
to fall in with friends who always contrived to nick the right moments
to a hair’s-breadth. Accordingly, one morning, I received an invitation
to accompany my generous friend, one of the lieutenants, to New York,
and I felt, as he spoke, a bound of joy, the bare recollection of which
makes my pulse beat ten strokes per minute quicker, at the distance of
a good quarter of a century!

It would not be fair to the subject, nor indeed quite so to myself, to
transcribe from a very boyish journal an account of this visit to New
York. The inadequate expression of that period, compared with the vivid
recollection of what I then felt, shews, well enough, the want of power
which belongs to inexperience. Very fortunately, however, the faculty
of enjoying is sooner acquired than the difficult art of describing.
Yet even this useful and apparently simple science of making the most
of all that turns up, requires a longer apprenticeship of good fortune
than most people are aware of.

In the midst of snow and wind, we made out a very comfortless passage
to New York; and, after some trouble in hunting for lodgings, we were
well pleased to find ourselves snugly stowed away in a capital boarding
house in Greenwich Street. We there found a large party at tea before
a blazing wood fire, which was instantly piled with fresh logs for the
strangers, and the best seats relinquished for them, according to the
invariable practice of that hospitable country.

If our hostess be still alive, I hope she will not repent of having
bestowed her obliging attentions on one who, so many years afterwards,
made himself, he fears, less popular in her land, than he could wish
to be amongst a people to whom he owes so much, and for whom he
really feels so much kindness. He still anxiously hopes, however,
they will believe him when he declares, that, having said in his
recent publication no more than what he conceived was due to strict
truth, and to the integrity of history, as far as his observations and
opinions went, he still feels, as he always has, and ever must continue
to feel towards America, the heartiest good-will.

The Americans are perpetually repeating, that the foundation-stone of
their liberty is fixed on the doctrine, that every man is free to form
his own opinions, and to promulgate them in candour and in moderation.
Is it meant that a foreigner is excluded from these privileges? If
not, may I ask, in what respect have I passed these limitations? The
Americans have surely no fair right to be offended because my views
differ from theirs; and yet, I am told, I have been rudely enough
handled by the press of that country. If my motives are distrusted,
I can only say I am sorely belied; if I am mistaken, regret at my
political blindness were surely more dignified than anger on the part
of those with whom I differ; and if it shall chance that I am in the
right, the best confirmation of the correctness of my views, in the
opinion of indifferent persons, will perhaps be found in the soreness
of those who wince when the truth is spoken.

Yet, after all, few things would give me more real pleasure than to
know that my friends across the water would consent to take me at my
word; and, considering what I have said about them as so much public
matter—which it truly is—agree to reckon me in my absence, as they
always did when I was amongst them—and I am sure they would count me
if I went back again—as a private friend. I differed with them in
politics, and I differ with them now as much as ever; but I sincerely
wish them happiness individually; and as a nation, I shall rejoice
if they prosper. As the Persians write, “What can I say more?” And I
only hope these few words may help to make my peace with people who
justly pride themselves on bearing no malice. As for myself, I have
no peace to make; for I have studiously avoided reading any of the
American criticisms on my book, in order that the kindly feelings I
have ever entertained towards that country should not be ruffled. By
this abstinence, I may have lost some information, and perhaps missed
many opportunities of correcting erroneous impressions. But I set so
much store by the pleasing recollection of the journey itself, and of
the hospitality with which my family were every where received, that,
whether it be right, or whether it be wrong, I cannot bring myself
to read any thing which might disturb these agreeable associations.
So let us part in peace! or rather, let us meet again in cordial
communication; and if this little work shall find its way across the
Atlantic, I hope it will be read there without reference to any thing
that has passed between us; or, at all events, with reference only to
those parts of our former intercourse which are satisfactory to all
parties.

After leaving the American coast, we stood once more across the gulf
stream for Bermuda. Here I find the first trace of a regular journal,
containing a few of those characteristic touches which, when we are
sure of their being actually made on the spot, however carelessly,
carry with them an easy, familiar kind of interest, that rarely
belongs to the efforts of memory alone. It is, indeed, very curious
how much the smallest memorandums sometimes serve to lighten up
apparently forgotten trains of thought, and to bring vividly before the
imagination scenes long past, and to recall turns of expression, and
even the very look with which these expressions were uttered, though
every circumstance connected with them may have slept in the mind for a
long course of years.

It is, I believe, one of the numerous theories on the mysterious
subject of dreams, that they are merely trains of recollections,
touched in some way we know not of, and influenced by various causes
over which we have no sort of control; and that, although they are very
strangely jumbled and combined, they always relate, so exclusively,
either to past events, or to past thoughts, that no ideas strictly new
ever enter our minds in sleep.

Be this true or false, I find that, on reading over the scanty notes
above alluded to, written at Bermuda more than six-and-twenty years
ago, I am made conscious of a feeling a good deal akin to that which
belongs to dreaming. Many objects long forgotten, are brought back
to my thoughts with perfect distinctness; and these, again, suggest
others, more or less distinctly, of which I possess no written record.
At times a whole crowd of these recollections stand forward, almost
as palpably as if they had occurred yesterday. I hear the well-known
voices of my old messmates—see their long-forgotten faces—and can mark,
in my memory’s eye, their very gait, and many minute and peculiar
habits. In the next minute, however, all this is so much clouded over,
that by no effort of the imagination, assisted even by the journal,
can I bring back the picture as it stood before me only a moment
before. It sometimes also happens in this curious retrospect, that a
strange confusion of dates and circumstances takes place, with a vague
remembrance of hopes, and fears, and wishes, painful anticipations,
and bitter passing thoughts, all long since gone. But these day dreams
of the past sometimes come rushing back on the fancy, all at once, in
so confused a manner, that they look exceedingly like what is often
experienced in sleep. Is there, in fact, any other difference, except
that, in the case of slumber, we have no control over this intellectual
experiment, and, in the other, we have the power of varying it at
pleasure? When awake we can steer the mental vessel with more or less
precision—when asleep our rudder is carried away, and we must drift
about at the capricious bidding of our senses, over a confused sea of
recollections.

It may be asked, what is the use of working out these speculations?
To which I would answer, that it may often be highly useful, in the
practice of life, for people to trace their thoughts back, in order to
see what have been the causes, as well as the effects, of their former
resolutions. It is not only interesting, but may be very important, to
observe how far determinations of a virtuous nature had an effectual
influence in fortifying us against the soft insinuations, or the rude
assaults of temptation; or how materially any original defect or
subsequent omission in such resolutions may have brought us under the
cutting lash of self-reproach.

It would probably be very difficult, if not impossible, for any person
to lay open his own case so completely to the view of others, that the
rest of the world should be enabled to profit, as he himself, if he
chooses, may do, by his past experience in these delicate matters. I
shall hardly attempt such a task, however; but shall content myself
with saying, that, on now looking back to those days, I can, in many
instances, lay my hand upon the very hour, the very incident, and the
very thought and feeling, which have given a decided direction to many
very material actions of the intervening period. In some cases, the
grievous anguish of remorse has engraved the lesson so deeply on the
memory, that it shews like an open wound still. In others, it has left
only a cicatrice, to mark where there has been suffering. But even
these, like the analogous case of bodily injuries, are liable to give
their twitches as the seasons vary.

It is far pleasanter, however, and a still more profitable habit, I am
quite sure, to store up agreeable images of the past, with a view to
present and future improvement, as well as enjoyment, than to harass
the thoughts too much by the contemplation of opportunities lost, or of
faculties neglected or misused. Of this cheerful kind of retrospect,
every person of right thoughts must have an abundant store. For, let
the croakers say what they please, ‘this brave world’ is exceedingly
fertile in sources of pleasure to those whose principles are sound, and
who, at all times and seasons, are under the wholesome consciousness,
that while, without higher aid, they can essentially do nothing, there
will certainly be no such assistance lent them, unless they themselves,
to use a nautical phrase, ‘bend their backs like seamen to the oar,’
and leave nothing untried to double the Cape of their own life and
fortunes. It is in this vigorous and sustained exertion that most
persons fail—this ‘attention suivie,’ as the French call it, which, as
it implies the absence of self-distrust, gives, generally, the surest
earnest of success.

It has sometimes struck me as not a little curious, that, while we have
such unbounded faith in the constancy of the moon’s motions, and rest
with such confidence on the accuracy of our charts and books, as to
sail our ships, in the darkest nights, over seas we have never before
traversed; yet that, in the moral navigation of our lives, we should
hesitate in following principles infinitely more important, and in
which we ought to have a faith at least as undoubting. The old analogy,
indeed, between the storms of the ocean, and those of our existence,
holds good throughout this comparison; for the half-instructed
navigator, who knows not how to rely on his chart and compass, or who
has formed no solid faith in the correctness of the guides to whom he
ought to trust his ship, has no more chance of making a good passage
across the wide seas, than he whose petty faith is bounded by his own
narrow views and powers, is likely to be successful in the great voyage
of life.

There is a term in use at sea called ‘backing and filling,’ which
consists at one moment in bracing the yards so that the wind shall
catch the sails in reverse, and, by bringing them against the masts,
drive the ship stern-foremost; and then, after she has gone far enough
in that direction, in bracing up the yards so that the sails may be
filled, and the ship again gather headway. This manœuvre is practised
in rivers when the wind is foul, but the tide favourable, and the width
of the stream too small to admit of working the vessel regularly, by
making tacks across. From thus alternately approaching to the bank
and receding from it, an appearance of indecision, or rather of an
unwillingness to come too near the ground, is produced, and thence the
term is used to express, figuratively, that method of speaking where
reluctance is shewn to come too near the abrupt points of the subject,
which yet must be approached if any good is to be done. I confess,
accordingly, that, just now, I have been ‘backing and filling’ with
my topic, and have preferred this indirect method of suggesting to my
young friends the fitting motives to action, rather than venturing to
lecture them in formal terms. The paths to honour, indeed, every man
must trace out for himself; but the discovery will certainly be all the
easier if he knows the direction in which they lie.

The following brief specimen of a midshipman’s journal will shew,
as well as a whole volume could do, the sort of stuff of which such
documents are made. The great fault, indeed, of almost all journals
consists in their being left, like Chinese paintings, without shading
or relief, and in being drawn with such a barbarous perspective, that
every thing appears to lie in one plane, in the front of the picture.

  “_Bermuda, Sunday, April 22._

 “Wind south. Last night I had the first watch. Turned out this morning
 at seven bells. Breakfasted on a roll and some jelly. Wind blowing
 pretty hard at south. Struck lower yards and top-gallant masts. After
 breakfast read one or two tales of the Genii. Dressed for muster, and
 at six bells beat to divisions. I asked leave to go on shore to dine
 with Capt. O’Hara, but was refused. So I dined upon the Old thing—salt
 junk and dough. The captain landed in the pinnace. Employed myself
 most of the afternoon in reading Plutarch’s Lives. Had coffee at four
 o’clock. Blowing harder than ever, and raining very much. Read the
 Bible till six; then went on deck. At nine went to bed. Turned out at
 four in the morning.

 “Monday, 23d April.—Made the signal for sailing. At noon, the same old
 dinner—salt horse! The two pilots, Jacob and Jamie, came on board.
 Employed getting in the Admiral’s stock.”

These two names, Jacob and Jamie, will recall to people who knew
Bermuda in those days many an association connected with that
interesting island. They were two negroes, pilots to the men-of-war,
who, in turn, took the ships out and in. Their wives, no less black
and polished than themselves, were the chief laundresses of our fleet;
while at their cedar-built houses on shore, we often procured such
indifferent meals as the narrow means of the place allowed. I only
remember that our dinner, nine times in ten, consisted of ham and eggs.
I forget whether or not these men were slaves; I think not: they were,
at all events, extremely good-natured fellows, and always very kind and
obliging to the midshipmen, particularly to those who busied themselves
in making collections of shells and corallines, the staple curiosities
of the spot.

It is needless to quote any more from the exact words of this
matter-of-fact journal. I find it recorded, however, that next morning
a boat came to us from the Boston, a frigate lying near the Leander.
The captain of that ship was then, and is now, one of my kindest and
steadiest friends. And right well, indeed, did he know how to confer
a favour at the fitting season. The boat contained one of the most
acceptable presents, I will answer for it, that ever was made to
mortal—it was truly manna to starved people—being no less than a famous
fat goose, a huge leg of pork, and a bag of potatoes!

Such a present at any other time and place would have been ludicrous;
but at Bermuda, where we had been starving and growling for many months
without a fresh meal—it was to us hungry, salt-fed boys, the ‘summum
bonum’ of human happiness.

Next day, after breakfast, the barge was sent with one of the
lieutenants for the Admiral, who came on board at eleven o’clock. But
while his excellency was entering the ship on one side, I quitted my
appointed station on the other, and, without leave, slipped out of one
of the main-deck ports into the pilot-boat, to secure some conch shells
and corals I had bespoken, and wished to carry from Bermuda to my
friends at Halifax. Having made my purchases, in the utmost haste and
trepidation, I was retreating again to my post, when, as my ill stars
would have it, the first lieutenant looked over the gangway. He saw at
a glance what I was about; and, calling me up, sent me as a punishment
to the mast head for being off deck when the Admiral was coming on
board. As I had succeeded in getting hold of my shells, however, and
some lumps of coral, I made myself as comfortable as possible in my
elevated position; and upon the whole rather enjoyed it, as a piece of
fun.

We then hove up the anchor, and as we made sail through the passage,
I could not only distinguish, from the mast head, the beautifully
coloured reefs under water, but trace with perfect ease all the
different channels between them, through which we had to thread our
winding, and apparently dangerous, course. As the ship passed, the fort
saluted the flag with twelve guns, which were returned with a like
number; after which we shaped our course for Norfolk, in Virginia.

So far all was well. I sat enjoying the view, in one of the finest days
that ever was seen. But it almost makes me hungry now, at this distance
of time, to tell what followed.

From the main-top-mast cross-trees, on which I was perched for my
misdeeds, I had the cruel mortification of seeing my own beautiful
roast goose pass along the main-deck, on its way to the cock-pit. As
the scamp of a servant boy who carried the dish came abreast of the
gangway, I saw him cock his eye aloft as if to see how I relished
the prospect. No hawk, or eagle, or vulture, ever gazed from the sky
more wistfully upon its prey beneath, than I did upon the banquet I
was doomed never to taste. What was still more provoking, each of my
messmates, as he ran down the quarter-deck ladder, on being summoned to
dinner, looked up at me and grinned; and one malicious dog patted his
fat paunch—as much as to say, ‘What a glorious feast we are to have!
Should not you like a bit?’




CHAPTER IX.

KEEPING WATCH.


With a few exceptions, every person on board a man-of-war keeps watch
in his turn: and as this is one of the most important of the wheels
which go to make up the curious clock-work of a ship’s discipline, it
seems to deserve a word or two in passing.

The officers and midshipmen are generally divided into three
watches—First, Second, and Third. As the senior lieutenant does not
keep watch, the officer next in rank takes the First, the junior
lieutenant the Second, and the master the Third watch, in ships
where there are not more than three lieutenants. Under each of these
chiefs there is placed a squad of midshipmen; the principal one of
whom is mate of the watch, the next in seniority is stationed on the
forecastle, and after him comes the poop mid. The youngsters remain on
the lee-side of the quarter-deck, along with the mate of the watch.
For it must be observed, that no one but the captain, the lieutenants,
the master, surgeon, purser, and marine officer, is ever allowed, upon
any occasion whatsoever, to walk on the weather side. This custom has
become so much a matter of course, that I hardly remember asking myself
before, what may have been the origin of the regulation? The chief
purpose, no doubt, is to draw a strong line of distinction between the
different ranks; although, independently of this, the weather side is
certainly the most convenient to walk upon when the ship is pressed
with sail: it is also the best sheltered from wind and rain; and the
view both low and aloft is more commanding than it is from to leeward.

Every person, also, not excepting the captain, when he comes on the
quarter-deck, touches his hat; and as this salutation is supposed to
be paid to this privileged spot itself, all those who at the moment
have the honour to be upon it are bound to acknowledge the compliment.
Thus, even when a midshipman comes up, and takes off his hat, all the
officers who are walking the deck, the Admiral included, if he happens
to be of the number, touch their hats likewise.

So completely does this form grow into a habit, that in the darkest
night, and when there may not be a single person near the hatchway,
it is invariably attended to, with the same precision. Indeed, when
an officer of the Navy happens to be on board a merchant ship, or a
packet, he finds it difficult to avoid carrying his hand to his hat
every time he comes on deck. I, for one, at least, can never get
over the feeling, that it is rude to neglect this ceremony, and have
often, when on board passage vessels, wondered to see gentlemen so
deficient in good breeding, as to come gaping up the hatchway, as if
their hats were nailed to their heads, and their hands sewed into their
breeches-pockets!

Of course, each person in the watch has a specific duty to attend to,
as I shall endeavour to describe presently; but, first, it may be well
to mention the ingenious arrangement of the hours by which the periods
of watching are equally distributed to all.

In speaking of the three watches, it will perhaps avoid confusion, and
rather simplify the description, to call them, for a moment, not First,
Second, and Third, as they are named on board ship, but to designate
them by the letters A, B, and C.

Let us begin, then, by supposing that A’s watch commences at 8 o’clock
in the evening; the officer and his party remain on deck till midnight,
four hours being one period. This is called the First watch. B is next
roused up, and keeps the Middle watch, which lasts from midnight till 4
o’clock. C now comes up, and stays on deck till 8, which is the Morning
watch. A then returns to the deck, where he walks till noon, when he
is relieved by B, who stays up till 4. If C were now to keep the watch
from 4 to 8, of course A would again have to keep the First watch on
the second night, as he did at first starting; and all the others, in
like manner, would have to keep, over again, exactly the same watches,
every night and day. In order to break this uniform recurrence of
intervals, an ingenious device has been hit upon to produce a constant
and equitable rotation. When or where this plan was invented, I do not
know, but I believe it exists in the ships of all nations.

The period from 4 o’clock in the afternoon till 8 in the evening,
instead of constituting one watch, is divided into two watches, of
a couple of hours each. These, I don’t know why, are called the Dog
watches. The first, which lasts from 4 to 6 o’clock, belongs, on the
second day, according to the order described above, to C, who is,
of course, relieved at 6 o’clock by A. This alteration, it will be
observed, gives the First watch (from 8 to midnight) to B, on the
second night; the Middle (from midnight to 4) to C; and the Morning
watch (from 4 to 8) to A; the Forenoon watch (from 8 to noon) to B; and
the Afternoon (from noon to 4) to C. The first Dog watch (from 4 to 6)
will now be kept by A, the second Dog watch (from 6 to 8) by B, and so
on, round and round. By this mechanism, it will easily be perceived,
the officers, on each succeeding day, have a watch to keep, always
one stage earlier than that which they kept on the day before. Thus,
if A have the Morning watch one night, he will have the Middle watch
on the night following, and the First watch on the night after that
again. The distribution of time which this produces is very unequal,
when the short period of twenty-four hours only is considered; but the
arrangement rights itself in the course of a few days. On the first
day, A has ten hours’ watch to keep out of the twenty-four, B eight,
and C only six. But on the next day, A has only six hours, while B has
ten, and C eight; while, on the third day, A has eight, B six, and C
ten hours’ watching; and so on, round and round, from year’s end to
year’s end.

This variety, to a person in health and spirits, is often quite
delightful. Each watch has its peculiar advantages; and I need hardly
add, that each likewise furnishes an ample store of materials for
complaining, to those discontented spirits whose chief delight is to
coddle up grievances, as if, forsooth, the principal object of life was
to keep ourselves unhappy, and to help to make others so!

The First watch (8 o’clock to midnight) which comes after the labour
of the day is done, and when every thing is hushed and still, carries
with it this great recommendation, that, although the hour of going to
bed is deferred, the night’s rest is not afterwards broken in upon.
The prospect of ‘turning in’ at midnight, and being allowed to sleep
till seven in the morning, helps greatly to keep us alive and merry
during the First watch, and prevents the excitement of the past day
from ebbing too fast. On the other hand, your thorough-bred growlers
are apt to say, it is a grievous task to keep the First watch, after
having gone through all the toil of the day, and, in particular,
after having kept the Afternoon watch (noon to 4 o’clock,) which, in
hot climates, is always a severe trial upon the strength. Generally
speaking, however, I think the First watch is the least unpopular;
for, I suppose, no mortal, whatever he might think, was ever found so
Quixotic as to profess openly that he really liked keeping watch. Such
a paradox would be famously ridiculed on board ship!

The Middle watch is almost universally held to be a great bore; and
certainly it is a plague of the first order, to be shaken out of a warm
bed at midnight, when three hours of sound sleep have sealed up our
eyelids all the faster, and steeped our senses in forgetfulness, and
in repose, generally much needed. It is a bitter break, too, to have
four good hours sliced out of the very middle of the night’s rest,
especially when this tiresome interval is to be passed in the cold and
rain, or, which is often still more trying, in the sultry calm of a
smooth, tropical sea, when the sleepy sails, as wet with dew as if they
had been dipped overboard, flap idly against the masts and rigging, but
so very gently as barely to make the reef points patter-patter along
the canvass, with notes so monotonous, that the bare recollection of
their sound almost sets me to sleep, now.

Nevertheless, the much-abused Middle watch has its advantages, at
least for those ardent young spirits who choose to seek them out,
and whose habit it is to make the most of things. There are full
three hours and a half of sound snooze before it begins, and as long
a ‘spell of sleep’ after it is over. Besides which, the mind, being
rested as well as the body, before the Middle watch begins, both come
to their task so freshly, that, if there be any hard or anxious duties
to execute, they are promptly and well attended to. Even if there be
nothing to do but pace the deck, the thoughts of an officer of any
enthusiasm may contrive to find occupation either in looking back, or
in looking forward, with that kind of cheerfulness which belongs to
youth and health usefully employed. At that season of the night every
one else is asleep, save the quarter-master at the conn, the helmsman
at the wheel, and the look-out men at their different stations, on
the gangways, the bows, and the quarters. And except, of course, the
different drowsy middies, who, poor fellows! keep tramping along the
quarter-deck backwards and forwards, counting the half-hour bells with
anxious weariness; or looking wistfully at the sand-glass, which the
sentry at the cabin-door shakes ever and anon, as if the lazy march of
time, like that of a tired donkey, could be accelerated by jogging.

But the joyous Morning watch is very naturally the universal favourite.
It is the beginning of a new day of activity and enterprise. The duties
are attacked, too, after a good night’s rest; so that, when the first
touches of the dawn appear, and the horizon, previously lost in the
black sky, begins to shew itself in the east, there comes over the
spirits a feeling of elasticity and strength, of which even the dullest
are not altogether insensible. In war time, this is a moment when
hundreds of eyes are engaged in peering all round into the twilight;
and happy is the sharp-sighted person who first calls out, with a voice
of exultation—

“A sail, sir—a sail!”

“Whereabouts?” is the eager reply.

“Three or four points on the lee-bow, sir.”

“Up with the helm!” cries the officer. “Set the top-gallant and royal
studding-sails—rig out the fore-top-mast studding-sail boom! Youngster,
run down and tell the captain there is a stranger on the lee-bow—and
say that we are making all sail. She looks very roguish.”

As the merry morning comes dancing gloriously on, and other vessels
hove in sight, fresh measures must be taken, as to the course steered,
or the quantity of sail to be set. So that this period of the day, at
sea, in a cruising ship, gives occasion, more perhaps than any other
time, for the exercise of those stirring qualities of prompt decision,
and vigour in the execution of every purpose, which, probably, form the
most essential characteristics of the profession.

The Morning watch, also, independent of the active employment it
hardly ever fails to afford, leaves the whole day free, from eight
o’clock till four in the afternoon. Many a previously broken resolution
is put off to this period, only to be again stranded. To those,
however, who choose to study, the certainty of having one clear day in
every three, free from the distraction of all technical duties, is of
the greatest consequence; though, it must be owned that, at the very
best, a ship is but a wretched place for reading. The eternal motion,
and the infernal, noise, almost baffle the most resolute students.

For a hungry midshipman (when are they not hungry!) the Morning watch
has attractions of a still more tender nature. The mate, or senior man
amongst them, is always invited to breakfast with the officers at eight
o’clock; and one or two of the youngsters, in turn, breakfast with the
captain at half-past eight, along with the officer of the morning watch
and the first lieutenant, who, in many ships, is the constant guest of
the captain, both at this meal and at dinner.

The officer of the Forenoon watch, or that from eight to noon,
invariably dines with the captain at three o’clock; and as the
ward-room dinner is at two, exactly one hour before that of the
captain, the officer who has kept the Forenoon watch again comes on
deck, the instant the drum beats “The Roast Beef of Old England,”
the well known and invariable signal that the dinner of the officers
is on the table. His purpose in coming up is to relieve, or take the
place of his brother officer who is keeping the Afternoon watch, till
three o’clock arrives, at which hour the captain’s dinner is ready.
The same interchange of good offices, in the way of relief, as it
is called, takes place amongst the midshipmen of the Forenoon and
Afternoon watches. It is material to observe, however, that all these
arrangements, though they have the graceful air of being pieces of
mutual and voluntary civility, have become quite as much integral parts
of the ordinary course of nautical affairs as any other established
ordinance of the ship.

On Sunday, the captain always dines with the officers in the ward-room;
and although ‘shore-going people’ sometimes take upon themselves to
quiz these periodical, and, Heaven knows! often formal, dinner parties,
there can be no doubt that they do contribute, and that in a most
essential degree, to the maintenance of strict discipline on board
ship. Indeed, I believe it is now generally admitted, that it would
be next to impossible to preserve good order in a man-of-war, for any
length of time, without this weekly ceremonial, coupled, of course,
with that of the officers’ dining, in turn, with their captain.

We know that too much familiarity breeds contempt; but, in situations
where there is of necessity much intercourse, too little familiarity
will as inevitably breed ill-will, distrust, apprehension, and mutual
jealousy. The difficulty lies in regulating with due caution this
delicate sort of intimacy, and in hitting the exact mean between too
much freedom and too much reserve of manner. The proverb points out the
evil clearly enough, but leaves us to find the remedy. In the Navy,
long experience seems to have shewn, that this important purpose can
be best accomplished by the captain and his officers occasionally
meeting one another at table—not capriciously, at irregular intervals,
or by fits and starts of favour, as the humour suits, but in as fixed
an order, as if the whole of this social intercourse were determined by
Admiralty regulation.

It will readily be understood by any one who has attended much to the
subject of discipline, and will be felt, I should think, more or less,
by all persons who have been engaged personally in the management of a
house, a regiment, a ship, a shop, or any other establishment in which
distinctions of rank and subdivisions of labour prevail, that nothing
ever does, or can go on well, unless, over and above the mere legal
authority possessed by the head, he shall carry with him a certain
amount of the good-will and confidence of those under him. For it is
very material, in order to balance, as it were, the technical power
with which the chief of such establishment is armed, that there should
be some heartiness—some real cheerfulness, between him and those he
commands. Accordingly, the obedience which they yield to him should
not be entirely the result either of mere habit, or of the still more
frigid motive of fear, but should be made to spring, if possible, out
of sincere good-will, as an essential, if not the principal ingredient
in the stimulus. In ordinary times, it is true, the duty goes on pretty
well in a ship-of-war, by the sheer momentum of an established routine.

It may be added, that things often proceed with a degree of success
almost as miraculous, in the apprehension of the ignorant, as the
movements of a watch appear to the eyes of a savage. But in times of
danger, when doubts and difficulties beset an officer, or protracted
labours fatigue his crew, and untried resources and exertions are
called for every moment, it is discovered that mere routine, (though,
even at such periods, it does a great deal,) will not accomplish all
that is required. The captain then finds out, often when it is too
late, that unless motives of a more generous and stirring nature come
into play, to give fresh vigour to the formalities of his discipline,
not only his own reputation, but some of the great ends of the public
service, may be lost.

The nature of our profession is so complicated, and the occasions are
so frequent in which these well known principles are brought into
action, that, I believe, it almost invariably happens, when the captain
and his officers are not on terms, or do not pull together, that the
ship falls, more or less, out of discipline. This occurs even when the
officers and their captain are sufficiently public-spirited, to desire
sincerely not to allow private differences to interfere in any degree
with the course of official duty. For the sailors are exceedingly
quick-sighted to such matters, and both they and the midshipmen, not
only discover immediately when there is any coolness between the
captain and his officers, but are naturally prone to exaggerate the
cause and consequences of such differences. If, however, as generally
happens, the crew know nothing of the real points in dispute, they
fall into a worse error by inventing the most preposterous stories
to account for those misunderstandings which they see exist between
the higher powers. Advantage, also, is very soon taken of these
disagreements, by such persons amongst the crew as are always ready to
escape from the restraints of good order, and who imagine, too often
with reason, that the officer who is not on pleasant terms with his
captain will not be duly supported by him. In a word, when the officers
and captain cease to respect one another, or, what comes exactly to the
same thing, appear to have lost that mutual respect for one another,
of which an easy sociability of intercourse is one of the most obvious
proofs, they speedily lose the respect of the people under their
command. I can compare the harsh and grating state of affairs on board
ship, when, unhappily, there exists bad blood between the captain and
officers, to nothing so well as to an engine amongst the machinery of
which a handful of gravel has been cast.

It may be asked, how can the simple operation of dining together once
or twice a week stave off so great an evil? But the answer is easy;
for every one must be aware, that it is by small beginnings and slight
causes of imaginary offence—by trivial misunderstandings unexplained—or
by real but small causes of just indignation not apologised for, that
the bitterest heart-burnings of life too often arise. If, however,
these seeds of dissension can only be weeded out before they begin to
germinate, their evil growth may not only be checked, but actual good,
in most instances, be made to spring up in their place.

In order to make the practical operation of these things quite clear, I
shall state two cases, both of which I have seen occur on board ship a
hundred times, and of which I can speak with some confidence, as I have
myself often acted a part on different sides, and therefore know their
bearings from actual trial.

Suppose, in the first place, that the captain comes upon deck just
before noon, and, on seeing something wrong—the main-yard not braced up
enough, the lee foretop-gallant sheet not home, or the jib not quite
hoisted up; and suppose that, as these are points upon which, whether
whimsically or not, he is very particular, he express himself to the
officer in terms rather too strong for the occasion. Without reflecting
upon the injustice he is guilty of, the captain may perhaps, in this
way, be punishing a zealous and hard-working man, for a mere trifle,
almost as severely as if he had been found sleeping on his watch, or
was guilty of some offence caused by wilful neglect.

The officer, however, who can say nothing, bows and submits. In a few
minutes, the sun comes to the meridian, and it is made twelve o’clock.
The boatswain pipes to dinner, the deck is relieved, and the lieutenant
of the forenoon watch goes down below, in a high state of irritation
with his captain at what he conceives the undue severity of the
reprimand. The first thing he does, on entering the ward-room door, is
to fling his hat the whole length of the apartment; so that, unless it
be adroitly caught by the marine officer, who is generally playing the
flute on the lockers abaft, it would stand a chance of going out of
the stern windows. The soldier, of course, thus called upon to look up,
stops in the middle of the second bar of ‘God save the King,’ or ‘Robin
Adair,’ at which he has been hammering, in company with the master of
the band, for the last three months, and says,

“Holla! man—what’s the matter?”

“Matter!” cries the other. “I’ll be shot if it is not enough to make a
man run stark staring mad!”

“What is the matter, I ask you?” begs the marine, preparing to
recommence the eternal tune.

“Why, there have I been working, and slaving, and wearing my life and
soul out, all the forenoon, to please that ill-tempered, snappish,
ill-to-please knob of a skipper of ours; and what do I get? Why, he
takes mighty good care to shut his eyes to all the good a fellow
does, but catches hold eagerly enough of the smallest omission in his
thousand-and-one whims (none of which are of any consequence!) in order
to indulge himself in one of his reprimands. It’s quite clear,” adds
the officer, warmed by this explosion of his own passion, “that the
captain has a spite at me, and is determined to drive me out of the
ship, to make way for some follower of his own.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaims the peace-making man of war; “the
captain is the best friend you have.”

“Friend!” roars the other; “I tell you what——”

But just at this moment the captain’s steward enters the ward-room,
and going up to the enraged officer of the forenoon watch, says
mechanically to him—

“The captain’s compliments, sir, and will be glad of your company to
dinner.”

To which the officer replies, quite as mechanically—

“My compliments, and I’ll wait on him.”

But as soon as the door is shut, he turns again to the marine, and says—

“I’m deucedly sorry, now, that I did not refuse.”

“Are you?” says the soldier, relapsing into his loyal tune again.

By and by, however, comes two o’clock; the ward-room dinner is placed
on the table; the drum beats the ‘Roast Beef;’ the officer of the
forenoon watch is sent for, as usual, to relieve his messmate on deck,
as I have before described; and, in due course, after strutting and
fretting his hour upon the stage, in ‘full togs,’ nursing his anger, in
order to let the captain see that he is hurt, he is told that dinner
is ready in the cabin. In he marches, accordingly, and there takes
his appointed seat as doggedly as if he were nailed to the chair. The
pea-soup is discussed in pretty solemn silence; but while the remove
is under adjustment, the captain says to his offended officer, “Come,
Mr. Haultight, shall you and I have a glass of wine? What shall it be?”
By these few magical words, and in this single glass of sherry, is
forgotten, for ever and ever, all the previous irritation. It is not
by the words, so much as by the tone and manner of saying them, that
the captain makes the officer feel how anxious he is to have the good
understanding restored, or that he regrets what has passed. Of course,
if the officer be not one of those pig-headed and inflexible fellows,
upon whom all sense of kindness is wasted, he seizes the bottle, and
filling his glass, replies,

“With all my heart, sir.”

And there, in all probability, is an end of a matter which, but for
this early opportunity of putting things to rights, might perhaps have
rankled long in the mind of the officer, and given rise to acts of
insubordination, as injurious to himself as to the public service.

It may not be useless to suggest here, to young people, that in most
cases of dispute that arise between gentlemen, the smallest voluntary
apology is beyond calculation more satisfactory, from its affording a
far more complete reparation to wounded honour, than any conceivable
amount of compulsory acknowledgment. The rough savage, who is
acquainted with no measure in these things, takes his revenge at the
point of the scalping-knife. But a gentleman, in a widely-different
spirit, and who knows that even the slightest admission of error causes
more pain than he can ever deliberately wish to inflict, will always
catch with eagerness at the first symptoms of regret on the part of
his antagonist, being quite certain that the less he exacts, the more
of what is really worthy of his acceptance will be given him. Besides
which, instead of urging another into permanent mortification and
perhaps enmity, he may manage to secure, by well-timed moderation,
both the gratitude and the respect of a man who might otherwise become
permanently his foe.

I am not aware that, by any other means, the numerous misunderstandings
which occur on board ship could be arranged without great risk of
injuring discipline. In cases where the matter in dispute is small,
or where the fault is equally shared between the parties, formal
explanations are not only useless, but often ridiculous, and generally
prove as annoying to one side as to the other. Where the dispute,
on the other hand, is really of consequence, there may often be a
serious and hurtful loss of official dignity, on the part of the
superior, if he make too express an apology. These occasional, but
uniformly-recurring opportunities of meeting at table, however,
furnish not only ready but very ample means of finally accommodating
such things in every case which can fall within the proper range of
compromise. If officers be only influenced by a right spirit of public
duty, and always recollect what is due to private dignity of character,
it will rarely happen that arrangements, creditable alike to both
parties, and useful to the service, may not be easily effected.

The above example is one in which the superior is supposed to have
been in the wrong; but, as may be imagined, the opposite case will
often happen likewise. I have seen an officer go on, for several days
together, purposely teasing his captain, but all the time taking the
greatest possible care to keep within the law. Who, I may ask, that
has had to do with command of any kind, whether afloat or on shore, in
the navy or in the nursery, has not felt the provocation of such petty
hostility? For my part, I can compare it to nothing but the stinging of
a mosquitto, which you spend half the night in trying to catch, losing
your rest and your temper to no purpose, owing to the dexterity of your
antagonist, who thus shews that, though he be small, he is far from
insignificant.

But if, while this sort of snapping and snarling is going on, Sunday
comes about, all is settled. On this day the captain invariably
dines in the ward-room; and when once there, he is received, as a
matter of course, with attention by all—Mr. Mosquitto inclusive. It
is the general custom, on these occasions, to unbend a little of the
straight-lacedness of our discipline, so that a kind of regulated,
starched familiarity is permitted to appear above the surface. This the
captain rather encourages, though, of course, in a cautious way, but
more than he ever permits himself to allow at his own table.

During dinner, all the officers drink wine with their guest; and when
this office of hospitality is performed by the tormenting officer,
above alluded to, the captain, if he be a man of sense, will not fail
to play off a little of his agreeableness upon the person who has
been buzzing round him during the preceding week. By this means, or
some one of the numberless little devices by which people who are met
together professedly to be social, and wish to be on good terms with
one another, always know how to hit upon, all such scores as this,
and many others, may be wiped off. Without some safety-valve of this
kind to the high pressure of naval discipline, I really do not know
how so enormous and complicated a contrivance could go on at all. I
believe, accordingly, it is now pretty generally allowed in the Navy,
that, in those ships where the captain either lives altogether alone,
or altogether with his officers, or where they sometimes dine with
one another, and sometimes not, instead of following the established
routine of the service, and meeting at regular periods, the discipline
is found greatly wanting, and all parties, high and low, speedily
become discontented.

I have already mentioned, that the First watch begins, nominally, at
eight, and ends at midnight; but people are much mistaken, who suppose
that a sleepy-headed midshipman, with the prospect of a cold Middle
watch before him, and just awakened out of a sound nap, is disposed to
jump up at once, dress himself, and run upon deck. Alas! it is far from
this; and no one who has not been exposed to the trial can conceive
the low ebb to which patriotism, zeal, public spirit—call it what you
please—sinks at such an hour, in the breast of the unhappy wretch
who, in the midst of one of those light and airy dreams, which render
the night season of young people such a heaven of repose, is suddenly
roused up. After being awakened by a rude tug at the clews of his
hammock, he is hailed, after the following fashion, by the gruff old
quarter-master.

“Mr. Doughead!”

No answer. Another good tug at the hammock.

“Mr. Doughead! it’s twelve o’clock, sir!”

“Very well—very well; you need not shake me out of bed, need you? What
sort of a night is it?”

“It rains a little, sir, and is just beginning to blow. It looks very
black, sir.”

“Oh, plague take it! Then we shall have to take in a reef, I suppose?”

“It seems very like it, sir. It is beginning to snuffle.”

With this, Mr. Doughead gives himself a good shrug in his
blanket, turns half round, to escape the glare of light from the
quarter-master’s lantern, hung up within six inches of his face,
expressly to keep him awake, and in ten seconds he is again tightly
clasped in the arms of Morpheus, the presiding deity of the cock-pit at
that hour. By and by comes down the quarter-master of the middle watch,
who, unlike the young gentleman, has relieved the deck twenty minutes
before.

“Mr. Doughead! it’s almost one bell, sir.”

“Indeed!” exclaims the youth. “I never knew any thing of it. I never
was called.”

“Oh yes, you were, sir. The man I relieved said you asked him what sort
of weather it was, and whether we should have to take in a reef.”

“I ask about the weather? That’s only one of the lies he always tells,
to get me into a scrape.”

While they are speaking, the bell strikes one, indicating that half an
hour has elapsed since the first conversation took place, touching the
weather; and presently, before Mr. Doughead has got his second foot
over the side of his hammock, the mid who is to be relieved by him
comes rattling down the cock-pit ladder, as wet as a shag, cold, angry,
and more than half asleep.

“I say, Master Doughy, do you mean to relieve the deck to-night? Here
it’s almost two bells, and you have hardly shewn a leg yet. I’ll be
hanged if it is not too bad! You are the worst relief in the whole
ship. I am obliged to keep all my own watch, and generally half of
yours. I’ll not stand it any more; but go to the first lieutenant
to-morrow morning, and see whether he cannot find ways and means of
making you move a little faster. It’s a disgrace to the service!” To
all this Duffy has only one pettish, dogged reply—

“I tell you again, I was not called.”

The appeal to the first lieutenant, however, is seldom made; for all
the parties concerned are pretty much alike. But the midshipmen are
not slow at times to take the law of these cases into their own hands,
and to execute summary justice, according to their own fashion, on any
particularly incorrigibly ‘bad relief,’ as these tardy gentlemen are
aptly termed.

One of the most common punishments, on these occasions, is called
‘cutting down’—a process not quite so fatal as might be imagined from
the term. Most people, I presume, know what sort of a thing a hammock
is. It consists of a piece of canvass, five feet long by two wide,
suspended to the deck overhead by means of two sets of small lines,
called clews, made fast to grummets, or rings of rope, which, again,
are attached by a lanyard to the battens stretching along the beams.
In this sacking are placed a small mattress, a pillow, and a couple of
blankets, to which a pair of sheets may or may not be added. The degree
of nocturnal room and comfort enjoyed by these young gentlemen may be
understood, when it is mentioned that the whole of the apparatus just
described occupies less than a foot and a half in width, and that the
hammocks touch one another. Nevertheless, I can honestly say, that the
soundest sleep, by far, that I have ever known, has been found in these
apparently uncomfortable places of repose; and though the recollection
of many a slumber broken up, and the bitter pang experienced on making
the first move to exchange so cozy a nest, for the snarling of a
piercing north-west gale on the coast of America, will never leave
my memory, yet I look back to those days and nights with a sort of
evergreen freshness of interest, which only increases with years.

The wicked operation of ‘cutting down’ may be managed in three ways.
The mildest form is to take a knife and divide the foremost lanyard or
suspending cord. Of course, that end of the hammock instantly falls,
and the sleepy-headed youth is pitched out, feet foremost, on the
deck. The other plan, which directs the after lanyard to be cut, is
not quite so gentle, nor so safe, as it brings down the sleeper’s head
with a sharp bang on the deck, while his heels are jerked into the
air. The third is to cut away both ends at once, which has the effect
of bringing the round stern of the young officer in contact with the
edge of any of the chests, which may be placed so as to receive it. The
startled victim is then rolled out of bed with his nose on the deck;
or, if he happen to be sleeping in the tier, he tumbles on the hard
bends of the cable coiled under him. This flooring is much more rugged,
and not much softer than the planks, so that his fall is but a choice
of miserable bumps.

The malice of this horse-play is sometimes augmented by placing a line
round the middle part of the hammock, and fastening it to the beams
overhead, in such a way that, when the lanyards at the ends are cut,
the head and tail of the youth shall descend freely; but the nobler
part of him being secured by the belly-band, as it is called, the
future hero of some future Trafalgar remains suspended ingloriously, in
mid air, like the golden fleece over a woollen-draper’s shop.

These are but a few of the tricks played off upon those who will not
relieve the deck in proper time. I remember an incorrigible snooser,
who had been called three or four times, but still gave no symptoms of
any intention of ‘shewing a leg,’ the only allowable test of sincerity
in the process called ‘turning out.’ About five o’clock, on a fine
tropical morning, when the ship was cruising off the Mono Passage,
in the West Indies; and just before the day began to dawn, it was
resolved, in a full conclave of the middies of his own watch, assembled
on the lee side of the quarter-deck, that an example should forthwith
be made of the sleeper.

A detachment, consisting of four stout hands, were sent to the hammock
of the culprit. Two of them held the youth firmly down, while the
others wrapped the bedclothes round him, and then lashed him up—that
is, strapped him tightly in by means of the lashing—a long cord with
which the hammocks are secured when brought upon deck in the day-time.
No part of the unfortunate wight was left exposed except his face. When
he was fairly tied in, the lanyards of his hammock were cast off, and
the bundle, half midshipman half bedding, was dragged along, like a log
of wood, to the square of the hatchway.

Meanwhile the confederates on deck had thrown the end of the signal
haulyards down the cock-pit wind-sail, a wide canvass-pipe, by which,
in hot climates, air is sent to the lower parts of the ship. These
signal haulyards, I must explain, are led through small sheeve-holes
in the truck, a little turban-shaped, wooden cap, fitted on the royal
mast-head. The ordinary purpose of the signal haulyards, as their name
points out, is to display the flags necessary in communicating with
other ships; but, upon this occasion, they were fastened to one of the
grummets of the unhappy sleepy-headed reefer’s hammock.

When all was secure, the word ‘haul up!’ was given from below, upon
which the party on deck hoisted away. The sleeper awakened vanished
from the cock-pit, only to make his appearance, in a few seconds, at
the mouth of the wind-sail, half way between the quarter-deck and
the mizen-stay. Of course, the boys watched their opportunity, when
the officer of the watch had gone forward on the gangway, to see how
the head-yards were trimmed; but long before he came aft again, their
victim was lowered down, and the signal haulyards unbent. What to do
with the wretch next was a great puzzle; till one of them said, “Oh!
let us stick him up on his end, between two of the guns on the weather
side of the deck, and perhaps the officer of the watch may take him for
an Egyptian mummy, and have him sent to the British Museum as a present
to the king.” This advice was instantly followed; and the enraged,
mortified, and helpless youngster, being placed so that the first rays
of the sun should fall on his countenance, there was no mistaking his
identity.

I need scarcely mention, that the lieutenants and other commissioned
officers cannot be ‘served up’ in this way, which is almost a pity,
for they are sometimes as abominably lazy as the most pudding-pated
midshipman of their watch. It too often happens that, instead of
being the first, they are the very last persons to relieve the deck.
There is hardly any thing more annoying than being detained on deck
half an hour, and sometimes more, for want of our relief, after the
watch we have kept is ended. This extra, and most tedious period, often
looks longer than double the same length of time passed in our own
proper turn of duty; and the dislocation of temper it produces is very
difficult of repair. Many a time and oft, when I have been kept waiting
for the officer who was to relieve me, long, long beyond the proper
time, I have inwardly sworn deeply, that, if ever I came to the command
of a ship, I would reform this intolerable abuse; and I flatter myself
I made good my promise. I gave positive orders, and took measures to
have them duly obeyed, that the usual mustering of the watch whose turn
it was to come on deck, should take place, not, as it generally does,
at the half hour, but exactly at ten minutes after the bell struck,
which announced the close of the preceding watch. And I directed—and
carefully enforced my directions—that this ceremony of mustering the
fresh watch should take place under the superintendence of the officer
whose turn of duty it now became. Thus, the deck was always relieved
considerably within a quarter of an hour after the former watch was
ended.

In addition to this, I made it an invariable rule, the instant it
struck eight in the evening, to begin mustering the people of the
First watch, of course under the superintendence of the lieutenant of
that watch: so that the men who were to be called up at midnight might
tumble into their beds at once, and have their full period of four
hours’ rest before being ‘turned out’ to keep the Middle watch. I take
the liberty of recommending these plans to my brother-officers afloat,
as, I can assure them, they answer exceedingly well in practice.

The officers and midshipmen are divided into three watches, as I have
described above; but the crew, in most ships, are divided into only
two watches. By taking a good deal of care, however, in arranging the
people properly, the seamen and marines, almost in every case, may
likewise be put at three watches, instead of what is termed ‘watch and
watch,’ which is simply, turn about.

The illustrious voyager Captain Cook was, I believe, the first who
introduced this admirable practice, as may be seen in his Essay on
the Method of preserving the health of the crew of the Resolution,
printed in the Philosophical Transactions for 1776, vol. lxvi. p. 402.
From that masterly paper we discover that many of the most important
of our modern improvements in naval discipline are essentially due to
the sagacity of that great navigator. Of all officers that ever lived,
Captain Cook may be said to have taken the best way of establishing the
soundness of his principles—that of invariable practical success—not in
one or two situations only, but in the midst of so great a variety of
circumstances, that no part of his system remained untried. His plans
were found applicable in the coldest regions, when his people were
exposed to severe hardships in their attempts to reach the South Pole;
and not less so when they became acquainted with the luxurious climate
and voluptuous manners of the South Sea Islands.

Unfortunately, the science of discipline cannot be reduced to rule
and compass, like that of navigation; but a great deal has already
been done, and may still be done, to establish some leading principles
of this important branch of the profession, round which its numerous
details revolve. It appears, however, that much remains to be
accomplished towards its improvement. Nor am I aware of any greater
benefit that could be conferred upon the Navy, than the composition
of a perfectly intelligible, popular treatise on discipline, which
should include all that is known, and has actually been tried by the
best authorities, together with such examples of the operation of these
principles as appear capable of useful application to general practice.

Such, however, is the diversity of our nature, that, supposing a work
of this kind to be distributed throughout the Navy, and supposing it
possible to have it made as complete as the condition of things will
allow, there would still remain, I suspect, an ample field for the
exercise of any amount of talents and resource on the part of officers.
So far, indeed, from such a methodised system acting as any constraint
upon the conduct of a judicious officer, the chances are, that he
would only derive from it fresh suggestions, or hints, for rendering
his discipline still more perfect; while at each fresh increment of
knowledge he would be made sensible how much more he had still to learn.

I do not state this idea either as new, or as applicable solely
to naval affairs. The same thing occurs, in a still more striking
degree, in politics, and, generally, in all those branches of civil
as well as military authority, or any other kind of rule, where the
passions and interests of men are placed under the guidance of their
fellow-creatures. But, without launching forth on such a sea of
topics, it will be admitted to be highly important that officers, and
particularly young officers, should be made sensible how much caution
is necessary in their discipline, since we know that even the wisest
and the most experienced arrive, at last, only at this conclusion,
that much still remains beyond their grasp, which they have not yet
learned; and that every day may be expected to produce complicated
cases of such doubt and difficulty, as will require the exercise of all
their patience and attention.

But, although we cannot get to the bottom of the subject, or ever hope
to frame a set of regulations to meet one thousandth part of the cases
of ordinary discipline, we ought not to despair upon this point, any
more than upon other perplexing questions. Nor should we relax in our
efforts to investigate those laws in the moral organization of our
nature, merely because they are complicated. It is a fine remark of La
Place, that even the motes which we see dancing in the sun-beam are
regulated, in their apparently capricious movements, by the very same
laws of gravitation and momentum which determine the orbits of the
planets. In like manner, there can be no doubt that, if we only knew
how to trace it, this beautiful analogy would be found to extend to the
laws regulating the minutest of those moral influences, which we are
apt so hastily to pronounce irregular and uncertain.

The science of moral government, whether afloat or on shore, and
whether the scale be great or small, is like that of physical
astronomy, and has what may be called its anomalies and disturbances,
sometimes very difficult to be estimated, and requiring numberless
equations, or allowances, to set them right; but the pursuit is not, on
that account, one whit the less true to our nature, or less worthy of
that patient investigation by which alone truth can ever be reached,
and all such apparent discordances reconciled.




CHAPTER X.

DANGERS OF A NOVA SCOTIA FOG.


On the 9th of May, we reached Halifax, off which port we were detained
in a very disagreeable way; for we had the misfortune to be kept three
whole days off the harbour, in one of those Nova Scotia fogs, which
are celebrated all over the world. I can hardly give by description an
idea of how gloomy they are; but I think their effects can be compared
to those of the sirocco; with the further annoyance, that, while they
last, we are not able to see far beyond our noses. They are even worse
than rain, for they seem to wet one through sooner; while they make
every thing appear dreary, and certainly render all the world lazy and
discontented.

On the day we made the land, we had great hopes of being able to
enter the harbour, as the wind was fair: when, all at once, we were
surrounded by so thick a mist, that, for the three succeeding days, we
could not see above twenty yards on any side.

There are few things, indeed, more provoking than these fogs off
Halifax; for, as they happen to be companions of that very wind, the
south-east, which is the best for running in, the navigator is plagued
with the tormenting consciousness, that if he could be allowed but
a couple of hours’ clear weather, his port would be gained, and his
troubles over. The clearing up, therefore, of these odious clouds or
veils is about the most delightful thing I know; and the instantaneous
effect which a clear sight of the land, or even of the sharp horizon,
when far at sea, has on the mind of every person on board, is quite
remarkable. All things look bright, fresh, and more beautiful than
ever. The stir over the whole ship at these moments is so great, that
even persons sitting below can tell at once that the fog has cleared
away. The rapid clatter of the men’s feet, springing up the hatchways
at the lively sound of the boatswain’s call to “make sail!” soon
follows. Then comes the cheerful voice of the officer, hailing the
topmen to shake out the reefs, trice up the staysails, and rig out the
booms. That peculiar and well-known kind of echo, also, by which the
sound of the voice is thrown back from the wet sails, contributes, in
like manner, to produce a joyous elasticity of spirits, greater, I
think, than is excited by most of the ordinary occurrences of a sea
life.

A year or two after the time I am speaking of, it was resolved to
place a heavy gun upon the rock on which Sambro light-house is built;
and, after a good deal of trouble, a long twenty-four pounder was
hoisted up to the highest ridge of this prominent station. It was then
arranged that, if, on the arrival of any ship off the harbour, in a
period of fog, she chose to fire guns, these were to be answered from
the light-house; and in this way a kind of audible, though invisible,
telegraph might be set to work. If it happened that the officers of the
ship were sufficiently familiar with the ground, and possessed nerves
stout enough for such a groping kind of navigation, perilous at best,
it was possible to run fairly into the harbour, notwithstanding the
obscurity, by watching the sound of these guns, and attending closely
to the depth of water.

I never was in any ship which ventured upon this feat; but I perfectly
recollect a curious circumstance, which occurred, I think, to His
Majesty’s ship Cambrian. She had run in from sea towards the coast,
enveloped in one of these dense fogs. Of course they took for granted
that the light-house and the adjacent land, Halifax included, were
likewise covered with an impenetrable cloud or mist. But it so chanced,
by what freak of Dame Nature I know not, that the fog, on that day, was
confined to the deep water; so that we, who were in the port, could see
it, at the distance of several miles from the coast, lying on the ocean
like a huge stratum of snow, with an abrupt face, fronting the shore.
The Cambrian, lost in the midst of this fog bank, supposing herself to
be near the land, fired a gun. To this the light-house replied; and so
the ship and the light went on, pelting away, gun for gun, during half
the day, without ever seeing one another. The people at the light-house
had no means of communicating to the frigate, that, if she would only
stand on a little further, she would disentangle herself from the
cloud, in which, like Jupiter Olympus of old, she was wasting her
thunder.

At last the captain, hopeless of its clearing up, gave orders to pipe
to dinner; but as the weather, in all respects except this abominable
haze, was quite fine, and the ship was still in deep water, he directed
her to be steered towards the shore, and the lead kept constantly
going. As one o’clock approached, he began to feel uneasy, from the
water shoaling, and the light-house guns sounding closer and closer;
but, being unwilling to disturb the men at their dinner, he resolved
to stand on for the remaining ten minutes of the hour. Lo and
behold! however, they had not sailed half a mile further before the
flying-jib-boom end emerged from the wall of mist—then the bowsprit
shot into daylight—and, lastly, the ship herself glided out of the
cloud into the full blaze of a bright and ‘sunshine holyday.’ All hands
were instantly turned up to make sail; and the men, as they flew on
deck, could scarcely believe their senses when they saw behind them the
fog bank, right ahead the harbour’s mouth, with the bold cliffs of Cape
Sambro on the left, and, farther still, the ships at their moorings,
with their ensigns and pendants blowing out, light and dry in the
breeze.

A far different fate, alas! attended His Majesty’s ship Atalante,
Captain Frederick Hickey. On the morning of the 10th of November, 1813,
this ship stood in for Halifax harbour in very thick weather, carefully
feeling her way with the lead, and having look-out men at the jib-boom
end, fore-yardarms, and every where else from which a glimpse of the
land was likely to be obtained. After breakfast, a fog signal-gun was
fired, in the expectation of its being answered by the light-house
on Cape Sambro, near which it was known they must be. Within a few
minutes, accordingly, a gun was heard in the N.N.W. quarter, exactly
where the light was supposed to lie. As the soundings agreed with the
estimated position of the ship, and as the guns from the Atalante,
fired at intervals of fifteen minutes, were regularly answered in the
direction of the harbour’s mouth, it was determined to stand on, so
as to enter the port under the guidance of these sounds alone. By a
fatal coincidence of circumstances, however, these answering guns were
fired, not by Cape Sambro, but by His Majesty’s ship Barrossa, which
was likewise entangled by the fog. She, too, supposed that she was
communicating with the light-house, whereas it was the guns of the
unfortunate Atalante that she heard all the time.

There was, certainly, no inconsiderable risk incurred by running in
for the harbour’s mouth under such circumstances. But it will often
happen that it becomes an officer’s duty to put his ship, as well as
his life, in hazard; and this appears to have been exactly one of those
cases. Captain Hickey was charged with urgent despatches relative to
the enemy’s fleet, which it was of the greatest importance should be
delivered without an hour’s delay. But there was every appearance of
this fog lasting a week; and as he and his officers had passed over
the ground a hundred times before, and were as intimately acquainted
with the spot as any pilot could be, it was resolved to try the
bold experiment; and the ship was forthwith steered in the supposed
direction of Halifax.

They had not, however, stood on far, before one of the look-out men
exclaimed, “Breakers ahead! Hard a-starboard!” But it was too late,
for, before the helm could be put over, the ship was amongst those
formidable reefs known by the name of the Sisters’ Rocks, or eastern
ledge of Sambro Island. The rudder and half of the sternpost, together
with great part of the false keel, were driven off at the first blow,
and floated up alongside. There is some reason to believe, indeed,
that a portion of the bottom of the ship, loaded with 120 tons of iron
ballast, was torn from the upper works by this fearful blow, and that
the ship, which instantly filled with water, was afterwards buoyed up
merely by the empty casks, till the decks and sides were burst through,
or riven asunder by the waves.

The captain, who, throughout the whole scene, continued as composed
as if nothing remarkable had occurred, now ordered the guns to be
thrown overboard; but before one of them could be cast loose, or a
breeching cut, the ship fell over so much that the men could not stand.
It was, therefore, with great difficulty that a few guns were fired
as signals of distress. In the same breath that this order was given,
Captain Hickey desired the yard tackles to be hooked, in order that
the pinnace might be hoisted out; but as the masts, deprived of their
foundation, were tottering from side to side, the people were called
down again. The quarter boats were then lowered into the water with
some difficulty; but the jolly-boat, which happened to be on the poop
undergoing repairs, in being launched overboard, struck against one
of the stern davits, bilged, and went down. The ship was now falling
fast over on her beam ends, and directions were given to cut away the
fore and main-mast. Fortunately, they fell without injuring the large
boat on the booms—their grand hope. At the instant of this crash, the
ship parted in two, between the main and mizen-masts; and, within a few
seconds afterwards, she again broke right across, between the fore and
main-masts: so that the poor Atalante now formed a mere wreck, divided
into three pieces, crumbling into smaller fragments at every send of
the swell.

By this time a considerable crowd of the men had got into the pinnace
on the booms, in hopes that she might float off as the ship sunk; but
Captain Hickey, seeing that the boat, so loaded, could never swim,
desired some twenty of the men to quit her; and, what is particularly
worthy of remark, his orders, which were given with the most perfect
coolness, were as promptly obeyed as ever. Throughout the whole of
these trying moments, indeed, the discipline of the ship appears
to have been maintained, not only without the smallest trace of
insubordination, but with a degree of cheerfulness which is described
as truly wonderful. Even when the masts fell, the sound of the crashing
spars was drowned in the animating huzzas of the undaunted crew, though
they were then clinging to the weather gunwale, with the sea, from time
to time, making a clean breach over them, and when they were expecting
every instant to be carried to the bottom!

As soon as the pinnace was relieved from the pressure of the crowd,
she floated off the booms, or rather, was knocked off by a sea, which
turned her bottom upwards, and whelmed her into the surf amidst the
fragments of the wreck. The people, however, imitating the gallant
bearing of their captain, and keeping their eyes fixed upon him,
never, for one instant, lost their self-possession. By dint of great
exertions, they succeeded not only in righting the boat, but in
disentangling her from the confused heap of spars, and the dash of the
breakers, so as to place her at a little distance from the wreck, where
they waited for further orders from the captain, who, with about forty
men, still clung to the poor remains of the gay Atalante—once so much
admired!

An attempt was next made to construct a raft, as it was feared the
three boats could not possibly carry all hands; but the violence of
the waves prevented this, and it was resolved to trust to the boats
alone, though they were already, to all appearance, quite full. It
was now, however, absolutely necessary to take to them, as the wreck
was disappearing rapidly; and in order to pack close, most of the men
were removed to the pinnace, where they were laid flat in the bottom,
like herrings in a barrel, while the small boats returned to pick off
the rest. This was no easy matter in any case, while in others it was
impossible; so that many men had to swim for it; others were dragged
through the waves by ropes, and some were forked off by oars and other
small spars.

Amongst the crew there was one famous merry fellow, a black fiddler,
who was discovered, at this critical juncture, clinging to the main
chains, with his beloved Cremona squeezed tightly but delicately
under his arm—a ludicrous picture of distress, and a subject of some
joking amongst the men, even at this moment. It soon became absolutely
necessary that he should lose one of two things—his fiddle or his life.
So, at last, after a painful struggle, the professor and his violin
were obliged to part company!

The poor negro musician’s tenacity of purpose arose from sheer love of
his art. There was another laugh raised, however, about the same time,
at the expense of the captain’s clerk, who, stimulated purely by a
sense of duty, lost all recollection of himself, in his anxiety to save
what was intrusted to his care, and thus was very nearly being drowned.
This zealous person had general instructions, that whenever guns
were fired, or any other circumstance occurred likely to shake the
chronometer, he was to hold it in his hand, to prevent the concussion
deranging its works. As soon, therefore, as the ship was dashed
against the rocks, the clerk’s thoughts naturally turned exclusively
on the time-piece. He caught the watch up, and ran on deck; but as he
was no swimmer, he was obliged to cling to the mizen-mast, where he
stuck fast, careless of every thing but his important charge. When
the ship fell over, and the mast became nearly horizontal, he managed
to creep along till he reached the mizen-top, where he seated himself
in some trepidation—grinning like a monkey that has run off with a
cocoa-nut—till the spar gave way, and he was plunged, chronometer and
all, right overboard. Every eye was turned to the spot, to see whether
this most public-spirited of scribes was ever to appear again; when, to
the great joy of all hands, he emerged from the waves—watch still in
hand! and was with great difficulty dragged into one of the boats, half
drowned.

With the exception of this fortunate chronometer, and the Admiral’s
despatches, which the captain had secured when the ship first struck,
every thing on board was lost.

The pinnace now contained seventy-nine men and one woman, the cutter
forty-two, and the gig eighteen, with which cargoes they barely
floated. Captain Hickey was, of course, the last man who left the
wreck; though, such were the respect and affection felt for him by
his crew, that those who stood along with him on this last vestige of
the ship, evinced the greatest reluctance at leaving their commander
in such a perilous predicament. So speedy, indeed, was the work of
destruction, that by the time the captain was fairly in the boat, the
wreck had almost entirely ‘melted into the yest of waves.’ The crew,
however, gave her three hearty cheers as she went down, and then
finally abandoned the scattered fragments of what had been their house
and home for nearly seven years.

The fog still continued as thick as ever; the binacles had both been
washed overboard, and no compass could be procured. As the wind was
still light, there was great difficulty in steering in a straight line.
Had there been a breeze, it would perhaps have been easier to have
shaped a course. In this dilemma a resource was hit upon, which, for
a time, answered pretty well to guide them. It being known, loosely,
before leaving the wreck, in what direction the land was situated, the
three boats were placed in a row pointing that way. The sternmost boat
then quitted her station in the rear, and pulled ahead till she came
in a line with the other two boats, but took care not to go so far as
to be lost in the fog; the boat which was now astern then rowed ahead,
as the first had done; and so on, doubling along, one after the other.
This tardy method of proceeding, however, answered only for a time; and
at length they were completely at a loss which way to steer. Precisely
at this moment of greatest need, an old quarter-master, Samuel Shanks
by name, recollected that at the end of his watch-chain there hung a
small compass-seal. This precious discovery was announced to the other
boats by a joyous shout from the pinnace.

The compass being speedily handed into the gig, to the captain, was
placed on the top of the chronometer, so nobly saved by the clerk; and
as this instrument worked on jimbles, the little needle remained upon
it sufficiently steady for steering the boats within a few points.

This was enough to insure hitting the land, from which they had been
steering quite wide. Before reaching the shore, they fell in with an
old fisherman, who piloted them to a bight called Portuguese Cove,
where they all landed in safety, at the distance of twenty miles from
the town of Halifax.

The fishermen lighted great fires, to warm their shivering guests,
most of whom were very lightly clad, and all, of course, dripping wet;
many of them, also, were miserably cramped by close packing in the
boats. Some of the men, especially of those who entered the boats last,
having been obliged to swim for their lives, had thrown off every
thing but their trousers; so that the only respectably-dressed person,
out of the whole party was Old Shanks, the owner of the watch and
compass-seal—a steady, hard-a-weather sailor, who took the whole affair
as deliberately as if shipwreck had been an every-day occurrence. He
did not even take off his hat, except, indeed, to give his good ship a
cheer as she went to the bottom.

The future measures were soon decided upon. The captain carried
the three boats round to the harbour, taking with him the men who
had suffered most from fatigue, and those who were worst off for
clothes. The officers then set out with the rest, to march across the
country to Halifax, in three divisions, keeping together with as much
regularity as if they had been going upon some previously-arranged
piece of service. Very few of the party had any shoes, an inconvenience
which was felt more severely than it would otherwise have been, from
their having to trudge over a country but partially cleared of wood.
Notwithstanding all this, there was not a single straggler; and the
whole ship’s company, officer, man, and boy, assembled in the evening
at Halifax, in as exact order as if their ship had met with no accident.

I have been more particular in describing this shipwreck, from its
appearing to offer several uncommon and some useful details, well
worthy, I think, of the notice of practical men.

It is rather an unusual combination of disasters for a ship to be so
totally wrecked, as to be actually obliterated from the face of the
waters, in the course of a quarter of an hour, in fine weather, in the
day-time, on well-known rocks, and close to a light-house; but without
the loss of a single man, or the smallest accident to any one person on
board.

In the next place, it is highly important to observe, that the lives
of the crew, in all probability, would not, and perhaps could not,
have been saved, had the discipline been, in the smallest degree, less
exactly maintained. Had any impatience been manifested by the people
to rush into the boats, or had the captain not possessed sufficient
authority to reduce the numbers which had crowded into the pinnace,
when she was still resting on the booms, at least half of the crew must
have lost their lives.

It was chiefly, therefore, if not entirely, to the personal influence
which Captain Hickey possessed over the minds of all on board, that
their safety was owing. Their habitual confidence in his talents and
professional knowledge had, from long experience, become so great,
that every man in the ship, in this extremity of danger, instinctively
turned to him for assistance, and, seeing him so completely master of
himself, they relinquished to his well-known and often tried sagacity,
the formidable task of extricating them from their perils. It is at
such moments as these, indeed, that the grand distinction between
man and man is developed, and the full ascendency of a powerful and
well-regulated mind makes itself felt. The slightest hesitation on the
captain’s part, the smallest want of decision, or any uncertainty as
to what was the very best thing to be done, if betrayed by a word or
look of his, would have shot, like an electric spark, through the whole
ship’s company—a tumultuous rush would have been made to the boats—and
two out of the three, if not all, must have been swamped, and every man
drowned!

Captain Hickey and his crew had been serving together in the same ship
for many years before, in the course of which period they had acquired
so thorough an acquaintance with one another, that this great trial,
instead of loosening the discipline, only augmented its compactness,
and thus enabled the commander to bring all his knowledge, and all the
resources of his vigorous understanding, to bear at once, with such
admirable effect, upon the difficulties by which he was surrounded.

There are some men who actually derive as much credit from their
deportment under the severest losses, as others earn by brilliant
success; and it may certainly be said that Captain Hickey is one of
these: for, although he had the great misfortune to lose his ship,
he must enjoy the satisfaction of knowing, that his skill and
firmness, rendered effective by the discipline he had been so many
years in perfecting, enabled him, in this last extremity, to save the
lives of more than a hundred persons, who, but for him, in all human
probability, must have perished.




CHAPTER XI.

BLOCKADING A NEUTRAL PORT.


In the summer of 1804, His Majesty’s ships Leander and Cambrian were
ordered to proceed off New York, to watch the motions of two French
frigates lying in that harbour. On board of one of these, I forget
which, Jerome Buonaparte had taken his passage to Europe.

This plan of lying off a neutral port to watch for the departure of an
enemy riding at anchor within it, is, I believe, still considered, by
some people, a measure of questionable propriety, in a national point
of view. It is one of those topics, however, which will probably never
be quite settled; as circumstances must arise in every war to render
it less inexpedient to risk offending a neutral power, on a doubtful
point of international usage, than to suffer an enemy to escape. Be
the political aspect of this point, however, what it may, there can
be no doubt of the excessive and very reasonable annoyance of such a
proceeding to the neutral nation, whose rights of hospitality are thus,
more or less, virtually infringed. It is pretty certain, I believe,
that our lying so long off the harbour of New York, blockading these
two French ships, contributed materially to foster those angry feelings
against us, which, some years afterwards, broke out into open war.

The blockading service at any time is a tedious one; but upon this
occasion we contrived to enliven it in a manner, which, whether
legitimate or not, was certainly highly exciting, and sometimes rather
profitable, to us.

New York, every one knows, is the great sea-port of America, into
which, and out of which, many dozens of ships sail daily. With the
outward-bound vessels we had little or nothing to do; but with those
which came from foreign parts, especially from France, then our
bitter enemy, we took the liberty—the Americans said, the improper
liberty—to interfere. I speak not of French ships, or those which
avowed themselves to be such, and hoisted enemy’s colours; for of these
we, of course, made prize, without scruple, whenever we could catch
them beyond the limits of the American neutrality. But this very rarely
happened, and the ships we meddled with, so much to the displeasure of
the Americans, were those which, to outward appearance, belonged to
citizens of the United States, but on board which we had reason—good or
bad—to suspect there was cargo owned by the enemy. Nothing appears to
be so easy as to forge a ship’s papers, or to swear false oaths; and
accordingly, a great deal of French property was imported into America,
in vessels certainly belonging to the United States, but covered, as
it was called, by documents implying an American or neutral right in
it. In the very same way, I suppose, much Spanish property was, for a
long course of years, imported into South America, in English bottoms,
when Spain was at war with her Colonies. England, in that case, acted
the part of a neutral, and learned, in like manner, for the lucre of
gain, to trifle with all the obligations of an oath. During the period
of Buonaparte’s continental system, especially, about the year 1810,
many persons in England engaged largely in what was called the licensed
trade, the very essence of which was false swearing, false papers,
and the most unprincipled collusion of every kind. A horrible way of
making money, of which the base contamination, in the opinion of some
of our best merchants, is not yet quite washed away. So that poor Bony,
directly and indirectly, has enough to answer for!

At the time I speak of, 1804, when we were stationed off New York,
and the French and English nations were at loggerheads, Jonathan
very properly stepped in to profit by the fray, exactly as John Bull
afterwards did when Old and New Spain were at war—except, indeed, that
in the contraband, or covered carrying trade with the revolted Spanish
colonies, we had to share the profits with our transatlantic brethren,
while the two belligerents, shutting their eyes to their own true
interest, allowed others to run off with the advantages.

All this looks simple enough on paper; and a moment’s reflection shews
that such must ever be the consequence of a similar state of things.
For when shrewd nations, like the United States, have the art to keep
out of the fight in which others are engaged, they will, of course,
be able to play into the hands of the different parties whose whole
thoughts are occupied in injuring one another, instead of interchanging
benefits. The adroit neutral, by watching his time, can always minister
to the several necessities of the combatants, sometimes to one,
sometimes to the other, according as the payment is good or bad, and in
such a manner as to be sure of his own profit, reckless at whose cost.
At the same time, he must naturally lay his account with provoking
the displeasure of the powers at war, who, in their turn, will, of
course, do all they possibly can to prevent the neutral from lending
assistance to their opponents respectively.

Conflicting nations, accordingly, have always claimed, and, when they
can, will never cease to enforce, this right of searching neutral
ships, in order to discover whether or not there be enemy’s property
on board. But the practice, it may easily be imagined, is full of many
sore heart-burnings, and all kinds of “hard words, jealousies, and
fears,” which often, as old Hudibras has it, “set folks together by the
ears,” who ought, perhaps, never to have become foes.

Every morning, at daybreak, during our stay off New York, we set about
arresting the progress of all the vessels we saw—firing off guns to
the right and left, to make every ship that was running in, heave to,
or wait, until we had leisure to send a boat on board, “to see,” in
our lingo, “what she was made of.” I have frequently known a dozen,
and sometimes a couple of dozen ships, lying a league or two off the
port, losing their fair wind, their tide, and, worse than all, their
market, for many hours, sometimes the whole day, before our search
was completed. I am not now inquiring whether all this was right, or
whether it was even necessary, but simply describing the fact.

When any circumstance in the ship’s papers looked suspicious, the
boarding officer brought the master and his documents to the Leander,
where they were further examined by the captain; and if any thing
more important was then elicited, by an examination of the parties or
their papers, to justify the idea that the cargo was French, and not
American, as was pretended, the ship was forthwith detained. She was
then manned with an English crew from the ships of war, and ordered off
to Halifax, to be there tried in the Admiralty Court, or adjudicated,
as the term is; and either released with or without demurrage, if
proved to be truly neutral property, or condemned, if it were shewn to
belong to the enemy.

One can easily conceive how this sort of proceeding, in every possible
case, must be vexatious to the neutral. If, in point of fact, the
whole, or a part of the ship’s cargo, really belong to that ship’s
belligerent party, whose enemy is investigating the case, and this be
clearly made out, it is still mortifying to the neutral to see the
property taken away which he has undertaken to cover so effectually
as to guard it from capture. If, on the other hand, the cargo be all
the while, bonâ fide, the property of the neutral whose flag it is
sailing under, the vexation caused by this interruption to the voyage
is excessive. In the event of restoration or acquittal, the owner’s
loss, it is said, is seldom, if ever, adequately compensated for by the
awarded damages. In most cases there are found a number of suspicious
circumstances sufficient to justify the detention, but not enough to
lead to a condemnation; and in these instances the remuneration is not
great.

If the case, then, be annoying, in any view of it, supposing the
neutral ship to have been met with on the wide ocean, what must be the
aggravation when the vessel is laid hold of at the instant she has all
but reached her own home? when half an hour’s further sailing would
have ended the voyage successfully, and put it beyond the power of
either of the belligerents to have asked any questions about the nature
of her objects, or the ownership of her cargo?

We detained, at that period, a good many American vessels, on the
ground of having French or Spanish property on board. One of these,
a very large ship from Lima, filled with cocoa, was clearly made out
to be a good prize, and was condemned accordingly. Three or four
others, I remember, were restored to their owners by the decision of
the Admiralty Court; and two of them were forcibly recaptured by the
Americans, on their way to Halifax. On board one of these ships, the
master, and the few hands left in her to give evidence at the trial,
rose in the night, overpowered the prize-master and his crew, nailed
down the hatches, and having put the helm up, with the wind on land,
gained the coast before the scale of authority could be turned. In
the other ship, the English officer in charge imprudently allowed
himself to be drifted so near the land, that the people on the beach,
suspecting what had happened, sent off armed boats in sufficient
number to repossess themselves of the property. Possession in such
cases being not nine, but ten points of the law, we were left to
whistle for our prizes!

There was another circumstance connected with our proceedings at
that time, of still more serious annoyance to the Americans, and one
requiring, in its discussion, still greater delicacy of handling.
I shall not, indeed, presume to enter upon its very difficult
merits, but, as before, content myself with merely describing the
circumstances. I need hardly mention that I allude to the impressment
of those seamen whom we found serving on board American merchant ships,
but who were known to be, or supposed to be, British subjects. What
the strict letter of the law is now, I am not aware—I mean, what would
be considered the ‘law of usage’ in the event of another war. But I
presume we should act pretty much as we did before, and consequently
incur the risk, whatever that might be, of converting a neutral into
an enemy, rather than agree to relinquish our right to command the
services of any British-born subject, whenever we found him on the high
seas. At all events, it seems quite clear that, while we can hold it,
we will never give up the right of search, or the right of impressment.
We may and ought, certainly, to exercise so disagreeable a power with
such temper and discretion as not to provoke the enmity of any friendly
nation.

But at the time I speak of, and on board our good old ship the Leander,
whose name, I was grieved, but not surprised, to find, was still
held in detestation three or four and twenty years afterwards at New
York, I am sorry to own that we had not much of this discretion in
our proceedings; or, rather, we had not enough consideration for the
feelings of the people we were dealing with. We have since learnt to
respect them more—or, as they prefer to express it, they have since
taught us to respect them: be it either way, it matters not much; and
if it please the Americans more to say they have instructed us in this
point of good manners, than to allow that we have come to a knowledge
of better habits, well and good. I am grievously afraid, however, that
if we come again to be placed in like circumstances, and our ships of
war are in want of men, whilst Englishmen are to be found in numbers
on board American ships, we shall always fall upon some good excuse
for impressing His Majesty’s liege subjects, find them where we may.
However civilly we may then set about this duty—as a duty it certainly
will appear—the old charges, I fear, will again be raised up against us.

To place the full annoyance of these matters in a light to be viewed
fairly by English people, let us suppose that the Americans and French
were to go to war, and that England for once remained neutral—an odd
case, I admit, but one which might happen. Next, suppose that a couple
of French frigates were chased into Liverpool, and that an American
squadron stationed itself off that harbour to watch the motions of
these French ships, which had claimed the protection of our neutrality,
and were accordingly received into ‘our waters,’—I ask, “would this
blockade of Liverpool be agreeable to us, or not?”

Even if the blockading American frigates did nothing but sail backwards
and forwards across the harbour’s mouth, or occasionally run up and
anchor abreast of the town, it would not, ‘I guess,’ be very pleasant
to be thus superintended. If, however, the American ships, in addition
to this legitimate surveillance of their enemy, were to detain off the
port, with equal legitimacy of usage, and within a league or so of the
light-house, every British ship coming from France, or from a French
colony; and if, besides looking over the papers of these ships, to see
whether all was regular, they were to open every private letter, in the
hope of detecting some trace of French ownership in the cargo, what
should we say? And if, out of some twenty ships arrested daily in this
manner, one or two of our ships were to be completely diverted from
their course, from time to time, and sent off under a prize-master to
New York for adjudication, I wonder, how the Liverpool folks would like
it? But if, in addition to this perfectly regular and usual exercise
of a belligerent right on the part of the Americans, under such
circumstances, we bring in that most awkward and ticklish of questions,
the impressment of seamen, let us consider how much the feeling of
annoyance, on the part of the English neutral, would be augmented.

Conceive, for instance, that the American squadron, employed to
blockade the French ships in Liverpool, were short handed, but, from
being in daily expectation of bringing their enemy to action, it had
become an object of great consequence with them to get their ships
manned. And suppose, likewise, that it were perfectly notorious to all
parties, that, on board every English ship arriving or sailing from the
port in question, there were several American citizens, but calling
themselves English, and having in their possession ‘protections,’ or
certificates to that effect, sworn to in regular form, but well known
to be false, and such as might be bought for 4_s._ 6_d._ any day.
Things being in this situation, if the American men-of-war, off the
English port, were then to fire at and stop every ship, and, besides
overhauling her papers and cargo, were to take out any seaman, to work
their own guns withal, whom they had reason, or supposed, or said
they had reason, to consider American citizens, or whose country they
guessed from dialect, or appearance; I wish to know with what degree of
patience this would be submitted to on the Exchange at Liverpool, or
elsewhere in England?

It signifies nothing to say that such a case could not occur, as
the Americans do not impress seamen; for all who have attended to
such subjects know well enough, that if they come to be engaged in a
protracted war, especially at a distance from their own shores, there
is no other possible way by which they can keep their armed ships
manned. This, however, is not the point now in discussion. I merely
wish to put the general case broadly before our own eyes, in order that
we may bring it distinctly home to ourselves, and then see whether or
not the Americans had reason for their indignation.

The truth is, they had very good reason to be annoyed; and if the
guiding practical maxim amongst nations be, that ‘might makes right,’
as I conceive it always has been, and ever will be, so long as powder
and shot exist, with money to back them, and energy to wield them,—then
we really cannot pretend to find fault with the Americans, because
they took advantage, or tried to take advantage, of that moment when,
our ‘right’ being the same, our ‘might’ appeared to be waning. I
allude to their declaring war against us in 1812, when we, fighting
single-handed, in the cause of European independence, were so hard
pressed by Napoleon and others. For the Americans to have taken an
earlier share in the struggle against us, when we were lords of the
ascendant, would have been the extremity of Quixotism. But when John
Bull was pressed on all hands by numbers, and his strength exhausted
by long contests, albeit in the cause of liberty, which his brother
Jonathan professes to adore, he, Jonathan, would have been a fool, a
character which he certainly never was accused of enacting, if he had
not taken advantage of the moment to try his strength. The provocation
we gave was certainly considerable, and the retort, it must be owned,
very dexterously managed. The result, I trust, is, that things are on
a better footing than before; both parties have learned civility and
caution, and they will not agree the worse on that account. To forgive
and forget, is the old English maxim, as our friends well know. Let
them imitate us in this respect, and they will be all the happier, and
not a whit less powerful.

In putting a parallel case to ours off New York, and supposing
Liverpool to be blockaded by the Americans on the ground of their
watching some French ships, I omitted to throw in one item, which is
necessary to complete the parallel, and make it fit the one from which
it is drawn.

Suppose the blockading American ships off Liverpool, in firing a shot
ahead of a vessel they wished to examine, had accidentally hit, not
that vessel, but a small coaster, so far beyond her, that she was
not even noticed by the blockading ships. And suppose, further, this
unlucky chance-shot to have killed one of the crew on board the said
coaster: the vessel would, of course, proceed immediately to Liverpool
with the body of their slaughtered countryman; and, in fairness, it may
be asked, what would have been the effect of such a spectacle on the
population of England—more particularly if such an event had occurred
at the moment of a general election, when party politics, raging on
this very question of foreign interference, was at its height?

This is not an imaginary case; for it actually occurred in 1804, when
we were blockading the French frigates in New York. A casual shot from
the Leander hit an unfortunate sloop’s main-boom; and the broken spar
striking the mate, John Pierce by name, killed him instantly. The sloop
sailed on to New York, where the mangled body, raised on a platform,
was paraded through the streets, in order to augment the vehement
indignation, already at a high pitch, against the English.

Now, let us be candid to our rivals; and ask ourselves, whether the
Americans would have been worthy of our friendship, or even of our
hostility, had they tamely submitted to indignities which, if passed
upon ourselves, would have roused not only Liverpool, but the whole
country, into a towering passion of nationality?




CHAPTER XII.

THE SCHOOLMASTER AFLOAT.


The union of abstract or theoretical study with actual practice, is
one of the most important characteristics of a naval life; and the
distinction is rendered still more remarkable, from its extending
throughout the whole range of an officer’s career, from the very
hour he enters the service as a midshipman, till he ends his life in
battle, like Nelson, or worn out, like Collingwood, in command of a
fleet. Every officer in the Navy, in short, who really cares about his
business at all, may be said to be perpetually learning his profession,
and as perpetually putting in practice what he learns; for by no
exertion of talents or industry, can he ever expect to reach the top
of his knowledge, or that point where further instruction will no
longer prove useful to himself and his country. A naval man, therefore,
however professionally employed, is kept constantly alive and active,
as far as the pursuit of information is concerned. For there is a
permanent and high bounty, as it were, upon every fresh acquirement;
and the advantages of each new attainment are so great, and generally
so soon felt, that, with a little address on the part of the higher
authorities, there can never be wanting opportunities for bringing such
information into useful operation. As, therefore, there is very seldom
any want of stimulus amongst the young men on board a well-regulated
ship; it becomes of great consequence, not only to create and keep
alive this impulse, but also to give it a right direction, and so to
guide its energies, that the result may be productive of benefit, not
merely to the officers themselves, but to their country.

The nature of the sea service is such, that it must be entered at an
early age, otherwise its duties are sure to disgust. But unless a boy
happens to be one of those prodigies, (who, in the long run, seldom
turn out worth sixpence!) he must almost necessarily be very ignorant
when he commences his sea life. Once afloat, however, the occupations
of the ship are quite sufficient to keep his body in healthful
exercise, and the variety of new objects he sees will generally prevent
his mind from ever wearying. Yet unless some consistent, uniform means
be taken to cherish his nascent mental energies, and to give a right
direction to that desire for knowledge which belongs to his age, and,
above all, to found and regulate his principles; the chances are but
too great that he may speedily run to weeds and waste, in spite of the
best possible disposition on his part to do right.

Persons who have not had the means of becoming acquainted with the
dangers that beset a young man, on his first going to sea, and even
for some time afterwards, can form no adequate conception of the risk
which he incurs of having his taste and morals corrupted, and the best
faculties of his mind not only neglected, but often irretrievably
shaken. Nor must people hope, that by sending a boy under the
protection of the captain, or one of the officers, these evils will
always be warded off. The danger may be lessened, it is true; but it
cannot be effectually guarded against, and for a very plain reason.
In ships actively employed, hardly any officer has leisure to devote
the requisite amount of time to the superintendence of a boy under his
charge; and still less frequently has he either capacity or temper
for the arduous task of education. To which it may be added, that,
even under favourable circumstances, the duties of an officer, and his
assigned position in the ship, generally keep him too much apart from
the midshipmen to enable him to exercise, to the extent we could wish,
that degree of watchfulness over his protégé’s habits, without which
the utmost care may often prove ineffectual in maintaining his young
friend in the right path.

The kindness of a captain, or any other of the officers, certainly
goes a long way to render the situation of a youngster on board ship
happy, and useful. But these advantages can be fully extended only to
a few cases, even in ships where the captain’s disposition has that
kindly bent which takes delight in opening his cabin to the midshipmen,
and prompts him to go out of his way in other respects, to make them
pleased with their situation. It is deeply to be regretted, indeed,
that in most ships in His Majesty’s service, no such advantages can
be reckoned upon; and unless there be something more direct and
imperative than the mere good-will of the captain, too many youngsters
will inevitably be neglected, not only to their own loss and eventual
sorrow, but to the manifest injury of the public interests.

There is a very mistaken notion entertained by many officers in the
Navy, who conceive that parental care and kindness to the midshipmen
under their command, do not fall within the strict line of their duty.
And this would be reasonable, if it were right to govern His Majesty’s
ships exclusively by the strict letter of the Printed Instructions and
the Articles of War. But how could the service go on for a single day
on such principles? Every thing falls within the line of a captain’s
duty which contributes to the advancement of the public good; and who
shall say that an attention to the morals and manners of those young
men, who are destined to command the ships and fleets of the country,
is not an object of vital public interest?

There is no law, strictly so called, by which parents on shore are
compelled to educate their children, or to shew them kindness; but what
father of a family will plead this omission in the statutes in excuse
for neglecting his family? Yet the case is even stronger on board
ship, where the dangers of evil communication—that corrupter of good
manners—are far greater, and where the value of kindness is enhanced a
hundred-fold, by the many hardships and privations to which the poor
boys must be exposed.

To say that these young persons are merely public servants—that they
must take their chance with the rest of the crew—and that a captain
has enough to do besides making himself a dry-nurse for every child
sent on board his ship, is a bitter and most unworthy mockery, implying
little genuine public spirit, and still less private feeling.

At the very best, as I have already said, the captain cannot accomplish
all the objects that could be desired; but in every case, even of
the most actively employed ships, the exercise of his authority, in
a generous and kindly spirit, must contribute, in a most essential
degree, not only to the present comfort, but to the solid virtue of the
youngsters on board. Indeed, these two results must always go together,
afloat as well as on shore; and exactly in proportion as the captain
can ameliorate the habits of his young officers, or win them to a
conviction of the value of acting upon principle, so will they become
happier men and more useful public servants.

It has already been stated, that a captain’s time is generally so much
taken up with official duties, that, even if he be so inclined, he
cannot devote an adequate portion of his attention to the moral care
of the important class of rising officers of whom we are speaking.
But it requires only a slight acquaintance with any description of
public business to shew, that although a commanding officer may often
not be able to execute a required task himself, he may usefully
superintend its right performance by another. Indeed, it will happen,
in most cases, that such work will actually be better done by another
person, under his inspection, than it could have been done by the
chief himself. This observation applies, in a remarkable manner, to
the numerous and varied duties on board a man-of-war. Nor is it too
much to say, that in a well-regulated ship the captain is bound not to
attempt the execution of all, or, perhaps, any of these duties himself,
but rather to devote his attention to their right performance by the
officers especially named to such charges.

It is on this principle—that is to say, exactly in the same spirit
by which every other duty is carried on afloat—that I consider it of
so much importance to the well-being of the Navy that the captain
should be provided with a duly-qualified officer in a most essential
department of his discipline, at present absolutely vacant. He cannot,
by any exertion, execute the duties of instruction himself; nor is
there any other person on board to whom he can delegate them, at least
as things are now constituted; and the consequences, we all know, are
in many cases every way deplorable.

Fortunately, the remedy for these evils appears neither difficult
of discovery, nor costly in its application; and as it has had the
advantage of frequent and successful trial, it is to be hoped that,
ere long, its adoption as a matter of official regulation will become
general throughout the Navy.

It must have occurred to every one who has attended personally to this
subject, that the duty of superintending the progress of youngsters
circumstanced as the mids are, to any good purpose, can be performed
only by a person who shall have this exclusive business to attend to,
or whose chief duty and interest it shall be. Neither can there be a
doubt, that if a proper salary were given, in connexion with some
advantages which would cost the country nothing, a class of officers,
fully competent to this high and important task, might soon be created,
and placed as much at the disposal of the administrators of our naval
affairs, as any other description of public servants. I use the word
officers instead of schoolmasters, because it appears to me quite
essential to the success of the measures under consideration, that the
person having the superintendence of the young gentlemen in one of His
Majesty’s ships should be permanently placed, as nearly as possible, in
the situation eventually to be filled by his pupils, in order that he
may become practically familiar with those professional feelings and
habits, the value of which it is his duty to teach, along with those
still more important principles, and sacred instructions peculiarly his
province to inculcate.

Many of these useful refinements, however, cannot be looked for in men
who are not placed in situations in which alone, as all experience
shews, they can be acquired; it, therefore, becomes indispensable,
as I have said before, that the instructors of our naval youth should
be made to feel that they really are officers, to all intents and
purposes, not only in rank, but in the enjoyment of every other
technical advantage possible.

A preceptor, under any circumstances, but most particularly on board
ship, in order to have the power of doing any permanent good, should
not only respect himself, but ought to be supported in such a way as
to command, at all times, the respect, not alone of his pupils, but
likewise of the people about them. Unfortunately, few things can be
more inefficient, or, generally speaking, more ridiculous, than the
present situation of a schoolmaster afloat; and until his position
there be materially improved, it is almost hopeless to look for any
good results.

“The average pay of schoolmasters,” observes a well-informed writer,
“is about £50 and their provisions. They rank with the ship’s cook,
mess with the midshipmen, and have no cabin. With so small a pittance,
and with such rank and accommodations, it would be unreasonable to
suppose that a very highly-educated class of persons could be obtained;
and consequently we find, that many ships are totally unprovided.
Where they are found, they are often persons who make it convenient
to serve for a time; but it rarely happens that they continue in the
business. No prospect of advancement is held out to them, nor are they
in any way recompensed or provided for when their term of service is
complete. The naval instructions ordain that ‘the schoolmaster is not
only to instruct his pupils in mathematics, but to watch over their
general conduct, and to attend to their morals; and if he shall observe
any disposition to immorality or debauchery, or any conduct unbecoming
an officer or a gentleman, he is to represent it to the captain.’
This appears very plausible in the printed instructions; but its
execution, under the circumstances just detailed, must be pronounced
chimerical. It may readily be supposed, how totally inconsistent with
this dignified surveillance, living in the same hole with their pupils
must be, particularly when the democratical form of government, or
club-law, which is generally to be found there, is remembered. The
habits and awkwardness of a landsman are of themselves a constant theme
of irresistible ridicule with their joyous associates; and when it
is considered that the highest authority often finds it difficult to
restrain their happy thoughtlessness and practical jokes, what, it may
be asked, must be expected to be the fate of an unhappy equal?”[2]

This is by no means an exaggerated picture of the situation of a
schoolmaster on board a man-of-war; and whatever the remedy be,
I believe there can hardly exist a difference of opinion amongst
professional men as to the great improvement of which this department
of the service is susceptible.

In the able paper above quoted, the well-known advantages of uniting
the two situations of chaplain and schoolmaster, are stated with
considerable force; the practical good results, indeed, which have
attended many of the experiments which have been made of that union,
are so generally recognised, that in a short time we may expect to see
it established in every ship. But the pay of either of these situations
is too trifling to render it a sufficient motive for a man of abilities
and classical knowledge to go on board ship. The consequence is, either
that most of our ships are left without such instructors; or that
these stations are not very well filled; or, finally, if occupied by
qualified persons, they are held by men who accept them only for a
time, till something better shall offer.

In the Leander, on the Halifax station, we had an excellent
schoolmaster for about a year, when the situation of professor of one
of the colonial colleges happening to fall vacant, we lost his services
immediately; and although ours was the flag-ship, on board of which
the inducements were considerably beyond the common run, we could never
afterwards procure a proper person to fill the office. The youngsters,
therefore, who, as usual, flocked on board the Admiral’s ship, were
ever after left completely adrift.

What would become of the arrangements of a man-of-war, I should
like to ask, if any one of the other officers—the first lieutenant,
for instance, the purser, or the boatswain—were at liberty, without
warning, to quit the ship the instant he saw an opportunity of
bettering himself? And yet, if there existed no prospective benefit in
these officers remaining, on what principle could we expect to maintain
any permanent hold over them? How then can we wonder that chaplains
and schoolmasters, whom as yet we have taken no pains to form into a
distinct, respectable, and well-paid class of officers, should scruple
so little about abandoning a service in which no proper means have yet
been adopted to give them, as in the case of every other officer, a
determinate life interest?

The obvious remedy, as has been urged a hundred times, seems to lie in
this plan of uniting the situations of chaplain and schoolmaster, and
joining the pay of the two. In all probability, the truest economy will
be found in still further augmenting this pay, so as to make it really
worth the while of properly-educated men to look to it, not merely for
a season, but as a fixed provision. The discomforts, however, of a
midshipman’s birth—to all but the mids themselves, who are hastening to
get out of it—are so intolerable, that hardly any amount of pay will
ever be thought a full recompense for the sacrifices which a person
grown up to man’s estate, and properly qualified in other respects,
would be called upon to make, were he required to mess in the cock-pit.
In the event, therefore, of such union of offices, the gentleman in
whom they are joined ought to bear a regular commission, mess with the
commissioned officers, and walk the weather side of the deck; perhaps
also he might advantageously wear a suitable uniform. At all events,
he ought to possess a distinct rank, and be considered as essentially
a part of the ship’s complement as the surgeon, purser, or any other
officer in the civil department of the fleet.

People unacquainted with the nature of naval discipline may smile,
perhaps, at some of the privileges glanced at above, as essential
to the right exercise of power. But long experience has shewn that
the distinctions in question are the recognised symbols or indexes
of due subordination and general good order. They unquestionably
contribute, indirectly, to the maintenance of that prompt and effective
obedience, and respect to constituted authority, which, combined
with self-respect, go so far to form the sinews of naval strength.
If, therefore, it be of real utility to have the schoolmaster’s work
as well executed as that of the other officers, it surely follows
that he ought to be placed in a situation to command, not merely the
dogged attention of the midshipmen, but in one which will insure the
official reverence of the boys, together with a proportionate degree
of consideration from those whom they command. If these minute
particulars in balancing the scales of discipline be not duly attended
to, the respect of the pupils will dwindle into familiarity, and the
schoolmaster, if he be not a strong-minded person, may end by losing
his own self-confidence. All lessons then become a farce, and the
teacher either relapses into a useless appendage to the ship, or, if
forcibly sustained by the stern authority of the captain, he is apt to
degenerate into a mere pedagogue.

It may safely be laid down as a pretty general principle, that to
render any man of much use, he must be placed permanently in a station,
which of itself, and by the ordinary workings of the established order
of things, will insure attention both from superiors and inferiors.
Without this adjustment, there can be no good service performed any
where—on land or at sea.

It is sometimes not sufficiently recollected, that schooling on board
ship differs materially from what it is on shore; for it not only
treats of very different matters, but has other objects in view, both
immediate and remote. Before a young person actually engages in a
profession, the great purpose of a school appears to consist in mere
training—that is to say, in carrying his faculties through a course of
preparatory discipline, without any more specific object than mental
exercise. But when the youth is once fairly embarked in the pursuit
which is to furnish employment for his life, an immediate modification
takes place. The system which it is necessary to follow at sea is then
placed in distinct contrast to that previously observed.

On shore, education and business are two separate things, one of
which does not begin till the other ends; while, on board ship, the
two always go hand in hand. As the lessons of the teacher may be put
in practice immediately, the utility of theoretical knowledge is
exhibited on the spot; and thus a gradually increasing impulse is
given to the whole course of study. A boy who learns from his master
what the word Latitude means, and what is the method of obtaining it,
instantly runs upon deck, takes a quadrant in his hand, observes the
sun’s meridional altitude, and is filled with amaze and delight on
discovering: within what small limits he has been able to determine the
ship’s place relatively to the equator. Next day he sets to work with
increased eagerness to conquer the more difficult problem of finding
the Longitude, which he has immediate opportunities of bringing to
the test of actual experiment. The theory of Gunnery, likewise, when
studied by itself, is frequently found to be intricate, and often far
from satisfactory; but, when all its results can be brought to the test
of experiment, the aspect which this very important pursuit assumes is
totally different. How few officers, for instance, understand correctly
the meaning of the elementary term Point Blank, or have any useful
conception of the mathematical principles which it involves! How often
do we hear people gravely assuming that the shot rises between the
gun and the point-blank mark! The laws which regulate the action of
fluids directed against plane surfaces are by no means easily explained
when grappled with alone; but, when brought to bear on the use of the
rudder, or the trim of the sails, there is hardly a boy afloat who
fails to appreciate the value of true science over what is called
‘rule of thumb;’ or rather, who may not soon be taught to feel the
mighty advantage of uniting the two, so as to make theory and practice
mutually assist each other.

Nearly the same thing may be said of almost every other branch of
knowledge: with languages, for instance—I mean more particularly
the modern languages—French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian,
most of which are made to tell generally as soon as acquired. The
Mathematics in all their wonderful branches, and Science in almost
every department, furnish ample objects to fill up the leisure hours
of an officer. Geography, history, and the law of nations, come into
professional play at every turn. A young man, therefore, of any
capacity or industry, is nearly sure of rendering himself useful in a
short time, be his particular pursuits what they may, provided only
that his zeal is duly encouraged by the captain, and seconded by the
ready assistance of a properly qualified preceptor whom he has been
taught to respect. It must never be forgotten, however, that along with
all this knowledge of a professional, literary, or scientific nature,
there ought to be mixed up instructions of a still more important
description, upon which the formation of a young man’s character will
mainly depend, whether we view him merely as an officer, or in his
wider capacity as a member of the civil community.

Every one acquainted with the difficult task of bringing boys
safely through the intricate labyrinth of temptations which must be
encountered in the early stages of a sea life, will acknowledge, that
the superintendent of a young man’s habits has little or no chance
of success, unless he can secure the confidence of his pupil. I very
much fear, however, that there can be little hope of establishing such
a relation between them, unless the preceptor be truly the superior,
not only in station but in attainments, and unless it be his peculiar
study to acquire this ascendency over his pupil’s mind, in order to
the better regulation of his manners. I use the word manners in its
largest sense; and it is clear that, unless the schoolmaster have
leisure to keep these objects constantly in view, he cannot hope to
gain the proper degree of influence over any boy’s mind. As chaplain
of the ship, however, his religious duties, so far from interfering
with the objects alluded to, would blend admirably with all of them,
and furnish the best means, and, if it were needed, the best excuse,
for a judicious and parental sort of interference. To expect that any
such interference of the schoolmaster, under the present system, can be
efficacious, is, I much fear, a complete delusion; and this furnishes a
strong reason for uniting in one person the kindred duties of chaplain
and teacher. It shews, at the same time, how inefficient any such union
must be, unless care be taken to secure fitting persons to fill a joint
office of such delicacy.

There is still another, and by no means an unimportant benefit, which
might arise to the naval service from this improvement: I mean its
effect on the higher classes of officers. If there be nothing more
shocking than a disreputable clergyman in a mess-room, so, on the
other hand, I conceive there can be nothing more useful, in many very
material respects, than the constant companionship of a right-minded
and well-educated person of this description. I say nothing of
the obvious and salutary influence which his presence never fails
to exercise over the manners of men, already too much disposed to
laxity in their habits; but it may be well to consider, likewise,
the great additional benefits which may arise to the officers from
their possessing the means of instructing themselves in the different
branches of knowledge, with which a chaplain, regularly qualified to
teach, would be able to impart.

Except on board ship, and at sea, few of the senior officers of the
Navy, in war time, have the opportunity, and still fewer the means,
of improving their acquaintance with those pursuits, of which, in the
earlier periods of their service, they may have gained a smattering. I
allude to the classics, to modern languages, and the belles lettres
generally, to the higher branches of mathematics, and to many of
those sciences formerly deemed abstruse, but which have lately become
popular; such as chemistry, geology, and natural history in all its
departments.

The time is not remote when it was held by high naval authorities, that
all or any of these refinements, instead of being useful to an officer,
actually stood in his way; and, as far as they went, interfered with
the due execution of his duty. Nor can it, or ought it, to be denied,
that the principle of extra instruction is very apt to be carried too
far, and the refining system overdone. Nor must it ever be forgotten in
these discussions, that the service—that is to say, the hard, regular,
seamanlike round of official duties, in all seasons, and under all
circumstances, ought always to be the primary objects of an officer’s
thoughts, before which every thing else is not only to bend, but, if
need be, must break. And it is chiefly on the principle of rendering an
officer only the more fit for such technical routine, that any of the
pursuits alluded to can ever be considered as having legitimate claims
on his attention. If such studies become so engrossing as to detach
his thoughts from his sterner duty; to make him a scholar instead of
a seaman, a dandy instead of a disciplinarian; or if he allow himself
to attend to these extraneous matters with any other view than to his
improvement as a strictly professional man, he will, of course, find
them, one and all, prejudicial, and not be encouraged. Under proper
regulation, however, there seems little or no danger of any thing of
this description proving injurious to an officer’s character, as a
useful, hard-working servant of the public.

It was formerly thought, that high-born, high-bred, and even
well-educated men, were less fitted to make good officers for the
ordinary course of professional work, than persons who had sprung
from a lower origin, or whose education was limited to the mere
technicalities of the profession, and who were without taste and
without manners—men of the Hawser Trunion school, in short. But the
copious experience of the late arduous war seems to have shewn, both
in the army and in the navy, that the contrary is the true state of
the case. And certainly, as far as my own observation and inquiries
have gone, I have found reason to believe that those officers who are
the best informed and the best bred, and who possess most of the true
spirit of gentlemen, are not only the safest to trust in command over
others, but are always the readiest to yield that prompt and cheerful
obedience to their superiors, which is the mainspring of good order.
Such men respect themselves so justly, and value their own true dignity
of character so much, and are at all times so sensitively alive to the
humiliation of incurring reproach, that they are extremely cautious how
they expose themselves to merited censure. From the early and constant
exercise of genuine politeness, they become habitually considerate
of the feelings of others; and thus, by the combined action of these
great principles of manners, officers of this stamp contrive to get
through much more work, and generally do it much better, than persons
of less refinement. Moreover, they consider nothing beneath their
closest attention which falls within the limits of their duty; and, as
a leading part of this principle, they are the most patient as well as
vigilant superintendents of the labours of those placed under their
authority, of any men I have ever seen. It is not that they watch their
inferiors with a view to entrap and pounce upon them, but solely with
the public-spirited and generous object of keeping all parties right,
in order, by checking errors in the outset, before they have grown into
crimes, to prevent the hard necessity of punishment.

This is a pretty fair sketch of the method of acting observed by a
thorough-bred, gentlemanlike, well-instructed officer; and every one
who has been in command, and in protracted difficulties, or has merely
been employed in the ordinary course of service, will readily admit
that, with the assistance of such men, every department of his duty has
gone on better and more pleasantly than it could have possibly done if
the persons under his command had been of a coarser stamp.

It is quite true that the full degree of refinement alluded to
can hardly ever be fully taught on board ship. But it may often be
approximated to good purpose. It is quite within our power, for
example, so to train up young men, that they shall gradually acquire
not only that sort of knowledge, but also those habits, which
experience has shewn to have the most direct tendency to enlarge the
understanding, and to chastise the taste. Precisely as this amount of
intelligence increases, so will the capacity of an officer to do good
service increase likewise; and it is absurd to suppose that he will be
less disposed to do his duty well, from knowing better how to comply
with its obligations.

Weak minds and perverse dispositions, under any system of instruction
or of discipline, will, of course, defeat these calculations; and
there will, therefore, always be many effeminate and idle persons in
a fleet, who, by mistaking mere acquirements for the knowledge of how
to turn them to useful account, deserve the title they receive of ‘the
King’s hard bargains.’ But, taking the average run of officers in the
Navy, it may safely be expected, that if, in other respects, they are
kept to their duty, and if they themselves have a real interest in
the service, the more information they can acquire upon every subject
worthy of a gentleman’s attention, the better will they be fitted for
the performance not only of those higher exploits which all the world
understand and admire, but even of those humble and unseen professional
avocations, which make up by far the greater and the most important
part of our daily duties.

If, then, we can furnish all ranks of our naval officers afloat with a
ready and agreeable means of filling up their time, of which most of
them have a good deal to spare, we may fairly hope that they will not
be slow to avail themselves of the opportunities placed within their
reach. In order, however, to render these measures of any extensive
utility, this plan of furnishing assistance must be carried a long
way. A chaplain-schoolmaster should be allowed even to the smallest
class of ships on board which, by any contrivance, the proper degree
of accommodation can be obtained. And if these ideas were followed
up in the admirable spirit with which some recent improvements have
been carried into effect in the Navy, for instance, in the discipline,
victualling, payment of wages, ratings, and other matters, a very great
boon would be conferred on the service.

It is not likely that the measure proposed would materially augment
the expenses of the Navy, if, indeed, it had that effect at all; since
both a chaplain and schoolmaster are expressly allowed to all ships,
from the first to the sixth class, inclusive. But, even supposing
the expense were to be augmented, there can be no doubt, I should
conceive, in the mind of any person who has reflected seriously on
these subjects, that the return for such outlay would be speedy and
certain. The religious, moral, and intellectual character of officers,
on whose good conduct so much depends, must, in every conceivable state
of things, be an object of material consequence to the country. And
it were really almost a libel on the nation, to imagine that they
would not cheerfully agree to the additional expenditure which might
be required, if the advantages be such as are stated. There can be
no truer economy, than expending money for the promotion of virtue
and sound knowledge amongst this class of public servants. For their
duties, it must be recollected, generally lie so far beyond the reach
of ordinary scrutiny, that almost the only security we have for their
good conduct rests on their own sense of honour. A dishonest officer
on a foreign station might often divert from its proper purpose, by a
single stroke of his pen, and without much danger of detection, more
of the public money than would furnish the Navy with chaplains and
schoolmasters for ten years.

It is to accomplish only one-half the great task of instruction merely
to fill a boy’s head with technical information—his principles and
habits ought to be likewise taken into our safe keeping. It is also
greatly to be desired, that, when the period arrives at which he is
expected to become, as it is called, his own master, he should find
no difficulty in continuing, from choice, those pursuits to which he
had previously applied himself on compulsion, or merely as a means of
promotion. And there seems to be no method more likely to accomplish
this desirable purpose, than affording the young commissioned officer
the companionship of an instructor, or, at all events, of a person
whose duty it should be, if required, not only to continue, in the
ward-room, the course of information commenced in the cock-pit, but
whose aim ought to be, so to modify these studies as to adapt them to
the altered circumstances of the pupil, and to win his attention to
their pursuit by rendering them agreeable and useful.

It is not pretended, by any means, that such a task is an easy one; on
the contrary, it will require not only considerable abilities, but high
attainments, and no inconsiderable degree of good taste, together with
a long apprenticeship of self-discipline, and an exclusive application
to these arduous duties, as the grand object and business of the
instructor’s life.

There really appears, however, to be no situation but that of a
clergyman which offers any reasonable chance of these conditions
being fulfilled. And as the education of such a person is necessarily
expensive, and the double office which it is proposed he should fill,
one of great responsibility, labour, and difficulty, as well as one
of peculiar and irremediable discomfort and privation, without any
of those energetic excitements which stimulate every other class
of officers to exertion, the remuneration ought clearly to be very
considerable, otherwise no set of properly qualified men will engage
permanently in its pursuit.

A distinct class of officers, of this sacred character, although as
yet they do not exist, might be readily created. If the emoluments of
the chaplain of a man-of-war were respectable, the situation rendered
as agreeable, in point of comfort, as the nature of the elements will
admit of, and if the prospects of future provision be made certain,
or contingent only upon a right performance of duty, there cannot,
I think, be a doubt that, in a short time, there would be an ample
and steady supply of chaplains, as highly qualified, in point of
attainments, as the Admiralty might choose to fix on the scale.

If this important professional object were once fairly carried into
effect, we should probably soon discover an improvement in the whole
system of naval discipline, the best evidences of which would be, the
increased efficiency of the whole service, arising out of the gradually
ameliorated habits and higher intellectual cultivation, as well as
improved tastes and more rational happiness, of every class of the
officers, from the oldest captain down to the youngest first-class boy,
just untied from his mother’s apron-string.

In all that has been said, I have taken into view almost exclusively
the advantages which would accrue to the officers from the adoption
of this plan of uniform instruction. It is to them, individually
as gentlemen, and collectively as a body, upon the certainty of
whose hearty exertions the government can at all times depend, that
the country must ever look for that energetic momentum in our
naval strength, upon which the national power, in this department,
essentially rests. Surely, however, it is not too much to say, as a
matter of experience, that the influence of a resident clergyman on
board ship, wherever there is one, over the minds of the crew, is felt
to be quite as salutary, when properly exercised, as it is to the
labourers in any parish of the empire.

It signifies nothing to say that the structure of naval discipline is
widely different from the civil administration of the land; for the
very same principles, and, more or less, the very same motives to right
or wrong action, must always be in play in both cases. A judicious
chaplain, therefore, who shall have become acquainted by personal
experience with the habits, tastes, feelings, and pursuits of the
seamen, may undoubtedly contribute an important share to the efficiency
of the whole of our naval system. So far from interfering with, or in
any way checking the strict course of nautical affairs, I conceive
that the chaplain’s influence, rightly exercised, acting in cordial
understanding with the captain, and sanctioned by his authority, might
advance the best interests of the service by greatly diminishing
offences, and thus lessening the melancholy necessity of punishments.
Whenever this benevolent purpose can be effected, in a greater or less
degree, both those who obey and those who command are sure to be better
pleased with one another, and, it is reasonable to suppose, far more
desirous of co-operating heartily in the accomplishment of the common
purpose for which they are brought together.


END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.


  LONDON:
  J. MOYES, TOOK’S COURT, CHANCERY LANE.


FOOTNOTES:

[2] I quote from a paper on the State of Education in the British Navy,
printed in the United Service Journal, Part XI. for October 1830. The
performance and the promise of the very rising officer, who wrote this
article, help to furnish the fairest practical answer to those who
object to the early advancement of young men of rank in the Navy.




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 219 Changed: when on board passage vesssels
              to: when on board passage vessels

  pg 225 Changed: half of sound snoose
              to: half of sound snooze

  pg 308 Changed: as the captian can ameliorate the habits
              to: as the captain can ameliorate the habits