“Then, if you have a decent sample or two of passengers on board, you can discuss men and things, and women and nothings, law, physick, and divinity, or that endless, tangled ball of yarn, politicks, or you can swap anecdotes, and make your fortune in the trade. And by the same trail of thought we must give one or two of these Blue-Noses now and then a cast on board with us to draw them out. “Well, if you want to read, you can go and turn in and take a book, and solitudinise to it, and there is no one to disturb you. I actilly learned French in a voyage to Calcutta, and German on my way home. I got enough for common use. It warn’t all pure gold; but it was kind of small change, and answered every purpose of trade or travel. Oh, it’s no use a talkin’; where time ain’t the main object, there’s nothin’ like a sailin’ vessel to a man who ain’t sea-sick, and such fellows ought to be cloriformed, put to bed, and left there till the voyage is over. They have no business to go to sea, if they are such fools as not to know how to enjoy themselves.
“Then sailors are characters; they are men of the world, there is great self-reliance in them. They have to fight their way in life through many trials and difficulties, and their trust is in God and their own strong arm. They are so much in their own element, they seem as if they were born on the sea, cradled on its billows, and, like Mother Carey’s chickens, delighted in its storms and mountain waves. They walk, talk, and dress differently from landsmen. They straddle as they pace the deck, so as to brace the body and keep their trowsers up at the same time; their gait is loose, and their dress loose, and their limbs loose; indeed, they are rather too fond of slack. They climb like monkeys, and depend more on their paws than their legs. They tumble up, but never down. They count, not by fingers, it is tedious, but by hands; they put a part for the whole, and call themselves hands, for they are paid for the use of them, and not their heads.
“Though they are two-handed they are not close-fisted fellows. They despise science, but are fond of practical knowledge. When the sun is over the foreyard, they know the time of day as well as the captain, and call for their grog, and when they lay back their heads, and turn up the bottom of the mug to the sky, they call it in derision taking an observation. But though they have many characteristics in common, there is an individuality in each that distinguishes him from the rest. He stands out in bold relief—I by myself, I. He feels and appreciates his importance. He knows no plural. The word ‘our’ belongs to landsmen; ‘my’ is the sailor’s phrase—my ship, my captain, my messmate, my watch on deck, ‘my eyes!’ ‘you lubber, don’t you know that’s me?’ I like to listen to their yarns and their jokes, and to hear them sing their simple ditties. The odd mixture of manliness and childishness—of boldness and superstitious fears; of preposterous claims for wages and thoughtless extravagance; of obedience and discontent—all goes to make the queer compound called ‘Jack.’ How often have I laughed over the fun of the forecastle in these small fore and aft packets of ourn! and I think I would back that place for wit against any bar-room in New York or New Orleans, and I believe they take the rag off of all creation.
“But the cook is my favourite. He is a scientific man, and so skilful in compounds, he generally goes by the name of doctor. I like the daily consultation with him about dinner: not that I am an epicure; but at sea, as the business of life is eating, it is as well to be master of one’s calling. Indeed, it appears to be a law of nature, that those who have mouths should understand what to put in them. It gratifies the doctor to confer with him, and who does it not please to be considered a man of importance? He is therefore a member of the Privy Council, and a more useful member he is too than many Right Honourables I know of—who have more acres than ideas. The Board assembles after breakfast, and a new dish is a great item in the budget. It keeps people in good humour the rest of the day, and affords topics for the table. To eat to support existence is only fit for criminals. Bread and water will do that; but to support and gratify nature at the same time is a noble effort of art, and well deserves the thanks of mankind. The cook too enlivens the consultation by telling marvellous stories about strange dishes he has seen. He has eaten serpents with the Siamese, monkeys in the West Indies, crocodiles and sloths in South America, and cats, rats, and dogs with the Chinese; and of course, as nobody can contradict him, says they are delicious. Like a salmon, you must give him the line, even if it wearies you, before you bag him; but when you do bring him to land his dishes are savoury. They have a relish that is peculiar to the sea, for where there is no garden, vegetables are always most prized. The glorious onion is duly valued, for as there is no mistress to be kissed, who will dare to object to its aroma?
“Then I like a Sunday at sea in a vessel like this, and a day like this, when the men are all clean and tidy, and the bell rings for prayers, and all hands are assembled aft to listen to the captain as he reads the Church Service. It seems like a family scene. It reminds me of dear old Minister and days gone by, when he used to call us round him, and repeated to us the promise ‘that when two or three were gathered together in God’s name, he would grant their request.’ The only difference is, sailors are more attentive and devout than landsmen. They seem more conscious that they are in the Divine presence. They have little to look upon but the heavens above and the boundless ocean around them. Both seem made on purpose for them—the sun to guide them by day, and the stars by night, the sea to bear them on its bosom, and the breeze to waft them on their course. They feel how powerless they are of themselves; how frail their bark; how dependent they are on the goodness and mercy of their Creator, and that it is He alone who can rule the tempest and control the stormy deep. Their impressions are few, but they are strong. It is the world that hardens the heart, and the ocean seems apart from it.
“They are noble fellows, sailors, and I love them; but, Cutler, how are they used, especially where they ought to be treated best, on board of men-of-war? The moment a ship arrives in port, the anchor cast and the sails furled—what dees the captain do? the popular captain too, the idol of the men; he who is so kind and so fond of them? Why, he calls them aft, and says, ‘Here, my lads, here is lots of cash for you, now be off ashore and enjoy yourselves.’ And they give three cheers for their noble commander—their good-hearted officer—the sailor’s friend—the jolly old blue jacket,—and they bundle into the boats, and on to the beach, like school-boys. And where do they go? Well, we won’t follow them, for I never was in them places where they do go, and so I can’t describe them, and one thing I must say, I never yet found any place answer the picture drawn of it. But if half only of the accounts are true that I have heerd of them, they must be the devil’s own seminaries of vice—that’s a fact. Every mite and morsel as bad as the barrack scenes that we read of lately.
“Well, at the end of a week back come the sailors. They have had a glorious lark and enjoyed themselves beyond anything in the world, for they are pale, sick, sleepy, tired out, cleaned out, and kicked out, with black eyes, broken heads, swelled cheeks, minus a few teeth, half their clothes, and all their money.
“‘What,’ says the captain, ‘what’s the matter with you, Tom Marlin, that you limp so like a lame duck?’
“‘Nothing, your honour,’ says Tom, twitching his forelock, and making a scrape with his hind leg, ‘nothing, your honour, but a scratch from a bagganet.’
“‘What! a fight with the soldiers, eh? The cowardly rascals to use their side arms!’