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Table of Contents

Conditions of Life on Ship-board—A Model Ward-room—An Admiral’s Cabin—Captains and Captains—The Sailor and his Superior Officers—A Contrast—A Commander of the Old School—Jack Larmour—Lord Cochrane’s Experiences—His Chest Curtailed—The Stinking Ship—The First Command—Shaving under Difficulties—The Speedy and her Prizes—The Doctor—On Board a Gun-boat—Cabin and Dispensary—Cockroaches and Centipedes—Other horrors—The Naval Chaplain—His Duties—Stories of an Amateur—The Engineer—His Increasing Importance—Popularity of the Navy—Nelson always a Model Commander—The Idol of his Colleagues, Officers, and Men—Taking the Men into his Confidence—The Action between the Bellona and Courageux—Captain Falknor’s Speech to the Crew—An Obsolete Custom—Crossing the Line—Neptune’s Visit to the Quarter-deck—The Navy of To-day—Its Backbone—Progressive Increase in the Size of Vessels—Naval Volunteers—A Noble Movement—Excellent Results—The Naval Reserve.

In the previous pages we have given some account of the various stations visited by the Royal Navy of Great Britain. Let us next take a glance at the ships themselves—the quarter-deck, the captain’s cabin, and the ward-room. In a word, let us see how the officers of a ship live, move, and have their being on board.

Their condition depends very much on their ship, their captain, and themselves. The first point may be dismissed briefly, as the general improvement in all descriptions of vessels, including their interior arrangements, is too marked to need mentioning. The ward-room of a modern man-of-war is often as well furnished as any other dining-room—handsomely carpeted, the sides adorned with pictures, with comfortable chairs and lounges, and excellent appointments at table. In the ward-room of a Russian corvette visited by the writer, he found a saloon large enough for a ball, with piano, and gorgeous side-board, set out as in the houses of most of the northern nations of Europe, with sundry bottles and incitives to emptying them, in the shape of salt anchovies and salmon, caviare and cheese. In a British flag-ship he found the admiral’s cabin, while in port at least, a perfect little bijou of a drawing-room, with harmonium and piano, vases of flowers, portfolios of drawings, an elaborate stove, and all else that could conduce to comfort and luxury. Outside of this was a more plainly-furnished cabin, used as a dining-room. Of course much of this disappears at sea. The china and glass are securely packed, and all of the smaller loose articles stowed away; the piano covered up in canvas and securely “tied up” to the side; likely enough the carpet removed, and a rough canvas substituted. Still, all is ship-shape and neat as a new pin. The few “old tubs” of vessels still in the service are rarely employed beyond trifling harbour duties, or are kept for emergencies on foreign stations. They will soon disappear, to be replaced by smart and handy little gun-boats or other craft, where, if the accommodations are limited, at least the very most is made of the room at command. How different all this is to many of the vessels of the last century and commencement of this, described by our nautical novelists as little better than colliers, pest ships, and tubs, smelling of pitch, paint, bilge-water, tar, and rum! Readers will remember Marryat’s captain, who, with his wife, was so inordinately fond of pork that he turned his ship into a floating pig-sty. At his dinner there appeared mock-turtle soup (of pig’s head); boiled pork and pease pudding; roast spare rib; sausages and pettitoes; and, last of all, sucking-pig. He will doubtless remember how he was eventually frightened off the ship, then about to proceed to the West Indies, by the doctor telling him that with his habit of living he would not give much for his life on that station. But although Marryat’s characters were true to the life of his time, you would go far to find a similar example to-day. Captains still have their idiosyncrasies, but not of such a marked nature. There may be indolent captains, like he who was nicknamed “The Sloth;” or, less likely, prying captains, like he in “Peter Simple,” who made himself so unpopular that he lost all the good sailors on board, and had to put up with a “scratch crew;” or (a comparatively harmless variety) captains who amuse their officers with the most outrageous yarns, but who are in all else the souls of honour. Who can help laughing over that Captain Kearney, who tells the tale of the Atta of Roses ship? He relates how she had a puncheon of the precious essence on board; it could be smelt three miles off at sea, and the odour was so strong on board that the men fainted when they ventured near the hold. The timbers of the ship became so impregnated with the smell that they could never make any use of her afterwards, till they broke her up and sold her to the shopkeepers of Brighton and Tunbridge-wells, who turned her into scented boxes and fancy articles, and then into money. The absolutely vulgar captain is a thing of the past, for the possibilities of entering “by the hawse-hole,” the technical expression applied to the man who was occasionally in the old times promoted from the fo’castle to the quarter-deck, are very rare indeed nowadays. Still, there are gentlemen—and there are gentlemen. The perfect example is a rara avis everywhere.

ON DECK OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

The true reason why a captain may make his officers and men constitute an agreeable happy family, or a perfect pandemonium of discontent and misery, consists in the abuse of his absolute power. That power is necessarily bestowed on him; there must be a head; without good discipline, no vessel can be properly handled, or the emergencies of seamanship and warfare met. But as he can in minor matters have it all his own way, and even in many more important ones can determine absolutely, without the fear of anything or anybody short of a court-martial, he may, and often does, become a martinet, if not a very tyrant.

The subordinate officer’s life may be rendered a burden by a cantankerous and exacting captain. Every trifling omission may be magnified into a grave offence. Some captains seem to go on the principle of the Irishman who asked, “Who’ll tread on my coat tails?” or of the other, “Did you blow your nose at me, sir?” And again, that which in the captain is no offence is a very serious one on the part of the officer or seaman. He may exhaust the vocabulary of abuse and bad language, but not a retort may be made. In the Royal Navy of to-day, though by no means in the merchant service, this is, however, nearly obsolete. However tyrannically disposed, the language of commanders and officers is nearly sure to be free from disgraceful epithets, blasphemies, and scurrilous abuse, cursing and swearing. Officers should be, and generally are, gentlemen.

A commanding lieutenant of the old school—a type of officer not to be found in the Royal Navy nowadays—is well described by Admiral Cochrane.121 “My kind uncle,” writes he, “the Hon. John Cochrane, accompanied me on board the Iliad for the purpose of introducing me to my future superior officer, Lieutenant Larmour, or, as he was more familiarly known in the service, Jack Larmour—a specimen of the old British seaman, little calculated to inspire exalted ideas of the gentility of the naval profession, though presenting at a glance a personification of its efficiency. Jack was, in fact, one of a not very numerous class, whom, for their superior seamanship, the Admiralty was glad to promote from the forecastle to the quarter-deck, in order that they might mould into ship-shape the questionable materials supplied by parliamentary influence, even then paramount in the navy to a degree which might otherwise have led to disaster. Lucky was the commander who could secure such an officer for his quarter-deck.

“On my introduction, Jack was dressed in the garb of a seaman, with marlinspike slung round his neck, and a lump of grease in his hand, and was busily employed in setting up the rigging. His reception of me was anything but gracious. Indeed, a tall fellow, over six feet high, the nephew of his captain, and a lord to boot, were not very promising recommendations for a midshipman. It is not impossible he might have learned from my uncle something about a military commission of several years’ standing; and this, coupled with my age and stature, might easily have impressed him with the idea that he had caught a scapegrace with whom the family did not know what to do, and that he was hence to be saddled with a ‘hard bargain.’

“After a little constrained civility on the part of the first lieutenant, who was evidently not very well pleased with the interruption to his avocation, he ordered me to ‘get my traps below.’ Scarcely was the order complied with, and myself introduced to the midshipman’s berth, than I overheard Jack grumbling at the magnitude of my equipments. ‘This Lord Cochrane’s chest? Does Lord Cochrane think he is going to bring a cabin aboard? Get it up on the main-deck!’

BETWEEN DECKS OF A MAN-OF-WAR, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

“This order being promptly obeyed, amidst a running fire of similar objurgations, the key of the chest was sent for, and shortly afterwards the sound of sawing became audible. It was now high time to follow my property, which, to my astonishment, had been turned out on the deck—Jack superintending the sawing off one end of the chest just beyond the keyhole, and accompanying the operation by sundry uncomplimentary observations on midshipmen in general, and on myself in particular.

“The metamorphosis being completed to the lieutenant’s satisfaction—though not at all to mine, for my neat chest had become an unshapely piece of lumber—he pointed out the ‘lubberliness of shore-going people in not making keyholes where they could most easily be got at,’ viz., at the end of a chest instead of the middle!” Lord Cochrane took it easily, and acknowledges warmly the service Jack Larmour rendered him in teaching him his profession.

Later, Lord Cochrane, when promoted to a lieutenancy, was dining with Admiral Vandepat, and being seated near him, was asked what dish was before him. “Mentioning its nature,” says he, “I asked whether he would permit me to help him. The uncourteous reply was—that whenever he wished for anything he was in the habit of asking for it. Not knowing what to make of a rebuff of this nature, it was met with an inquiry if he would allow me the honour of taking wine with him. ‘I never take wine with any man, my lord,’ was the unexpected reply, from which it struck me that my lot was cast among Goths, if no worse.” Subsequently he found that this apparently gruff old admiral assumed some of this roughness purposely, and that he was one of the kindest commanders living.

In 1798, when with the Mediterranean fleet, ludicrous examples, both of the not very occasional corruption of the period, and the rigid etiquette required by one’s superior officer, occurred to Lord Cochrane, and got him into trouble. The first officer, Lieutenant Beaver, was one who carried the latter almost to the verge of despotism. He looked after all that was visible to the eye of the admiral, but permitted “an honest penny to be turned elsewhere.” At Tetuan they had purchased and killed bullocks on board the flagship, for the use of the whole squadron. The reason for this was that the hides, being valuable, could be stowed away in her hold or empty beef-casks, as especial perquisites to certain persons on board. The fleshy fragments on the hides soon decomposed, and rendered the hold of the vessel so intolerable that she acquired the name of the “Stinking Scotch ship.” Lord Cochrane, as junior lieutenant, had much to do with these arrangements, and his unfavourable remarks on these raw-hide speculations did not render those interested very friendly towards him. One day, when at Tetuan, he was allowed to go wild-fowl shooting ashore, and became covered with mud. On arriving rather late at the ship, he thought it more respectful to don a clean uniform before reporting himself on the quarter-deck. He had scarcely made the change, when the first lieutenant came into the ward-room, and harshly demanded of Lord Cochrane the reason for not having reported himself. His reply was, that as the lieutenant had seen him come up by the side he must be aware that he was not in a fit condition to appear on the quarter-deck. The lieutenant replied so offensively before the ward-room officers, that he was respectfully reminded by Cochrane of a rule he had himself laid down, that “Matters connected with the service were not there to be spoken of.” Another retort was followed by the sensible enough reply, “Lieutenant Beaver, we will, if you please, talk of this in another place.” Cochrane was immediately reported to the captain by Beaver, as having challenged him: the lieutenant actually demanded a court-martial! And the court-martial was held, the decision being that Cochrane should be admonished to be “more careful in future.”

Lord Cochrane was soon after given a command. The vessel to which he was appointed was, even eighty years ago, a mere burlesque of a ship-of-war. She was about the size of an average coasting brig, her burden being 158 tons. She was crowded rather than manned, with a crew of eighty-four men and six officers. Her armament consisted of fourteen 4-pounders! a species of gun little larger than a blunderbuss, and formerly known in the service as “minion,” an appellation quite appropriate. The cabin had not so much as room for a chair, the floor being entirely occupied by a small table surrounded with lockers, answering the double purpose of store-chests and seats. The difficulty was to get seated, the ceiling being only five feet high, so that the object could only be accomplished by rolling on the lockers: a movement sometimes attended with unpleasant failure. Cochrane’s only practicable way of shaving consisted in removing the skylight, and putting his head through to make a toilet-table of the quarter-deck!

On this little vessel—the Speedy—Cochrane took a number of prizes, and having on one occasion manned a couple of them with half his crew and sent them away, was forced to tackle the Gamo, a Spanish frigate of thirty-two heavy guns and 319 men. The exploit has hardly been excelled in the history of heroic deeds. The commander’s orders were not to fire a single gun till they were close to the frigate, and he ran the Speedy under her lee, so that her yards were locked among the latter’s rigging. The shots from the Spanish guns passed over the little vessel, only injuring the rigging, while the Speedy’s mere pop-guns could be elevated, and helped to blow up the main-deck of the enemy’s ship. The Spaniards speedily found out the disadvantage under which they were fighting, and gave the orders to board the little English vessel; but it was avoided twice by sheering off sufficiently, then giving them a volley of musketry and a broadside before they could recover themselves. After the lapse of an hour, the loss to the Speedy was only four men killed and two wounded, but her rigging was so cut up and the sails so riddled that Cochrane told his men they must either take the frigate or be taken themselves, in which case the Spaniards would give no quarter. The doctor, Mr. Guthrie, bravely volunteered to take the helm, and leaving him for the time both commander and crew of the ship, Cochrane and his men were soon on the enemy’s deck, the Speedy being put close alongside with admirable skill. A portion of the crew had been ordered to blacken their faces and board by the Gamo’s head. The greater portion of the Spanish crew were prepared to repel boarders in that direction, but stood for a few moments as it were transfixed to the deck by the apparition of so many diabolical-looking figures emerging from the white smoke of the bow guns, while the other men rushed on them from behind before they could recover from their surprise at the unexpected phenomenon. Observing the Spanish colours still flying, Lord Cochrane ordered one of his men to haul them down, and the crew, without pausing to consider by whose orders they had been struck, and naturally believing it to be the act of their own officers, gave in. The total English loss was three men killed, and one officer and seventeen men wounded. The Gamo’s loss was the captain, boatswain, and thirteen seamen killed, with forty-one wounded. It became a puzzle what to do with 263 unhurt prisoners, the Speedy having only forty-two sound men left. Promptness was necessary; so, driving the prisoners into the hold, with their own guns pointed down the hatchway, and leaving thirty men on the prize, Cochrane shaped the vessel’s course to Port Mahon, which was reached safely. Some Barcelona gun-boats, spectators of the action, did not venture to rescue the frigate.

The doctor on board a man-of-war has, perhaps, on the whole, better opportunities and, in times of peace, more leisure than the other officers for noting any circumstances of interest that may occur. Dr. Stables, in his interesting little work,122 describes his cabin on board a small gun-boat as a miserable little box, such as at home he would have kept rabbits or guinea-pigs in, but certainly not pigeons. He says that it might do for a commodore—Commodore Nutt. It was ventilated by a small scuttle, seven inches in diameter, which could only be raised in harbour, and beneath which, when he first went to sea, he was obliged to put a leather hat-box to catch the water; unfortunately, the bottom rotted out, and he was at the mercy of the waves. This cabin was alive with scorpions, cockroaches, and other “crawling ferlies,”

“That e’en to name would be unlawfu’.”

His dispensary was off the steerage, and sister-cabin to the pantry. To it he gained access by a species of crab-walking, squeezing himself past a large brass pump, edging in sideways. The sick would come one by one to the dispensary, and there he saw and treated each case as it arrived, dressing wounds, bruises, and putrefying sores. There was no sick berth attendant, but the lieutenant told off “a little cabin-boy” for his use. He was not a model cabin-boy, like the youngster you see in the theatres. He certainly managed at times to wash out the dispensary, in the intervals of catching cockroaches and making poultices, but in doing the first he broke half the bottles, and making the latter either let them burn or put salt into them. Finally, he smashed so much of the doctor’s apparatus that he was kicked out. In both dispensary and what Dr. Stables calls his “burrow,” it was difficult to prevent anything from going to utter destruction. The best portions of his uniform got eaten by cockroaches or moulded by damp, while his instruments required cleaning every morning, and even this did not keep the rust at bay.

And then, those terrible cockroaches! To find, when you awake, a couple, each two inches in length, meandering over your face, or even in bed with you!—to find one in a state of decay in the mustard-pot!—to have to remove their droppings and eggs from the edge of your plate previous to eating your soup! and so on, ad nauseam. But on small vessels stationed in the tropics—as described by the doctor—there were, and doubtless sometimes are now, other unpleasantnesses. For instance, you are looking for a book, and put your hand on a full-grown scaly scorpion. Nice sensation! the animal twining round your finger, or running up your sleeve! Dénoûment: cracking him under foot—joy at escaping a sting!

NAVAL OFFICERS AND SEAMEN, EIGHTEENTH CENTURY.

“You are enjoying your dinner, but have been for some time sensible of a strange, titillating feeling about the region of your ankle; you look down at last, to find a centipede on your sock, with his fifty hind legs—you thank God not his fore-fifty!—abutting on your shin. Tableaux: green-to-red light from the eyes of the many-legged—horror of yourself as you wait till he thinks proper to ‘move on.’

“To awake in the morning, and find a large, healthy-looking tarantula squatting on your pillow, within ten inches of your nose, with his basilisk eyes fixed on yours, and apparently saying: ‘You’re awake, are you? I’ve been sitting here all the morning, watching you.’

“You think, if you move, he’ll bite you somewhere—and if he does bite you, you’ll go mad, and dance ad libitum—so you twist your mouth in the opposite direction, and ejaculate—‘Steward!’ But the steward does not come; in fact, he is forward, seeing after breakfast. Meanwhile, the gentleman on the pillow is moving his horizontal mandibles in a most threatening manner; and just as he moves for your nose, you tumble out of your bed with a shriek, and, if a very nervous person, probably run on deck in your shirt!”

The doctor’s last description of an accumulation of these horrors is fearful to even think about. The bulkheads all around your berth are black with cock and hen-roaches, a few of which are nipping your toe, and running off with little bits of the skin of your leg; while a troop of ants are carrying a dead one over your pillow; musquitoes and flies attacking you everywhere; rats running in and rats running out; your lamp just flickering and dying away into darkness, with the delicious certainty that an indefinite number of earwigs and scorpions, besides two centipedes and a tarantula, are hiding themselves somewhere in your cabin! All this is possible; still Dr. Stables describes life on other vessels under more favourable auspices.

The important addition of a chaplain to the establishment on board our ships of war seems, from the following letter of George, Duke of Buckingham, to have been first adopted in the year 1626:—

“The Duke of Buckingham to the University of Cambridge.

“After my hearty commendations. His Majesty having given order for preachers to goe in every of his ships to sea, choyce hath been made of one Mr. Daniel Ambrose, Master of Arts and Fellow of your College, to be one. Accordingly, upon signification to me to come hither, I thought good to intimate unto you, that His Majesty is so careful of such scholars as are willing to put themselves forward in so good actions, as that he will expect—and I doubt not but that you will accordingly take order—that the said Mr. Ambrose shall suffer noe detriment in his place with you, by this his employment; but that you will rather take care that he shall have all immunities and emoluments with advantage, which have been formerly, or may be, granted to any upon the like service. Wherein, not doubting of your affectionate care, I rest,

“Your very loving friend,

“G. Buckingham.

“York House, July 29th, 1626.”

Sailors, in spite of their outbursts of recklessness, have frequently, from the very nature of their perilous calling, an amount of seriousness underlying their character, which makes them particularly amenable to religious influences. The chaplain on a large modern ironclad or frigate has as many men in his charge, as regards spiritual matters, as the vicar of a country town or large village, whilst he has many more opportunities of reaching them directly. Many of our naval chaplains are noble fellows; and to them come the sailors in any distress of mind, for the soothing advice so readily given. He may not dare to interfere with the powers that be when they are in danger of punishment, except in very rare cases; but he can point them out their path of duty, and how to walk in it, making them better sailors and happier men. He can lend them an occasional book, or write for them an occasional letter home; induce them to refrain from dissipation when on liberty; cheer them in the hour of greatest peril, while on the watery deep, and give them an occasional reproof, but in kindness, not in anger. To his brother officers he has even better opportunities of doing good than to the men. On the smaller classes of vessels—gun-boats and the like—the captain has to perform chaplain’s duties, by reading prayers on the Sabbath. This is the case also on well-regulated steamships or passenger sailing-vessels of the merchant service. The fine steamers of such lines as the Cunard, or White Star, of the Royal Mail Company, or of the P. and O., have, of course, frequently, some clergyman, minister, or missionary on board, who is willing to celebrate divine service.

A Committee of the Lower House of Convocation has recently collected an immense amount of statistics regarding the provision made by private ship-owners for the spiritual welfare of their men, and the result as regards England is not at all satisfactory. In point of fact, it is rarely made at all. The committee seeks to encourage the growth of religion among sailors by providing suitable and comfortable church accommodation at all ports, and urges owners to instruct their captains as to conducting divine service on Sundays, and to furnish Bibles, prayer-books, and instructive works of secular literature. Too much must not, however, be expected from Jack. The hardships and perils through which he passes excuse much of his exuberance ashore. It is his holiday-time; and, so long as he is only gay, and not abandoned, the most rigid must admit that he has earned the right to recreation. A distinguished French naval officer used to say that the sailor fortunately had no memory. “Happy for him,” said he, “that he is thus oblivious. Did he remember all the gales and tempests, the cold, the drenching rain, the misery, the privations, the peril to life and limb which he has endured, he would never, when he sets foot on shore, go to sea again. But he has no memory. The clouds roll away, the sea is calm, the sun shines, the boat bears him to land; the wine flows; the music strikes up; pretty girls smile: he forgets all the past, and lives only in the present.”

While the chaplain may, and no doubt generally does, earn the respect and esteem of the men, woe to any example of the “Chadband” order who shall be found on board. This is, in the Royal Navy, almost impossible; but it sometimes happens that, on passenger ships, some sanctimonious and fanatical individual or other has had a very rough time of it. He is regarded as a kind of Jonah. In a recent number of that best of American magazines, the Atlantic Monthly, the woes and trials of one poor Joseph Primrose, a well-meaning minister who went out to America in 1742, are amusingly recounted. There were, aboard the Polly, the vessel in which he took passage, several of the crew who viewed their religious exercises askance. “These men,” says he, “had been foremost in a general indignation uprising that had ensued upon the stoppage of their daily allowance of rum; which step had been taken on my earnest recommendation. For this injurious drink we had substituted a harmless and refreshing beverage concocted of molasses, vinegar, and water, from a choice receipt I had come upon in a medical book aboard the vessel. The sailors, to a man, refused to touch it, egged on by these contumacious fellows, and more especially by one Springer, a daring villain, who reviled me with bitter execrations. In fine, the captain was obliged, for our own safety, to restore the cherished dram; and I had the mortification to find myself, from that time forth, an object of dislike and suspicion to these men, who were kept within decent bounds only by respect for their master. I became convinced, on reflection, that I had gone the wrong way about this unfortunate piece of business; having, in fact, made a very serious error in the beginning, gentle argument and good example being more apt to bring about the desired end than compulsory measures, these dulling the understanding by rousing the temper, especially among persons of the meaner sort. All my efforts—and they were not few—to place myself on a friendly footing with these men were of no avail: they had conceived the notion that I was their enemy, and met all my advances with obstinate coldness. As Captain Hewlett exacted the daily attendance at prayers of every soul on board, these knaves were compelled to be on hand with their fellows; but they rarely failed to conduct themselves with such indecent levity as made me rue their presence, playing covertly at cat’s-cradle, jack-straws, and what not; besides grinning familiarly in my face, whenever they could contrive to catch my eye.” This unseemly behaviour was as nothing to what followed ashore. While addressing a large assemblage, he noted the advent of a number of unmannerly fellows, who, with a great deal of clatter, elbowed their way to the front. “The moment I clapped eyes upon them,” says poor Primrose, “I knew them for the sailors who had so persecuted me aboard the Polly, and my heart sank at the bare sight of them.” They sung, or rather bawled, ribald words to the music of the hymns; and one of them, when rebuked by some gentleman present, whipped out his cutlass, and a general row ensued, which broke up the assembly. A little later, Primrose induced a tavern-keeper to allow him to preach on his premises. “A West Indian vessel coming into port about the middle of April, and a horde of roystering sailors gathering in the common room of the ‘Sailor’s Rest’ to drink, I announced a discourse on the subject of ‘gin-guzzling,’ choosing one that I had delivered aboard the Polly, and which seemed to fit the occasion to a nicety. No sooner had the landlord seen the notice to this effect that I had attached to his door-cheek, than he sends for me to repair to the tavern without loss of time; and on my appearance, in great haste, comes blustering up to me in a most offensive manner, demanding whether I purposed the ruin of his trade, by putting forth of such a mischievous paper; adding, with astounding audacity, that he should certainly lose all the custom I had been the means of fetching to his house, did I persist in my intent. Mark the cunning of the knave! He had encouraged my labours for none other purpose than the bringing of fresh grist to his mill; and here was I, blindly leading precious souls to destruction, the poor dupe of a specious villain—a wretch without bowels! My agony of mind on being thus suddenly enlightened was of such a desperate sort, that, gnashing my teeth, I leapt upon the miscreant, and, bearing him to the ground with an awful crash, beat him about the head and shoulders with the stout cane I carried; and with such good will, that I presently found myself lying in the town gaol, covered with the blood of my enemy, and every bone in my body aching from the unaccustomed exercise. … Truly was I as forlorn and friendless a creature as the world ever saw. My clothing had been rent beyond repair in the shameful struggle, and, yet worse, one of my shoes was gone—how and where I knew not; and although I promised the gaoler’s little lad a penny in the event of his finding it, nothing was ever heard of it from that day to this. One thought alone cheered me in the dark abyss into which I was fallen. I had administered wholesome and righteous correction in proper season: hip and thigh had I hewed my enemy; and, to reflect upon that, was as a healing balm to my sore bones.” Mr. Primrose was at length released, and returned to England.

Another officer of the Royal Navy—the engineer—deserves particular notice, for his position is becoming daily of more and more importance. It is not merely the care and working of the engines which propel the vessel in which he is concerned; the chief and his subordinates have charge of various hydraulic arrangements often used now-a-days on large vessels, in connection with the steering apparatus; of electrical and gas-producing apparatus; the mechanical arrangements of turrets and gun-carriages; pumping machinery; the management of steam-launches and torpedoes. Take the great ironclad Thunderer (that on which the terrible boiler explosion occurred) as an example: she has twenty-six engines for various purposes, apart from the engines used to propel the vessel, which have an actual power of 6,000 horses. The Téméraire has thirty-four engines distinct from those required for propulsion. A competent authority says that, “with the exception of the paymaster’s and surgeon’s stores, he is responsible for everything in and outside the ship (meaning the hull, apart from the navigator’s duties), to say nothing of his duties while under weigh.” And yet engineers of the navy do not yet either derive the status or emoluments fairly due to them, considering the great and increasing responsibilities thrown upon them of late years. Sir Walter Scott makes Rob Roy express “his contempt of weavers and spinners, and sic-like mechanical persons, and their pursuits;” and in the naval service some such feeling still lingers.

ENGINE-ROOM OF H.M.S. “WARRIOR.”

The first serious introduction of steam-vessels into the Royal Navy occurred about the year 1829, the Navy List of that year showing seven, of which three only were commissioned, and these for home ports. No mention is made of engineers; they were simply taken over from the contractor with the vessel, and held no rank whatever. In 1837 an Admiralty Circular conferred warrants on engineers, who were to rank immediately below carpenters; they were to be assisted by boys, trained by themselves. Three years later, the standard was raised, and they were divided into three classes; in 1842 a slight increase of pay was given, and they were advanced to the magnificent rank of “after captains’ clerks,” and were given a uniform, with buttons having a steam-engine embossed upon them. In 1847 the Government found that the increasing demands of the merchant and passenger service took all the best men (the engineers’ pay, to-day, is better on first-class steamship lines than in the Navy), and they were forced to do something. The higher grades were formed into chief engineers, and they were raised to the rank of commissioned officers, taking their place after masters. The first great revolution in regard to the use of steam in the Royal Navy took place in 1849, by means of the screw-propeller. In that year Dupuy Delorme constructed the Napoleon, a screw-vessel carrying 100 guns, and with engines of 600 horse-power, and England had to follow. Then came the Russian War, the construction of ironclad batteries, and finally, the ironclad movement, which commenced in England in 1858, by the construction of the Warrior and similar vessels.

It becomes a particularly serious question, at the present time, whether the system, as regards the rank and pay of engineers, does not deter the most competent men from entering the Royal Navy. Many very serious explosions and accidents have occurred on board ironclads, which would seem to indicate that our great commercial steamship lines are far better engineered. The Admiralty has organised a system for training students at the dockyard factories, followed up by a course of study at the Naval College, Greenwich; and it is to be hoped that these efforts will lead to greater efficiency in the service. A naval engineer of the present day needs to be a man of liberal education, and of considerable scientific knowledge, both theoretical and practical, and he should then receive on board that recognition which his talents would command ashore. At present, a chief engineer, R.N., ranks with a commander, and other engineers with lieutenants. It is probable that, at some date in the not very distant future, higher ranks will be thrown open to the engineer, as his importance on board is steadily increasing.

The seamen of all nations, it has, in effect, been said, resemble each the other more than do the nations to which they belong. “As,” says a well-known writer, “the sea receives and amalgamates the waters of all the rivers which pour into it, so it tends to amalgamate the men who make its waves their home. … The seaman from the United States is said to carry to the forecastle a large stock of ‘equality and the rights of man,’ and to be unpleasantly distinguished by the inbred disrespect for authority which cleaves, perhaps inseparably, to a democrat who believes that he has whipped mankind, and that it is his mission, at due intervals, to whip them again. But, on board, he, too, tones down to the colour of blue water, and is more a seaman than anything else.” The French sailor is painted, by Landelle, as the embodiment of the same frolicsome lightheartedness, carelessness of the future, abandonment to impulse, and devotion to his captain, comrades, and ship, with which we are familiar in the English sailor, on the stage. But although depicted as much more polished than, it is to be feared, the average sailor could be in truth, he finishes by saying: “Il est toujours prêt à céder le haut du pavé à tout autre qu’à un soldat.” It would seem, then, that the French sailor revenges the treatment of society on the soldiers of his country. Is there not a similar feeling existing, perhaps to a more limited extent, between the sailors and soldiers of our own country? It hardly, however, extends to the officers of the “United Service.”

Another trait of the British sailor’s character: Jack will forgive much to the officer who is ever ready, brave, and daring, who is a true seaman in times of peace, and a sailor militant in times of war. Lord Nelson, the most heroic seaman the world ever saw, it is pleasant to remember, was equally the idol of his colleagues, of his subordinate officers, and of his men for these very reasons. After he had explained to his captains his proposed plan of attack, just prior to the commencement of the battle of Trafalgar, he took the men of the Victory into his confidence. He walked over all the decks, speaking kindly to the different classes of seamen, and encouraging them, with his usual affability, praising the manner in which they had barricaded certain parts of the ship. “All was perfect, death-like silence, till just before the action began. Three cheers were given his lordship as he ascended the quarter-deck ladder. He had been particular in recommending cool, steady firing, in preference to a hurrying fire, without aim or precision; and the event justified his lordship’s advice, as the masts of his opponents came tumbling down on their decks and over their sides.”123 After the fatal bullet had done its work, and Nelson was conveyed below, the surgeon came and probed the wound. The ball was extracted; but the dying hero told the medical man how sure he was that his wound was fatal, and begged, when he had dressed it, that he would attend to the other poor fellows, equal sufferers with himself. A boatswain’s mate on board the Brilliant frigate, shortly afterwards, when first acquainted of the death of Nelson, paid a tribute of affection and honest feeling, which shows how clearly he had gained the hearts of all. The boatswain’s mate, then doing duty as boatswain, was ordered to pipe all hands to quarters; he did not respond, and the lieutenant on duty went to inquire the cause. The man had been celebrated for his promptness, as well as bravery, but he was found utterly unnerved, and sobbing like a child. “I can’t do it,” said he—“poor dear fellow, that I have been in many a hard day with!—and to lose him now! I wouldn’t have cared so much for my old father, mother, brothers, or sisters; but to think of parting with poor Nelson!” and he broke down utterly. The officer, honouring his feelings, let him go below. Who does not remember how, when the body of Nelson lay in state at Greenwich, a deputation of the Victory’s crew paid their last loving respects, tearful and silent, and could scarcely be removed from the scene? or how, when the two Union-Jacks and St. George’s ensign were being lowered into the grave at St. Paul’s—the colours shattered as was the body of the dead hero—the brave fellows who had borne them each tore off a part of the largest flag, to remind them ever after of England’s greatest victory and England’s greatest loss? Many an otherwise noble and brave officer has utterly failed in endearing himself to his men; and there can be no doubt of the value of being thoroughly en rapport with them—the more as it in no way need relax discipline. It is an implied compliment to a crew from their commander, to be taken, at the proper time, into his confidence. The following anecdote will show how much an action was decided by this, and with how little loss of life.

The Bellona, of 74 guns and 558 men, with a most valuable freight on merchants’ account, and commanded by the celebrated Captain R. Faulkner, and the Brilliant, a 36-gun frigate, Captain Loggie, sailed from the Tagus in August, 1761. When off Vigo, three sail were discovered approaching the land, and the strangers continued their approach, till they found out the character of the English vessels, and then crowded on all sail, in flight. Upon this, the Bellona and Brilliant pursued, coming up with them next morning, to find that they would have to engage one ship of 74 guns, the Courageux, with 700 men, and two frigates of 36 guns each, the Malicieuse and Ermine. After exchanging a few broadsides, the French vessels shot ahead; when Captain Loggie, seeing that he could not expect to take either of the smaller vessels, determined to manœuvre, and lead them such a wild-goose chase, that the Bellona should have to engage the Courageux alone. During the whole engagement, he withstood the united attacks of both the frigates, each of them with equal force to his own, and at last obliged them to sheer off, greatly damaged. Meanwhile, the Courageux and Bellona had approached each other very fast. The Courageux, when within musket-shot, fired her first broadside, and there was much impatience on the Bellona to return it; but they were restrained by Faulkner, who called out to them to hold hard, and not to fire till they saw the whites of the Frenchmen’s eyes, adding, “Take my word for it, they will never stand the singeing of their whiskers!” His speech to the sailors just before the action is a model of sailor-like advice. “Gentlemen, I have been bred a seaman from my youth, and, consequently, am no orator; but I promise to carry you all near enough, and then you may speak for yourselves. Nevertheless, I think it necessary to acquaint you with the plan I propose to pursue, in taking this ship, that you may be the better prepared. … I propose to lead you close on the enemy’s larboard quarter, when we will discharge two broadsides, and then back astern, and range upon the other quarter, and so tell your guns as you pass. I recommend you at all times to point chiefly at the quarters, with your guns slanting fore and aft; this is the principal part of a ship. If you kill the officers, break the rudder, and snap the braces, she is yours, of course; but, for this reason, I desire you may only fire one round of shot and grape above, and two rounds, shot only, below. Take care and send them home with exactness. This is a rich ship; they will render you, in return, their weight in gold.” This programme was very nearly carried out; almost every shot took effect. The French still kept up a very brisk fire, and in a moment the Bellona’s shrouds and rigging were almost all cut to pieces, and in nine minutes her mizen-mast fell over the stern. Undaunted, Faulkner managed to wear his ship round; the officers and men flew to their respective opposite guns, and carried on, from the larboard side, a fire even more terrible than they had hitherto kept up from the starboard guns. “It was impossible for mortal beings to withstand a battery so incessantly repeated, and so fatally directed, and, in about twenty minutes from the first shot, the French colours were hauled down, and orders were immediately given in the Bellona to cease firing, the enemy having struck. The men had left their quarters, and all the officers were on the quarter-deck, congratulating one another on their victory, when, unexpectedly, a round of shot came from the lower tier of the Courageux. It is impossible to describe the rage that animated the Bellona’s crew on this occasion. Without waiting for orders, they flew again to their guns, and in a moment poured in what they familiarly termed two ‘comfortable broadsides’ upon the enemy, who now called out loudly for quarter, and firing at length ceased on both sides.” The Courageux was a mere wreck, having nothing but her foremast and bowsprit standing, several of her ports knocked into one, and her deck rent in a hundred places. She lost 240 killed, and 110 wounded men were put ashore at Lisbon. On board the Bellona only six men were killed outright, and about twenty-eight wounded; the loss of her mizen was her only serious disaster.

FIGHT BETWEEN THE “COURAGEUX” AND THE “BELLONA.”

One more possibility in the officer’s existence, although now nearly obsolete. The ceremonies formerly attendant on “crossing the line”—i.e., passing over the equator—so often described, have, of late years, been more honoured in the breach than in the observance. On merchant vessels they had become a nuisance, as the sailors often made them an opportunity for levying black mail on timid and nervous passengers. In the Royal Navy, they afforded the one chance for “getting even” with unpopular officers; and very roughly was it sometimes accomplished. They are for this reason introduced in this chapter, as the officers had a direct interest in them. With trifling exceptions, the programme was as follows. The men stripped to the waist, wearing only “duck” unmentionables, prepared, immediately after breakfast, for the saturnalia of the day—a day when the ship was en carnival, and discipline relaxed. Early in the day, a man at the masthead, peering through a telescope, would announce a boat on the weather-bow, and soon after, a voice from the jibboom was heard hailing the ship, announcing that Neptune wished to come on board. The ship was accordingly hove-to, when a sailor, in fashionable coat, knee-breeches, and powdered hair, came aft, and announced to the commander that he was gentleman’s gentleman to the god of the sea, who desired an interview. This accorded, the procession of Neptune from the forecastle at once commenced. The triumphal car was a gun-carriage, drawn by half-a-dozen half-naked and grotesquely-painted sailors, their heads covered by wigs of sea-weed. Neptune was always masked, as were many of his satellites, in order that the officers should not know who enacted the leading rôles. The god wore a crown, and held out a trident, on which a dolphin, supposed to have been impaled that morning, was stuck. He had a flowing wig and beard of oakum, and was, in all points, “made-up” for Neptune himself. His suite included a secretary of state, his head stuck all over with long quills; a surgeon, with lancet, pill-box, and medicines; his barber, with a razor cut from an iron hoop, and with an assistant, who carried a tub for a shaving-box. Mrs. Neptune was represented by the ugliest man on board, who, with sea-weed hair and a huge night-cap, carried a baby—one of the boys of the ship—in long clothes; the latter played with a marline-spike, given it to assist in cutting its teeth. The nurse followed, with a bucketful of burgoo (thick oatmeal porridge or pudding), and fed the baby incessantly with the cook’s iron ladle. Sea-nymphs, selected from the clumsiest and fattest of the crew, helped to swell the retinue. As soon as the procession halted before the captain, behind whom the steward waited, carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and glasses, Neptune and Amphitrite paid submission to the former, as representative of Great Britain, and the god presented him the dolphin. After the interview, in which Neptune not unfrequently poked fun and thrust home-truths at the officers, the captain offered the god and goddess a bumper of wine, and then the rougher part of the ceremony commenced. Neptune would address his court somewhat as follows: “Hark ye, my Tritons, you’re here to shave and duck and bleed all as needs it; but you’ve got to be gentle, or we’ll get no more fees. The first of ye as disobeys me, I’ll tie to a ten-ton gun, and sink him ten thousand fathoms below, where he shall drink nothing but salt-water and feed on seaweed for the next hundred years.” The cow-pen was usually employed for the ducking-bath; it was lined with double canvas, and boarded up, so as to hold several butts of water. Marryat, in the first naval novel he wrote, says: “Many of the officers purchased exemption from shaving and physic by a bottle of rum; but none could escape the sprinkling of salt water, which fell about in great profusion; even the captain received his share. … It was easy to perceive, on this occasion, who were favourites with the ship’s company, by the degree of severity with which they were treated. The tyro was seated on the side of the cow-pen: he was asked the place of his nativity, and the moment he opened his mouth the shaving-brush of the barber—which was a very large paint-brush—was crammed in, with all the filthy lather, with which they covered his face and chin; this was roughly scraped off with the great razor. The doctor felt his pulse, and prescribed a pill, which was forced into his cheek; and the smelling-bottle, the cork of which was armed with sharp points of pins, was so forcibly applied to his nose as to bring blood. After this, he was thrown backward into the bath, and allowed to scramble out the best way he could.” The first-lieutenant, the reader may remember, dodged out of the way for some time, but at last was surrounded, and plied so effectually with buckets of salt water, that he fled down a hatchway. The buckets were pitched after him, “and he fell, like the Roman virgin, covered with the shields of the soldiers.” Very unpopular men or officers were made to swallow half a pint of salt water. Those good old times!

Pleasant is it to read of life on board a modern first-class man-of-war. Where there are, perhaps, thirty officers in the ward-room, it would be hard indeed if one cannot find a kindred spirit, while on such a vessel the band will discourse sweet music while you dine, and soothe you over the walnuts and wine, after the toils of the day, with selections from the best operas, waltzes, and quadrilles. Then comes the coffee, and the post-prandial cigar in the smoking-room. At sea, luncheon is dispensed with, and the regular hour is half-past two; but in port both lunch and dinner are provided, and the officers on leave ashore can return to either. Say that you have extended your ramble in the country, you will have established an appetite by half-past five, the hour when the officers’ boat puts off from shore, wharf, or pier. Perhaps the most pleasant evening is the guests’ night, one of which is arranged for every week, when the officer can, by notifying the mess caterer, invite a friend or two. The mess caterer is the officer selected to superintend the victualling department, as the wine caterer does the liquid refreshments. It is by no means an enviable position, for it is the Englishman’s conceded right to growl, and sailors are equal to the occasion. Dr. Stables remarks on the unfairness of this under-the-table stabbing, when most probably the caterer is doing his best to please. But on a well-regulated ship, where the officers are harmonious, and either not extravagant or with private means, the dinner-hour is the most agreeable time in the day. After the cloth has been removed, and the president, with a due preliminary tap on the table to attract attention, has given the only toast of the evening—“The Queen”—the bandmaster, who has been peering in at the door for some minutes, starts the National Anthem at the right time, and the rest of the evening is devoted to pleasant intercourse, or visits ashore to the places of amusement or houses of hospitable residents.

Before leaving, for the nonce, the Royal Navy, its officers and men, a few facts may be permitted, particularly interesting at the present time. The navy, as now constituted, has for its main backbone fifty-four ironclads. There are of all classes of vessels no less than 462, but more than a fourth of these are merely hulks, doing harbour service, &c., while quite a proportion of the remainder—varying according to the exigencies of the times—are out of commission. There are seventy-eight steam gun-boats and five fine Indian troop-ships. These numbers are drawn from the official Navy List of latest date.

It is said that since the ironclad movement commenced, not less than £300,000,000 has been disbursed (in about twenty years) by the different countries of the world. Even Japan, Peru, Venezuela, Chili, the Argentine Confederation, possess many of this class of vessel, of more or less power. The British fleet, under the command of Vice-Admiral Hornby, in the Mediterranean, &c., though numerically not counting twenty per cent. of the fleets in the days of Nelson and Collingwood, when “a hundred sail of the line” frequently assembled, has cost infinitely more. A cool half million is not an exceptional cost for an ironclad, while one of the latest of our turret-ships, the Inflexible, has cost the nation three-quarters of a million sterling at the least. She is to carry four eighty-ton guns. A recent correspondent of a daily journal states that next to Great Britain, “the ironclad fleet of the Sultan ranks foremost among the navies of the world.” Be that as it may, there can be little doubt that if Russia had succeeded in acquiring it, it would, with her own fleet, have constituted a very powerful rival.

The progressive augmentation in the size of naval vessels has been rapid in Great Britain. When Henry VIII. constructed his Henry Grace de Dieu, of 1,000 tons,124 it was, indeed, a great giant among pigmies, for a vessel of two or three hundred tons was then considered large. At the death of Elizabeth she left forty-two ships, of 17,000 tons in all, and 8,346 men; fifteen of her vessels being 600 tons and upwards. From this period the tonnages of the navy steadily increased. The first really scientific architect, Mr. Phineas Pett, remodelled the navy to good purpose in the reigns of James I. and Charles I. Previous to this time the vessels with their lofty poops and forecastles had greatly resembled Chinese junks. He launched the Sovereign of the Seas, a vessel 232 feet in length, and of a number of tons exactly corresponding to the date, 1637, when she left the slips. Cromwell found a navy of fourteen two-deckers, and left one of 150 vessels, of which one-third were line-of-battle ships. He was the first to lay naval estimates before Parliament, and obtained £400,000 per annum for the service. James II. left 108 ships of the line, and sixty-five other vessels of 102,000 tons, with 42,000 men. William III. brought it to 272 ships, of 159,020 tons. George II. left, in 1760, 412 ships, of 321,104 tons. Twenty-two years later the navy had reached 617 vessels, and in 1813 we had the enormous number of 1,000 vessels, of which 256 were of the line, measuring 900,000 tons, carrying 146,000 seamen and marines, and costing £18,000,000 per annum to maintain. But since the peace of 1815, the number of vessels has greatly diminished, while an entirely new era of naval construction has been inaugurated. In the seventeenth century a vessel of 1,500 tons was considered of enormous size. At the end of the eighteenth, 2,500 was the outside limit, whilst there are now many vessels of 4,000 tons, and the navy possesses frigates of 6,000 and upwards. Several of our enormous ironclads have a tonnage of over 11,000 tons, while the Great Eastern—of course a very exceptional case—has a tonnage of 22,500.

THE “GREAT HARRY” AND “GREAT EASTERN” IN CONTRAST.

Whilst we have efficient military volunteers enough to form a grand army, our naval volunteers do not number more than the contingents for a couple of large vessels. There are scarcely more than a thousand of the latter, and only three stations. London, Liverpool, and Brighton divide the honour between them of possessing corps. The writer believes that he will be doing a service to many young men—who in their turn may do good service for their country—in briefly detailing the conditions and expenses of joining. In a very short period of time the members have become wonderfully efficient, and the sailor-like appearance of the men is well illustrated by the fact, that at a recent reception at the Mansion House a number of them were taken for men-of-war’s men, and so described in several daily journals. Their prowess is illustrated by the prizes distributed by Lady Ashley, at the inspection of the 1st London Corps, in the West India Docks, on February 9th last. Badges were won by the gunner making the best practice with the heavy gun at sea, and by the marksman making the greatest number of points with the rifle. The “Lord Ashley challenge prize,” for the best gun’s crew at sea, was won by fourteen men of No. 2 battery, who fired forty-two rounds at 1,300 yards in thirty-seven minutes, scoring 411 points out of a possible 504 points. The official report says:—“that further comment on the men or their instructor is superfluous.” The list included rifle, battery, and boating prizes.

The Royal Navy Artillery Volunteers are raised under an Act passed in 1873, and are directly subject to the authority of the Admiralty. They may be assembled for actual employment, their duties then consisting of coast or harbour service. They are not required to go aloft, or to attend to the engine fires, but in regard to berthing and messing must conform to the arrangements usual with seamen. The force is formed into brigades, each brigade consisting of four or more batteries, of from sixty to eighty men. Each brigade has a lieutenant-commander, and each battery a sub-lieutenant, chief petty officer, first and second-class petty officers, buglers, &c., while the staff includes a lieutenant-instructor, first-class petty officer instructor, surgeon, bugle-major, and armourer. Those desiring to join a corps should communicate with the Secretary of the Admiralty. The annual subscription to the 1st London Corps is one guinea, while each member has to provide himself with two white frocks, one blue serge frock, one pair of blue trousers, one blue cloth cap, &c., black handkerchief, flannel, knife, lanyard, and monkey-jacket, costing in the neighbourhood of six pounds. When on a cruise, in gunboat, the volunteer requires in addition serge trousers and jumpers, flannel shirt, towels, and brush and comb, canvas bags, &c. The officers’ uniforms are the same as those of the Royal Navy, with the exception of silver, for the most part, taking the place of gold. It is more expensive to join the naval than the military volunteers, and the class composing the corps are generally well-to-do young men, a large number of them employed in shipping offices, and mercantile pursuits connected with the sea.

The drills consist of practice with great guns, rifle, pistol, and cutlass exercises. “Efficient” volunteers are entitled to a badge, while men returned five times as efficient may wear one star, and those returned ten times two stars, above said badge. Every volunteer must attend at least two drills a month, until he has obtained the standard of an “efficient.” When on actual service, the Royal Naval Artillery Volunteers will receive the same pay, allowances, and victuals as those of relative rank in the navy, and when embarked on any of Her Majesty’s ships for more than forty-eight hours, in practice, will either be victualled or receive a money compensation. The cruises in gun-boats, &c., usually last ten days, and the vessel visits many of the Channel ports, &c., more especially off points where gun practice is practicable. A volunteer wounded, either on drill or in actual service, is entitled to the same compensation as any seaman in the navy would be under similar circumstances, and if killed his widow (if any) to the same gratuities out of the Greenwich Hospital Funds as would a Royal Navy seaman’s widow. Members who are able to take advantage of the cruise in gun-boats must have attended drill regularly for three months previously. It must be remembered that each man costs the Government from £8 to £10 for the first year, in the expenses incurred in great gun and other practice; and it is therefore made a point of honour to those joining that they will devote sufficient time to their drills to make themselves thoroughly efficient.

The London Naval Artillery Volunteers have a fine vessel, the President, now in the West India Docks, on which to exercise, while to accustom them to living on board ship, the old Rainbow, off Temple Pier, is open to them, under certain conditions, as a place of residence. A number avail themselves of this: sleep on board in hammocks, and contribute their quota of the mess expenses. The writer is the last to decry other manly exercises, such as cricket, foot-ball, racing, or pedestrianism, but naval volunteering has the advantage of not merely comprising a series of manly exercises, but in being directly practical and specially health-giving.

And to prevent the need of impressment, the Government did well in establishing the Royal Naval Reserve. The latest estimates provided £140,000 for the year; the number, which at present is about 20,000 men, is not to exceed 30,000. The service is divided into two classes: the first class consisting of seamen of the merchant service, and the second, fishermen on the coasts of Great Britain and Ireland. Both divisions are practical sailors, and the value of their services in a time of war would be inestimable. They are required to drill twenty-eight days in each year, for which they receive about £6 per annum, and sundry allowances for travelling, &c. The former class can be drilled at our stations abroad, so that a merchant seaman is not necessarily tied to England, or to mere coasting trade.