understand the difficulty I encountered in that matter.
Whether the maritime authorities who inspected
my ship's "papers" had an especial relish for
the name of Barberina, or whether they anticipated
some serious danger to the customs
department in the proposed alteration, at all events
the trouble it cost me to transform Barberina
into—well, into Eveleen Brown—is almost
inconceivable.

I confided my vessel to the care of a gentleman
whose name, if the pronunciation of his
beach-faring brethren could be trusted, was
Jarsper. The boatmen of Brighton are a
remarkable and distinctive race of men. A
generation having passed away since the period of
which I write, I trust I shall not be wounding
any individual susceptibilities, if I dwell for a
moment on their singular characteristics.

The Brighton boatman whose type I would
present, has generally served seventeen months,
neither more nor less, in the royal navy. How
and why he entered, under what circumstances
quitted, and what exploits he performed in that
service, are, together with the precise name of
his ship, points enveloped in mystery. He has
a wife and nine small children, who never grow
any bigger, possibly because of the insufficient
nutriment obtained from skate, winkles, and
starfish, on which, if the family father is to be
believed, they principally subsist. He has neither
baptismal nor family name, in proof of which
rather startling fact, I may mention that my
five most intimate friends were known respectively
as "Tim," "Jarsper," "The Shepherd,"
"Streaky," and " Bubs," all titles conferred on
them by their fraternity. I had entertained
some doubts on the subject of Bubs, till reassured
by that gentleman's emphatic declaration
that it " warn't his name, leastways, not as he
know'd on," though he never answered to any
other.

I took some pains to discover the secret
principle which governed beach-nomenclature.
All, however, that I could ascertain was, that
Tim was so called because he had espoused a
Mrs. Juniper; the Shepherd, for so much as,
many years ago, a gentleman had presented him
with an aged vest of the plaid bearing that
pastoral name; and Streaky, seeing that he
had beguiled a part of his seventeen months'
naval service, by tattooing himself, like a
savage, from head to foot. "Jarsper" and
"Bubs," being pure fancy names, defied
investigation.

The Brighton boatman has two especial forms
of invitation.

The fair weather:

"Take a retch (reach) off, sir? Fine breeze."
An unconscious warning, which must have
recurred with painful distinctness to many a pallid
citizen, receding from the steadfast shore.

The foul weather:

"Seen that 'ere curious fish what our boats
brought in o' Toosday, sir? Tuppence."

Boats—in the plural—to suggest the idea of
one having proved inadequate to the towage of
the struggling monster ashore. The animal—
need I add?—turns out to be a dogfish, some
twenty-four inches in length, and about as
interesting to coast-frequenters as a whiting.

The Brighton boatman is never known to beg;
for, although mendicancy is with him a confirmed
habit, it is simply argumentative, based, as it
were, completely on hypothesis.

"Sposen any gel'man would give me two
shillen towards a new mainsle, I'd do a good job
among they mackarel-boats next year, sir."

"Happen some gel'man 'ood rise 'alf-a-crown,
I'd—" &c. &c.

It is difficult to resist a perpetual suggestion.
Hence, it was only when I discovered that
"rising" half-a-crown meant, in reality, sinking
that amount in the hopeless slough of Mr.
Bubs's pocket, that I finally hardened into
stone.

Perhaps, however, the most extraordinary
feature in the history of this singular tribe, is
the existence among them of a—of an—I am at
a loss what to call it—a mysterious impersonality,
a shadowy power, an influence felt—and
felt severely—yet never seen, and distinguished
by the familiar title of " My Pardner." The
professional interests of Brighton boatmen, like
those of all rivals in trade, are, primâ facie,
opposed to each other. The office of My
Pardner seems to be to reconcile these, so far at
least as is requisite to form a powerful league
and combination against the general public.

By way of illustration, let us imagine Streaky,
while touting on the promenade, having
beguiled a couple of City gentlemen into undertaking
a voyage to the remote haven of Shoreham,
and back to that of Bedford-square. These
unfortunate persons are forthwith conveyed on
board a vessel with a bottom as flat as a card-
table—displaying, though still upon the strand,
a perfect cloud of canvas, likewise a board,
intimating that the " Swallow" sails every day,
not absolutely tempestuous, at " half-past eleven
o'clock in the forenoon," as though it were
necessary to guard against the probability of
some holiday-lounger applying for a cruise about
midnight.

There must surely be some neglect in striking
this vessel's bell, for it is now past one o'clock,
she is still in full sail on the beach, and our two
enterprising navigators, her sole tenants, are
beginning to evince signs of dissatisfaction.
Streaky, touting off and on in short tacks, has
his eye upon them, however, and having, by a
sudden stroke of fortune, captured three more
prisoners all in a lump, conducts them on board;
but, to the astonishment of the whole party,
himself modestly retires.

Some misgiving apparently visits the mind of
one of the City gentlemen.

"Heh! Halloo! Ain't this your boat, my
man?"

"Well, sir, 'tis Tim's Pardner's,"is the reply.
"My boat's out, which a lady and two young
gents is a rowing to Kemp Town. Off she goes!
Yea-ho!"

And Streaky, aided by two brown-faced giants,
who have apparently shot up from the shingle,