it; but this ship was as trim and taut, as agile
on her iron legs as when she first began her
sea-life. Alas, that iron and wood should last so
long and flesh and blood so soon decay! Even
the useless willow survives us, living on to scatter
its leaves in sport upon our graves!

Yes, it was the same ship, with the same smell
of toddy coming up the cabin stairs, the same
pictures in the saloon, the same huge chest
of a snuff-box on the mantelshelf. She had
been out in the wars since I was last on board
of her; had tossed in the Bay of Biscay, O;
had thundered before Sebastopol; and here she
was, unchanged, unscathed by all the turmoil of
the world, peacefully waiting to carry me back
to Scotland. I was dreaming of the changes
that had taken place in the mean time; of the
empires which had fallen and risen, of the wars
which had devastated the nations, of the famine
and pestilence that had passed over many a land,
of the great lights that had gone out, of revolutions
which had changed the face of the earth—
and all these events had happened, and this slip
of wood had defied the rage of the sea, and was
as sound and as buoyant as ever. And when I
was dreaming, the bell rang, the paddles began
to plash in the water, and we were off—Northward ho!
for Bonny Scotland.

It gives one great importance to sail down
the Thames in a big ship. The little river
steamers, fussing about, greet us with cheers,
and take off their hats to us as we glide majestically
onward. The big ship is a great lord
of the sea; those small craft are the poor
and humble, trudging on some petty errand
to the nearest market-town, while the great
lord is setting out in state to make the grand
tour and visit the capitals of the world.
High up here on the broad quarter-deck we look
down upon those poor people with lofty
condescension, pleased to think that they are humble
and know their station. We sweep past such
insignificant places as Greenwich and Gravesend
with disdain, smiling at the simplicity of the
humble classes, to whom these tea-and-shrimpy
resorts are the golden goal of a day's travel.
There is that home-keeping youth, Citizen A,
lying panting with fatigue at Gravesend, resting
and taking his breath before he starts to
return home to his wife and family, anxiously
waiting tea for him at Hungerford. But our
path is over the ocean wave, our home is on
the deep; and presentlv we shall sit down to a
grand banquet in a gilded saloon, the captain,
in a swallow-tailed coat and black velvet
waistcoat, presiding, and making a great effort to
combine the aspects and attributes of a landsman
with those of a commanding naval officer.

This is a peculiarity of Scotch captains. In
the river, and during the early part of the
voyage, they affect evening dress, chimney-pot
hats, and gentlemanly manners. Having thus
given all the passengers an impression that
they are in every respect fit for genteel society,
they suddenly dive into their cabins, and
presently come up, dressed in pea-jackets and
glazed caps, leaving all their politeness below
the chimney-pot and the swallow-tail.
You scarcely know your captain again, when
he comes up transformed in this fashion. The
quick change reminds you of the clever
entertainer, who, enacting the part of a mild
person, disappears under the flap of a desk and
comes up the next instant as a gruff person.
Your captain who carries passengers is a sort
of Janus, with one face for the paddle-box and
another for the grand saloon, with one tongue to
consign the mate or the helmsman to perdition,
and another to ask a blessing, and say " With
much pleasure," when the deeply-impressed
passenger asks him to take wine at dinner.

It is an exceedingly pleasant journey from
London to Aberdeen per City of London. It is
short enough not to be tedious, and long enough
to enable you to realise all the sensations of
being far, far upon the sea. Starting from
Wapping on Saturday afternoon, the vessel,
weather permitting, heaves in sight of Aberdeen
early on Monday morning. Going to bed
as you leave the mouth of the Thames, you
awake next morning to find yourself out of sight
of land. You would not be more completely at
sea, if you were in the middle of the Atlantic.

But though you are on the ocean, and in a
vessel bearing the name of the English capital,
you feel that you are in Scotland all the time.
There is a strong Scotch flavour pervading the
City of London, from stem to stern. The captain,
the mate, the steward and stewardess,
the sailors, the engineers, the cabin-boy, all are
Scotch. Then you have Scotch haddocks
for breakfast, and Scotch broth for dinner,
and more Scotch haddocks for tea, with the
addition of jam and marmalade, and Scotch
whisky-toddy, in the Scotch fashion, afterwards.
Your fellow-passengers, too, are mostly Scotch,
a few of them wearing kilts and Glengarries,
and the majority encumbered with guns and
fishing-rods. The ship holds her way quietly
and steadily, and the effort of navigation seems
to be entirely subordinate to the exertions
of the cook and the stewards. " A life by the
galley fire" is a constant reminder to you that;
flesh is grass. All day long the ship is pervaded
by an odour of frizzling victuals, that of the
haddock running through the whole performance
like a culinary fugue. The stewards are
very imperative in their manner towards you;
so much so that you cannot resist the impression
that they have been appointed by a lunacy
commission to take charge of you. Linger for
a few minutes on deck, after the prandial bell
rings, and a steward will come and tell you
gruffly that you'd " better to go doon to your
denner." His tone seems to imply that if you
don't go down to your " denner" when you are
told, he will lock you up in the padded room,
and punish you with bread and water. And
when you do go down to your " denner," your
keeper stands behind your chair and tells you
what you had " better" have.

"Here, sir," he says, " you'd better have
some boiled beef." You are afraid to express
a preference for venison or grouse-pie, lest he