two pair of oars could pull him, looking very
red and angry; no mate, but a strange man
sitting in the stern sheets beside him. It
seemed the mate had given him the slip at
the last moment, and he had been obliged to
engage the stranger, with very little enquiry.
This man was a lanky north country man,
with a deadly pale face, without whiskers, a
bald forehead, an immense mouth, black eyes,
with an awful squint, and a costume of seedy
black, so that he looked much more like a
hedge schoolmaster than a sailor. He carried
a parcel of seafaring clothes in his hand,
which the captain had been obliged to buy
for him at the nearest slopshop. He brought
nothing else, but a large very light chest, and
an enormous appetite. But, in spite of his
unprepossessing appearance, and shore-going
costume, the crew at once recognised him as
a regular sea-dog. Indeed, by the time he
got into his pea-coat and loose trowsers, and
had a fortnight of our fare, if he did not grow
handsomer, he seemed, at any rate,
transformed into the style of man that attracts
thunders of applause in a minor theatre as a
wicked pirate. At least, that was my
impression when, after a fortnight's landsman's
misery, I crept on deck in the Bay of Biscay,
to see the "seas" not "in mountains rolling,"
but as still as a mill pool; and our mate, Mr.
Clank, his complexion very much improved
by sea air and salt water, taking his turn at
the helm, in regular "old salt style."

I have now made the long sea voyage
half-a-dozen times, and have come to the same
conclusion I did at the end of my first—that
there are very few who can do much real work
at sea. On shore it is very easy to prepare
journals, plan a course of study, lay in a store
of scientific books, but when once you get into
blue water, your berth becomes a very Castle
of Indolence. What with sea-sickness, and
the appetite that follows your recovery, you
find your time pretty well consumed by eating,
drinking, smoking, and dozing, relieved by
reading a novel or playing a game at cards.
There are exceptions, as, perhaps, on board a
yacht, where you can go ashore when you
please; but, as a general rule, gossip and
brandy-and-water are the two great resources
of a long voyage—more shame to the weakness
of the passengers.

For my part, by the time I got my sea-legs
I had every inducement to study, for the
captain and his wife were no companions to
me. I did read my store of books twice over,
learned to splice a rope, and, after a fashion,
to hand, reef, or steer; had a good deal of chat
with an old sailor, who afterwards became one
of my best hands in the Bush, but the end
was, that, in spite of my instinctive prejudice,
I was drawn into intimacy with the mate.
He could talk, and, like most persons who
can, was communicative to a degree that he
must have often found disagreeable, if not
dangerous, but conversation was a necessity
to him, and I have no doubt he would have
related his adventures to a Black gin or a
Police officer, sooner than remain silent. So
I used to sit smoking in the evening, and far
on into the night, while he murmured away
his adventures in his strong northern burr,
like a talking mountain torrent.

I soon found that my companion was a
finished scoundrel up to the chin, in every
sort of rascality. On shore I should never
have spoken to him twice: at sea he was
amusing. He had been everywhere, and
in every sort of craft, according to his own
account; had had money and lived in great
style, told stories of whales, slavers, Indiamen
and pirates, by the dozen. He early confided
to me that nothing but misfortune would
have driven him to engage in such "a miserable
little tub of a craft, under such a
know-nothing lubber as Captain Glum. A misfortune,
Sir, that any gentleman might have
fallen into."

This misfortune he presently let me know,
consisted in having been convicted of bigamy
and sentenced to two years' imprisonment.
He had only been discharged a couple of
days, when he joined us. To hear him, he
was a victim,—just one of those heroic
victims of London passions one meets with in
French and German novels. He ended his
story by saying,

"So I've paid the penalty; and now I 'm
free, and next time I shall manage better."
For already he had his eye on a third wife.
After this, before turning in for that night,
he begged a couple of shirts of me.

A few days afterwards he again drew me
into conversation, saying,

"Excuse me, but I've been thinking what
a pity it is that a smart, clever young gentleman
like you, should go to bury yourself up
in the Bush, beyond Sydney there. I've
been up there myself, once; but there's no
life, no fun, nothing suitable—nothing
go-a-head, as the Yankees say. The sea's the
thing for a man of spirit."

"I thought there was very little to be
done at sea, now-a-days."

"No more there is in the old jog-trot; but
you have behaved very much like the gentleman,
and I don't mind telling you a thing or
two. I've been in a whaler hailing from
Sydney; and it wasn't whales we made our
money by, I can tell you. The time, it's
about five years; we 'd been out four months
after sperm whale, and done next to nothing.
I was second mate; the first mate was a
Yankee, and the captain was a native
Australian. The crew were a lot of all sorts and
colours. One of our best harpooners was a
New Zealander, and another a half-breed from
Hudson's Bay. Some prime seamen among
them, but not to be trusted ashore. Well
there was a regular grumbling about our bad
luck; for you see whalers are manned on the
'lay.' No wages, every man has a share in
the take. I'd noticed the captain and the
mate very thick, jawing together in a whisper