come home from China or Honolulu, and fall
into the clutches of the press-gang five minutes
after they had set foot on land. Bags of
money would be found on posts on Tower
Hill, left there by persons who had been
pressed unawares. People would leave public-
house parlours to see what sort of a night it
was, and never be seen or heard of again. I
remember, even, hearing from my nurse, during
childhood, a ghostly legend of how the Lord
Chancellor, going over Tower Hill one night
with the great seal in a carpet-bag, and
"disguised in liquor" after a dinner at Guildhall,
was kidnapped by a press-gang, sent on board
the Tower Tender, and not released until three
months afterwards, when he was discovered
on board the "Catspaw" frigate, in the
Toulon fleet, scraping the mizen-mast, under
the cat of a boatswain's mate. Of course I
won't be answerable for the veracity of the
story; but we scarcely need its confirmation
to find plenty of reasons to bless those glorious
good old times when George the Third was
king.

Times are changed with the Rendezvous
now. Sailors it still craves; but good ones—
A. B.s; not raffish gaol-birds and useless
landsmen. The A. B.s are not so plentiful,
though the times are so peaceful. The A. B.'s
have heard of the "cat;" and they know
what "holystoning" and " blacklisting" means.
There is a stalwart A. B., I watch, reading a
placard in the window of the Rendezvous,
stating that the Burster, one hundred and
twenty guns, fitting at Plymouth, wants some
able-bodied seamen. " Catch a weasel asleep,"
says the A. B., walking on. He belongs to the
Chutnagore, A. 1, under engagement to
sail for Madras, and would rather not have
anything to do with the Burster.

A weather-beaten old quarter-master stands
on the steps of the Rendezvous, and eyes the
A. B. wistfully. The A. B. is the sort of man
Britannia wants just now. So are those three
black-whiskered fellows, swaggering along
with a Yankee skipper, with whom they have
just signed articles for a voyage to Boston,
in the Peleg Whittle; Coon, master. Poor
old quarter-master! give him but his " four-
and-twenty stout young fellows," his beloved
press-gang; and the Chutnagore would go
one A. B. short to sea; while Captain Coon
would vainly lament the loss of three of the
crew of the Peleg Whittle. The Burster
is very short of hands; but he has bagged very
few A. B.s yet. See, a recruit offers; a lanky
lad in a torn jacket, with an air of something
like ragged respectability about him! He
wants to "go to sea." The quarter-master
laughs at him, repulses him. The boy has,
ten to one, run away from school or from
home, with that vague indefinite idea of " going
to sea " in his mind. To sea, indeed! He
has prowled about the docks, vainly importuned
captains, owners, seamen, anybody, with
his request. Nobody will have anything to
do with him. The greatest luck in store for
him would be the offer of a cabin-boy's berth
on board a collier, where the captain would
regale him with the convivial crowbar and
the festive ropes-end, whenever the caprice
seized him. Going to sea! Ah, my young
friend ! trudge home to Dr. Broomback's
seminary—never mind the thrashing—
explain to your young friends, impressed as
you have been with a mania for " running
away and going to sea," that it is one thing
to talk about doing a thing, and another to do
it ; that a ragged little landsman is worse
than useless aboard ship ; and that there are
ten chances to one even against his ever being
allowed to put his foot on shipboard.

I leave the Royal Naval Rendezvous just
as a dissolute Norwegian stops to read the
Burster placard. Now, I turn past the
Mint, and past the soldiers on guard there,
and pursue the course of a narrow little
street leading towards the Docks.

Here, Jack leaps into great life. Ship-
chandlers, ship-grocers, biscuit-bakers, sail-
makers, outfitting warehouses, occupy the
shops on either side. Up a little court is a
nautical day-school for teaching navigation.
There is a book-stall, on which lies the " Seaman's
Manual," the "Shipmaster's Assistant,"
and Hamilton Moore's " Navigation."
There is a nautical instrument maker's, where
chronometers, quadrants, and sextants are
kept, and blank log-books are sold. The
stationers display forms for manifests, bills of
lading, and charter-parties. Every article
vended has some connexion with those who
go down to the sea in ships.

When we enter St. George's Street, where
there are shops on one side of the way, and
St. Katherine's Dock warehouses on the other,
Jack becomes tremendously alive on the
pavement. Jack from India and China, very
sunburnt, and smoking Trichinopoly cheroots;
thin cigars with a reed passed through them,
and nearly a foot long. American Jack,
in a red worsted shirt, and chewing
indefatigably. Swedish Jack, smelling of
tallow and turpentine, but amazingly good-
natured, and unaffectedly polite. Italian Jack,
shivering. German Jack, with a light-blue
jacket and yellow trousers, stolid and smoky;
Greek Jack, voluble in petticoats, and long
boots. Grimy seamen from colliers; smart,
taut men, from Green's or Wigram's splendid
East India ships; mates in spruce jackets,
and gold-laced caps, puffing prime Havannahs.
Lastly, the real unadulterated English Jack,
with the inimitable roll, the unapproachable
hitch, the unsurpassable flowers of language.
The pancake hat stuck at the back of the head,
the neckerchief passed through a wedding-
ring, the flaring yellow silk handkerchief;
the whole unmistakeable costume and
demeanour—so unlike the stage sailor, so unlike
the pictorial sailor—so like only what it
really is.

This is the busiest portion of the day, and
the Highway is crowded. Enthusiasts would