bed, wishing the good ship and her passengers,
several times during the twenty-four hours,
at Jericho.

Still glides the Z. W. Caucus out of dock,
somewhat slowly, for she is heavily laden,
and lies deep in the water. A portion of her
crew are busy at the capstan-bars—sallow,
Yankee fellows mostly, with elf-locks and red
flannel shirts and tarry trowsers. As they
pace, they spit; and in the intervals of spitting
they sing, or rather moan in chorus a dismal
ditty, that hath neither tune nor words, but
which means something, I suppose. Anon
the strains are wild and fitful, like the wailings
of an Æolian harp; anon they rise to a
loud and vengeful crescendo, like a Highland
coronach. Not all the crew, though, are
joining in this mysterious chant; a very considerable
portion of them are down below
in their berths, sleeping off a surfeit of rum
and tobacco; and not a few will be brought
on board, while the Z. W. Caucus is in the
river, also affected by rum and tobacco,
and affectionately guarded by a boarding
master, or proprietor of a sailors' lodging-house
(whom I should be sorry to say was
two-fourths crimp and the remainder extortioner),
who has the greatest interest in
bringing sailors aboard, seeing that he is
paid so much a head for them in consideration
of certain advances he has made, or is supposed
to have made to them, and which are
duly deducted from the pay of the unconscious
mariner.

Nearly out of dock, and the commander,
Captain Paul W. Blatherwick, of Forty-second
Street, New York, who is standing
amidships, turns his quid complacently. The
captain wears a white hat, with a very broad
brim, and an obstinate and rebellious nap,
refusing pertinaciously to be brushed or
smoothed. He has a shirt of a wonderful
and complicated pattern, more like a paper
hanging than a Christian shirt, and with
a collar which looms large, like the foresail of
a yacht. He has a profusion of hair and
beard, and very little eyes, and a liberal
allowance of broad black ribbon and spy-glass.
Captain Blatherwick is part owner as well as
commander, and has therefore a paternal
interest in his emigrants; but he is rather
pre-occupied just now, for two of his very
best hands—A.B.'s, stalwart, trusty reefers
and steerers—are absent; and although he
has searched all the low lodging-houses and
all the low taverns in the town, he has been
unable to find them. Just, however, as he has
made a virtue of necessity, and, giving them up
for lost, has shaped a fresh plug of tobacco for
his capacious cheek, there is a stir and bustle
in the crowd; its waves heave to and fro, and
parting them like a strong steamer, come two
men. One has his hammock on his head,
large gold ear-rings, and his "kit" in his
hand. He flies like the nimble stag celebrated
in Mr. Handel's Oratorio; but he is
pursued by a Dalilah, a Circe, an enchantress,
with a coral necklace, dishevelled hair, and a
draggle-tailed dimity bedgown. She clings
to his kit; she embraces his hammock; she
passionately adjures him to leave her, were
it only his ear-rings, as a souvenir. But he
remembers that England (represented, for
the moment, by his Yankee captain) expects
every man to do his duty for fifty shillings a
month and his victuals; and, shutting his
ears to the voice of the charmer, he leaps on
board. I say leaps, for there are ten good solid
feet of muddy water between the quay edge
and the side of the Z. W. Caucus; yet you
have scarcely time to shudder and think he
will be drowned, ere he is scrambling among
the shrouds, as a playful kitten would skip
about, if kittens wore red shirts and ear-rings.
His companion is equally rapid in his
motions—more so, perhaps, for he is impeded
by no luggage, and clung to by no Dalilah.
He has little wherewith to lure Dalilah; for,
of all the notable equipments with which he
landed at George's Dock, fifteen days ago, he
has now remaining—what think you ? a
blanket!  As I stand here, nothing but a
sorry, patched, tattered, blanket,—nor shirt,
nor shoe, nor rag else. He wraps it about
him sternly though, as though it were a
toga; and, with a hurrah of defiance, a yell
from the crowd, and a cheer from his ship-
mates, vaults on board. Then he falls down
a ladder, very drunk, and I see him no more.
They will be skinned, they will be fleeced,
these foolish Jacks. They won't go to the
admirable and palatial Sailors' Home. They
will go down to Wapping, and Paradise Street,
and fall among thieves. Who is to help them
if they won't help themselves?

Oh, cheerily, cheerily! The big ship is
fairly out of dock. The ropes are cast off, and
she stands down the river, towed along by a
steamer; the poor emigrants crowding the
decks, the tops, the yards even, to take their
fill of England, home and beauty, seen for the
last time. He who knows all things knows
alone if they, or their children, or their
children's children, will ever see the beloved
land again.

The bridge will not be down for half an
hour yet, for the King Odin, Czernicheff
master, screw steamer for Odessa, is coming
out laden with boiler plates for the Czar's
arsenal, and to come home again with wheat.
She needs no "tug," but steams out stolidly
on her own end, and with her own screw.
There is another Yankee liner at anchor off
Egremont, and just on the point of sailing.
Shall we slip on board this grimy, uncouth,
useful tug steamer, and board her for a
minute?

The Elizabeth Scradgers, eight hundred
tons, Captain Peleg J. Whittlestick, is a
genuine "liner." She is bound for New
York, with forty cabin passengers and two
hundred steerage ditto. Sixteen guineas are
demanded for the after-passage, the sum of
two pounds tea is the ticket for the steerage