a barbarian if he is a well-meaning barbarian.
It is the continual value set on reality at sea,
that gives him independence and self-
possession. The ocean knocks him about till he
is rounded like a pebble. Salt water keeps
character wholesome, as it preserves beef.

I did not enter much into conversation with
our friends this time. The Mercantile Marine
Act has so frightened them, that they are
half-inclined, I really believe, to think that
every civilian is in league with the Board of
Trade—an imputation to which I, for one,
don't desire to expose myself. I went up to
one man, and asked him where he 'd been
cruising lately? Oh, he had been to Buenos
Ayres; he'd been to Chili. Chili was a fine
place to be ashore at. The man with him
informed me very curtly that "he knew a great
deal too well to go into the Queen's service."

At one side of the room was a beautiful
model of a man-of-war—quite a mammoth in
miniature—with fairy tackle, and airy cordage—

"The top-mast halyards, of long spinners' legs;
The royals, like the wings of grasshoppers—"

such a ship as that notable sailor, Captain
Lemuel Gulliver, may possibly have dragged
from its moorings off Blefuscu. In a corner
is an elegant bust of the late Captain Robert
James Elliot, R.N. This gallant and good
gentleman founded the institution, and is held
in honourable remembrance by all connected
with it.

Above stairs are the "Dormitories," where
each resident has his "crib," using that word
not in its slang, but in its primary sense. All
the little doors are duly numbered in rows,
and the whole bears a very snug, cleanly,
"ship-shape" appearance. There is a
Rhadamanthine law against "smoking in the
Dormitories" written up here and there, with
Spartan precision—an amusing evidence of
the popular love of tobacco on the high seas.
There is a lecture-room, where lectures are
given to the men, and spacious maps hung up
for their use. There is, besides, a lending
library at their service; various models, also,
of English and foreign ships.

When I descended again to the dining-
room, I found that a snug party had assembled
round the fire with their pipes—among
whom a Malay sailor seemed conspicuous as
a conversationist—and a couple of big swarthy
men were criticising the rig of the model
man-of-war with a professional look; as they
puffed their clouds amongst the rigging.
Smoking is not forbidden in the dining-room.
To deny a sailor tobacco altogether would be
equivalent to damming up water from a duck,
or fencing off thistles from a donkey.

The "Home" has its own little bank, with
red ledgers all complete; and a "cashier"
and "accountant," just like Coutts's! I
apprehend many a sailor finds himself a
capitalist, and enjoys the luxury of a capitalist in
putting in and drawing out his cash at pleasure
for the first time in his life, when he
takes up his residence here. It must be quite
a new sensation to Jack to draw a check in
payment of a new tobacco-box, or a few
pounds' worth of slops. Now that he has got
old he finds this banking system far
preferable to the plan in vogue in his youth, of
eating bank-note sandwiches, and converting
Mr. Henry Hase's promises to pay into pipe-
lights.

There is a pretty little Church, "St. Paul's
Church, for Seamen," close by, where the
Chaplain, the Reverend Mr. Gribble, officiates.
This church has eight hundred free seats, and
is very well attended by the seamen; who
have bibles and prayer-books supplied to
them gratis.

To this enumeration of the comforts and
advantages of the institution, I must now add
something respecting its business affairs. It
was first started, and has always been mainly
supported, on moral as well as social grounds.
What villanous cruelty, complicated with
lamentable sin, sailors just turned adrift from
their ships, with their pay in hand, are
exposed to—is almost beyond belief. A class of
men exists—forming a distinct body—and
organised and recognised as such by the name
of "Crimps" (a class per se, like "Thugs" ),
who look out for sailors as their destined
and natural prey. I should not wonder if
they defend their villanies on the same
grounds as an Animal-food-man defends his
steak when assailed by an argumentative
Vegetarian. The "Crimp" swindles the
sailor out of his money, and encourages him
in vice, while representing himself as his
friend—just as you may observe a shark turns
when about to bite, and shows the whitest
part of himself in the act. This "Home"
was started mainly to save seamen from these
"crimps," and furnish them not only with a
place to reside in, in decency and comfort, but
with moral improvement and religious
instruction. Perhaps, it would interest some
readers to see the charge made to the men,
which we extract from one of the Institution's
documents. The following is a brief summary
of what it proposes to do:—

"The seamen will have to pay two shillings
a-day, or fourteen shillings a-week, for living at
the institution; each man has a sleeping cabin to
himself; four meals a-day are provided for the
boarders; and a fair allowance of washing is
included in the weekly charge.

"Lads, twelve shillings a-week, washing included.

"Apprentices will have to pay one shilling and
sixpence a-day, or ten shillings and sixpence
a-week, upon the same terms.

"The blessing of religious instruction, the
opportunity of living a sober and decent life, a
just account of wages entrusted to the care of the
institution, security of property, and assistance
afforded in getting men shipped again, are the
advantages that the Sailors' Home holds out to
the seamen.

"Writing, Arithmetic, Navigation, &c., are
taught, without charge, in the evening, to the