a matchless painter, whose deep love was rooted in bitterness, and whose calm spirit found repose when turned to heaven, which his own domestic hearth refused him. And he was there, the gifted potter of fair France,† whose skilful hands laboured in the plastic clay, but whose fervent heart was occupied in the higher matters pertaining to spirit and truth. And there was one whose face and form I should have recognised among a thousandone of lowest calling but loftiest conceptions; a mechanic in basest metal, yet a builder of such a fabric of beauty, that men are never weary of gazing at it, for its subject matter will endure coeval with those "delectable mountains" which lift their head through its frame-work, or that "golden city" so vividly delineated in its inimitable imaginations.

And last of all, I saw that a shining path was covered all over with pilgrims of the shepherd class, and all who pertained to rural life. The tiller of the soil, the labourer, and the herd, were there a countless throng, but unknown by name, for the pious poor possess no historic chronicle, or allocated niche in Fame's proud temple; their record is in heaven, and their witness is on high,

with him who, for our sakes, became poor, and had not where on earth to lay his head.

Ha! what sound is it which, falling on my ear, disorders and breaks up all the shining machinery of light which fancy had constructed, like the effacing wind before whose clouding influence the rainbow melts away? Have the bells come back to vocal and symphonious life once more, or is there music in the air? No; it is simply an old chime which now awakes the night -a solitary, single old chime, struck out from an antique, huge clock, held forth from a church wall by a giant hand and arm of gold. Hark to its slow and solemn song! It is an old Gregorian tone, yet full of gentle and tender associations; by turns ceasing, and pausing, and commencing again. Most simple is it, yet surpas sing sweet, and full of a wild melan. choly, as if lamenting that the pleasant day is done, for, as its last sad cadence dies away, every clock in the old city sounds forth from its brazen gong into the midnight air the hour of Twelve.

B.

ANTHONY POPLAR.

*Albert Durer.

Bunyan.

We firmly believe that some boys are born-destined, that is, from their very cradle to become sailors, and nothing else! It matters not whether they are reared in a sea-port town, or far inland, the result will inevitably be the same. In the former case, they spend all their leisure time in hanging about the docks, climbing up ships' rigging, and greedily treasuring every bit of information they can pick up concerning nautical matters and a sailor's life. Their hearts beat quick at the mere idea of the ocean, and of ships sailing across its trackless deeps. Everything connected with the sea interests and delights them, and the older they grow the more potent becomes this fascination; for we know not what other word would so fittingly and truthfully express what they feel. The click of a pawl-windlass, the ho-ye-ho! of seamen, and the creaking of yards and blocks, are music to their ears; they sniff the wholesome scent of raw tar with keen relish; and even the odour of bilgewater is far from being repulsive, for to their vivid imagination it is poetically suggestive of stormy seas, and long, tropical voyages. They regard a bronzed, whiskered foremastman with profound admiration, for he is their beau-ideal of manly daring and gallantry, and they sometimes make themselves ill by chewing tobacco on the sły, in humble admiration of this hero. Positively, they gaze with interest at the dirty ship's-cook, as he sits on inverted bucket in the doorway of his caboose, polishing, with grimy paws, the stew-pans and kits; and they envy the naked-footed, over-worked cabin. boy, whom they see running about at everybody's call, and doing all sorts of odd jobs about the decks, for doth he not wear tarry duck-trousers, a checked shirt, and a blue jacket? and is he not one of the crew, and in that capacity lives in the ship, and sails in her whi

VOL. XLVI.-NO. CCLXXVI.

thersoever she is bound? As they gaze at him, they mentally repeat their favourite sea-song-" Harry Bluff!”—

"Harry Bluff, when a boy, left his friends and his home,

His dear native land, on the ocean to roam;
Like a sapling he sprung, he was fair to the view,
And was true British oak as the older he grew,"
&c., &c.

Inwardly do they vow that they, too, will be sailor-boys-Harry Bluffs, ere long; and rely upon it, that in spite of all opposition on the part of their friends, the wish of their heart will be realised!

Again, many boys who never saw the sea, or a ship, in their lives, feel instinctively that they are destined to become sailors, and they enthusiastically and absorbingly read "Robinson Crusoe," tales of shipwrecks, seanovels, and all books relating to the ocean, ships, seamen, and sea-life; they construct model vessels, and spend long summer days in navigating them on the village pond; they imitate, to the best of their ability, the dress, and gait, and demeanour of that renowned hero "Will Watch the bold smuggler," as they once beheld him represented (by an eminent strolling actor) on the stage of a two-penny travelling theatre; and they confidently announce to all and sundry whom it may concern, their indomitable resolution to go to sea; but whether they will eventually emulate the heroic "Will Watch the bold smuggler," or "Richard Parker, the mutineer," or "Long Tom Coffin," or "Blackbeard, the pirate," they have not yet quite decided. They have, however, vowed to " go to sea," and

vain will it be to endeavour to dissuade them. Papas may threaten, mammas may weep, brothers may sneer, sisters may coax and implore, and relatives and friends may deprecate, warn, and conjure; but the embryo sailors will thereby only be confirmed in their resolve, and in due time 2 x

will take to the sea as naturally and inevitably as a young duck takes to the first pool of water!

We do not mean to say that every boy-be he born on the sea-coast, or in the midland counties who yields him to the witchery of the sea, and stubbornly vows to be a sailor, is really of the stuff to make one; because it is quite possible, and, in fact, by no means unfrequently happens, that sentimental enthusiasm deludes boys into the fancy that they are specially fitted to follow the sea, when the reverse is the fact. And many boys who have felt not merely an unreasoning impulse, but undoubtedly, also, have every natural quality to render them in time first-rate sailors, are bitterly disgusted, at the outset of their career, by the stern reality, especially if their officers happen to be harsh, tyrannical men. Yet, on the whole, we should say, that the generality of boys who are prompted by an ungovernable impulse to go to sea, will thus have followed the right bent of their nature and disposition. As to the exceptions to this rule, they are often very melancholy, but of no effect as examples, and it is quite useless to dilate upon them in that sense.

We believe that a majority of the "hearts of oak," who man "our wooden walls," voluntarily went to sea when boys, actuated by the spirit we have described; but many others have originally gone to sea from very different motives, voluntary or compulsory, as the case might me. We do not hesi

tate to say that, if all our first-class imaginative authors were to combine, they could not produce a series of fictions rivalling in variety and interest the thousand-and-one romances of reality comprised in the life-histories of the crew of a man-o'-war. Here we have five hundred, or a thousand men, who, in their collective capacity as a crew, present a sort of epitome of the world, well worthy of analysis. We refer not to any particular ship, for all crews are composed of the same miscellaneous human elements, although their proportions vary, as good, bad, or indifferent men predominate Our object will be to give some idea of the extraordinary diversity of individual appearance, character, and history of the dif ferent classes composing a crew; and prototypes of our outline sketches may be found in any liner in commission. We may add, that, in more than one in

stance, we shall draw characters from life, describing men who are personally known to us.

Here, to begin with, is Bob Clew. line, the captain of the maintop, a man whose somewhat short stature is amply compensated by an immensely broad chest, and brawny round shoulders; the upper part of his body is gigantic, but the lower seems somewhat disproportionate at a first glance, being narrow in the hips and the lower spars (as their owner himself would probably call them) rather stunted and slightly bowed, yet endowed with astonishing powers of activity aloft. Survey that fellow closely, for he is the beau-ideal of s prime seaman, and he is quite convined himself that he has not an equal, wa astride the yard-arm passing a weathe earing in a heavy squall, or standing a the bunt when furling. Observe his long arms and massive limbs, all com pact of bone, sinew, and muscle; arms which, when held out stiffly, are about as unbending, and almost as hard, as capstan-bars, and are terminated by a pair of huge paws of a rich, yellow hue The palms of those tarry hands, sir, are as horny as the sole of a negro's foot; and the short, thick fingers-the backs of which are covered with bristly brown hair could grip you like a steel vice. Above his vast hairy chest—on which raffled anchors, mermaids, ships, and initial letters, have been indelibly pricked with needles, dipped in dis solved gunpowder-rises a rough bull neck, not brown, but richly ruddy in hue, and it, in turn, supports a bulletshaped head, thickly matted with curly hair of no particular colour, unless iron-grey predominates. His features are strongly marked, rugged, and of s dull bronze; but what an eye gleams beneath his shaggy brows! It is light gray, restless, bright, and piercing as a falcon's: it would instantly discern any object rising above the heaving billows of the ocean, at a distance incredible to a landsman's apprehension. And good need hath the honest captain of the maintop of his hawk-like vision, his bodily strength and activity, and his powerful voice, for they are each and all in constant requisition for the due fulfilment of his responsible duties.

And what is the private history of this heart-of-oak? Twenty-nine years ago he was a curly-pated fisher-boy at Yarmouth. But he happened to be

stirred by ambitious aspirations, from which fisher-boys are no more exempt than ordinary mortals; and so he forsook the red-sailed fishing-boat to swing in a hammock on the berth-deck of a liner, and in that ship he speedily saw some lively service at Navarino. Since then he has with the interval of a cruise he made in a sperm-whaler, just by way of a change served in different ships of the navy in every quarter of the globe. He is somewhat taciturn, probably having acquired a meditative turn in the maintop, where he has spent many thousands of hours by night and by day; for in a man-o'-war, the running-gear of the upper-sails, &c., descends into the tops, and not to the deck, as is the case in a merchantship, and, consequently, the quarterwatch is stationed in the tops, to attend to the upper sails. It results, that if a topman has only a germ of philosophy in his mental composition, it will have a fine scope for development! But although our friend, the captain of the maintop, is a tarry philosopher, let it not be thought that he is sentimental, or speculative, or transcendental; on the contrary, all his meditations and aspirations are thoroughly practical in their scope and tendency, and when he silently overhauls the log of his memory, not one reminiscence arises that is not of a singularly matter-of-fact description. And yet, these very recollections of his would strike an imaginative landsman as being romantic and poetical in their nature and associations. A stiff nor'-wester (tumbler of grog*) will, at any time, convert Clewline's taciturnity into loquacity, and then he will rapidly narrate the chief incidents of his checquered career, commencing with the Navarino affair of '27, and ending with the Baltic expeditions of '54-55. The long interval between the first and last epochs, he fills up with stirring yarns of how he was frozen on the North American station, and broiled on the West Indian station; how he wasted to to a skeleton on the deadly African coast, and grew fat and idle up the Mediterranean; how he was

accidentally left ashore on one of the Maldive Islands, where he spent three particularly dismal months, à la Robinson Crusoe; how he was wrecked in the Chinese seas, and, in company with some hapless shipmates, was actually enclosed in a huge bamboo-cage, and carried in it to Canton (being exhibited by the flowery celestials at every resting-place on the way, just as wild beasts are shown in England); how he learnt to become as smart a fellow as ever trod on shoe-leather when in a flag-ship on the Brazil station; and how he grew rusty and stupid as an owl on board a guardo at Sheerness. One phase of his career alone does he dislike to expatiate upon, and that is, his cruse in the South Seaman. He feels a bit ashamed that a regular man-o'war's-man like him should ever have shipped in a species of vessel which men of his class affect to despise, though he chuckles at the recollection of how he signalled (by hanging a red shirt in the rigging, a well-understood symbol at sea), the first of her Majesty's ships they fell in with in the Pacific, and was immediately taken on board, and then, and not till then, he felt himself a man and a seaman once

more.

Of a different class is the young foretop-man we will next introduce. He is a tall, muscular young fellow, good-looking, shrewd, intelligent, and lively a handy lad aloft, and one who, for his age, has seen a good deal of service. What is his history? What sent him to sea, and how did he become a man-o'-war's-man? Was he a wild, scampish boy a reckless ne'er-do-weel? Nothing of the sort. He is a Lincolnshire youth, of respectable connexions, born and bred inland. He happened, when thirteen or fourteen years of age, to read a certain book, a naval fiction; and he read and re-read it until, as he himself said, he almost knew it by heart. He had never beheld the sea in his life, but that book was a species of fate to him, for it decided his destiny.† The sea! the sea for me! was henceforth the

burden of his song; nothing could divert him from this election, and he was permitted to make a short first voyage on liking. He did not much relish this first taste of sea-life, as he himself confessed to us; but like many other lads under similar circumstances, the fear of ridicule determined him to abide by his original resolve, and he was thereupon apprenticed to a merchantman. Cruel treatment soon induced him to quit her, by entering a man-o'-war; and in this way her Majesty gained the services of one who has not been one of her "hard bargains," we believe.

Thirdly, let us sketch one of the worshipful company of the Afterguard, who designates himself Henry Augustus Fitz-Osborne; and this "purser's name," as we presume it to be, of itself indicates at least one element of its owner's character. How is it that we find an individual bearing such an aristocratical appellation ranking so low in the naval service? We cannot precisely tell; but we believe that Mr. Fitz-Osborne, as thousands of others have done before him, fled to a mano'-war as to a veritable city of refuge. In person he is tall, slim, and supple; he is neat and dandified, and prides himself on his curly black hair, and huge glossy whiskers. His features would be rather prepossessing, were it not for the wicked expression of his glittering dark eyes, and the peculiarly unpleasant lines about his mouth, especially when he smiles in what he intends to be an insinuating fashion. He mysteriously hints, from time to time, as occasion serves, that he is of very high aristocratic descent, and the innocent victim of an inscrutable yet malignant destiny. He affects-whenever he safely can, for experience has taught him caution in this respect-a certain air of superior refinement and condescending dignity, as though he would say, "See how a gentleman of high birth can accommodate himself to undeserved reverses of fortune, and even live familiarly and happily with the rude, ignorant men among whom his lot is temporarily cast!" He has a smooth, glib tongue, and some smattering of book-learning, which he dexterously makes the most of, setting himself up for a bit of a "sea-lawyer;" and he is invariably the pink of politeness, and as such is looked up to as a model by his own coterie of fool

ish young brethren of the Afterguard, whom he has taught genteel etiquette, and how to spout soliloquies from plays with impassioned energy, No great harm in that; but we think he should not have also initiated them in certain games of chance, of which he is an accomplished professor. He has one little personal failing, and that is, a love of grog, indulgence in which has more than once nearly brought him to the gangway, where he would, indeed, have repeatedly figured, were it not that the master-at-arins is somehow his friend, and screens him. Some long-headed seamen shrewdly suspect that Mr. Fitz-Osborne owes this fr bearance to being a sort of "whe mouse," or secret spy, in the ser of the important personage bread commissioner of police in a man-o'

who thus winks at his occasions delinquencies and peccadilloes. Various rumours are current among Mr. FitzOsborne's shipmates as to his private history and former status in society. Their general opinion, we regret to say, is not particularly flattering. One asserts that he is a runaway valet; a second charitably surmises that he has been a fashionable hair-dresser, whose vain head was so affected by a love disappointment, that he went to sea in despair; third thinks that he has decidedly the air of a London swellmobsman; a fourth (and many endorse this opinion) opines that he bears an undeniable resemblance to a brokendown flash swindler or gambler, who has very urgent private reasons for availing himself of the seclusion of a man-o'-war; and all agree that his former career has been anything but reputable, and that he is at present a sly, scheming, impenetrable, unpriscipled scoundrel, who richly merits a weekly keel-hauling. Mr. Fitz-Osborne is perfectly aware of the "ship's opinion" of him, but he regards that opinion with philosophic indifference and gentlemanly contempt. Whatever he may be, he is not a seaman, nor even a sailor-that, at least, is certain; and yet, whenever he can get ashore, he passes himself off as a tar of the first water, with great success, among those who suppose that a fel low who belongs to a man-o'-war, and swears all manner of strange and terrible oaths, and discourses sea-slang with amazing volubility, must of necessity be the character he aspires to