Chapter 29

REDBURN DEFERENTIALLY DISCOURSES CONCERNING THE PROSPECTS OF

SAILORS

The ship remained in Prince's Dock over six weeks; but as I do not mean

to present a diary of my stay there, I shall here simply record the

general tenor of the life led by our crew during that interval; and will

then proceed to note down, at random, my own wanderings about town, and

impressions of things as they are recalled to me now, after the lapse of

so many years.

But first, I must mention that we saw little of the captain during our

stay in the dock. Sometimes, cane in hand, he sauntered down of a

pleasant morning from the Arms Hotel, I believe it was, where he

boarded; and after lounging about the ship, giving orders to his Prime

Minister and Grand Vizier, the chief mate, he would saunter back to his

drawing-rooms.

From the glimpse of a play-bill, which I detected peeping out of his

pocket, I inferred that he patronized the theaters; and from the flush

of his cheeks, that he patronized the fine old Port wine, for which

Liverpool is famous.

Occasionally, however, he spent his nights on board; and mad, roystering

nights they were, such as rare Ben Jonson would have delighted in. For

company over the cabin-table, he would have four or five whiskered

sea-captains, who kept the steward drawing corks and filling glasses all

the time. And once, the whole company were found under the table at four

o'clock in the morning, and were put to bed and tucked in by the two

mates. Upon this occasion, I agreed with our woolly Doctor of Divinity,

the black cook, that they should have been ashamed of themselves; but

there is no shame in some sea-captains, who only blush after the third

bottle.

During the many visits of Captain Riga to the ship, he always said

something courteous to a gentlemanly, friendless custom-house officer,

who staid on board of us nearly all the time we lay in the dock.

And weary days they must have been to this friendless custom-house

officer; trying to kill time in the cabin with a newspaper; and rapping

on the transom with his knuckles. He was kept on board to prevent

smuggling; but he used to smuggle himself ashore very often, when,

according to law, he should have been at his post on board ship. But no

wonder; he seemed to be a man of fine feelings, altogether above his

situation; a most inglorious one, indeed; worse than driving geese to

water.

And now, to proceed with the crew.

At daylight, all hands were called, and the decks were washed down; then

we had an hour to go ashore to breakfast; after which we worked at the

rigging, or picked oakum, or were set to some employment or other, never

mind how trivial, till twelve o'clock, when we went to dinner. At

half-past nine we resumed work; and finally knocked of at four o'clock

in the afternoon, unless something particular was in hand. And after

four o'clock, we could go where we pleased, and were not required to be

on board again till next morning at daylight.

As we had nothing to do with the cargo, of course, our duties were light

enough; and the chief mate was often put to it to devise some employment

for us.

We had no watches to stand, a ship-keeper, hired from shore, relieving

us from that; and all the while the men's wages ran on, as at sea.

Sundays we had to ourselves.

Thus, it will be seen, that the life led by sailors of American ships in

Liverpool, is an exceedingly easy one, and abounding in leisure. They

live ashore on the fat of the land; and after a little wholesome

exercise in the morning, have the rest of the day to themselves.

Nevertheless, these Liverpool voyages, likewise those to London and

Havre, are the least profitable that an improvident seaman can take.

Because, in New York he receives his month's advance; in Liverpool,

another; both of which, in most cases, quickly disappear; so that by the

time his voyage terminates, he generally has but little coming to him;

sometimes not a cent. Whereas, upon a long voyage, say to India or

China, his wages accumulate; he has more inducements to economize, and

far fewer motives to extravagance; and when he is paid off at last, he

goes away jingling a quart measure of dollars.

Besides, of all sea-ports in the world, Liverpool, perhaps, most abounds

in all the variety of land-sharks, land-rats, and other vermin, which

make the hapless mariner their prey. In the shape of landlords,

bar-keepers, clothiers, crimps, and boarding-house loungers, the

land-sharks devour him, limb by limb; while the land-rats and mice

constantly nibble at his purse.

Other perils he runs, also, far worse; from the denizens of notorious

Corinthian haunts in the vicinity of the docks, which in depravity are

not to be matched by any thing this side of the pit that is bottomless.

And yet, sailors love this Liverpool; and upon long voyages to distant

parts of the globe, will be continually dilating upon its charms and

attractions, and extolling it above all other seaports in the world. For

in Liverpool they find their Paradise--not the well known street of that

name--and one of them told me he would be content to lie in Prince's Dock

till he hove up anchor for the world to come.

Much is said of ameliorating the condition of sailors; but it must ever

prove a most difficult endeavor, so long as the antidote is given before

the bane is removed.

Consider, that, with the majority of them, the very fact of their being

sailors, argues a certain recklessness and sensualism of character,

ignorance, and depravity; consider that they are generally friendless

and alone in the world; or if they have friends and relatives, they are

almost constantly beyond the reach of their good influences; consider

that after the rigorous discipline, hardships, dangers, and privations

of a voyage, they are set adrift in a foreign port, and exposed to a

thousand enticements, which, under the circumstances, would be hard even

for virtue itself to withstand, unless virtue went about on crutches;

consider that by their very vocation they are shunned by the better

classes of people, and cut off from all access to respectable and

improving society; consider all this, and the reflecting mind must very

soon perceive that the case of sailors, as a class, is not a very

promising one.

Indeed, the bad things of their condition come under the head of those

chronic evils which can only be ameliorated, it would seem, by

ameliorating the moral organization of all civilization.

Though old seventy-fours and old frigates are converted into chapels,

and launched into the docks; though the "Boatswain's Mate" and other

clever religious tracts in the nautical dialect are distributed among

them; though clergymen harangue them from the pier-heads: and chaplains

in the navy read sermons to them on the gun-deck; though evangelical

boarding-houses are provided for them; though the parsimony of

ship-owners has seconded the really sincere and pious efforts of

Temperance Societies, to take away from seamen their old rations of grog

while at sea:--notwithstanding all these things, and many more, the

relative condition of the great bulk of sailors to the rest of mankind,

seems to remain pretty much where it was, a century ago.

It is too much the custom, perhaps, to regard as a special advance, that

unavoidable, and merely participative progress, which any one class

makes in sharing the general movement of the race. Thus, because the

sailor, who to-day steers the Hibernia or Unicorn steam-ship across the

Atlantic, is a somewhat different man from the exaggerated sailors of

Smollett, and the men who fought with Nelson at Copenhagen, and survived

to riot themselves away at North Corner in Plymouth;--because the modern

tar is not quite so gross as heretofore, and has shaken off some of his

shaggy jackets, and docked his Lord Rodney queue:--therefore, in the

estimation of some observers, he has begun to see the evils of his

condition, and has voluntarily improved. But upon a closer scrutiny, it

will be seen that he has but drifted along with that great tide, which,

perhaps, has two flows for one ebb; he has made no individual advance of

his own.

There are classes of men in the world, who bear the same relation to

society at large, that the wheels do to a coach: and are just as

indispensable. But however easy and delectable the springs upon which

the insiders pleasantly vibrate: however sumptuous the hammer-cloth, and

glossy the door-panels; yet, for all this, the wheels must still revolve

in dusty, or muddy revolutions. No contrivance, no sagacity can lift

them out of the mire; for upon something the coach must be bottomed; on

something the insiders must roll.

Now, sailors form one of these wheels: they go and come round the globe;

they are the true importers, and exporters of spices and silks; of

fruits and wines and marbles; they carry missionaries, embassadors,

opera-singers, armies, merchants, tourists, and scholars to their

destination: they are a bridge of boats across the Atlantic; they are

the primum mobile of all commerce; and, in short, were they to emigrate

in a body to man the navies of the moon, almost every thing would stop

here on earth except its revolution on its axis, and the orators in the

American Congress.

And yet, what are sailors? What in your heart do you think of that

fellow staggering along the dock? Do you not give him a wide berth, shun

him, and account him but little above the brutes that perish? Will you

throw open your parlors to him; invite him to dinner? or give him a

season ticket to your pew in church?--No. You will do no such thing; but

at a distance, you will perhaps subscribe a dollar or two for the

building of a hospital, to accommodate sailors already broken down; or

for the distribution of excellent books among tars who can not read. And

the very mode and manner in which such charities are made, bespeak, more

than words, the low estimation in which sailors are held. It is useless

to gainsay it; they are deemed almost the refuse and offscourings of the

earth; and the romantic view of them is principally had through

romances.

But can sailors, one of the wheels of this world, be wholly lifted up

from the mire? There seems not much chance for it, in the old systems

and programmes of the future, however well-intentioned and sincere; for

with such systems, the thought of lifting them up seems almost as

hopeless as that of growing the grape in Nova Zembla.

But we must not altogether despair for the sailor; nor need those who

toil for his good be at bottom disheartened, or Time must prove his

friend in the end; and though sometimes he would almost seem as a

neglected step-son of heaven, permitted to run on and riot out his days

with no hand to restrain him, while others are watched over and tenderly

cared for; yet we feel and we know that God is the true Father of all,

and that none of his children are without the pale of his care.