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an exceedingly untidy appearance. Such as it was, with all its faults, the auctioneer displayed it.

“You, venerable sheet-anchor-men! and you, gallant fore-top- men! and you, my fine waisters! what do you say now for this superior old jacket? Buttons and sleeves, lining and skirts, it must this day be sold without reservation. How much for it, my gallant tars of Columbia? say the word, and how much?”

“My eyes!” exclaimed a fore-top-man, “don’t that ‘ere bunch of old swabs belong to Jack Chase’s pet? Aren’t that the white jacket?” “The white jacket!” cried fifty voices in response; “the white jacket!” The cry ran fore and aft the ship like a slogan, completely overwhelming the solitary voice of my private friend Williams, while all hands gazed at it with straining eyes, wondering how it came among

the bags of deceased mariners.

“Ay, noble tars,” said the auctioneer, “you may well stare at it; you will not find another jacket like this on either side of Cape Horn, I assure you. Why, just look at it! How much, now? Give me a bid – but don’t be rash; be prudent, be prudent, men; remember your Purser’s accounts, and don’t be betrayed into extravagant bids.”

“Purser’s Steward!” cried Grummet, one of the quarter-gunners, slowly shifting his quid from one cheek to the other, like a ballaststone, “I won’t bid on that ‘ere bunch of old swabs, unless you put up ten pounds of soap with it.”

“Don’t mind that old fellow,” said the auctioneer. “How much for the jacket, my noble tars?”

“Jacket;” cried a dandy bone polisher of the gun-room. “The sailmaker was the tailor, then. How many fathoms of canvas in it, Purser’s Steward?”

“How much for this jacket?” reiterated the auctioneer, emphatically.

“Jacket, do you call it!” cried a captain of the hold.

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“Why not call it a white-washed man-of-war schooner? Look at the port-holes, to let in the air of cold nights.”

“A reg’lar herring-net,” chimed in Grummet.

“Gives me the fever nagur to look at it,” echoed a mizzen-top- man.

“Silence!” cried the auctioneer. “Start it now – start it, boys; anything you please, my fine fellows! it must be sold. Come, what ought I to have on it, now?”

“Why, Purser’s Steward,” cried a waister, “you ought to have new sleeves, a new lining, and a new body on it, afore you try to shove it off on a greenhorn.”

“What are you, ‘busin’ that ‘ere garment for?” cried an old sheet- anchor-man. “Don’t you see it’s a ‘uniform mustering jacket’ – three buttons on one side, and none on t’other?”

“Silence!” again cried the auctioneer. “How much, my sea-fenci- bles, for this superior old jacket?”

“Well,” said Grummet, “I’ll take it for cleaning-rags at one cent.” “Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Colombians.”

“Well, then,” said Grummet, all at once bursting into genuine indignation, “if you want us to say something, then heave that bunch of old swabs overboard, say I, and show us something worth looking at.”

“No one will give me a bid, then? Very good; here, shove it aside. Let’s have something else there.”

While this scene was going forward, and my white jacket was thus being abused, how my heart swelled within me! Thrice was I on the point of rushing out of my hiding-place, and bearing it off from derision; but I lingered, still flattering myself that all would be well, and the jacket find a purchaser at last. But no, alas! there was no getting rid of it, except by rolling a forty-two-pound shot in it, and committing it to the deep. But though, in my desperation, I had

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CHAPTER XLVIII

PURSER, PURSER’S STEWARD,

AND POSTMASTER

IN A MAN-OF-WAR

As the Purser’s steward so conspicuously figured at the unsuccessful auction of my jacket, it reminds me of how important a personage that official is on board of all men-of-war. He is the righthand man and confidential deputy and clerk of the Purser, who intrusts to him all his accounts with the crew, while, in most cases, he himself, snug and comfortable in his state-room, glances over a file of newspapers instead of overhauling his ledgers.

Of all the non-combatants of a man-of-war, the Purser, perhaps, stands foremost in importance. Though he is but a member of the gun-room mess, yet usage seems to assign him a conventional station somewhat above that of his equals in navy rank – the Chaplain, Surgeon, and Professor. Moreover, he is frequently to be seen in close conversation with the Commodore, who, in the Neversink, was more than once known to be slightly jocular with our Purser. Upon several occasions, also, he was called into the Commodore’s cabin, and remained closeted there for several minutes together. Nor do I remember that there ever happened a cabinet meeting of the ward-room barons, the Lieutenants, in the Commodore’s cabin, but the Purser made one of the party. Doubtless the important fact of the Purser having under his charge all the financial affairs of a man-of-war, imparts to him the great importance he enjoys.

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Indeed, we find in every government – monarchies and republics alike – that the personage at the head of the finances invariably occupies a commanding position. Thus, in point of station, the Secretary of the Treasury of the United States is deemed superior to the other heads of departments. Also, in England, the real office held by the great Premier himself is – as every one knows – that of First Lord of the Treasury.

Now, under this high functionary of state, the official known as the Purser’s Steward was head clerk of the frigate’s fiscal affairs. Upon the berth-deck he had a regular counting-room, full of ledgers, journals, and day-books. His desk was as much littered with papers as any Pearl Street merchant’s, and much time was devoted to his accounts. For hours together you would see him, through the window of his subterranean office, writing by the light of his perpetual lamp.

Ex-offi cio, the Purser’s Steward of most ships is a sort of postmaster, and his office the post-office. When the letter-bags for the squadron – almost as large as those of the United States mail – arrived on board the Neversink, it was the Purser’s Steward that sat at his little window on the berth-deck and handed you your letter or paper – if any there were to your address. Some disappointed applicants among the sailors would offer to buy the epistles of their more fortunate shipmates, while yet the seal was unbroken – maintaining that the sole and confidential reading of a fond, long, domestic letter from any man’s home, was far better than no letter at all.

In the vicinity of the office of the Purser’s Steward are the principal store-rooms of the Purser, where large quantities of goods of every description are to be found. On board of those ships where goods are permitted to be served out to the crew for the purpose of selling them ashore, to raise money, more business is transacted at the of-

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fice of a Purser’s Steward in one Liberty-day morning than all the dry goods shops in a considerable village would transact in a week.

Once a month, with undeviating regularity, this official has his hands more than usually full. For, once a month, certain printed bills, called Mess-bills, are circulated among the crew, and whatever you may want from the Purser – be it tobacco, soap, duck, dungaree, needles, thread, knives, belts, calico, ribbon, pipes, paper, pens, hats, ink, shoes, socks, or whatever it may be – down it goes on the messbill, which, being the next day returned to the office of the Steward, the “slops,” as they are called, are served out to the men and charged to their accounts.

Lucky is it for man-of-war’s-men that the outrageous impositions to which, but a very few years ago, they were subjected from the abuses in this department of the service, and the unscrupulous cupidity of many of the pursers – lucky is it for them that now these things are in a great degree done away. The Pursers, instead of being at liberty to make almost what they pleased from the sale of their wares, are now paid by regular stipends laid down by law.

Under the exploded system, the profits of some of these officers were almost incredible. In one cruise up the Mediterranean, the Purser of an American line-of-battle ship was, on good authority, said to have cleared the sum of $50,000. Upon that he quitted the service, and retired into the country. Shortly after, his three daughters – not very lovely – married extremely well.

The ideas that sailors entertain of Pursers is expressed in a rather inelegant but expressive saying of theirs: “The Purser is a conjurer; he can make a dead man chew tobacco” – insinuating that the accounts of a dead man are sometimes subjected to post-mortem charges. Among sailors, also, Pursers commonly go by the name of nip-cheeses.

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CHAPTER XLIX

RUMOURS OF A WAR,

AND HOW THEY WERE

RECEIVED

BY THE POPULATION

OF THE NEVERSINK

While lying in the harbour of Callao, in Peru, certain rumours had come to us touching a war with England, growing out of the longvexed Northeastern Boundary Question. In Rio these rumours were increased; and the probability of hostilities induced our Commodore to authorize proceedings that closely brought home to every man on board the Neversink his liability at any time to be killed at his gun.

Among other things, a number of men were detailed to pass up the rusty cannon-balls from the shot-lockers in the hold, and scrape them clean for service. The Commodore was a very neat gentleman, and would not fire a dirty shot into his foe.

It was an interesting occasion for a tranquil observer; nor was it altogether neglected. Not to recite the precise remarks made by the seamen while pitching the shot up the hatchway from hand to hand, like schoolboys playing ball ashore, it will be enough to say that, from the general drift of their discourse – jocular as it was – it was manifest that, almost to a man, they abhorred the idea of going into action.

And why should they desire a war? Would their wages be raised? Not a cent. The prize-money, though, ought to have been an inducement. But of all the “rewards of virtue,” prize-money is the most

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uncertain; and this the man-of-war’s-man knows. What, then, has he to expect from war? What but harder work, and harder usage than in peace; a wooden leg or arm; mortal wounds, and death? Enough, however, that by far the majority of the common sailors of the Neversink were plainly concerned at the prospect of war, and were plainly averse to it.

But with the officers of the quarter-deck it was just the reverse. None of them, to be sure, in my hearing at least, verbally expressed their gratification; but it was unavoidably betrayed by the increased cheerfulness of their demeanour toward each other, their frequent fraternal conferences, and their unwonted animation for several clays in issuing their orders. The voice of Mad Jack – always a belfry to hear – now resounded like that famous bell of England, Great Tom of Oxford. As for Selvagee, he wore his sword with a jaunty air, and his servant daily polished the blade.

But why this contrast between the forecastle and the quarterdeck, between the man-of-war’s-man and his officer? Because, though war would equally jeopardize the lives of both, yet, while it held out to the sailor no promise of promotion, and what is called glory, these things fired the breast of his officers.

It is no pleasing task, nor a thankful one, to dive into the souls of some men; but there are occasions when, to bring up the mud from the bottom, reveals to us on what soundings we are, on what coast we adjoin.

How were these officers to gain glory? How but by a distinguished slaughtering of their fellow-men. How were they to be promoted? How but over the buried heads of killed comrades and mess-mates.

This hostile contrast between the feelings with which the common seamen and the officers of the Neversink looked forward to this more than possible war, is one of many instances that might be quoted to show the antagonism of their interests, the incurable

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