After running a few days before a fair wind, the delightful cry of “Land ho!” was heard from the mast-head; a cry always pleasant to the inhabitant of a ship, but most especially so when the distant hills are those of his native land. Soon after the cry of the man aloft, the land became dimly visible from the deck, and our eyes glistened, as the bright, emerald fields of old England, in all the glory of their summer beauty, lay spread out before us. Ascending the British Channel, we soon made the spacious harbor of Plymouth, where we came to an anchor. One of our convoy, however, by some unskilful management, ran ashore at the mouth of the harbor, where she went to pieces.  
We found Plymouth to be a naval station of considerable importance, well fortified, possessing extensive barracks for the accommodation of the military, and having a magnificent dock-yard, abundantly supplied with the means of building and refitting the wooden walls.
 
Nothing would have afforded me a higher gratification, than a trip to the pleasant fields and quiet hearth-sides of dear old Bladen. I longed to pour out my pent-up griefs into the bosom of my mother, and to find that sympathy which is sought in vain in the cold, unfeeling world. This privilege was, however, denied to all. No one could obtain either leave of absence or money, since a man of war is never “paid off” until just before she proceeds to sea. But, feeling heartily tired of the service, I wrote to my mother, requesting her to endeavor to procure my discharge. This, with the promptitude of maternal affection, she pledged herself to do at the earliest possible opportunity. How undying is a mother’s love!
 
 
When a man of war is in port, it is usual to grant the crew occasional liberty to go on shore. These indulgences are almost invariably abused for purposes of riot, drunkenness and debauchery; rarely does it happen, but that these shore sprees end in bringing “poor Jack” into difficulty of some sort; for, once on shore, he is like an uncaged bird, as gay and quite as thoughtless. He will then follow out the dictates of passions and appetites, let them lead him whither they may. Still, there are exceptions; there are a few who spend their time more rationally. Were the principles of modern temperance fully triumphant among sailors, they would all do so.
 
I resolved not to abuse my liberty as I saw others doing; so when, one fine Sabbath morning, I had obtained leave from our surly first lieutenant, I chose the company of a brother to a messmate, named Rowe, who lived at Plymouth. At the request of my messmate, I called to see him. He received me very kindly, and took me in company with his children into the fields, where the merry notes of the numerous birds, the rich perfume of the blooming trees, the tall, green hedges, and the modest primroses, cowslips and violets, which adorned the banks on the road-side, filled me with inexpressible delight. True, this was not the proper manner of spending a Sabbath day, but it was better than it would have been to follow the example of my shipmates generally, who were carousing in the tap-rooms of the public houses.
 
At sunset I went on board and walked aft to the lieutenant, to report myself. He appeared surprised to see me on board so early and so perfectly sober, and jocosely asked me why I did not get drunk and be like a sailor. Merely smiling, I retired to my berth, thinking it was very queer for an officer to laugh at a boy for doing right, and feeling happy within myself because I had escaped temptation.
 
By and by, three other boys, who had been ashore, returned, in a state which a sailor would call “three sheets in the wind.” They blustered, boasted of the high time they had enjoyed, and roundly laughed at me for being so unlike a man-of-war’s-man; while they felt as big as any man on board. The next morning, however, they looked rather chop-fallen, when the captain, who had accidentally seen their drunken follies on shore, ordered them to be flogged, and forbade their masters to send them ashore while we remained at Plymouth. Now, then, it was pretty evident who had the best cruise; the joke was on the other side; for while their drunken behavior cost them a terrible whipping and a loss of liberty, my temperance gained me the real approbation of my officers, and more liberty than ever, since after that day I had to go on shore to do errands for their masters, as well as for my own. The young sailor may learn from this fact the benefit of temperance, and the folly of getting drunk, for the sake of being called a fine fellow.
 
My frequent visits to the shore gave me many opportunities to run away; while my dislike of everything about the Macedonian inspired me with the disposition to improve them. Against this measure my judgment wisely remonstrated, and, happily for my well being, succeeded. Such an attempt would inevitably have been followed by my recovery, since a handsome bounty was paid for the delivery of every runaway. There are always a sufficient number to be found who will engage in pursuit for the sake of money—such men as the Canadian landlord, described by Rev. Wm. Lighton, in his interesting narrative, a work with which, no doubt, most of my readers are acquainted, since it has enjoyed an immense circulation. Endurance, therefore, was the only rational purpose I could form.
 
Perhaps the hope of a speedy discharge, through my mother’s efforts, tended somewhat to this result in my case; besides, my situation had become somewhat more tolerable from the fact, that by dint of perseverance in a civil and respectful behavior, I had gained the good will both of the officers and crew. Yet, with this advantage, it was a miserable situation.
 
There are few worse places than a man of war, for the favorable development of the moral character in a boy. Profanity, in its most revolting aspect; licentiousness, in its most shameful and beastly garb; vice, in the worst of its Proteus-like shapes, abound there. While scarcely a moral restraint is thrown round the victim, the meshes of temptation are spread about his path in every direction. Bad as things are at sea, they are worse in port. There, boat-loads of defiled and defiling women are permitted to come alongside; the men, looking over the side, select whoever best pleases his lustful fancy, and by paying her fare, he is allowed to take and keep her on board as his paramour, until the ship is once more ordered to sea. Many of these lost, unfortunate creatures are in the springtime of life, some of them are not without pretensions to beauty. The ports of Plymouth and Portsmouth are crowded with these fallen beings. How can a boy be expected to escape pollution, surrounded by such works of darkness? Yet, some parents send their children to sea because they are ungovernable ashore! Better send them to the house of correction.
 
There is one aspect in which life at sea and life in port materially differ. At sea, a sense of danger, an idea of insecurity, is ever present to the mind; in harbor, a sense of security lulls the sailor into indulgence. He feels perfectly safe. Yet, even in harbor, danger sometimes visits the fated ship, stealing upon her like the spirit of evil. This remark was fearfully illustrated in the loss of the Royal George, which sunk at Spithead, near Portsmouth, on the 29th of August, 1782.
 
This splendid line of battle ship of one hundred and eight guns, had arrived at Spithead. Needing some repairs, she was “heeled down,” or inclined on one side, to allow the workmen to work on her sides. Finding more needed to be done to the copper sheathing than was expected, the sailors were induced to heel her too much. While in this state, she was struck by a slight squall; the cannon rolled over to the depressed side; her ports were open, she filled with water, and sunk to the bottom!
 
This dreadful catastrophe occurred about ten o’clock in the morning. The brave Admiral Kempenfeldt was writing in his cabin; most of the crew, together with some three hundred women, were between decks: these nearly all perished. Captain Waghorn, her commander, was saved; his son, one of her lieutenants, was lost. Those who were on the upper deck were picked up by the boats of the fleet, but nearly one thousand souls met with a sudden and untimely end. The poet Cowper has celebrated this melancholy event in the following beautiful lines:
 
Toll for the brave!
The brave that are no more!
All sunk beneath the wave,
Fast by their native shore.
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,
Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
Down went the Royal George,
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave—
Brave Kempenfeldt is gone,
His last sea fight is fought—
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfeldt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes!
And mingle with our cup
The tear that England owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again,
Full charged with England’s thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfeldt is gone,
His victories are o’er;
And he, and his eight hundred,
Shall plough the wave no more.
To return to my narrative: Our ship, having been at sea two years, needed overhauling. She was therefore taken into one of the splendid dry docks in the Plymouth dock-yard, while the crew were placed, for the time being, on board an old hulk. A week or two sufficed for this task, when we returned to our old quarters. She looked like a new ship, having been gaily painted within and without. We, too, soon got newly rigged; for orders had reached us from the Admiralty office to prepare for sea, and we were paid off. Most of the men laid out part of their money in getting new clothing; some of it went to buy pictures, looking-glasses, crockery ware, &c., to ornament our berths, so that they bore some resemblance to a cabin. The women were ordered ashore, and we were once more ready for sea.
 
The practice of paying seamen at long intervals, is the source of many evils. Among these, is the opportunity given to pursers to practise extortion on the men—an opportunity they are not slow in improving. The spendthrift habits of most sailors leave them with a barely sufficient quantity of clothing, for present purposes, when they ship. If the cruise is long, they are, consequently, obliged to draw from the purser. This gentleman is ever ready to supply them, but at ruinous prices. Poor articles with high prices are to be found in his hands; these poor Jack must take of necessity, because he cannot get his wages until he is paid off. Hence, what with poor articles, high charges and false charges, the purser almost always has a claim which makes Jack’s actual receipts for two or three years’ service, wofully small. Were he paid at stated periods, he could make his own purchases as he needed them. The sailor is aware of this evil, but he only shows his apprehension of it in his usually good-humored manner. If he sees a poor, ill-cut garment, he will laugh, and say it “looks like a purser’s shirt on a handspike.” These are small matters, but they go to make up the sum total of a seaman’s life, and should therefore be remedied as far as possible.
 
Our preparations all completed, the hoarse voice of the boatswain rang through the ship, crying, “All hands up anchor, ahoy!” In a trice, the capstan bars were shipped, the fifer was at his station playing a lively tune, the boys were on the main deck holding on to the “nippers,” ready to pass them to the men, who put them round the “messenger” and cable; then, amid the cries of “Walk round! heave away, my lads!” accompanied by the shrill music of the fife, the anchor rose from its bed, and was soon dangling under our bows. The sails were then shaken out, the ship brought before the wind, and we were once more on our way to sea. We were directed to cruise off the coast of France this time; where, as we were then at war with the French, we were likely to find active service.
 
We first made the French port of Rochelle; from thence, we sailed to Brest, which was closely blockaded by a large British fleet, consisting of one three-decker, with several seventy-fours, besides frigates and small craft. We joined this fleet, and came to an anchor in Basque Roads, to assist in the blockade. Our first object was to bring a large French fleet, greatly superior to us in size and numbers, to an engagement. With all our manœuvring, we could not succeed in enticing them from their snug berth in the harbor of Brest, where they were safely moored, defended by a heavy fort, and by a chain crossing the harbor, to prevent the ingress of any force that might be bold enough to attempt to cut them out. Sometimes we sent a frigate or two as near their fort as they dared to venture, in order to entice them out; at other times, the whole fleet would get under weigh and stand out to sea; but without success. The Frenchmen were either afraid we had a larger armament than was visible to them, or they had not forgotten the splendid victories of Nelson at the Nile and Trafalgar. Whatever they thought, they kept their ships beyond the reach of our guns. Sometimes, however, their frigates would creep outside the forts, when we gave them chase, but seldom went beyond the exchange of a few harmless shots. This was what our men called “boy’s play;” and they were heartily glad when we were ordered to return to Plymouth.
 
After just looking into Plymouth harbor, our orders were countermanded, and we returned to the coast of France. Having accomplished about one half the distance, the man at the mast-head cried out, “Sail ho!”
 
“Where away?” (what direction?) responded the officer of the deck. The man having replied, the officer again asked, “What does she look like?”
 
“She looks small; I cannot tell, sir.”
 
In a few minutes the officer hailed again, by shouting, “Mast-head, there! what does she look like?”
 
“She looks like a small sail-boat, sir.”
 
This was rather a novel announcement; for what could a small sail-boat do out on the wide ocean? But a few minutes convinced us that it was even so; for, from the deck, we could see a small boat, with only a man and a boy on board. They proved to be two French prisoners of war, who had escaped from an English prison, and, having stolen a small boat, were endeavoring to make this perilous voyage to their native home. Poor fellows! they looked sadly disappointed at finding themselves once more in British hands. They had already been in prison for some time; they were now doomed to go with us, in sight of their own sunny France, and then be torn away again, carried to England, and imprisoned until the close of the war. No wonder they looked sorrowful, when, after having hazarded life for home and liberty, they found both snatched from them in a moment, by their unlucky rencontre with our frigate. I am sure we should all have been glad to have missed them. But this is only one of the consequences of war.
 
Having joined the blockading fleet again, we led the same sort of life as before: now at anchor, then giving chase; now standing in shore, and anon standing out to sea; firing, and being fired at, without once coming into action.
 
Determined to accomplish some exploit or other, our captain ordered an attempt to be made at cutting out some of the French small craft that lay in shore. We were accustomed to send out our barges almost every night, in search of whatever prey they might capture. But on this occasion the preparations were more formidable than usual. The oars were muffled; the boat’s crew increased, and every man was armed to the teeth. The cots were got ready on board, in case any of the adventurers should return wounded. Cots are used to sleep in by ward-room officers and captains; midshipmen and sailors using hammocks. But a number of cots are always kept in a vessel of war, for the benefit of wounded men; they differ from a hammock, in being square at the bottom, and consequently more easy. The service on which the barge was sent being extremely dangerous, the cots were got ready to receive the wounded, should there be any; but notwithstanding these expressive preparations, the brave fellows went off in as fine spirits as if they had been going on shore for a drunken spree. Such is the contempt of danger that prevails among sailors.
 
We had no tidings of this adventure until morning, when I was startled by hearing three cheers from the watch on deck; these were answered by three more from a party that seemed approaching us. I ran on deck just as our men came alongside with their bloodless prize—a lugger, laden with French brandy, wine and Castile soap. They had made this capture without difficulty; for the crew of the lugger made their escape in a boat, on the first intimation of danger. As this was our first prize, we christened her the Young Macedonian. She was sent to the admiral; but what became of her, I never heard.
 
Before sending her away, however, the officers, having a peculiar itching for some of the brandy, took the liberty of replenishing their empty bottles from the hold. This, with true aristocratic liberality, they kept to themselves, without offering the smallest portion to the crew. Some of them showed, by their conduct afterwards, that this brandy possessed considerable strength. We had no further opportunity to signalize either ourselves or our frigate by our heroism at Brest; for we were soon after ordered back to Plymouth, where, for a short time, we lay at our old anchorage ground.