man-o'-war was too often literally a floating pandemonium. He makes
landsmen believe that Jack is the happiest, most enviable fellow in
the world: storms and battles are mere pastime; lopped limbs and
wounds are nothing more than jokes; there is the flowing can to
'sweethearts and wives' every Saturday night; and whenever the ship
comes to port, the crew have guineas galore to spend on lasses and
fiddles. In fine, both at sea and ashore, according to his theory,
jolly Jack has little to do but make love, sing, dance, and
drink--grog being 'his sheet-anchor, his compass, his cable, his log;'
and in the _True British Sailor_, we are told that 'Jack is always
content.' Now, Jack knows very well this is all 'long-shore palaver,
and he gives a shy hail to such palpable lime-twigs. 'Let the
land-lubbers sing it!' thinks he; 'I'll none on't!'

Dibdin takes the first sip of his _Flowing Can_ with the ominous
line--

'A sailor's life's a life of wo!'

But what follows?--

'Why, then, he takes it cheerily!'

A pleasant philosophy this; but we happen to know that sailors do
_not_ take cheerily to 'a life of wo'--they would be more than men if
they did. He talks coolly about times at sea when 'no duty calls the
gallant tars.' We should very much like to know on board what 'old
barkey,' and in what latitude and longitude, this phenomenon happened,
and would have no particular objection to sign articles for a voyage
in such a Ph[oe]nix of a ship; for in all the vessels we ever were