have a look at the lovely scenery!' We are then relieved at the wheel,
and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed
oblivion.

We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and
are fast asleep in a minute. But we have not been an hour in the Land
of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the
forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls:
'All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops'ls!' Out we bundle, and
grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog's mouth),
get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck. We find the weather and
sea altered much for the worse, and the Old Man (captain) himself on
the quarter-deck, giving orders to the mates, who are tearing about,
bawling and swearing like demons; while the 'idlers'--that is to say,
the carpenter, steward, cook, and boys, who keep no regular
watch--have all been roused up, to bear a hand, and 'pull their
pound.' Halliards are let go, reef-tackles hauled chock-a-block, and
we lay aloft helter-skelter, best man up first, and bend over the
yard, till the weather-earing is secured; and then comes the welcome
cry: 'Haul to leeward!' It is done, and then we all 'knot-away' with
the reef-points. The reef having been taken (or two, perchance), we
shin down again to mast-head the topsails, and get all in sailing
trim. A grog is now served out, and we go below, to sleep out the rest
of our four hours, one of which we have been deprived of by this
reefing job. Sometimes it happens, however, that we lose three, or all
four, when there is absolute necessity for all hands on deck.

Here, we pause a moment, to say a word on the serving of grog--a
composition of rum and water. The use of this stuff is of old date in
the navy, and would seem to be considered essential to navigation. In