straight spine, a chest that will expand freely, joints that will work well, eyes that will see well, a voice that will resound well, ears that will hear well, strong limbs, a distinct utterance, a healthy throat, supple hands, an arched foot, and so on. Even sound teeth and straight and supple toes are required; and all signs of old disease are a cause of rejection. Men who set out with bodily advantages like these ought to have health and long life, apart from the perils of the battle-field, which destroy a very small proportion of the soldiers who die. There is every reason for confidence that the soldier will flourish henceforth. The causes of the great mortality are detected in course of rapid removal; and, as we see, there are already places to which we can point as showing the fine state of vigour to which the soldiery of England and her dependencies can be brought.
The state having done what it can, the rest will depend on the individual soldier. If he eschews excess of every kind, and indolence, he may pass a long life in comfort and vigour. If, moreover, he has a patriotic heart, or knowledge enough to be aware what it is to be at once a citizen and a defender of Old England, he may have a life of that higher order which is seasoned with a temper of heroism, and exalted by a severe spirit of honour. There is no reason why every private soldier and sailor should not be a “Happy Warrior,” as well as a Wellington or a Nelson.
The reform in the Sailor’s condition began many years before we took the lot of the soldier to heart. There can hardly be any one now living who could speak from observation of the penalties of a long voyage in the shape of vile smells in the ship, scurvy among the men, and mortality from ship-fever. It was long ago found possible to get rid of much of the bilge-water, and to clean and dry and air the berths, and to ventilate every place below decks, and to give the crews something else to eat than invariable salt beef and biscuit; and, lastly, to carry a preventive of scurvy in the form of lemon-juice. Now that preserved vegetables are becoming common, and meats are preserved otherwise than in pickle, and that it is found easy to have fresh bread, we may fully expect that the common diet at sea may be nearly as varied as that on shore. In the American navy there are several temperance ships which carry no spirits, except some brandy among the medical stores. Coffee is substituted for grog; and I have been assured by an experienced commander in that navy; that the health of the coffee-drinking crews is of a higher quality than that of grog-drinking crews. It is with a sort of wondering disgust that we think now of the scurvy-stricken ships’ companies of old days, with nothing but hard biscuit and hard salt beef to eat, with their loose teeth and sore gums;—men actually rotting to death for want of a variety of food. We understand now what elements in food are necessary to the supply of the frame, and in what proportion they should be given; and most of these are so easily stowed, and keep so well, that there is no reason (though there is still some prejudice), in favour of the sailor going on to live on salt meat and biscuit, without any change. Part of the fault lies with Jack himself. He is an old-fashioned fellow, and sticks to old ways. Even our sickly soldiers in the Crimea had a notion that they did not like preserved vegetables, and pointed with contempt to the small dimensions of the compressed sort: but they learned their value at last, and found them a most effectual medicine and welcome luxury. So will Jack learn in time to prize several kinds of food, and modes of cookery, which will keep out scurvy; and sooner or later there will be, in ordinary cases, no more excuse for disease from faulty diet on board ship than anywhere else.
Jack likes to be clean. There are some nasty fellows in that way of life, as in every other; but, take our marine all round, the crews are above the average of men in cleanliness of person and lodging. This being the case, it is felt to be a great blessing that the chemists have given us a soap which will wash clothes clean in salt water. In old times, the crew’s linen was never thoroughly dry, and never thoroughly clean, with all the washing and drying that could be bestowed upon it. Now it is real proper washing; and this, and the constant airing of the bedding, and the careful watch kept over the damp and dirt, lengthens the life of the sailor for many years.
The remaining evils are partly due to the calling itself, and partly to Jack’s own folly.
The interrupted sleep of all seamen, from the commander to the cabin-boy, is injurious, and tends to shorten life. If it is so in the case of medical men on shore, it must be more so at sea, where it is the regular practice to take sleep in small portions, and at varying times. Two hours now, and four hours another time, and then two hours again, and seldom more than four hours at a stretch, is not a due supply for hardworking men. The plan may be the best practicable, on the whole, for the safety of the ship, and the welfare of the crew; but it cannot be called good for anybody’s brain.
I need say nothing about trying climates and vicissitudes of weather, except to observe that as so many ships’ companies have gone to the poles and round the globe, without loss of life from cold, heat, or storm, the lot of the sailor cannot be considered worse than that of other workers whose vocation is outdoor labour.
It is only in extremely long voyages that the dullness of the way of life can be complained of; and the few cases in which it might occur are met in such a generous and genial spirit by the authorities at home, and the officers on board, that the occasion causes more admiration than regret or pity. At the North Pole, or the South, in the midst of the Pacific, or when detained on remote stations for weeks or months together, amusements are introduced, as soon as there is danger of Jack’s time hanging heavy on his hands. There is music; there is dancing; there are games; moreover, there are amateur theatricals. Nobody loves the theatre better than Jack, and very well does he usually act his part upon the stage. While the affair of a play is on hand, there is no dullness among the crew. In ordinary times and short voyages, the old fashion of story-telling answers as well as ever; and it probably always will, when it is too dark on deck to read.
Jack will become a reader too, before long, in