low Jack,
and the palisades, merely because the captain wished to go and see why
the niggers did not make quite so much sugar and rum as they used to do.
But, after all, we had a sage ship's company, officers included, for
there was scarcely a man in the ship, who, after our destination was
ascertained, did not say, "Well, I thought as much;" and they derived
much consolation from the consciousness of their foresight.

The knowledge of our station had a most decided effect upon two of our
officers, the master and surgeon; the former of whom, a weather-beaten,
old north-countryman, who had been all his life knocking about the north
sea, and our channels at home, immediately gave himself up for lost. He
made his will, and took a decidedly serious turn.

But there was another person, who viewed the West India station not
religiously like our master, or joyously like our captain, or
grumblingly like the marine officer, or despitefully like all the
lieutenants, or detestedly like my messmates, or indifferently like
myself. He took the matter into consideration discreetly, and so, in
order to enjoy a long life, he incontinently fell sick unto death. Of
course he knew, more than any man on board, how ill he was, for he was
the doctor himself. He was not merely a naval surgeon, but a regular
M.D., and with an English diploma. He could appreciate, as much as any
man, the value of life; and hard indeed did he struggle to preserve the
means of prolonging it. He was a short, round, and very corpulent
person, with a monstrously large and pleasantly-looking face, with a
very high colour--a colour not the flush of intemperance, but the glow
of genuine health. This vast physiognomy was dug all over with holes;
not merely pock-marks, but pock-pits. Indeed, his countenance put you
in mind of a vast tract of gravelly soil on a sunny day, dug over with
holes; it was so red, so cavernous, and withal, so bright. I need not
mention that he was a _bon vivant_, a most joyous, yet a most discreet
one. Even on board of ship he contrived to make his breakfasts dinners,
his dinners feasts, and his suppers, though light delicacies. He was no
mean proficient in the culinary art, and as refined a gourmand as the
dear departed Dr Kitchener--a man, to whose honour I have a great mind
to devote an episode, and would do so, were not my poor shipmate, Dr
Thompson, just now waiting for me to relieve him from his illness.

No sooner did our clev