terranean sailor is popularly
supposed to chant snatches of opera over his fishing-nets; but, after all,
his is only a larger sort of lake, with water of a questionable saltness.
It can furnish dangerous enough storms upon occasion, and, far worse than
storms, the terrible white-squall which lies ambushed under sunny skies,
and leaps unawares upon the doomed vessel. But the Mediterranean is not
the deep sea, nor has it produced the best and boldest navigators.
Therefore, although we still seek the sources of our maritime law amid the
rock-poised huts (once palaces) of Amalfi, we must go elsewhere for our
true sea-songs.

The sailor does not lack for singing. He sings at certain parts of his
work;--indeed, he must sing, if he would work. On vessels of war, the drum
and fife or boatswain's whistle furnish the necessary movement-regulator.
There, where the strength of one or two hundred men can be applied to one
and the same effort, the labor is not intermittent, but continuous. The
men form on either side of the rope to be hauled, and walk away with it
like firemen marching with their engine. When the headmost pair bring up
at the stern or bow, they part, and the two streams flow back to the
starting-point, outside the following files. Thus in this perpetual
"follow-my-leader" way the work is done, with more precision and
steadiness than in the merchant-service. Merchant-men are invariably
manned with the least possible number, and often go to sea shorthanded,
even according to the parsimonious calculations of their owners. The only
way the heavier work can be done at all is by each man doing his utmost at
the same moment. This is regulated by the song. And here is the true
singing of the deep sea. It is not recreation; it is an essential part of
the work. It mastheads the topsail-yards, on making sail; it starts the
anchor from the domestic or foreign mud; it "rides down the main tack with
a will"; it breaks out and takes on board cargo; it keeps the pumps (the
ship's,--not the sailor's) going. A good voice and a new and stirring
chorus are worth an extra man. And there is plenty of need of both.

I remember well one black night in the mid-Atlantic, when we were beating
up against a stiff breeze, coming on deck near midnight, just as the ship
was put about. When a ship is tacking, the tacks and sheets (ropes which
confine the clews or lower corners of the sails) are let run, in order
that the yards may be swung round to