to make further inquiries about that person, as of a common acquaintance.

Frank was particularly interested in every thing connected with naval history; I think I have heard that he had once some notion of entering the navy, but relinquished it in compliance with the wish of his mother. We staid long, and with deep, but melancholy interest, before the monuments of sir Cloudesley Shovell and admiral Kempenfeldt, while my uncle related to us the affecting loss of these two brave men and their companions. He repeated to us Cowper's beautiful verses "On the Loss of the Royal George." I do not know whether that did not rouse my spirit to enjoy poetry, as much as my uncle's anecdotes gave me a relish for English history; I could have staid all day to listen to the melancholy dirge. My uncle, however, intended taking us to Greenwich that afternoon; so we left the interesting Abbey, with feelings that were pensive, yet far remote from the weariness of indifference.

We took a boat at Westminster bridge, and gliding down the majestic stream, surveyed with admiration many of the buildings of the great metropolis; and then the trading vessels of every description, bearing into its port the commerce of the globe. Alas! we saw too (for it was during the time of the revolutionary war with France) some vessels of war preparing to go forth on the errand of destruction. It was piteous to think, that of the brave men then embarking, perhaps not one half would revisit their native shores; and that even the victory and glory for which they panted, if attained, must be purchased at the price of human misery and human blood. How would my good uncle, who

then so feelingly lamented the horrors of war, have rejoiced to see, as in the present day, British vessels go forth freighted with Bibles and missionaries, to spread over the globe those benignant principles of the gospel of peace, under the influence of which the fulfilment of prophecy is to be effected, that "nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more,' Isa. ii. 4. We could scarcely pass a vessel of any considerable size, but the old waterman who rowed us claimed her as an old acquaintance, and had some story to tell of her captain and of his gallant crew, until the appearance of the domes and colonnades of Greenwich hospital cut short one of his "long yarns."

"What a noble pile!" exclaimed Frank, as we came in front, so as to take a full view.

"Yes,"

replied my uncle, "it is one of the finest specimens of architectural magnificence that England affords ; but few of her nobles, or even her princes, possess palaces equal in splendour to this stately edifice, assigned as the tribute of national gratitude to the wounded and worn-out sailor." We landed, and surveyed every part of the building usually shown to strangers; and some to which we had access as a special privilege, my uncle having an introduction from his friend, admiral

Most of the rooms are occupied in common; but each sailor has a cabin exclusively his own. Almost every one of these bore some distinguishing mark of the individual character of the proprietor. Many had models or drawings of ships, some more neatly, and some more coarsely executed; generally the vessel in which the old seaman had the honour to sail with such or such a commander,

which was victorious in so many battles, and brought home such and such French or Spanish vessels. Some displayed the picture of a long-lost wife; some exhibited the occupant's own, taken in early life; some had a few foreign curiosities; some a grotesque tumbler, or pair of most odd nut-crackers, or perhaps a ludicrous print, or a naval ballad. In a few instances, the long-forgotten attachments of childhood had revived, and the cabin window of the veteran mariner exhibited pots or boxes of mignonette, stocks, or carnations; and in a few, the well-worn Bible, the book of devotion, or the treatise on eternity, on repentance, or faith, or the "sweet fiction and sweet truth" of the heavenly Pilgrim," indicated the spiritual taste of the inhabitant of the little domicile. Equally various were the occupations in which we saw the old pensioners engaged. Some were reading; some netting; some shaping models of vessels; some cutting notches in sticks, apparently without any design, except as a mere pastime; some sauntering about with an uncomfortable expression of countenance; and some lying on the benches, chewing tobacco.

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The gentleman who accompanied us told my uncle the particulars of their allowance, which is in every respect liberal, and amply provides for every comfort they can desire. My uncle expressed great delight with the kind and munificent arrangements, and rejoiced to think that such an asylum was provided for worn-out British seamen, in which they might comfortably and profitably pass the closing years of their mortal existence.

"I regret to say," observed our conductor, "that the old men are not in general characterized

by a cheerful, contented spirit. Those who are so, are rather the exceptions than the general standard."

"To what can this be attributed?" asked my uncle. Certainly not to any want of regard to their comfortable provision, nor to any irksome restriction or confinement. I should think, if the old men had planned their own lot, it could not have been, in every respect, more eligible."

"No; nor do I by any means accuse them of complaining. I believe almost every one of them, should you dissect the arrangements of the establishment, and present them to him one by one, would express himself satisfied with every item ; and would say that altogether he had nothing to complain of. And yet I think that most of them are strangers to that kind of satisfaction which the labouring man enjoys, when he comes, weary with his day's toil, to a home far less commodious, and a table far less liberally spread, than those of the Greenwich pensioner; but for which he depends on his own daily exertions, and which he shares with those he loves. Such a man has the stimulus of hope, fear, and contrivance, which to man, constituted as he is, forms a large portion of enjoyment. Here many of these men are unhappy, because they have nothing to do.""

"That I can easily conceive," observed my uncle. "I know that the most uncomfortable moments of my own existence, have been when obliged to remain for a time without employment. I was once, when a young man, sent by my father with his phaeton to meet a friend, who was to come by coach to a certain point in the road, three

or four miles from our house. I reached the road, as was fitting, a few minutes before the coach might be expected, and paced backwards and forwards very contentedly until it came up; but our friend was not there. Another coach would pass in half an hour, and he would probably come by that there was another coach, too, that came a different road, but would arrive at that point at the same time, and he might come by that. At all events, I must wait, and the time seemed an intolerable burden on my hands. I had not a book, nor a pencil, with which to amuse myself. I could not get down and botanize, for my father had charged me not to leave the horse a moment; nor could I even drive about, lest, losing sight of either road, I might miss the coach. It was a trivial circumstance; but it so impressed on my mind а sense of the wretchedness of having nothing to do, that since that time I have never failed to carry about my person something that would furnish me with interesting employment for leisure time, that might be unexpectedly thrown upon my hands. Two gentlemen of my acquaintance," continued my uncle, "on a tour of pleasure, were driven, by a heavy fall of snow, to seek a night's lodging at a little obscure cottage in Wales. During the night the snow continued, and by morning had risen to such a height as completely to imprison the inmates of the cottage. Retreat was impracticable, and there they were obliged to remain for several days without employment, without a book to beguile the tedious hours, without even a spade or pick-axe, with which to attempt their liberation the very toil of which would have been incomparably preferable to the wretchedness of having nothing