LIFE IN THE EAST INDIES.

"It is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land."—Byron.
"And, oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,
It is this, it is this."—Thomas Moore.

The East Indies is a name generally applied to the archipelago lying S.E. of Asia, containing the islands of Sumatra, Java, Borneo, Celebes and others. It was visited by voyagers from the Western World in the 16th century, and since that time Portuguese, Dutch, English and French have controlled parts of its domain.

I wish I could affect the reader's imagination as my own senses were impressed, when, after the stormy night, in which we barely escaped shipwreck, we sailed in the early morning along the shores of Java, an island so beautiful in its aspect, so luxuriant in its productions, and so delightful in its varied climates, as to have been claimed by many as the veritable locality of the Garden of Eden. As we sail along, monkeys chatter at us from the trees and rocks that girt the shore; bright plumaged birds are seen on the wing, and the dewy air floats off to us so loaded with odors suggestive of delicious fruits, that one instinctively opens his mouth to devour it. This makes plain an idiom of the Malay language. "To take a walk" is expressed in that tongue by words meaning to eat the air. I can hardly recommend this chamelion diet as a staple food, but it is most excellent for dessert.

Sailing up the Straits of Sunda, the waters attract the notice by the curiosities floated on their surface. Cuttlefish bones, such as our canaries use, cocoanuts, a great variety of fruits and leaves, and even floating rocks, which are found to be pumice stone, pass the vessel in continued procession. Besides these an evidence of civilization is usually noticed in the form of square-faced gin bottles, for these abound in the neighborhood of the Dutch settlements.

At Anjer, a little village nestled among dense foliage, "bumboats" come off to supply the ships with fruits and provisions. One of these making fast to a vessel, a man climbs up on deck, dressed in jacket and pants of striped red and yellow cotton and introduces himself as Paul Jones; but if he visits an English ship he, perhaps, knows enough to select a name less offensive in its allusions. This boat contains yams (the eastern substitute for potatoes), cocoanuts, bananas, fowls, shells, Java sparrows, and always monkeys. A sailor sometimes sets these last loose, and they escape on board the ship and retain their liberty. The last time I passed Anjer homeward bound, my previous experience with monkeys led me to send word to the crew that they might buy as many monkeys as they wished, but I should charge $10 for each one's passage to New York. The consequence was that no monkeys were bought; but after getting to sea, I found the crew had invested in squirrels, which had the art of taking very long leaps through the air, so that one was often startled by hearing a whiz, and feeling an animal alight on the back of the neck. I resolved that in future squirrels should also be excluded from the free passengers' list.

Rounding St. Nicholas Point into the Java Sea, we sail among small islands, each a perfect gem of landscape beauty. All have read of the formation of these coral islands; how the little insects rear the structure and die at the water's surface when their work is done. Then the drift of the sea collects upon the coral, earth slowly accumulates; cocoanuts are washed up, and taking root, send up the tall palm-trees; finally, the whole island becomes a mass of luxuriant verdure. A glistening white sand beach surrounds it, and at a little distance it is encircled with a wreath of foam, as the sea ceaselessly breaks over the surrounding reef. These are the jewels of the eastern seas—the emerald brooch with silver setting, fastened upon the bosom of the deep.

Anchoring in Batavia harbor, native boatmen row us ashore, giving monotonous grunts as they ply their oars; and pulling up a long canal, we land at the "boom," or Custom House. A carriage is secured, a sort of barouche, having four wheels, and one seat with projecting hood. A driver sits on the box, wearing a loose bright-colored frock, his head covered with an enormous gilt hat, in shape like an inverted wash-bowl. Two ponies are attached to the carriage; the driver cracks his whip and beats them to enforce a start, but in vain. This carriage, in the Malay tongue, is called a "crÉtur," but an Irishman would certainly apply that term to the horses, for of all created animals, donkeys not excepted, these East Indian horses are the most erratic and unaccountable in their movements. In this case an appeal to the bystanders brings a crowd to push the vehicle ahead, until the ponies, through fear of being run over, decide to get out of the way, and start off upon a gallop, which is maintained till the destination is reached; unless they should happen to stop suddenly, stand on their heads and kick their heels at the driver's wash-bowl hat; or else, turning at right angles, dash off the road into a hedge. I was once driving in Penang, in the Straits of Malacca, with a gentleman, in an American buggy drawn by a Sumatra pony; a horse passing at a gallop infuriated the animal, and he rushed at his utmost speed along a smooth, wide road. At its sides were ravines fifteen or twenty feet deep, at the bottom of which ran streams of water. No obstruction was in sight save a solitary buffalo cart on the left hand side of the road; and because that was the only point where he could not have the freedom of the whole road, there that pony deemed the path of duty to lie. As he approached the cart he bolted off to that side of the road, tottered a moment on the edge of the bank, and over it we went. Flying through the air, I struck my head on the opposite side of the ravine, and rolled down into the stream under the pony, who looked as though he wished he hadn't done it. Some natives helped me up into the road, and when I appeared on board ship the next morning with my bruised and battered face and soiled clothing, the sailors cast suspicious glances, and I learned afterwards, were quite elated at having detected their moralizing captain in the indulgence of a night-long spree with such results. This injury to my reputation may account for my prejudice against East India ponies; but now that I have given them a bad name I have had my revenge. It must be admitted that they are indispensable to comfort, with all their ills, for the fierce tropical sun forbids noon-day walking, and some covered conveyance is an essential of life in the East; so, in China, each person has his sedan chair carried by two coolies; in the Straits' Settlements, his one-horse gharry, and in the Dutch places his crÉtur. Some security is given against the waywardness of the ponies by the frequent practice of building embankments at the sides of the roads; and some escape their dangers by using good horses from Australia, or, occasionally, fine Arab steeds.

The hotel at which we arrive is a two-story building, and in the rear extend lines of one-storied structures, with wide walks covered by verandahs, upon which the rooms all open. Upon my first arrival at this hotel I entered the office, but saw no person there, unless Mr. Darwin's friends should insist that I applied that term to a large monkey, who was seated upon the table engaged in pouring the contents of a capacious inkstand upon the open pages of the hotel register. My presence ended this evidence of a dawning fondness and aptitude for the fine arts.

Allow me to describe a day's life as a sample of the mode of existence among the foreign residents. In the morning one is awakened by a servant entering the room with a cup of tea; looking out upon the verandah, another servant may be seen engaged in cleaning the shoes. He plucks a flower from a plant close at hand, rubs it over the shoe and then applies the polishing brush, with brilliant effect. This is called the shoe-plant; and nature makes another appropriate arrangement in producing the soap tree, with the fruit of which the hands may be cleansed. Seizing the towels, one next proceeds, in his sleeping costume, across the court yard to the bath house; this is a room paved with tiles, containing a large tank of water. The mode of bathing is that practised by the natives. Standing alongside the tank the person dips out water in a small bucket and pours it on the head. This becomes a very favorite method of performing ablution. Returning to the room, the sleeping costume is laid aside for the habiliments of the day; but it demands a description, for few things are more peculiar or essential to a comfortable life in the East. It consists of loose trousers, called pajamas, and a jacket, called bajou. The pajamas are made of colored calico, the more brilliant in color and startling in pattern the better. They are gathered about the waist with a string. The bajou is of white calico, buttons closely about the throat and reaches to the hips. This dress is worn not only at night, but whenever in the day one is free from business or society. The first morning I spent in Java I encountered a lady robed in white. I averted my eyes, but saw another lady approaching, and then another; and finding them unconcerned, I gained assurance enough to inspect their costume. I learned that in the Dutch settlements in the East Indies ladies adopt a dress corresponding somewhat to that of the native women, which they wear during the heat of the day, and only appear in European costume in the evening. This dress consists of the "sarong," or loose skirt of colored calico reaching to the ankles, and the "cobaiya," a white sack descending to the knees. Sandals are worn, but no stockings. The first impression upon the masculine beholder is not pleasant. It seems a decidedly slipshod attire; but we soon become accustomed to it, and admire, at least, the good sense that leads to the consideration of comfort, rather than fashionable appearance.

After the bath the gentleman dresses for the day, either all in white or with a loose black sack coat. Breakfast is served, consisting of broiled fowl, eggs, fruits, &c., and at about ten o'clock the carriage takes him to his office. Between twelve and one a lunch is served on the business premises, the chief item of which is curry. This demands description. We have all seen bottled curry powder, but what is used on the spot is made fresh every day. The ingredients are ground upon a stone and mixed together. The meat of a cocoanut is grated, moistened with water and squeezed by the hand over the curry powder. Into this, prawns, or bits of fowl or meat, are placed and the dish is ready. Rice is first taken upon the plate and curry is added. A tray is handed containing a dozen little plates, each holding some kind of peppers, pickles, spices or chutney, and one is supposed to take a little of each, or else to make a judicious selection. A dried fish, called a Bombay duck, is broken up over the pile and more meat or fowl may be added, or else some fricadel, a delightful compound of bread, eggs and minced fowl. Finally all is thoroughly mixed together and eaten with the aid of a spoon or fork. This tastes better than it, probably, sounds to the reader's ears, and there is no recollection of the East more suggestive and fascinating to a former resident than the curry. It seems strange, however, that in such warm climates nature should crave such heating and stimulating food.

If it is not steamer-day, the gentleman will probably drive home at about four o'clock; the pajamas and bajou are donned, a book or short nap occupy an hour; another bath is taken, and the evening dress is assumed, which usually will be of white, with a short jacket, such as is worn by waiters in our hotels. A walk or drive is taken in the cool of the evening, ladies and gentlemen appearing without headdress or hats; or if hats are worn, they are light articles, made of cork or pith, with good ventilation. They meet where the band may be playing, or drive along the charming suburbs, or saunter to the club-house. Between seven and eight they sit down to dinner, and get up at some indefinite period between nine and day-light. The men smoke their cigars between the courses, drink liquors throughout the meal, and afterwards take a night-cap of brandy and water. They retire finally to beds covered with rattan mats, and devoid of bedclothes. A lamp remains lighted all night in the room, and consists of a glass tumbler half full of water, with cocoanut oil poured in, and a small wick floated on top in the centre. This is the lamp of the East.

The houses of the foreign residents are one-story structures, raised a few feet from the ground, built of brick or stone, covered with plaster and whitewashed. A broad flight of steps leads to a wide verandah, which is supplied with furniture, especially easy chairs of luxurious model, and this place is the sitting-room and reception hall of the family. Within are parlor and bedrooms, and at the back of the house is another verandah, generally used as a dining-room. One who takes an evening's walk, and as he passes each house, looks through the dark foliage at the brilliantly lighted verandah, with its family and social groups, will get a series of most enchanting tableaux. When the residents wish to be "not at home," they darken the front verandah and get further into their houses, so callers are spared useless inquiries. In the rear of the house, the servants' lodgings, kitchen and bath-house are placed. The kitchens are a novelty. A raised platform runs the length of the building, and on top of it, or in arches near the top, several fires are built as needed, one for each dish to be prepared. There is no chimney; the smoke not absorbed by the food, escapes through the doors. The servants are numerous, and each has his separate sphere. There is no "maid of all work" in the East. Every person has his "boy," who hovers about him in all his waking hours, and cares for him much as a nurse for a child. The boy is called for every trivial service, and I have heard the master shout repeatedly for the "suppada," as servants are called, and when he came running breathless from the rear of the house, he was ordered to move a chair that stood a few yards off, in order that the luxurious master could put his feet on it.

The vegetation of the East impresses the traveller with its luxuriant growth and beauty of form and color. There is no "Fall;" all is evergreen. The cocoanut trees abound, perhaps, most commonly. The form of its straight stem, with branches spreading from the top, and the fruit nestling at the summit, are familiar to all. It is interesting to see the natives climb these tall trunks to gather the cocoanuts. Sometimes they ascend by stepping upon notches cut in the tree, and at others they put a loop of rope around both ankles, and seize another loop with both hands, their arms encircling the tree; then alternately grasping the trunk with feet and hands they ascend swiftly, and soon the thump of the nuts on the ground is heard. Picking up a green one, and cutting a hole, you may obtain a delicious drink of sweet water. The "flame tree" attracts especial notice in Batavia. Its lower leaves are of a dark green, and grow gradually lighter until at the top they are straw-colored, forming a pyramid of light. Outside the limits of the town one comes to the jungle, which may thus be described, partly in another's words: Imagine a forest of gigantic trees standing together almost like the stalks in a wheat field. They are smooth and branchless for four-fifths of their height, and then spreading out, interlacing, form a complete canopy. Then a growth of shorter trees springs up, winding their branches in and out among the trunks; then comes a growth of ferns, palms and plants, and finally, the whole mass is woven together by a network of creepers and parasites, from the slender rattan to the vine as thick as a man's body. In the elbows of the trees are many orchidaceous plants thriving on the air and sending down their shoots into the network below. This jungle is absolutely impenetrable by man, but the tiger roams through it, and lurks on its border for the unwary passer-by. Beyond the jungle may be seen the "Paddy-fields," the light green color of the growing rice, pleasing the eye in contrast with the copper-colored beeches and the purple mountains beyond the plain. The graceful bamboo waves in every direction, and gains respect as being the most useful growth of the East, though botanists term it only a grass. Its uses are innumerable; but two extremes may be mentioned. With it the natives build their houses and beat their children. The tropical fruits require a word of mention. There is the durian, the favorite of the natives, smelling, it is said, like a dead elephant, and tasting, to my palate, like a mixture of nuts and onions. The mangosteen, the choicest of fruits; the delicious mango, the pummalow, rambutan, ducoe, and banana,—all awaken pleasant memories as the favorites of the table.

The natives are short, homely and copper-colored, or, as they like to describe themselves, "the color of gold." The men dress in jacket and pants, with the sarong wrapped about the waist, or hung loosely from the shoulders. The women wear the sarong and cobaiya previously described, and their general appearance so much resembles that of men, that it is sometimes difficult for an impartial eye to distinguish the sexes. The teeth are filed and stained black from chewing the betel nut, as it is deemed unbecoming to have "white teeth like a dog." The houses are of bamboo, covered with a thatched roof, and mounted on posts, and the front-door steps consist of a ladder. The food is chiefly rice; but if report is true many revolting creatures are devoured, and worms and white ants are occasionally taken "as a relish." The buffalo is a member of society that deserves notice. A hump on his back serves to hold the yoke, and he is driven by a string tied to a ring of rattan passed through the nose. After work they delight to stand in the river or canal, and with only their heads above water, enjoy a cooling off. The Dutch Government requires every native, who walks after dark, to carry a torch. This is composed of stems from the cocoanut tree, and is fanned into flame as the holder hears an approaching footstep. They vie with the fireflies in making the night attractive.

Many customs are striking to the visitor. The woman walks in front of the man, so that she may regulate the pace as she desires, a refinement we might copy. After marriage the husband goes to the bride's home and resides. A man leaves his property to his nephews and nieces, not to his own children, for he casts a slur upon female virtue by saying: "A man may be sure his sister's children are of his own blood, but who knows that his own are?"

Descriptions of life so luxurious as that of the East Indies may seem attractive and fascinating to dwellers in the harsh, northern climes; but there are compensations. The enervated East Indian resident sighs for the cold winter, the bracing sleigh ride, the animating change of seasons, cultivated society, the intellectual stimulus of scientific investigation and literary criticism, and though myself partial to the East in many respects, I would say with England's poet:

"Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay."

In six days the cargo destined for Batavia was landed, and on a Saturday the vessel cleared for Singapore. The wind was ahead and it was a difficult and dangerous task to work out among the many shoals that lie in the harbor. No pilot could be obtained, and every one advised me to wait till Sunday morning, and start with the fair breeze that was sure to blow in its early hours. I had scruples about sailing on Sunday if it could be avoided, yet feared censure if I detained the vessel, so I resolved to make a start. We got under way, shot between the shoals and cleared the shipping in safety. We passed our Sunday quietly sailing across the Java Sea with the fresh N.W. Monsoon.

We had the task before us of beating up the Carimata Passage against a head monsoon and an opposing current. It was a difficult undertaking, often requiring weeks of fruitless labor, and a month was allotted for the passage to Singapore by our friends in Batavia. On a previous voyage I had found a disadvantage in having the crew engaged in work, which sometimes prevented prompt attention to the manoeuvering of the vessel, indeed I considered once that I lost a day or two by being prevented from tacking ship at the moment desired. Now I gave orders that no jobs on the rigging, that were unnecessary, should be undertaken, but that the crew should be kept standing by to work ship. This then received sole attention. The sails were always trimmed, the yards braced, and with every favoring variation of wind we tacked and retacked, fighting our way with incessant vigilance by day and night, slowly gaining ahead in spite of the opposing forces. We steered by rocks and shoals, shot through the narrow Panambanga Channel off the west coast of Borneo, and then, with a steady beat through the Southern China Sea, we gained the Singapore Strait, and anchored in the harbor of Singapore eleven days and a half from Batavia. This was an exciting passage. Sailing night and day in those narrow waters occasioned a great tension of nerves and limited the opportunities for sleep. One night in particular remains in vivid remembrance, when near dangerous shoals, out of sight of land, and uncertain where the current might have drifted us, the hours of anxiety seemed like years, and in the morning I looked in the glass with a half-serious apprehension lest my hair had turned grey, according to stories we read of such effects being produced by strong emotions. But there were pleasant days, when gliding slowly by the evergreen islands, through the smooth blue waters full of minute objects of interest, with distant mountain ranges to rest the eye upon, life seemed as full of romantic enjoyment as the imaginations of fabled story.

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The midnight catastrophe.

Upon arrival at Singapore my first indulgence was in a good all-night's sleep in bed, which one learns to appreciate after days and nights on deck.

On one of the few occasions during this passage, when I had an opportunity to catch a nap on the cabin sofa at night, I was greatly alarmed by being aroused from dreams of shipwreck, by water pouring over me from a jug upset by the swinging open of a locker door. Anything that happens to "the old man" is considered important on shipboard, and this was deemed worthy of illustration.

At Singapore we discharged the rest of our cargo and loaded a quantity of tin, gambier and gutta percha. We remained twenty-three days here, most of the time being spent in waiting for the merchants at Penang to purchase cargo, as the vessel's appearance at that port while they were buying would have made the native traders put up their prices. So we hid away at Singapore, and a very pleasant hiding place it was.

The first novelty that greeted our arrival was an assemblage of canoes and boats. From the former small boys dived for coin, thrown from the vessel, catching them before they descended far below the surface of the water. From the latter were offered us fruit, birds, monkeys, shells and corals, the last named being especially beautiful. A whole boat load of these at "a hard bargain" was secured for seventy-five cents. The appearance of the town is very picturesque, luxuriant foliage appearing amidst the collections of white houses, and hills rise in the rear covered with nutmeg and fruit trees, while near by the fertile jungle dips its abundant growth into the sea. Many pleasant hours were passed on shore; the fascinating hospitalities of luxurious homes were enjoyed; a picnic in the midst of the jungle nine miles from the city afforded a splendid view of tropical scenery; and a drive to a cocoanut plantation of five hundred acres showed how European enterprise is economizing the fertile products of the East. One evening especially remains prominent in agreeable recollection, when I dined with an old Boston friend. The table was spread on the rear verandah where the trees waved close to us, and the air was full of delicious odors and the singing of insects, their differing notes seeming like tunes. Truly life in Singapore is fascinating.

There were a number of American vessels here waiting for freights to improve in different ports of the East. In order to save expense they desired to discharge their crews, but, three months' extra pay being required by the consul, they either had to add to the lack of employment the further infliction of supporting an unprofitable crew, or drive the men to desertion by acts of cruelty and oppression. Every day almost there was some row in the harbor on board an American ship, and this law and its results was a continual topic of discussion.

In a work entitled "Among our Sailors," the author, Dr. J. Grey Jewell, formerly Consul at Singapore, speaks at some length about the law requiring three months' extra pay for seamen discharged abroad, and concludes: "I am convinced that the law is a good one and that it should stand."

During some years' experience in command of vessels I formed the opinion that this is not a good law, and further that there is no enactment concerning our merchant marine so injurious to sailors, so vexatious to shipmasters, so unjust to shipowners, or so corrupting to its executors in its influences. I believe most of those familiar with its operations will approve of my pronouncing it a great curse. This law was made in the beginning of the century, when Americans manned our ships, and when these vessels visited ports seldom frequented, where the discharge of a seaman might often leave him in destitution, with no means of returning home. Now our ships are chiefly manned by foreigners, who are more at home in foreign ports than in those on our own shores, where only we may discharge them; and commerce has become so extended that few places are visited by ships whence ready exit may not be obtained.

Some instances of the operation of this law will best explain its evils. A European crew were shipped in an American vessel at San Francisco for a voyage to Liverpool, the shipping articles containing the clause, made customary by the law prohibiting discharge of seamen abroad, "and thence to a final port of discharge in the United States." At Liverpool the men wished to leave and return to their homes in Norway and Germany, or sail on other voyages. The ship was to remain for several weeks in Liverpool and then sail for San Francisco again, and the men had no desire to go in that direction. Wages in Liverpool were lower than those paid this crew from California, so the shipowner's interest demanded that he should not be obliged to support and pay a useless crew for the weeks his ship was idle, and that he should be allowed to man her for a new voyage at the lowest rate of wages. On application to the Consul by the captain and sailors, information was given that the crew might be discharged, but one month's pay must be given to the Consul, and two months' pay extra to each seaman. The crew, in order to be released, offered to return the two months' pay to the captain, after signing a receipt for it, but the captain, desiring to avoid the unjust imposition altogether, gave the wages to the mate, who privately handed them to the sailors, and they took their departure. The captain next reported to the Consul under oath, that his crew had deserted without his knowledge or consent, but the Consul, finding out that the men had received their money, insisted on the payment of one month's wages at his office. Another vessel shipped a crew at San Francisco to be discharged at Liverpool, but still this extra payment was required.

A few years since a dozen American ships, one of them under my command, arrived at a port in Asia. The trade they were engaged in was depressed and they were doomed to remain idle for several months. The ships were manned by foreigners, and the captains deemed it their duty to the owners to avoid paying and feeding full crews for several months, when they had no need of their services. Steamers and vessels in various trades were arriving and departing daily, affording opportunity for the men to obtain employment and leave the port. Application was made to the Consul for permission to discharge the crews, which was given on condition of compliance with the three months' pay law. This no one cared to do; and the "fair means" being deemed unfair to the owner foul means were employed. The captain of the S—— told his men they had better leave, but, hoping to secure the two months' extra pay, they declined. Orders were given to the mate to work them up and drive them out of the ship. He accordingly hung planks over the ship's side, one foot under water, and made the sailors stand on them and scrub the ship's copper with sand, keeping them always on the sunny side of the ship. It was the month of June. The tropical sun poured upon the men's heads, while their feet were in the water, and glanced upon their bodies from the copper they were polishing, giving no small torment. One man ventured to go on deck and complain, but the smart mate soon thrashed him into submission. That night half of the crew deserted.

Attached to the Consul's office was a shipping-master, who gave personal attention to all details of business connected with crews, the Consul merely expounding the laws to inquirers in his inner office, and maintaining the dignity of the U.S. Government in a general way. The shipping-master was in close alliance with the police of the place, and the arrest of the deserters from the S—— was soon reported to him. He thereupon informed the captain that the men must be received on board again, but by mutual agreement a certain sum was paid to the shipping master for each man, and they were reported to the Consul as deserters. The remainder of the crew were soon got rid of, and the rest of the ships followed suit, paying $10 to $15 per man to the shipping-master.

My own crew were much attached to their ship and were unwilling to leave. I would not allow them to be oppressed in order to drive them away, and the owners were forced to submit to the expense of maintaining a large crew, besides the loss occasioned by the idleness of the ship. After some time, half of the crew, knowing that they were not wanted, and were only a burden, consented to leave; but the Consul, in reply to the application, held up the three months' pay law, and my choice was to keep the men or pay sixty dollars each besides the wages due.

In this dilemma the shipping master offered to allow the men to "desert," upon my paying him fourteen dollars apiece, which was to be called "two weeks' board."

I felt compelled in justice to my owners' interest to adopt this plan, and connive at the rascality by which an unjust law was evaded by those entrusted with its enforcement. The matter was arranged so as to do no violence to my conscience in the matter of oath and declaration of desertion.

This shipping master, after a short term of service was able to buy a half interest in a large ship, and probably approves of the three-months' pay law. The previous Consul is said to have taken away eighty thousand dollars after a few years' residence.

The owners of the ship I commanded are a firm on whom Dr. Jewell, in the above-mentioned work, has cast severe aspersions, and it is due to them to say that at the close of the voyage, while admitting that a less humane captain would have made a more economical voyage, they thoroughly approved of my principles, and said they did not mind losing a thousand dollars now and then in support of them. They however remarked that Capt. ——, who was a notorious sailor driver, sailed his ships cheaper than any other captain in their employ, as he never had a sailor remaining by the vessel in port. A few weeks after this conversation it happened that news was received that Capt. ——'s ship had put into Rio Janeiro with a mutinous crew, and some of the sailors had been shot by the captain. Considerable expense and delay to the voyage was caused by this, and the owners were overheard to say that Capt. —— should never have another chance to put one of their ships into port in distress. They saw that the question of economy was not always against the "humane captain."

The above facts, selected as samples from a multitude, illustrate the assertion that the three months' pay law is:

First, An occasion for the exercise of much cruelty to the sailor, and often obliges him to have the disgrace of desertion attached to his name, in order to secure the release from his ship which his interests demand.

Secondly, It obliges captains to resort to wrong or questionable acts to secure their owners' interests, and involves them in many unpleasant controversies.

Thirdly, It is a heavy tax on the shipowner, and is one among several causes of the decay to our commerce.

Fourthly, It furnishes great temptation to corrupt action on the part of consuls, and has, in too many cases, brought disgrace upon the flag they represent.

What remedy is there? will be asked.

In 1840 an Act was passed authorizing consuls to use discretion in enforcing the law in cases of discharge by mutual consent. This in 1856 was repealed and the law is now strenuously insisted on. Some other nations permit the free discharge of crews where good reason or mutual consent is shown, and where the Government is assured of freedom from expense. Let the present law be wholly repealed, and give consuls power to discharge men freely, where satisfaction is given that they will not become a burden upon the United States. This satisfaction should be a proof of the employment or shipment of the sailors, or else a deposit of money for a limited term, or a bond for the payment of any future expenses incurred, which might be collected at the port of entry in the United States.