Yet the rain was refreshing. It was not a cold pitiless storm, nor a searching Scotch mist, but fell in a regular tropical downpour--a drenching volume of warm water, that splashed in huge drops upon the decks, that ran down the masts and rigging in a delightful shower-bath, that washed the salt spray from the boats and spars, and made the ship clean and fresh. Had these frequent squalls not mitigated the fierceness of the sun’s rays, the decks would have been unbearable, the sailors would have been obliged to adopt shoe leather, and the pitch would have boiled out of the seams, and stuck to everything with which it came in contact. But under the influence of the rain the shellbacks pattered about with bare feet, enjoying the cool bath, and not even taking the trouble to don their oilskins to protect them from a wetting. Few people on shore know the true character of our English sailors--fewer still have ever tried to find out what sort of animals they are. There is a general opinion held by the land-lubber that the sailor is a rollicking, devil-me-care, blasphemous creature, with a wife in every port,--a great capacity for rum, and a tendency to sing, ‘Yeo heave, oh’ upon every possible occasion. But the real seaman is very different from this. There is no such man as the brainless fool who is depicted in drawing-room songs and on the stage as constantly ‘hoisting up his slacks’ and ‘tipping his flippers,’ and singing out ‘Hillee Haulee,’ or some equally childish refrain. The British sailor is certainly partial to rum, and he has every reason to be so. When on a freezing night he is perched for a couple of hours on the footrope of a yard, trying to handle an obstinate topsail, which has torn the nails from his fingers, and caused him to tuck his chin down to his breast to head against the biting wind; when this uninviting task is completed, a lot of strong rum goes down like mother’s milk, warming the very cockles of his heart, and giving him fresh vigour and endurance to battle with the storm. Then with regard to the fairer sex, a sailor’s gallantry is a byword, and what more natural than it should be so. It is so seldom he can enjoy female society, and after having been located for months in a forecastle, and subjected to the rough horse-play of his male companions, the ways and words of women (even though they may be the lowest of their sex) is a welcome change, and acts on the susceptible nature of Jack like a charm. He adores woman collectively and individually. At sea he sings her praises, and he boasts of her virtues in every clime. He swears eternal fidelity to her before he leaves England, and breaks his promise at the first port he touches at--still _woman_, as a noun of multitude, is responsible for it all. And when he returns home, he is as enthusiastic over Poll as if he had never forgotten her for a single minute. His creed may be summed up in the refrain of the ballad--