In many other professions, it is possible to calculate, beforehand, with more or less precision, the degree and kind of work which a young man is likely to be called upon to perform; but there is peculiar difficulty in coming to any just conclusion upon these points, even in a vague way, in the life of a sailor. His range of duties includes the whole world,—he may be lost in the wilderness of a three-decker, or be wedged into a cock-boat;—he may be fried in Jamaica, or frozen in Spitzbergen;—he may be cruising, or be in action during six days of the week, in the midst of a fleet, and flounder in solitude on the seventh; or he may waste his years in peaceful idleness, the most fatal to subordination, or be employed on the home station, and hear from his friends every day, or he may be fifteen months, as I have been, at a time, without getting a letter or seeing a newspaper. He may have an easy-going commander, which is a very great evil; or his captain may be one of those tight hands, who, to use the slang of the cock-pit, keeps every one on board ‘under the fear of the Lord and a broomstick.’ In short, a man may go to sea for twenty years, and find no two men, and hardly two days alike. All this, which is delightful to some minds, and productive in them of every kind of resource, is utterly distracting, and very often ruinous, to others. Weak frames generally sink under its severity; and weak minds become confused with its complication, and the intensity of its action. But, on the other hand, the variety of its objects is so boundless, that if a young man have only strength of body, to endure the wear and tear of watching and other inevitable fatigues; and have also strength of character enough to persevere, in the certainty of openings occurring, sooner or later, by which his talents or his industry may find profitable employment,—there can be little doubt that the profession of a sailor might be made suitable to most of those who, on entering it, are positively cut off from retreat.