Our first officer, Mr. Gillans, was a thorough seaman, and a no less thorough John Bull; he had the then common detestation of the French and their imputed vices of insincerity, &c., and in endeavouring to avoid the Scylla of Gallic deceit, went plump into the Charybdis of English rudeness. He was in truth, a blunt, gruff fellow, who evidently thought that civility and poltroonery were convertible terms. The captain was the only person whom his respect for discipline ever allowed him to address without a growl; in short, the vulgar but expressive phrase, as “sulky as a bear with a sore head,” seemed made for him expressly, for in no case could it have been more justly applied. The second mate, Grinnerson, was a gentlemanly fellow on the whole, but a most eternal wag and joker. Cadets had plainly, for many a voyage, furnished him with subjects for the exercise of his facetious vein, and “Tom,” _i.e._ Mr. Thomas Grundy, and myself, received diurnal roastings at his hands. If I expressed an opinion, “Pardon me, my dear sir,” he would say, with mock gravity, “but it strikes me that, being _only a cadet_, you can know nothing about it;” or, “in about ten years hence, when you get your commission, your opinion ‘on things in general’ may be valuable.” If I flew out, or the peaceable Grundy evinced a disposition to “hog his back,” he would advise us to keep our temper, to be cool, assuring us, with dry composure, that the “cadets on the last voyage were never permitted to get into a passion.” In a word, he so disturbed my self-complacency, that I long gravely debated the question with myself, whether I ought not to summon him to the lists when I got to India, there to answer for his misdeeds. As the voyage drew towards a close, however, he let off the steam of his raillery considerably, and treated us with more deference and respect; thereby showing that he had studied human nature, and knew how to restore the equilibrium of a young man’s temper, by adding to the weight in the scale of self-esteem. Our doctor and purser are the only two more connected with the ship whom I shall notice. The first, Cackleton by name, was a delicate, consumptive, superfine person, who often reminded me of the injunction, “physician, heal thyself.” He ladled out the soup with infinite grace, and was quite the ladies’ man. His manners, indeed, would have been gentlemanly and unexceptionable had they not been for ever pervaded by an obviously smirking consciousness on his part that they were so. As for Cheesepare, the purser, all I shall record of him is, that by a happy fortune he had dropped into the exact place for which nature and his stars appeared to have designed him. He looked like a purser—spoke like a purser—ate and drank like a purser—and locked himself up for three or four hours _per diem_ with his hooks and ledgers like a very praiseworthy purser. Moreover, he carved for a table of thirty or forty, with exemplary