The sailors in the _Rocket_ were favored with good living, watch and watch, and kind treatment. They were never cursed, nor called by hard names. Instruction was given to those who desired it, and religious influences pervaded the vessel. The voyage was a pleasant one. Fine weather and favoring breezes usually prevailed, and the fairest regions of earth were visited. If sailors could ever be happy and contented, these circumstances, which probably were in marked contrast to the experiences of many, should have produced this result upon that crew. When the voyage commenced they had no praise too good to bestow. They allowed they were in a good ship; the captain was the best man they ever sailed with; the officers were perfect gentlemen; the "grub" was first-rate. But, on the homeward passage, although everything was the same as when outward bound, the sailors sat down on their chests in the forecastle with their feast of "soft-tack" and apple-sauce in their pans, and, as the saying is, they growled like bears with sore heads. Their behavior on deck and manner of working was unexceptionable, but if their life and talk in the forecastle were chronicled it would convey the impression that they considered themselves an ill-used, poorly-fed and oppressed set of men. The mate one evening practised an eaves-dropping in which he proved the truth of the old proverb, "listeners never hear any good of themselves." Old Nielson, a Swede, the best sailor-man in the ship, with his mouth stuffed nearly full of molasses gingerbread, was leading the growl. Said he, "I've been to sea thirty-two years and I never sailed in a worse ship than this is. Nobody aft knows what we get to eat, and that nigger gives us just as little as he likes. Last ship I was in the cap'n or mate went into the galley every day and saw things were cooked right and plenty of 'em, but here we don't get any more notice taken of us than though we were a parcel of dogs. If the old man had _some_ crews with him I bet he wouldn't impose on them. But sailors don't seem to have any spunk now-a-days, same as they used to. There's a whole barrel of vinegar down below, and yet we can't have but two bottles full a week. What does he want to carry it home for? He's keeping it back just to spite us. Do you call that being a Christian? I call him a mean old skin-flint; if he's going to heaven, I don't want to go there."