The sailor does not lack for singing.  He sings at certain parts of his work;—­indeed, he must sing, if he would work.  On vessels of war, the drum and fife or boatswain’s whistle furnish the necessary movement-regulator.  There, where the strength of one or two hundred men can be applied to one and the same effort, the labor is not intermittent, but continuous.  The men form on either side of the rope to be hauled, and walk away with it like firemen marching with their engine.  When the headmost pair bring up at the stern or bow, they part, and the two streams flow back to the starting-point, outside the following files.  Thus in this perpetual “follow-my-leader” way the work is done, with more precision and steadiness than in the merchant-service.  Merchant-men are invariably manned with the least possible number, and often go to sea shorthanded, even according to the parsimonious calculations of their owners.  The only way the heavier work can be done at all is by each man doing his utmost at the same moment.  This is regulated by the song.  And here is the true singing of the deep sea.  It is not recreation; it is an essential part of the work.  It mastheads the topsail-yards, on making sail; it starts the anchor from the domestic or foreign mud; it “rides down the main tack with a will”; it breaks out and takes on board cargo; it keeps the pumps (the ship’s,—­not the sailor’s) going.  A good voice and a new and stirring chorus are worth an extra man.  And there is plenty of need of both.

I remember well one black night in the mid-Atlantic, when we were beating up against a stiff breeze, coming on deck near midnight, just as the ship was put about.  When a ship is tacking, the tacks and sheets (ropes which confine the clews or lower corners of the sails) are let run, in order that the yards may be swung round to meet the altered position of the ship.  They must then be hauled taut again, and belayed, or secured, in order to keep the sails in their place and to prevent them from shaking.  When the ship’s head comes up in the wind, the sail is for a moment or two edgewise to it, and then is the nice moment, as soon as the head-sails fairly fill, when the main-yard and the yards above it can be swung readily, and the tacks and sheets hauled in.  If the crew are too few in number, or too slow at their work, and the sails get fairly filled on the new tack, it is a fatiguing piece of work enough to “board” the tacks and sheets, as it is called.  You are pulling at one end of the rope, but the gale is tugging at the other.  The advantages of lungs are all against you, and perhaps the only thing to be done is to put the helm down a little, and set the sails shaking again before they can be trimmed properly.—­It was just at such a time that I came on deck, as above mentioned.  Being near eight bells, the watch on deck had been not over spry; and the consequence was that our big main-course was slatting and flying out overhead with a might that shook the ship from