Seeing a sailor go to the galley with his tin pan, receive his
allowance from the cook, take it out on deck, seat himself on a spar, I
was reminded of his limited supply of table cutlery. But in the first
place he has no table. He holds his pan in his hand, lays his biscuit
on the spar, his drink along side of it, takes his piece of potato,
turnip, cabbage with his finger, serves his bone in the same way, and
if the piece of meat which has fallen to his lot needs to be divided
he feels for his sheath knife which he carries all the time in its
sheath behind him, holds the meat with one hand and makes the sheath
knife play the part both of knife and fork. He wipes his fingers on his
pants. Artificial and useless do many things appear at sea, as, for
example, forks, napkins, and, of course, napkin rings, doilies, sugar
bowls, slop bowls, saucers, ladles, dessert spoons; in short the things
absolutely indispensable at a sailor’s meal could be counted on the
fingers of one hand, omitting the thumb and little finger. Yet there
are frequently young men in a crew who have been used to the numberless
luxuries of life. I had a talk yesterday with the son of a minister;
early in the voyage his fine face attracted me. He has eleven brothers
and sisters at home. He had a desire to see the world; was weary of the
shop, of the few associates in a country village. This is his first
long voyage. He makes light of privations and dangers; says that almost
all the things which he used to have on the table at home would now
seem superfluities. He would need experience to make them necessary. He
would feel toward some of them, no doubt, as a sailor did in a boarding
house who spit on the floor, which the waiter perceiving kept pushing
a spittoon nearer to him; till at last the sailor annoyed by it said,
“If you keep pushing that thing so near to me I shall be in danger of
spitting in it.”