of Collingwood's dog Bounce, who used to
trot about these decks after his master.
Meanwhile, I turn (being a man of business
habits) to the Society's Report, and learn
much useful information concerning the
hospital. The thirtieth year of its existence
ended in January of the present year. It
was first established on board the "Grampus,"
which vessel was exchanged for the
"Dreadnought" in 1831. It is open to sick and
diseased seamen of all countries at all times.
The number of patients admitted last year,
was two thousand and ninety-five; that of
out-patients, one thousand five hundred and
twenty-eight. But perhaps it would give a
better notion of the institution to deal with
the sum of its usefulness from the first.
The total number of patients received has
been sixty-three thousand three hundred and
forty-five. Of these, the British make up
about fifty thousand. The Norwegians and
Swedes are the next in point of number;
after these, come Prussians, East and West
Indians, and Americans; then Germans,
Russians, Danes, Italians, and Portuguese; then
Dutchmen, Spaniards, and Africans. The list,
too, comprises one hundred and eighty-two
South Sea Islanders, sixteen Turks, and
thirty-eight Chinese, besides one hundred and
eighty-one "born at sea;"— anomalous citizens
of this planet, whom we defy any overseer
going to keep to their proper parish. From
all parts of the globe, you see, these poor
fellows come to the "Dreadnought:" mankind
has a family resemblance in disease, which
in spite of their fightings, makes them
brothers in pain. There, within the bulwarks
originally built for the purpose of smashing
mankind at large, they get tenderly doctored
and nursed, and flannelled and gruelled, and
almost petted, till they become once more
able-bodied. Surely the gentle spirit of
Collingwood might rejoice to watch his old ship
turned into a place like this!

But now we determined to stroll round
her, and see the arrangements. Descending
the hatchway, you find yourself on the
surgical deck— not the middle deck. I tell Pipp
(who is obstinately nautical, as usual) this is a
hospital— not a man-of-war— and that if he
won't call it a hospital, to call it a man-of-peace.
The gentleman who shows us everything so
courteously, and at whose coming the eyes of
these poor fellows brighten up cheerfully— is
a surgeon— not a naval man at all. Did not
we see the botanical collections in his cabin,
which you, Pipp, if you had beheld them in the
"Bustard," would have shamefully "chaffed?"
All the rings and bolts are taken away from
the port-holes. There is no capability of
firing a thirty-two pounder. Where would
you make the breeching fast; where would
you secure the gun-tackles? Then, the decks
have been cut out in places to make skylights,
and to let the fresh river air come flowing
through; and there are warm pipes which
diffuse a genial heat along the decks. Pipp
grins. And I observe fore-and-aft ten rows
of little beds, each tenanted by its patient, and
covered by its little brown coverlet. Above
each hangs a little board, whereon is marked
his diet, his name, time of admission, and so
forth. Some are dozing languidly; some are
reading papers; some are curiously inspecting
tracts; some are simply peering out from their
night-caps with the clear sad eyes of illness—
the clear look that seems to go so far, and
fare so ill. A black man leans up with his
queer comic negro expression. Presently, we
come to a bed, and see a young fellow with a
cheerful enough face. "Amputation," says
our guide, quietly, "at the ankle," and the
patient cocks up a gutta percha contrivance
at the end of the severed limb; grinning as if
it was rather a joke than otherwise. So, we
pass on "towards the bows," Pipp says, and
visit the dispensary. A kind of trap-door on
the deck of it opens, and we descend to the
Museum. Here we behold a collection of
skulls of all nations; a geographical
Golgotha which is, to the ethnographer, of
illimitable interest. Each skull is wrapped up in
paper, and duly labelled.

We ascend again, and stroll round the decks,
past two little boys who are playing drafts
on a very primitive board: we visit the
galley, where there is a roaring fire going
on: we curiously watch a bluff dame, who
proves to be one of the six nurses of the
hospital.

By this time, it was getting dusk. A bell
struck— Pipp was delighted to hear a ship's
bell smote in the orthodox manner— only
intelligible to the nautical or duly educated
ear. He remarked that it was nearly the
end of the second dog-watch. At this time,
the medical officer, who had shown us so
much attention, was about to go his round of
visits. Would we accompany him? Certainly.

It was now dusk, and as we visited the
medical deck, there was a dark gloom, in
which the distant part of it was lost. A
light, here and there, fell upon the white
beds; and we started, accompanied by a
youth in a red woollen handkerchief, bearing
a lantern; the convalescent being expected,
during their few final days on board, to make
themselves variously useful. At each bed,
where the case was an important one, the
surgeon sat down, and chatted to the patient,
as it were about a little business they had
mutually in hand; comparing notes like
partners in a transaction, and striking the
balance of health and illness in a cheerful
way. Well, Bliff, how's the pain in the chest?
And Bliff narrates how it had shifted its
position, rather with an air of quiet surprise,
and ironical appeal to Æsculapius, as if the
pain had no business to be doing anything so
irregular as wander where the surgeon never
told him to expect it. Then the brown
brawny arm is held up for the pulse to be felt;
down comes the ticket, and a due note is made.
The heads pop up from the pillow as we move