And making all the world rejoice--
If _I_ were a voice--an immortal voice.--_C. Mackay._

From Blackwood's Magazine.

THE GREEN HAND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TOM CRINGLE'S LOG."

PART I.

"Come, old ship, give us a yarn!" said the younger forecastle-men to an
old one, on board of an Indiaman then swiftly cleaving the waves of the
western Atlantic before the trade-wind, and outward-bound, with a hearty
crew and a number of passengers. It was the second of the two
dog-watches, and the ship being still in the region of evening
twilights, her men in a good humor, and with leisure, were then usually
disposed, as on this occasion, to make fast their roaming thoughts by
help of a good yarn, when it could be got. There were plenty of
individuals, amongst a crew of forty, calculated by their experience, or
else by their flow of spirits, and fancy, to spin it. Each watch into
which they were divided had its especial story-teller, with whose merits
it twitted the other, and on opportunity of a general _reunion_, they
were pitted against one another like two fighting-cocks, or a couple of
rival novelists in more polished literary society at home. The one was a
grave, solemn old North-Sea whaler with one eye, who professed to look
down with contempt upon all raw head-work, on navigation compared with
seamanship, and fiction against fact. As for himself, he rested all his
fame upon actual experience, and told long dry narratives of old
shipmates, of his voyages and adventures, and sometimes of the most
incredible incidents, with a genuine briny gusto which pleased the
veteran stagers beyond expression. They were full of points of
seamanship--expedients for nice emergencies, tacks, knots, and splices.
He gave the very conversation of his characters, with all the "says he"
and "says I;" and one long recital of the old fellow's turned upon the
question between himself and a newfangled second mate about the right
way to set up back-stays, in which he, the sailor, was proved correct by
the loss of the ship.

The other story-teller, again, was a Wapping man; a lively, impudent
young Cockney, who had the most miraculous faculty of telling lies--not
only palpable lies, but lies absolutely impossible: yet they were so
sublimely told often, and he contrived to lug into them such a quantity
of gorgeous tinsel ornament, as, in his happier efforts, decidedly to
carry the day against his opponent. The London hand had seen _life_ too,