le desire is to assure the
sceptical that goodness and truth are sometimes found in strange
questionable places, although it is undoubtedly true that they do not
deliberately search out such places for an abode, but prefer a pure
atmosphere and pleasant companionship if they can get it.

It must not be supposed, then, that our friend John Bax--sometimes
called "captain," sometimes "skipper," not unfrequently "mister," but
most commonly "Bax," without any modification--was a hopeless castaway,
because he was found by his friend Guy Foster in a room full of careless
foul-mouthed seamen, eating his bread and cheese and drinking his beer
in an atmosphere so impregnated with tobacco smoke that he could
scarcely see, and so redolent of gin that he could scarcely smell the
smoke!

In those days there were not so many sailors' homes and temperance
coffee-houses as there are now. In the locality about which we write
there were none. If Jack wanted his lunch or his dinner he found the
low tavern almost the only place in which he could get it comfortably.
Tobacco smoke was no objection to him;--he rather liked it. Swearing
did not shock him;--he was used to it. Gentle folk are apt to err here
too. Being _shocked_ at gross sin does not necessarily imply goodness
of heart; it implies nothing more than the being unused to witness gross
sin. Goodness of heart _may_ go along with this capacity of being
shocked, so, equally, may badness of heart; but neither of them is
implied by it.

What a grand thing is truth--simple abstract truth! and yet how little
do we appreciate it in regard to the inconceivably important matter of
_reasoning_. We analyse our chemicals and subject them to the severest
tests in order to ascertain their true properties;--truth is all we aim
at; but how many of us can say that we analyse our thoughts and subject
our reasoning to the test of logic in order simply to ascertain _the
truth_.

"Smoke for ever! I say, Bill, open that there port a bit, else we'll be
choked," cried a stentorian voice, as Guy entered the little apartment,
where some dozen of noisy sailors were creating the cloud, which was a
little too strong for them.

For some moments Guy glanced round inquiringly, unable to pierce the dim
curtain that enshrouded everything, as with a veil of dirty gauze.

"Lost your reckoning, I guess," drawled a Yankee skipper.

"Never mind, let go your anchor, my lad," cried a voice from the densest
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