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Updated: May 22, 2025
The prime agent in working his calamities in port is his old arch-enemy, the ever-devilish god of grog. Immured as the man-of-war's-man is, serving out his weary three years in a sort of sea-Newgate, from which he cannot escape, either by the roof or burrowing underground, he too often flies to the bottle to seek relief from the intolerable ennui of nothing to do, and nowhere to go.
But do men ever hate the thing they love? Do men forswear the hearth and the homestead? What, then, must the Navy be? But, alas for the man-of-war's-man, who, though he may take a Hannibal oath against the service; yet, cruise after cruise, and after forswearing it again and again, he is driven back to the spirit-tub and the gun-deck by his old hereditary foe, the ever-devilish god of grog.
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