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world, and once found myself registered as cabin boy on board the brig Phœbe, of New Bedford, whereof one Alonzo Baker was captain —not of New Bedford—but the brig. “In this vessel I served for several months, to the satisfaction of no one, myself included, being too small, weak and delicate for the arduous duties required of me, and consequently had to pay the usual penalty. “Sailors, to a man, are superstitious, though less so now than in the days whereof I am speaking. Still, at present, it is not hard, in spite of the march of intellect, to find sailors who, between the dog-watch and eight bells, will spin you a yarn under the weather rail that will make a man’s hair stand on end like hairs on an enraged kitten. “On board the Phœbe there were several old salts, and many were the tales they told of the ghosts of murdered sailors, appearing in the midst of dreadful storms, to encourage foremast Jacks, and frighten the souls of guilty mates and captains; and of course all this tended to deepen the vein of superstition and mysticism running through me. Often have I been apprized of the presence and power of the dead or of those who never die, and, when tempted to share the dangerous pleasures of my older comrades, been mysteriously saved. “Sailors, like everybody else, are fond of power,