New York and Baltimore, in a large way; Salem, Hull, Portsmouth, New London, New Bedford, New Haven, and a host of smaller seaports, in a lesser degree, joined in this prosperous industry.  It was the great interest of the United States, and so continued, though with interruptions, for more than half a century, influencing the thought, the legislation, and the literature of our people.  When Daniel Webster, himself a son of a seafaring State, sought to awaken his countrymen to the peril into which the nation was drifting through sectional dissensions and avowed antagonism to the national authority, he chose as the opening metaphor of his reply to Hayne the description of a ship, drifting rudderless and helpless on the trackless ocean, exposed to perils both known and unknown.  The orator knew his audience.  To all New England the picture had the vivacity of life.  The metaphors of the sea were on every tongue.  The story is a familiar one of the Boston clergyman who, in one of his discourses, described a poor, sinful soul drifting toward shipwreck so vividly that a sailor in the audience, carried away by the preacher’s imaginative skill, cried out:  “Let go your best bower anchor, or you’re lost.”  In another church, which had its pulpit set at the side instead of at the end, as customary, a sailor remarked critically:  “I don’t like this craft; it has its rudder amidships.”

At this time, and, indeed, for perhaps fifty years thereafter, the sea was a favorite career, not only for American boys with their way to make in the world, but for the sons of wealthy men as well.  That classic of New England seamanship, “Two Years Before the Mast,” was not written until the middle of the nineteenth century, and its author went to sea, not in search of wealth, but of health.  But before the time of Richard Henry Dana, many a young man of good family and education—­a Harvard graduate like him, perhaps—­bade farewell to a home of comfort and refinement and made his berth in a smoky, fetid forecastle to learn the sailor’s calling.  The sons of the great shipping merchants almost invariably made a few voyages—­oftenest as supercargoes, perhaps, but not infrequently as common seamen.  In time special quarters, midway between the cabin and the forecastle, were provided for these apprentices, who were known as the “ship’s cousins.”  They did the work of the seamen before the mast, but were regarded as brevet officers.  There was at that time less to engage the activities and arouse the ambitions of youth than now, and the sea offered the most promising career.  Moreover, the trading methods involved, and the relations of the captain or other officers to the owners, were such as to spur ambition and promise profit.  The merchant was then greatly dependent on his captain, who must judge markets, buy and sell, and shape his course without direction from home.  So the custom arose of giving the captain—­and sometimes other officers—­an opportunity to carry