clear, the hatchways open, a cool breeze blowing through them, the ship under easy way,—­ everything was comfortable.  I had just got well into the story when eight bells were struck, and we were all ordered to dinner.  After dinner came our watch on deck for four hours, and at four o’clock I went below again, turned into my hammock and read until the dog watch.  As lights were not allowed after eight o’clock, there was no reading in the night watch.  Having light winds and calms, we were three days on the passage, and each watch below, during the daytime, I spent in the same manner, until I had finished my book.  I shall never forget the enjoyment I derived from it.  To come across anything with the slightest claims to literary merit was so unusual that this was a feast to me.  The brilliancy of the book, the succession of capital hits, and the lively and characteristic sketches, kept me in a constant state of pleasing sensations.  It was far too good for a sailor.  I could not expect such fine times to last long.

While on deck, the regular work of the ship went on.  The sailmaker and carpenter worked between decks, and the crew had their work to do upon the rigging, drawing yarns, making spun-yarn, &c., as usual in merchantmen.  The night watches were much more pleasant than on board the Pilgrim.  There, there were so few in a watch, that, one being at the wheel and another on the lookout, there was no one left to talk with; but here we had seven in a watch, so that we had long yarns in abundance.  After two or three night watches, I became well acquainted with the larboard watch.  The sailmaker was the head man of the watch, and was generally considered the most experienced seaman on board.  He was a thorough-bred old man-of-war’s-man, had been at sea twenty-two years, in all kinds of vessels,—­ men-of-war, privateers, slavers, and merchantmen,—­ everything except whalers, which a thorough man-of-war or merchant seaman looks down upon, and will always steer clear of if he can.  He had, of course, been in most parts of the world, and was remarkable for drawing a long bow.  His yarns frequently stretched through a watch, and kept all hands awake.  They were amusing from their improbability, and, indeed, he never expected to be believed, but spun them merely for amusement; and as he had some humor and a good supply of man-of-war slang and sailor’s salt phrases, he always made fun.  Next to him in age and experience, and, of course, in standing in the watch, was an Englishman named Harris, of whom I shall have more to say hereafter.  Then came two or three Americans, who had been the common run of European and South American voyages, and one who had been in a ``spouter,’’ and, of course, had all the whaling stories to himself.  Last of all was a broad-backed, thick-headed, Cape Cod[1] boy, who had been in mackerel schooners, and was making his first voyage in a square-rigged vessel.  He was born in Hingham, and of course was called ``Bucket-maker.’’