the promise, “Before they call I will answer them,” we resolved to employ it as a day of thanksgiving.
This was the day of my first visit to the ship's forecastle. Entering by a narrow hatchway, with a sliding door, and descending a few steep steps, I found myself in a close little room in the bow of the vessel. In shape, it was semicircular, with nine berths against the wall, (only half as many berths are needed as there are men, since one watch is always on deck,) and over against the berths were the sailors' chests, which also served for seats. On entering, I was warmly invited to take a seat, “such as it was," on one of the chests. At first the dim light admitted by the doorway, made still more dim by clouds of tobacco-smoke, wrapped the scene in a misty twilight. Gradually the shape of the forecastle, and the employments of the men, became more distinct. On my right was seated Aleck, an American, very ignorant and very depraved, the worst man in the ship; he was busy with his thread and needle, repairing the damages of the last squall, and saluted me heartily. Next was George, a tall Italian, swarthy and black-eyed, who rolled his long body out of a berth as a mark of respect to the
