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.