This misadventure occurred, singularly enough, when I happened, though only a boy of ten years of age at the time, to be of the number of the souls on board. On the invitation of my Father, who had landed from his ship in passing Whitby, on his progress northward, to take leave of his family, I had gone off with him, designing to return by the pilot boat, to see the ship. I was astonished with what I saw; I explored with unmixed delight every accessible compartment of the cabins and store-rooms below, and conceived an irresistible desire to remain where I was, and go out on the voyage. At length the call of the pilots for “Master William,” as the day advanced to its close, put my desire to the test of practicability. For a while I remained silent below, and when silence was no longer likely to be available, I contrived the child-like device of hiding my hat, which, on ascending the companion ladder bare-headed, I let it be understood I could not find! My Father having noticed my delight, and interpreting rightly the little device, remarked to the pilots,—“Don’t mind him; he will go along with us.” A mother’s anguish, however, who loved me with the tenderest and most ardent affection, flashed into my mind. It forced utterance in the expression,—“But what will my Mother say?” The reply, curiously enough regarded as being consolatory, sufficed to allay my scruples,—“She will love you better when you come back!” The pilots still urging haste in my embarkation, as the boat was thumping heavily against the ship’s gangway, were at length made sensible of what they at first could not credit, that I was to remain behind; and they set out for the shore in no small condition of amazement, and with no slight feeling of sympathising embarrassment, on account of the report they must yield to one, whom they sufficiently knew as an anxious, susceptible, and affectionate mother! But my own story must be here suspended, as it possibly may hereafter find a place, if Providence yield me health and life for the undertaking, in the series of the “Memorials of the Sea,” which, sometimes, I venture to contemplate carrying on. * * * * * The leading incidents of this disappointing enterprise, I am enabled to give with a satisfactory measure of confidence, from a record made of it, many years ago, in a private autobiography, from which, mainly, I extract the following details.