The most disagreeable duty in the ship was that of holy-stoning the decks on cold, frosty mornings. Our movements were never more elastic than when at this really severe task. As usual, it gave occasion to a variety of forecastle yarns about cold stations. Among these was one which was attested by many witnesses, and there can be no doubt of its truth: A British frigate was once stationed in a cold climate. The first lieutenant was a complete tyrant, delighting in everything that caused the crew to suffer. Among other things, he took especial care to make the work of holy-stoning as painful as possible, by forcing them to continue at it much longer than was necessary. Although he had no watch on deck, he would contrive to be up in season to annoy the men with his hated presence. One morning, the weather being unusually severe, the men sprang to their task with unwonted agility, and contrived to finish it before the appearance of their persecutor. To their vexation, however, just as they had completed their work, he bounced on deck, with a peremptory order to wash the decks all over a second time. The men dropped on their knees with the holy-stones, and prayed, as the tyrant went below, that he might never come on deck again alive. Whether God heard the cry of the oppressed crew, or whether it was the action of the ordinary natural laws, the reader must determine for himself; but when the lieutenant again appeared on deck, he was brought up “feet foremost,” to be buried. He was taken sick that morning: his disease baffled the skill of the surgeon, and in a few days he was a corpse. The opinion that he died a monument of the divine displeasure against cruel, hard-hearted men of power, and of disregard for the miseries and tears of the oppressed poor, is at least worthy of serious consideration. Soon after we had descried land, an American pilot came on board to pilot us into Hampton Roads. The sound of our own familiar tongue from a stranger, was very agreeable to men who had been accustomed to hear the semi-barbarous lingo of the Portuguese, and a thrill of home remembrances shot through our hearts, as, stepping on deck, the pilot exclaimed, “It is very cold!” While at anchor in Hampton Roads, we fared well. Boats were alongside every day with plenty of beef and pork, which was declared, by universal consent, to be infinitely superior to what we obtained from Portugal. Our men said that the Yankee pork would swell in the pot, which they very sagely accounted for on the supposition that the pigs were killed at the full of the moon. But I suppose that Virginia corn had more to do in this matter than lunar influences; though our men most doggedly maintained the contrary and more mystical opinion.