One Sunday morning, after the Spanish schooner had been about a week in port, and was nearly ready for sea, a fierce quarrel took place on the quarter-deck of the vessel, which, being attended with loud language, menacing looks, and frantic gesticulations, attracted the attention of all who were within sight or hearing.

Two of the Spaniards, large, good-looking men, were apparently very bitter in their denunciations of each other. They suddenly threw off their coats, which they wrapped around the left arm, and each grasping a long Spanish knife, the original of the murderous "bowie-knife," — attacked each other with a ferocity terrible to behold. Every muscle seemed trembling and convulsed with passion, their eyes flashed with desperation, and their muscles seemed endued with superhuman power, as they rushed upon each other.

Many furious passes were made, and dexterously parried by the left arm, which was used as a buckler in which to receive the thrusts. At length one of the combatants received a wound in the chest, and his shirt bosom was instantly stained with blood. This served only to rouse him to more desperate exertions if possible; and, like two enraged tigers, these men no longer thought of defending themselves, but were bent only on assailing each other.

Such a combat could not last long. One of the Spaniards sank to the deck, covered with wounds and exhausted with blood, while the victor, who, from the gory condition of his linen, his pallid cheeks, and staggering steps seemed in little better plight, was assisted into the cabin by his companions.

Duels of a similar character, fought on the spot with knives, the left arm protected with a garment used as a shield, were by no means unfrequent among the Spaniards in the New World, and the barbarous custom is not yet obsolete.

The vessel, on whose decks this horrible scene of butch

ery was enacted, left the harbor on the following day, to the great gratification of her neighbors; and a rusty, illlooking schooner, called the John, hauled from another part of the roadstead, and took the berth vacated by the Spaniards. Like other American vessels that had been coquetting with the revenue laws, neither the name of the schooner nor the place to which she belonged was painted on her stern. A close intimacy, intended doubtless for their mutual advantage, existed between Captain Turner and the master of the John. The crews of the two vessels also became acquainted, and when the day's work was ended, often assembled on board one of the vessels, and indulged in singing, conversing, skylarking, or spinning yarns.

Swimming was an agreeable and refreshing exercise, in which we often indulged, notwithstanding the harbor of St. Pierre was an open bay in a tropical climate; the very place which the shark would be likely to frequent. It was said, however, that sharks were seldom seen in the bay, and never among the shipping. This statement was regarded as a sufficient assurance of safety; and although I retained a vivid recollection of the dreadful tragedy I had seen enacted a few months before in Demarara, with all the recklessness of a young sailor I hesitated not to indulge freely in this pleasant and healthy exercise in the harbor of St Pierre.

I was careful, however, to follow the advice of a veteran tar, to keep in motion while in the water. The shark, unless very ferocious and hungry, will not attack a man while he is swimming, or performing other aquatic evolutions. At such times he will remain quiet, close at hand, eyeing his intended victim with an eager and affectionate look; but the moment the unsuspecting swimmer throws himself on his back, begins to tread water, or discontinues the exercise of swimming preparatory to getting on board, this man-eating rascal will pounce on a leg or an arm, drag

his victim beneath the surface, and accomplish the dreadful work.

After the many unfavorable specimens of "old salts" I had met with, I was agreeably surprised to find that two of the crew of the John were educated men. One of these was the son of a wealthy merchant of Boston, who lived in the style of a prince at the "North End." This young sailor had been wild and dissipated, and had lost for a time the confidence of his relatives, and as a matter of course, went to sea. He made a good sailor; and while I knew him in St. Pierre, and during the subsequent years of his life, his conduct was in every way correct. His conversation was improving, and his chest was well stored. with books, which he cheerfully. loaned, and to which I was indebted for many happy hours.

The other was an Irishman by birth, prematurely aged, of diminutive stature, and unprepossessing appearance. He had been many years at sea; had witnessed perilous scenes; had fought for his life with the savages on board the Atahualpa on "the north-west coast;" had served in an English man-of-war, from which he escaped by swimming ashore, a distance of several miles, one night while cruising off the island of Antigua. He reached the land completely exhausted more dead than alive- - and was concealed for a time among the slave habitations on one of the plantations.

Little Jack, as he was familiarly called, was a type of the old sailor of those days, so far as his habits and general conduct was concerned. He was reckless, bold, dissolute, generous, never desponding, ever ready for a drunken frolic or a fight, to do a good deed, plan a piece of mischief, or head a revolt. He seemed to find enjoyment in every change which his strange destiny presented. And this man, who seemed at home in a ship's forecastle, or when mingling with the lowest dregs of society, had been educated at Trinity College, Dublin. He was well read in

the classics, and familiar with the writings of the old British poets. He could quote elaborate passages from the best authors, and converse fluently and learnedly on almost any subject.

Notwithstanding his cultivated mind and intellectual powers, which should have placed him in a high position in society, he appeared satisfied with his condition, and aspired to no loftier sphere than that of a common sailor. We often meet with anomalies in the human character, for which it would puzzle the most learned psychologist to account. What strange and sad event had occurred in the early part of that man's career, to change the current of his fortune, and make him contented in a condition so humble, and a slave to habits so degrading? His story, if faithfully told, might furnish a record of ambitious projects and sanguine expectations, followed by blighted hopes which palsied all succeeding exertions, and plunged him into the depths of dissipation and vice.

Captain Turner and the worthy master of the John, the better to conceal their iniquities from the lynx-eyed satellites of the law, agreed to make an exchange of vessels, both having been officially condemned as unseaworthy. For an equivalent, the schooner was to be laden with a cargo, principally of molasses, and properly furnished with stores, provisions, and water, for a passage to the United States by the way of St. Bartholomew. The crews of the two vessels were then to be interchanged, and Captain Turner, his mate and crew, were to take up their quarters in the John.

The arrangement was carried into effect; but two of the Dolphin's crew, dissatisfied with the proceedings on board the brig, and thinking matters would not be improved by a transfer to the schooner, and being under no obligation to follow Captain Turner to another vessel, demanded their discharge. In their stead he shipped a boy, about fourteen years of age, whom he had persuaded to