September 16.—­No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is concerned.  Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors in that country when you do trade.  Such is the report.

September 17.—­A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under orders for Vera Cruz.  But the vessel is in debt, and the date of departure depends on expected remittances!  In this state of things I may wait, with my conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on board my own schooner.

September 18-30.—­I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my friends (good.  Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well provided with the jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release of the captives.

It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of leaving England without my traveling companion, the dog.  I am afraid to take the dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine may be.  Stella takes care of him—­and, if I don’t live to return, she will never part with him, for his master’s sake.  It implies a childish sort of mind, I suppose—­but it is a comfort to me to remember that I have never said a hard word to Traveler, and never lifted my hand on him in anger.

All this about a dog!  And not a word about Stella?  Not a word. Those thoughts are not to be written.

I have reached the last page of my diary.  I shall lock it, and leave it in charge of my bankers, on my way to the Portsmouth train.  Shall I ever w ant a new diary?  Superstitious people might associate this coming to the end of the book with coming to an end of another kind.  I have no imagination, and I take my leap in the dark hopefully—­with Byron’s glorious lines in my mind: 

     “Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
     And a smile to those that hate;
     And whatever sky’s above met
     Here’s heart for every fate.”

*****

(An inclosure is inserted here, marking a lapse of seven months, before the entries in the diary are resumed.  It consists of two telegrams, dispatched respectively on the 1st and 2d of May, 1864.)

1.  “From Bernard Winterfield, Portsmouth, England.  To Mrs. Romayne care of M. Villeray, St. Germain, near Paris.—­Penrose is safe on board my yacht.  His unfortunate companion has died of exhaustion, and he is himself in a feeble state of health.  I at once take him with me to London for medical advice.  We are eager for news of you.  Telegraph to Derwent’s Hotel.”

2.  “From Mrs. Eyrecourt, St. Germain.  To Bernard Winterfield, Derwent’s Hotel, London.—­Your telegram received with joy, and sent on to Stella in Paris.  All well.  But strange events have happened.  If you cannot come here at once, go to Lord Loring.  He will tell you everything.”

Tenth Extract.