Saturday, February 13th.  Were called up at midnight to slip for a violent northeaster; for this miserable hole of San Pedro is thought unsafe in almost every wind.  We went off with a flowing sheet, and hove-to under the lee of Catalina Island, where we lay three days, and then returned to our anchorage.

Tuesday, February 23d.  This afternoon a signal was made from the shore, and we went off in the gig, and found the agent’s clerk, who had been up to the pueblo, waiting at the landing-place, with a package under his arm, covered with brown paper and tied carefully with twine.  No sooner had we shoved off than he told us there was good news from Santa Barbara. ``What’s that?’’ said one of the crew; ``has the bloody agent slipped off the hooks?  Has the old bundle of bones got him at last?’’—­ ``No; better than that.  The California has arrived.’’ Letters, papers, news, and, perhaps,—­ friends, on board!  Our hearts were all up in our mouths, and we pulled away like good fellows, for the precious packet could not be opened except by the captain.  As we pulled under the stern, the clerk held up the package, and called out to the mate, who was leaning over the taffrail; that the California had arrived.

``Hurrah!’’ said the mate, so as to be heard fore and aft; ``California come, and news from Boston!’’

Instantly there was a confusion on board which no one would understand who had not been in the same situation.  All discipline seemed for a moment relaxed.

``What’s that, Mr. Brown?’’ said the cook, putting his head out of the galley; ``California come?’’

``Aye, aye! you angel of darkness, and there’s a letter for you from Bullknop ’treet, number two-two-five,—­ green door and brass knocker!’’

The packet was sent down into the cabin, and every one waited to hear of the result.  As nothing came up, the officers began to feel that they were acting rather a child’s part, and turned the crew to again; and the same strict discipline was restored, which prohibits speech between man and man while at work on deck; so that, when the steward came forward with letters for the crew, each man took his letters, carried them below to his chest, and came up again immediately, and not a letter was read until we had cleared up decks for the night.

An overstrained sense of manliness is the characteristic of sea-faring men.  This often gives an appearance of want of feeling, and even of cruelty.  From this, if a man comes within an ace of breaking his neck and escapes, it is made a joke of; and no notice must be taken of a bruise or a cut; and any expression of pity, or any show of attention, would look sisterly, and unbecoming a man who has to face the rough and tumble of such a life.  From this cause, too, the sick are neglected at sea, and, whatever sailors may be ashore, a sick man finds little sympathy or attention, forward or aft.  A man, too, can have nothing peculiar or sacred on board ship; for all