Every watch below, for a week, I pored over these papers, until I was sure there could be nothing in them that had escaped my attention, and was ashamed to keep them any longer.

Saturday, March 5th.  This was an important day in our almanac, for it was on this day that we were first assured that our voyage was really drawing to a close.  The captain gave orders to have the ship ready for getting under way; and observed that there was a good breeze to take us down to San Pedro.  Then we were not going up to windward.  Thus much was certain, and was soon known fore and aft; and when we went in the gig to take him off, he shook hands with the people on the beach, and said that he did not expect to see Santa Barbara again.  This settled the matter, and sent a thrill of pleasure through the heart of every one in the boat.  We pulled off with a will, saying to ourselves (I can speak for myself at least), ``Good by, Santa Barbara!  This is the last pull here!  No more duckings in your breakers, and slipping from your cursed southeasters!’’ The news was soon known aboard, and put life into everything when we were getting under way.  Each one was taking his last look at the Mission, the town, the breakers on the beach, and swearing that no money would make him ship to see them again; and when all hands tallied on to the cat-fall, the chorus of ``Time for us to go!’’ was raised for the first time, and joined in, with full swing, by everybody.  One would have thought we were on our voyage home, so near did it seem to us, though there were yet three months for us on the coast.

We left here the young Englishman, George Marsh, of whom I have before spoken, who was wrecked upon the Pelew Islands.  He left us to take the berth of second mate on board the Ayacucho, which was lying in port.  He was well qualified for this post, and his education would enable him to rise to any situation on board ship.  I felt really sorry to part from him.  There was something about him which excited my curiosity; for I could not, for a moment, doubt that he was well born, and, in early life, well bred.  There was the latent gentleman about him, and the sense of honor, and no little of the pride, of a young man of good family.  The situation was offered him only a few hours before we sailed; and though he must give up returning to America, yet I have no doubt that the change from a dog’s berth to an officer’s was too agreeable to his feelings to be declined.  We pulled him on board the Ayacucho, and when he left the boat he gave each of its crew a piece of money except myself, and shook hands with me, nodding his head, as much as to say ``We understand each other,’’ and sprang on board.  Had I known, an hour sooner, that he was to leave us, I would have made an effort to get from him the true history of his birth and early life.  He knew that I had no faith in the story which he told the crew about them, and perhaps, in the moment of parting from me, probably forever, he