would have given me the true account.  Whether I shall ever meet him again, or whether his manuscript narrative of his adventures in the Pelew Islands, which would be creditable to him and interesting to the world, will ever see the light, I cannot tell.  His is one of those cases which are more numerous than those suppose who have never lived anywhere but in their own homes, and never walked but in one line from their cradles to their graves.  We must come down from our heights, and leave our straight paths for the by-ways and low places of life, if we would learn truths by strong contrasts; and in hovels, in forecastles, and among our own outcasts in foreign lands, see what has been wrought among our fellow-creatures by accident, hardship, or vice.

Two days brought us to San Pedro, and two days more (to our no small joy) gave us our last view of that place, which was universally called the hell of California, and seemed designed in every way for the wear and tear of sailors.  Not even the last view could bring out one feeling of regret.  No thanks, thought I, as we left the hated shores in the distance, for the hours I have walked over your stones barefooted, with hides on my head,—­ for the burdens I have carried up your steep, muddy hill,—­ for the duckings in your surf; and for the long days and longer nights passed on your desolate hill, watching piles of hides, hearing the sharp bark of your eternal coyotes, and the dismal hooting of your owls.

As I bade good by to each successive place, I felt as though one link after another were struck from the chain of my servitude.  Having kept close in shore for the land-breeze, we passed the Mission of San Juan Capistrano the same night, and saw distinctly, by the bright moonlight, the cliff which I had gone down by a pair of halyards in search of a few paltry hides.

``Forsan et haec olim,’’

thought I, and took my last look of that place too.  And on the next morning we were under the high point of San Diego.  The flood tide took us swiftly in, and we came-to opposite our hide-house, and prepared to get everything in trim for a long stay.  This was our last port.  Here we were to discharge everything from the ship, clean her out, smoke her, take in our hides, wood, and water, and set sail for Boston.  While all this was doing, we were to lie still in one place, the port a safe one, and no fear of southeasters.  Accordingly, having picked out a good berth in the stream, with a smooth beach opposite for a landing-place, and within two cables’ length of our hide-house, we moored ship, unbent the sails, sent down the top-gallant-yards and the studding-sail booms, and housed the top-gallant-masts.  The boats were then hove out and all the sails, the spare spars, the stores, the rigging not rove, and, in fact, everything which was not in daily use, sent ashore, and stowed away in the house.  Then went our hides and horns, and we left hardly anything in the ship but her ballast,