I was sorry to part with Harris.  Nearly two hundred hours (as we had calculated it) had we walked the ship’s deck together, at anchor watch, when all hands were below, and talked over and over every subject which came within the ken of either of us.  He gave me a strong gripe with his hand; and I told him, if he came to Boston, not to fail to find me out, and let me see my old watchmate.  The same boat brought on board Stimson, who had begun the voyage with me from Boston, and, like me, was going back to his family and to the society in which he had been born and brought up.  We congratulated each other upon finding what we had long talked over and wished for thus brought about; and none on board the ship were more glad than ourselves to see the old brig standing round the point, under full sail.  As she passed abreast of us, we all collected in the waist, and gave her three loud, hearty cheers, waving our hats in the air.  Her crew sprang into the rigging and chains, and answered us with three as loud, to which we, after the nautical custom, gave one in return.  I took my last look of their familiar faces as they passed over the rail, and saw the old black cook put his head out of the galley, and wave his cap over his head.  Her crew flew aloft to loose the top-gallant-sails and royals; the two captains waved their hands to each other; and, in ten minutes, we saw the last inch of her white canvas, as she rounded the point.

Relieved as I was to see her well off (and I felt like one who had just sprung from an iron trap which was closing upon him), I had yet a feeling of regret at taking the last look at the old craft in which I had spent a year, and the first year, of my sailor’s life, which had been my first home in the new world into which I had entered, and with which I had associated so many events,—­ my first leaving home, my first crossing the equator, Cape Horn, Juan Fernandez, death at sea, and other things, serious and common.  Yet, with all this, and the sentiment I had for my old shipmates condemned to another term of California life, the thought that we were done with it, and that one week more would see us on our way to Boston, was a cure for everything.

Friday, May 6th, completed the getting in of our cargo, and was a memorable day in our calendar.  The time when we were to take in our last hide we had looked forward to, for sixteen months, as the first bright spot.  When the last hide was stowed away, the hatches calked down, the tarpaulins battened on to them, the long-boat hoisted in and secured, and the decks swept down for the night,—­ the chief mate sprang upon the top of the long-boat, called all hands into the waist, and, giving us a signal by swinging his cap over his head, we gave three long, loud cheers, which came from the bottom of our hearts, and made the hills and valleys ring again.  In a moment we heard three in answer from the California’s crew, who had seen us taking in our long-boat; ``the cry they heard,—­ its meaning knew.’’