But all these little vexations and labors would have been nothing,—­ they would have been passed by as the common evils of a sea life, which every sailor, who is a man, will go through without complaint,—­ were it not for the uncertainty, or worse than uncertainty, which hung over the nature and length of our voyage.  Here we were, in a little vessel, with a small crew, on a half-civilized coast, at the ends of the earth, and with a prospect of remaining an indefinite period,—­ two or three years at the least.  When we left Boston, we supposed that ours was to be a voyage of eighteen months, or two years, at most; but, upon arriving on the coast, we learned something more of the trade, and found that, in the scarcity of hides, which was yearly greater and greater, it would take us a year, at least, to collect our own cargo, beside the passage out and home; and that we were also to collect a cargo for a large ship belonging to the same firm, which was soon to come on the coast, and to which we were to act as tender.  We had heard rumors of such a ship to follow us, which had leaked out from the captain and mate, but we passed them by as mere ``yarns,’’ till our arrival, when they were confirmed by the letters which we brought from the owners to their agent.  The ship California, belonging to the same firm, had been nearly two years on the coast getting a full cargo, and was now at San Diego, from which port she was expected to sail in a few weeks for Boston; and we were to collect all the hides we could, and deposit them at San Diego, when the new ship, which would carry forty thousand, was to be filled and sent home; and then we were to begin anew upon our own cargo.  Here was a gloomy prospect indeed.  The Lagoda, a smaller ship than the California, carrying only thirty-one or thirty-two thousand, had been two years getting her cargo; and we were to collect a cargo of forty thousand beside our own, which would be twelve or fifteen thousand; and hides were said to be growing scarcer.  Then, too, this ship, which had been to us a worse phantom than any flying Dutchman, was no phantom, or ideal thing, but had been reduced to a certainty; so much so that a name was given her, and it was said that she was to be the Alert, a well-known Indiaman, which was expected in Boston in a few months, when we sailed.  There could be no doubt, and all looked black enough.  Hints were thrown out about three years and four years; the older sailors said they never should see Boston again, but should lay their bones in California; and a cloud seemed to hang over the whole voyage.  Besides, we were not provided for so long a voyage, and clothes, and all sailors’ necessaries, were excessively dear,—­ three or four hundred per cent advance upon the Boston prices.  This was bad enough for the crew; but still worse was it for me, who did not mean to be a sailor for life, having intended only to be gone eighteen months or two years.  Three or four years might make me a sailor in every respect, mind and habits, as well as body, nolens volens, and would put all my companions so far ahead of me that a college degree and a profession would be in vain to think of; and I made up my mind that, feel as I might, a sailor I might have to be, and to command a merchant vessel might be the limit of my ambition.