not do.  Nobody broke his back or his handspike by his efforts.  And when the cat-tackle-fall was strung along, and all hands—­ cook, steward, and all—­ laid hold, to cat the anchor, instead of the lively song of ``Cheerly, men!’’ in which all hands join in the chorus, we pulled a long, heavy, silent pull, and, as sailors say a song is as good as ten men, the anchor came to the cat-head pretty slowly. ``Give us `Cheerly!’’’ said the mate; but there was no ``cheerly’’ for us, and we did without it.  The captain walked the quarter-deck, and said not a word.  He must have seen the change, but there was nothing which he could notice officially.

We sailed leisurely down the coast before a light, fair wind, keeping the land well aboard, and saw two other missions, looking like blocks of white plaster, shining in the distance; one of which, situated on the top of a high hill, was San Juan Capistrano, under which vessels sometimes come to anchor, in the summer season, and take off hides.  At sunset on the second day we had a large and well-wooded headland directly before us, behind which lay the little harbor of San Diego.  We were becalmed off this point all night, but the next morning, which was Saturday, the 14th of March, having a good breeze, we stood round the point, and, hauling our wind, brought the little harbor, which is rather the outlet of a small river, right before us.  Every one was desirous to get a view of the new place.  A chain of high hills, beginning at the point (which was on our larboard hand coming in), protected the harbor on the north and west, and ran off into the interior, as far as the eye could reach.  On the other sides the land was low and green, but without trees.  The entrance is so narrow as to admit but one vessel at a time, the current swift, and the channel runs so near to a low, stony point that the ship’s sides appeared almost to touch it.  There was no town in sight, but on the smooth sand beach, abreast, and within a cable’s length of which three vessels lay moored, were four large houses, built of rough boards, and looking like the great barns in which ice is stored on the borders of the large ponds near Boston, with piles of hides standing round them, and men in red shirts and large straw hats walking in and out of the doors.  These were the Hide Houses.  Of the vessels:  one, a short, clumsy little hermaphrodite brig, we recognized as our old acquaintance, the Loriotte; another, with sharp bows and raking masts, newly painted and tarred, and glittering in the morning sun, with the blood-red banner and cross of St. George at her peak, was the handsome Ayacucho.  The third was a large ship, with top-gallant-masts housed and sails unbent, and looking as rusty and worn as two years’ ``hide droghing’’ could make her.  This was the Lagoda.  As we drew near, carried rapidly along by the current, we overhauled our chain, and clewed up the topsails. ``Let go the anchor!’’ said the captain; but either there was not chain enough