rd the parting scene when it was time to
say good-by.

I had intended to keep the coming enterprise a secret, and only to make
the disclosure in writing when the vessel was ready to sail. But, after
reading the letter to the _Times,_ Stella saw something in my face (as
I suppose) that betrayed me. Well, it's over now. I do my best to
keep myself from thinking of it--and, for this reason, I abstain from
dwelling on the subject here.

Mr. Murthwaite has not only given me valuable instructions--he has
provided me with letters of introduction to persons in office, and to
the _padres_ (or priests) in Mexico, which will be of incalculable use
in such an expedition as mine. In the present disturbed condition of the
United States, he recommends me to sail for a port on the eastern coast
of Mexico, and then to travel northward overland, and make my first
inquiries in Arizona at the town of Tubac. Time is of such importance,
in his opinion, that he suggests making inquiries in London and
Liverpool for a merchant vessel under immediate sailing orders for Vera
Cruz or Tampico. The fitting out of the yacht cannot be accomplished,
I find, in less than a fortnight or three weeks. I have therefore taken
Mr. Murthwaite's advice.

September 16.--No favorable answer, so far as the port of London is
concerned. Very little commerce with Mexico, and bad harbors in that
country when you do trade. Such is the report.

September 17.--A Mexican brig has been discovered at Liverpool, under
orders for Vera Cruz. But the vessel is in debt, and the date of
departure depends on expected remittances! In this state of things I
may wait, with my conscience at ease, to sail in comfort on board my own
schooner.

September 18-30.--I have settled my affairs; I have taken leave of my
friends (good. Mr. Murthwaite included); I have written cheerfully to
Stella; and I sail from Portsmouth to-morrow, well provided with the
jars of whisky and the kegs of gunpowder which will effect the release
of the captives.

It is strange, considering the serious matters I have to think of, but
it is also true, that I feel out of spirits at the prospect of leaving
England without my traveling companion, the dog. I am afraid to take the
dear old fellow with me, on such a perilous expedition as mine may be.
Stella takes care of him--and, if I don't live to return, she will never
part with him, for his master's sake. It implies a childish sort of
mind, I suppose--but it