were autograph copies from men of world-wide fame; but the volume which he cherished most fondly was an old, sea-flavored, weather-beaten manuscript book, the private "log" of Henry Hathaway. A few months before his death he showed it to me, with such a look of fond pride and pleasure as only he could wear when testifying to the love and tenderness of another. Truly it was a volume on whose pages any man might be proud to be chronicled as he is. A few extracts will show the character of this singular record, which was begun three hours after the parting of the friends and continued to the end of the voyage:
Dear Old Fellow:
I am now seated at the old donkey, where we've sat side by side for the last five months, more or less, and have been reading over some of your pieces of poetry, and it makes me lonesome, although we have not been parted as yet hardly three hours, and thank God we have lived and parted as friends; and thinking, perhaps, in after years you would like to know the transactions of the remainder of this voyage, I shall endeavor to write a little, once in a while, hoping it may prove interesting to you. Most everybody on board is talking about you, and they all wish you good luck in your undertaking, and all that I have got to say is, "Good speed, and God bless you!"
Friday Evening, July 30.—Again I am seated, to add another line or two. This morning there were six sails in sight, and I suppose the Sapphire was one of the six. The old man told me this morning that he thought you would go home with us yet. He says that if we get to St. Helena first he will take you on board again, and as much as I would like to have you here, I hope and trust that you are safe where you are; God bless you, old fellow! Good-night!
Saturday Evening, 31st.—It is now blowing a gale from the westward, and the old ship is lying to under reefed foresail and close reefed main topsail, and I have got the blues the worst kind, and am as homesick as can be:
Friend after friend departs;
Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not here an end.—J. Montgomery.
