Without Any Formal Dedication Of My Narrative To That Body Of Men,
Of Whose Common Life It Is Intended To Be A Picture, I Have Yet
Borne Them Constantly In Mind During Its Preparation.
I cannot
but trust that those of them, into whose hands it may chance to
fall, will find in it that which shall render any professions of
sympathy and good wishes on my part unnecessary.
And I will take
the liberty, on parting with my reader, who has gone down with us
to the ocean, and "laid his hand upon its mane," to commend to his
kind wishes, and to the benefit of his efforts, that class of men
with whom, for a time, my lot was cast. I wish the rather to do
this, since I feel that whatever attention this book may gain,
and whatever favor it may find, I shall owe almost entirely to
that interest in the sea, and those who follow it, which is so
easily excited in us all.
TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AFTER
It was in the winter of 1835-6 that the ship Alert, in the prosecution
of her voyage for hides on the remote and almost unknown coast
of California, floated into the vast solitude of the Bay of San
Francisco. All around was the stillness of nature. One vessel,
a Russian, lay at anchor there, but during our whole stay not a
sail came or went. Our trade was with remote Missions, which sent
hides to us in launches manned by their Indians.
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