Sunday, October 30, 1864.—Here we are yet, closely clasped in Sarah's Bosom. I don't think I shall have any reason to dread purgatory after this; I trust that my purgations are now being performed, and are almost completed, for things appear to be drawing rapidly towards a crisis. The proverb says, when things are at their worst they must mend; but how bad that worst may be is beyond the reach of human knowledge. I must now forego about the last bit of comfort that was left me, which is writing a little on Sundays; for if I continue to do so, my only remaining book of blank paper will be filled up. I may yet have something of moment to insert, for which purpose I must reserve the few remaining pages. So, my dear old book, I must bid you good bye, for God only knows how long. If nothing comes after us, we shall commence at the New Year to pull the 'Grafton' to pieces, and try what we can do with her bones. It is an undertaking the success of which I am exceedingly doubtful of. If we had had tools I should have tried what we could have done long before this time; but who expected that we should be left here unlooked for like so many dogs!
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It is folly for me to get into this vein. Let it pass. Our stock of tools is, as I think I have said before, an American axe, an adze, a hammer, and a gimblet—a mighty assortment to take our ship to pieces, and build another one with, if even there was any carpenter or blacksmith among us, which there is not. The idea is almost farcical; but, as I have said before, I shall go to sea on a log in preference to dragging out a miserable existence here: besides, I am not sure that we shall be able to do that much longer. We have had very bad weather all the week, with the exception of Wednesday. It was constant heavy rain until Friday evening, and blowing a gale from the westward. On Friday evening it shifted suddenly to S.S.W., and the rain turned into snow, which fell heavily, and now lies thick on the ground; and the weather is dark,
