We now come to the last anniversary of our nation’s birthday that we were destined to spend together in our ocean home, and we resolved that it should be a merry one. All unnecessary work was suspended; the doctor was ordered to serve up his best dishes for the occasion, and all hands went in for a merry time—a celebration on our own hook. During the morning a national salute was fired, the glorious stars and stripes floating proudly at our mizzen peak the mean while. At twelve dinner was announced. The bill of fare, as presented by the doctor, was turtle soup, boiled turtle, fried turtle, and turtle in every conceivable way; sweet potatoes; cakes; pies; custards; turtle eggs, fried and boiled; plum duff, etc., etc.—the whole forming a repast that Jack seldom sits down to. All hands did ample justice to the dinner, which the old darkey cook received as a great compliment. “I tought,” said he, “I fix dinner for you dis foufh July just suit you, and I been gone done it.” We now postponed further proceedings until evening. Among other good things, the steward had brewed a barrel of excellent small beer for the occasion from sweet potatoes and hops. And now the watch had been set; none on deck save the man at the wheel and the officer pacing his rounds. Forward were all hands in the forecastle, which was brilliantly illuminated by the real spermaceti—the spoils of our own hard-fought battles—each one seated with his pot of beer before him. The song was called for; and “Hail Columbia!” was sung by Yankees, Englishmen, Frenchmen, Spaniards, Portuguese, and Kanakas, as never sung before. Patriotic speeches followed, and the sentiment of devotion to our country was toasted: “three times three,” with a will, was given for the “land of the free and the home of the brave.” The Kanakas and Portuguese, although not understanding the “merits of the case,” entered into the sport with a hearty good-will, drinking their small-beer, occasionally exclaiming, “Hurra Fourth July! very good; I like s’pose he come every day.” And thus our last Fourth of July in a whaler passed. Although not making as much of a “splurge” as did many _patriots_ on that day, yet our hearts beat as true, and expressed as much devotion to our country. From this time our good fortune, that had followed us during the cruise so far, appeared to gain. During the next thirty days we captured nearly three hundred barrels of oil, which was in itself a good season’s work. Fortune had at last crowned our efforts with success, and each day, as it passed, would hear some one exclaim, “One day less on board the old hooker!”