“A subject of great importance to the success of the expedition, will present itself to your mind in relation to communications to the prints and newspapers, touching the movements of your squadron, as well as in relation to all matters connected with the discipline and internal regulations of the vessels composing it. You will therefore enjoin upon all under your command to abstain from writing to friends and others upon these subjects, the journals and private notes of the officers and other persons in the expedition must be considered as belonging to the government until permission be received from the navy department to publish them.” The effect of this order was to cause officers to decline keeping journals, and only note down their previous conceptions and present impressions of things and places seen, in their letters to relatives. In 8° north of the equator we became becalmed, when the paddles were put on and we steamed away about eight knots. Our drinking water about this time showed a degree of _vitality_ which was not made more agreeable by the fact that the naval regulations did not allow the wearing of the mustache, even for straining purposes. About ten o’clock on the last night of ’52 there was a cry from the poop-deck of “man overboard!” when the engines were stopped, and the life-buoys suspended from either quarter of the ship were attempted to be gotten away, but not going quickly, nor their matchlocks igniting from some cause, gratings were hove overboard, lights sent up in the mizzen-top, and a metallic boat, the 2d cutter, in which went Lieutenant Webb, and Passed Midshipman K. R. Breese, was lowered and went in search of the unfortunate man. There was much solicitude felt for the poor fellow by those who stood on the poop peering into the darkness astern, eager to hear the least sound that indicated the man still afloat, but it was scarcely shown by the scene enacted during the absence of the boat. Up came the commodore: “What’s the bearing of that star?—Where did that man fall from?” _Voice_:—“Show the Commodore where the man fell from!”—man goes over to port side—“Take care of the paint!” “How does she head?” After a lapse of fifteen or twenty minutes the boat was heard returning, when the following was the hail:—“Mr. Webb?”—“Sir?”—“Have you got the buoy?”—“Yes, sir.”— “Have you got that man?” _Answer_: “Yes, sir,” which was one of much gratification, as every one regarded him as gone. The boat it appeared, had passed him, and having given up the search, was returning, and would have pulled over him, but for his being discovered in time by a bow-oarsman. He was floating without effort on the surface, although there was considerable sea on at the time. The poor fellow upon being taken on board was found to have swallowed a great deal of water, and it was thought that he might die from congestion of the lungs. He had the antithetical name of Dry, and his mind being afterward found