The Island We
Called "Wood Island," Where We Spent The Cold Days And Nights
Of December, In Our Launch, Getting Wood For Our Year's Supply,
Is Clean Shorn Of Trees; And The Bare Rocks Of Alcatraz Island,
An Entire Fortress.
I have looked at the city from the water
and islands from the city, but I can see nothing
That recalls the
times gone by, except the venerable Mission, the ruinous Presidio,
the high hills in the rear of the town, and the great stretches of
the bay in all directions.
To-day I took a California horse of the old style, - the run, the
loping gait, - and visited the Presidio. The walls stand as they
did, with some changes made to accommodate a small garrison of
United States troops. It has a noble situation, and I saw from
it a clipper ship of the very largest class, coming through the
Gate, under her fore-and-aft sails. Thence I rode to the Fort,
now nearly finished, on the southern shore of the Gate, and made an
inspection of it. It is very expensive and of the latest style.
One of the engineers here is Custis Lee, who has just left West
Point at the head of his class, - a son of Colonel Robert E. Lee,
who distinguished himself in the Mexican War.
Another morning I ride to the Mission Dolores. It has a strangely
solitary aspect, enhanced by its surroundings of the most uncongenial,
rapidly growing modernisms; the hoar of ages surrounded by the
brightest, slightest, and rapidest of modern growths.
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