As We Made The High Point Off San Diego, Point Loma, We Were
Greeted By The Cheering Presence Of A Light-House.
As we swept
round it in the early morning, there, before us, lay the little
harbor of San Diego,
Its low spit of sand, where the water runs
so deep; the opposite flats, where the Alert grounded in starting
for home; the low hills, without trees, and almost without brush;
the quiet little beach; - but the chief objects, the hide houses,
my eye looked for in vain. They were gone, all, and left no mark
behind.
I wished to be alone, so I let the other passengers go up to the
town, and was quietly pulled ashore in a boat, and left to myself.
The recollections and the emotions all were sad, and only sad.
Fugit, interea fugit irreparabile tempus.
The past was real. The present, all about me, was unreal,
unnatural, repellant. I saw the big ships lying in the stream,
the Alert, the California, the Rosa, with her Italians; then the
handsome Ayacucho, my favorite; the poor, dear old Pilgrim, the
home of hardship and hopelessness; the boats passing to and fro;
the cries of the sailors at the capstan or falls; the peopled
beach; the large hide-houses with their gangs of men; and the
Kanakas interspersed everywhere. All, all were gone! not a
vestige to mark where one hide-house stood. The oven, too,
was gone. I searched for its site, and found, where I thought
it should be, a few broken bricks and bits of mortar.
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