We talked
over old times as long as I could afford to. I was glad to hear
that he was sober and doing well. Doņa Tomasa Pico I found and
talked with. She was the only person of the old upper class that
remained on the spot, if I rightly recollect. I found an American
family here, with whom I dined, - Doyle and his wife, nice young
people, Doyle agent for the great line of coaches to run to the
frontier of the old States.
I must complete my acts of pious remembrance, so I take a horse
and make a run out to the old Mission, where Ben Stimson and I
went the first liberty day we had after we left Boston (ante,
p. 115). All has gone to decay. The buildings are unused and
ruinous, and the large gardens show now only wild cactuses, willows,
and a few olive-trees. A fast run brings me back in time to take
leave of the few I knew and who knew me, and to reach the steamer
before she sails. A last look - yes, last for life - to the beach,
the hills, the low point, the distant town, as we round Point
Loma and the first beams of the light-house strike out towards
the setting sun.
Wednesday, August 24th. At anchor at San Pedro by daylight.
But instead of being roused out of the forecastle to row the
long-boat ashore and bring off a load of hides before breakfast,
we were served with breakfast in the cabin, and again took our
drive with the wild horses to the Pueblo and spent the day;
seeing nearly the same persons as before, and again getting back
by dark.
