I walked slowly up the hill, finding my way among the few bushes,
for the path was long grown over, and sat down where we used to
rest in carrying our burdens of wood, and to look out for vessels
that might, though so seldom, be coming down from the windward.
To rally myself by calling to mind my own better fortune and
nobler lot, and cherished surroundings at home, was impossible.
Borne down by depression, the day being yet at its noon, and the
sun over the old point,-- it is four miles to the town, the
Presidio,-- I have walked it often, and can do it once more,-- I
passed the familiar objects, and it seemed to me that I remembered
them better than those of any other place I had ever been in;--
the opening to the little cave; the low hills where we cut wood
and killed rattlesnakes, and where our dogs chased the coyotes;
and the black ground where so many of the ship's crew and
beach-combers used to bring up on their return at the end of a
liberty day, and spend the night sub Jove.
The little town of San Diego has undergone no change whatever that
I can see. It certainly has not grown. It is still, like Santa
Barbara, a Mexican town. The four principal houses of the gente de
razon-- of the Bandinis, Estudillos, Arguellos, and Picos-- are
the chief houses now; but all the gentlemen-- and their families,
too, I believe-- are gone.
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