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. 140). 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. We steamed
again for Santa Barbara, where we only lay an hour, and passed
through its canal and round Point Conception, stopping at San Luis
Obispo to land my friend, as I may truly call him after this long
passage together, Captain Wilson, whose most earnest invitation to
stop here and visit him at his rancho I was obliged to decline.
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