stones so hard to our bare feet,—­ and the cliffs of San Juan!  All this, too, is no more!  The entire hide-business is of the past, and to the present inhabitants of California a dim tradition.  The gold discoveries drew off all men from the gathering or cure of hides, the inflowing population made an end of the great droves of cattle; and now not a vessel pursues the—­ I was about to say dear—­ the dreary, once hated business of gathering hides upon the coast, and the beach of San Diego is abandoned and its hide-houses have disappeared.  Meeting a respectable-looking citizen on the wharf, I inquired of him how the hide-trade was carried on. ``O,’’ said he, ``there is very little of it, and that is all here.  The few that are brought in are placed under sheds in winter, or left out on the wharf in summer, and are loaded from the wharves into the vessels alongside.  They form parts of cargoes of other materials.’’ I really felt too much, at the instant, to express to him the cause of my interest in the subject, and only added, ``Then the old business of trading up and down the coast and curing hides for cargoes is all over?’’ ``O yes, sir,’’ said he, ``those old times of the Pilgrim and Alert and California, that we read about, are gone by.’’

Saturday, August 20th.  The steamer Senator makes regular trips up and down the coast, between San Francisco and San Diego, calling at intermediate ports.  This is my opportunity to revisit the old scenes.  She sails to-day, and I am off, steaming among the great clippers anchored in the harbor, and gliding rapidly round the point, past Alcatraz Island, the light-house, and through the fortified Golden Gate, and bending to the southward,—­ all done in two or three hours, which, in the Alert, under canvas, with head tides, variable winds, and sweeping currents to deal with, took us full two days.

Among the passengers I noticed an elderly gentleman, thin, with sandy hair and a face that seemed familiar.  He took off his glove and showed one shrivelled hand.  It must be he!  I went to him and said, ``Captain Wilson, I believe.’’ Yes, that was his name. ``I knew you, sir, when you commanded the Ayacucho on this coast, in old hide-droghing times, in 1835-6.’’ He was quickened by this, and at once inquiries were made on each side, and we were in full talk about the Pilgrim and Alert, Ayacucho and Loriotte, the California and Lagoda.  I found he had been very much flattered by the praise I had bestowed in my book on his seamanship, especially in bringing the Pilgrim to her berth in San Diego harbor, after she had drifted successively into the Lagoda and Loriotte, and was coming into him.  I had made a pet of his brig, the Ayacucho, which pleased him almost as much as my remembrance of his bride and their wedding, which I saw at Santa Barbara in 1836.  Dona Ramona was now the mother of a large family, and Wilson assured me that if I would visit him at his rancho, near San Luis Obispo, I should