The people of this region are giving attention to sheep-raising, wine-making, and the raising of olives, just enough to keep the town from going backwards.

But evening is drawing on, and our boat sails to-night.  So, refusing a horse or carriage, I walk down, not unwilling to be a little early, that I may pace up and down the beach, looking off to the islands and the points, and watching the roaring, tumbling billows.  How softening is the effect of time!  It touches us through the affections.  I almost feel as if I were lamenting the passing away of something loved and dear,—­ the boats, the Kanakas, the hides, my old shipmates!  Death, change, distance, lend them a character which makes them quite another thing from the vulgar, wearisome toil of uninteresting, forced manual labor.

The breeze freshened as we stood out to sea, and the wild waves rolled over the red sun, on the broad horizon of the Pacific; but it is summer, and in summer there can be no bad weather in California.  Every day is pleasant.  Nature forbids a drop of rain to fall by day or night, or a wind to excite itself beyond a fresh summer breeze.

The next morning we found ourselves at anchor in the Bay of San Pedro.  Here was this hated, this thoroughly detested spot.  Although we lay near, I could scarce recognize the hill up which we rolled and dragged and pushed and carried our heavy loads, and down which we pitched the hides, to carry them barefooted over the rocks to the floating long-boat.  It was no longer the landing-place.  One had been made at the head of the creek, and boats discharged and took off cargoes from a mole or wharf, in a quiet place, safe from southeasters.  A tug ran to take off passengers from the steamer to the wharf,—­ for the trade of Los Angeles is sufficient to support such a vessel.  I got the captain to land me privately, in a small boat, at the old place by the hill.  I dismissed the boat, and, alone, found my way to the high ground.  I say found my way, for neglect and weather had left but few traces of the steep road the hide-vessels had built to the top.  The cliff off which we used to throw the hides, and where I spent nights watching them, was more easily found.  The population was doubled, that is to say, there were two houses, instead of one, on the hill.  I stood on the brow and looked out toward the offing, the Santa Catalina Island, and, nearer, the melancholy Dead Man’s Island, with its painful tradition, and recalled the gloomy days that followed the flogging, and fancied the Pilgrim at anchor in the offing.  But the tug is going toward our steamer, and I must awake and be off.  I walked along the shore to the new landing-place, where were two or three store-houses and other buildings, forming a small depot; and a stage-coach, I found, went daily between this place and the Pueblo.  I got a seat on the top of the coach, to which were tackled six little less than wild California horses.  Each horse had a man at his