The weather was cold, but after a dark, foggy morning, the sun came out, and the sky continued unclouded during the day. This was very cheering, for we had had scarcely an hour's sunshine during many weeks. What a contrast between the Pacific Ocean as I find it, and the picture I had formed of it. I had even associated it with unclouded skies and genial warmth, with mild breezes and gently undulating waters. I had dreamed of it as "The Blue Summer Ocean," in which Moore might have found "The Bright Little Isle," of which he so sweetly sings in one of his sweetest songs. And there is many an isle scattered over this great waste of waters, which would almost answer to Moore's description,
"Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers,"
many a spot, which air, climate, soil, vegetable productions, and beautiful scenery have rendered as perfect elysiums, as nature, unassisted by art, can produce.
But leaving Moore, poetry, sunshine, and every pleasant thought, let us once more come back to the unwholesome realities of the bark. In addition to the many luxuries with which our palates had been regaled during the voyage, we had for several weeks past been feasting on wormy bread—not myself, but my fellow-passengers. My disgust at hard-bread had become so intense, that I could not swallow it, good or bad. I think I must have starved had I been confined to it. But being on good terms with the stewards and cooks, I had found means to obtain an extra allowance of soft-tack, sufficient for my urgent wants. Few of the passengers were so fortunate. One of them, finding no escape from the wormy hard-bread, strove to make a little sport out of it, by declaring that these living vermin had imparted to the bread a peculiar lively flavor, which was very palatable.
Then, again, as the supply of water we had taken in at Talcahuana, became exhausted, we were obliged to resort to the old stock from Frankfort. Some of this was so excessively filthy, and had acquired such a nauseous, such a putrid taste and smell, that several of the passengers who were far from being troubled with weak stomachs, actually vomited on drinking it. Even boiling it, and making tea or coffee with it would not purify it. But we had better water on board, and after many remonstrances and altercations with the captain, we got it.
September 7. We took a pilot on board in the morning. He brought a paper or two, which we read with great interest, and it will be readily believed that we were most eager in our inquiries for news.
Among other objects that attracted our attention as we approached the harbor, was a great sand bank stretching a mile along the coast, and extending a considerable distance inland. It was the largest bed of sand I had ever seen, and was a very fair specimen of a miniature desert. Several large rocks scattered along the coast presented a lively appearance, from the multitude of sea birds that covered them; and one of them attracted our particular notice, being perforated with a hole, sufficiently large, I thought, to admit the passage of a boat through it.
We now ascertained that the place where we so narrowly escaped shipwreck, was near Monterey, about sixty miles south of San Francisco.
We entered the harbor in the afternoon, and anchored about a mile from the city. And thus ended the voyage of the James W. Paige, one hundred and fifty-eight days from the day we set sail from Frankfort.
A large fleet of boats surrounded the ship as soon as we anchored, and I took passage in one of them in company with several others, and after passing through a wilderness of ships, steamers, and dismantled hulks, we landed in the city. Our first business on landing was at the Post-Office, where I was made happy by the reception of a package of letters informing me that all my friends were alive and well.