While these incredible rumors were afloat, the public ear was startled with the intelligence that a large ship had been driven on the rocks, just behind Point Pinos. The whole population rushed at once in that direction,—the women to see her go to pieces, the men to seize her cargo, and a widow, who has a son at sea, to save the sailors. But the ship proved to be the “Flying Dutchman,” with phantom hull and masts, and sails through whose gossamer the setting sun poured its effulgent beam. Some laughed as the spectral fabric dissolved, some grieved in silence over their loss, and one old wrecker hung himself with disappointment. Thus ended the day of the Santos Innocentes.
Tuesday, Dec. 29. During the rains which prevail at this season of the year, a multitude of small streams rush from the hills which encircle Monterey into the lagoon which lies in the vicinity of the town. This natural basin, replenished by these foaming rivulets, presented this week quite a deep and spacious lake, and began to threaten with inundation the buildings upon its margin. As it lay several feet above the level of the sea, with only an intervening ridge of sand, it occurred to me that it would be a good scheme to cut a channel between the two. The work was easily accomplished; but my channel of two feet soon widened to forty, and the whole lake came rushing down in a tremendous torrent. It swept every thing before it, and carried two boats, which lay on the beach, so far out to sea that they have not been seen or heard of since. Even the sea-birds, that have dashed about here among the breakers ever since they got out of their eggs, seemed frightened, and took wing. Their screams came back on the wind like the howling of wild beasts on a sinking wreck. The lake disappeared; its waters, where the stars had mirrored themselves in tranquil beauty, went off to join the roaring ocean, and left on its sandy bottom only a few floundering fish. How tame is a lake when its bottom is laid bare! It is like the heart of a coquette when the illusions of love have fled.
Wednesday, Dec. 30. The phantom ship, which rounded into our harbor a few weeks since, and departed without token or sign, turns out to be a good sound oak reality, in the shape of a sloop-of-war, honored with the name of Dale, bearing the stars and stripes, and commanded by Wm. W. M‘Kean. She sailed from New York on the 6th of June, and has stopped on her way out at Rio de Janeiro, Valparaiso, Callao, Payta, and Mazatlan. She has brought a large mail for the Pacific squadron. What an eager breaking of seals there will be!
I am indebted to her for a large package of letters, and for the receipt of one which was written several weeks after she sailed. It was dispatched alone to Jamaica, thence by the mail steamer to Chagres, thence over the Isthmus to Panama, and thence by the steamer to Callao, and then to Lima. Here it came into the care of my esteemed friend, Mr. M‘Call, who forwarded it by the Dale. It brings me the intelligence of the birth of a son, and of the safety and happiness of a young mother over her first-born. Had this letter, in one of the many mischances to which it was exposed, failed of reaching me, months might have passed away without any intelligence to relieve my solicitude. There is a Providence, whose care extends to the condition of each one. Not a sparrow falls to the ground without his notice. But a long interval of waning moons must pass, and half the earth’s circuit be traversed, before I can see that infant being whose dawning light has shed a gladness on my hearth. In this slow lapse of time what changes may betide, what fearful shadows may fall!
“My child, my child! when I shall reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead,
It seems as I should struggle to believe
Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve;
Didst sigh, then spring to meet Heaven’s quick reprieve,