The little town of San Diego has undergone no change whatever that I
can see. It certainly has not grown. It is still, like Santa
Barbara, a Mexican town. The four principal houses of the gente de
razon- of the Bandinis, Estudillos, Arguellos, and Picos- are the
chief houses now; but all the gentlemen- and their families, too, I
believe- are gone. The big vulgar shop-keeper and trader, Fitch, is
long since dead; Tom Wrightington, who kept the rival pulperia, fell
from his horse when drunk, and was found nearly eaten up by coyotes;
and I can scarce find a person whom I remember. I went into a familiar
one-story adobe house, with its piazza and earthen floor, inhabited by
a respectable lower-class family by the name of Muchado, and
inquired if any of the family remained, when a bright-eyed middle-aged
woman recognized me, for she had heard I was on board the steamer, and
told me she had married a shipmate of mine, Jack Stewart, who went out
as second mate the next voyage, but left the ship and married and
settled here. She said he wished very much to see me. In a few minutes
he came in, and his sincere pleasure in meeting me was extremely
grateful.
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