Prentice Mulford's story: life by land and seaMulford, Prentice
History
Prentice Mulford's story: life by land and sea
Mulford, Prentice
California -- Biography; California -- Description and travel; California -- Gold discoveries; Mulford, Prentice, 1834-1891
After sixteen years of exile in California, I found myself rolling
seaward and homeward through the Golden Gate in the Panama steamer
Sacramento. The parting gun had been fired, the captain, naval cloak,
cap, eye-glass and all, had descended from his perch of command on the
paddle-box, the engine settled steadily to its work, Telegraph Hill,
Meigg’s Wharf, Black Point, Alcatraz, Lime Point, Fort Point, one by one
receded and crept into the depressing gloomy fog, the mantle in which
San Francisco loves so well to wrap herself. The heave of the Pacific
began to be plainly felt, and with it the customary misery.
The first two days out are devoted to sea and homesickness. Everybody is
wretched about something. No sooner is the steamer a mile beyond the
Heads than we, who for years have been awaiting a blessed deliverance
from California, are seized with unutterable longings to return. All at
once we discover how pleasant is the land and its people. We review its
associations, its life, its peculiar excitements, and the warm
friendships we have made there. And now it is all fading in the fog: the
Cliff House is disappearing, it is going, it is gone. Heart and stomach
are contemporaneously wretched: we bury ourselves in our berths; we
call upon the steward and stewardess; we wish ardently that some
accident may befall the ship and oblige her to put back. No! Not more
inexorable, certain and inevitable is the earth in its revolution, the
moon in its orbit, or one’s landlord when the rent is overdue, than is
the course of the stately vessel south. South, day after day, she
plunges; the North Star sinks, the sky becomes fairer, the air milder,
the ocean of a softer blue; the sunsets develop the tints of Fairyland;
the sunrise mocks all human ornamentation in its gorgeousness. Light
coats and muslin dresses blossom on the promenade-deck; the colored
waiters develop white linen suits and faultless neckties. The sea air on
the northern edge of the tropic zone is a balm for every wound, and
forces us into content against our perverse wills.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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