"'_Assey de Bonaparte!_' cried France, in 1814. Men found that his
absorbing egotism was deadly to all other men," says Mr. Emerson. "It
was not Bonaparte's fault. He did all that in him lay to live and thrive
without moral principle. It was the nature of things, the eternal law of
the man and the world, which balked and ruined him; and the result in a
million experiments would be the same. Every experiment by multitudes or
by individuals, that has a sensual or selfish aim, will fail. The
Pacific Fourier will be as inefficient as the pernicious Napoleon. As
long as our civilization is essentially one of property, of
exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches will leave us
sick; there will be bitterness in our laughter, and our wine will burn
our mouth. Only that good profits which serves all men."
Yes, only that good profits which does not represent the misery of
others; only that wine should be sweet which is not drunk when the tears
of those we have rendered desolate are silently running over pale cheeks
from eyes that have kept the vigil of want, mourning for the beloved to
whom poverty brought death!
In heavenly-inspired words Emerson and Carlyle and Herbert Spencer have
repeated those burning aphorisms, but our California "_Fire Pillars_"
differ with them--differ widely and differ proudly.
Mr. Stanford says that if _he_ did not cause misery some one else would,
for "_misery there must always be in this world_!" Sound philosophy,
truly! Why should he recoil from adding to the sum total of human misery
when so many others do the same!
Mr. Huntington was about the same time writing from Washington that he
_would_ "_see the grass grow over Tom Scott_" before he stopped his work
of _convincing_ Congressmen. And he kept his word.
He carried _conviction_ to Washington, distress to the South and ruin to
San Diego.
Mr. Crocker was answering, "_Anything to beat Tom Scott!_" The thing was
to prevent the construction of San Diego's railroad, no matter to whom
ruin came thereby. "No matter how many were sacrificed."
Nothing was more hopeless, therefore, than to suppose that any of those
men would swerve one iota from their course of greedy acquisition, out
of respect for equity or humanity.
Not a word was spoken until the three saddened friends reached Don
Mariano's parlors at the hotel. They had walked silently out of the
railroad building, silently taken the street car and silently walked out
of it, as it happened to stop in front of their hotel.
"Well, we have failed sadly, but I am glad to have had the chance of
studying that piece of humanity, or rather I should say inhumanity," Mr.
Mechlin exclaimed.
"How confident he is of their power over Congress! And he certainly
means to wield it as if he came by it legitimately. He is proud of it,"
added Mr. Holman.
"Yes, but he is wrong to be proud of a power he means to use only for
selfish ends. Sooner or later the people will get tired of sending men
to Congress who can be bought so easily. I am disappointed in Governor
Stanford. I thought him much more just and fair; a much higher order of
man," said the Don. "How coolly he laughed at us for quoting Carlyle and
Spencer! As if he would have said, 'You quote the philosophers,
gentlemen, and I'll make the millions. You might die in poverty, _I_
shall revel in wealth.'"
"I ought to have quoted Emerson, when he says: 'I count him a great man
who inhabits a higher sphere of thought into which other men rise with
labor and difficulty.' This might have pointed out to him how groveling
it is never to rise above the mere grubbing for money. No, he is not
half as large-minded as I had believed," said Mr. Mechlin.
"How can he be if he is cognizant of the means employed by Huntington to
defeat all legislation in favor of the Texas Pacific?" observed Mr.
Holman.
"Yes, I fear now the Governor gives his sanction to Huntington's work. I
never believed it before. I am disappointed in the Governor as much as
in our fruitless errand," the Don said.
"How irksome and distasteful it is for him to hear about '_the rights of
others_.' He almost takes it as an insult that any one but himself and
associates should have _rights_; and he seems to lose all patience at
the mention of the distress they have brought upon the people of San
Diego and the financial ruin that their rapacity and heartless conduct
will cause the Southern people," said Mr. Holman. "Did you notice how he
frowned at the allusion to the fact that the Central Pacific was built
with Government money? The mere mention irritates his nerves."
"Does he suppose we don't know that they had no money, and that it was
with capital _given_ as absolute gifts, or loaned to them on the
guarantee of the Government, that they built and are building their
roads?" said Mr. Mechlin. "I never saw such complete subversion of the
laws of reasoning as these men exhibit. Good luck has made them think
that to genius they owe success. Thus their moral blindness makes them
take as an insulting want of proper deference any allusion to those
_rights of others_ which, in their feverish greed, they trample. For
this reason they hate San Diego, because San Diego is a living proof of
their wrong-doing; a monument reminding California of their deadly
egotism, of the injury done by unscrupulous men to their fellow-men.
Hence, my friends, I say that San Diego must have no hopes while those
men live."
"I am afraid you are right, and as I have invested in San Diego all I
have in the world, I see no hope; nothing but hard-featured poverty
staring me in the face," said Mr. Holman, sadly.
"If it were owing to natural laws of the necessities of things that San
Diego is thus crippled, our fate would seem to me less hard to bear,"
said Don Mariano; "but to know that the necessities of commerce, the
inevitable increase of the world's population, the development of our
State, all, all demand that Southern California be not sacrificed, _and
yet it is_, and our appeals to Congress are of no avail! All this adds
bitterness to our disappointment. Yes, it is bitter to be reduced to
want, only because a few men, without any merit, without any claims upon
the nation's gratitude, desire more millions."
Thus the disheartened friends discoursed, fully realizing their terrible
proximity to that financial disaster which was sure to overtake them. In
the generosity and kindness of their hearts, they felt added regret,
thinking of so many others who, in San Diego, were in the same position
of impending ruin; so many good, worthy people, who certainly did not
deserve to be thus pitilessly sacrificed; so many who yet clung to the
hopes of '72, when all rushed to buy city lots; so many out of whose
hopes three years of disappointment had not quenched all life. The
failure of Jay Cook in the fall of '73 had made the financial heart of
America shrink with discouragement and alarm, but San Diego did not
realize how much her own fate was involved in that sad catastrophe, and
continued her gay building of proud castles in the air and humble little
cottages on the earth--very close to the earth, but covered with
fragrant flowers, with roses, honeysuckles and fuchsias. These little
one-story wooden cottages were intended for temporary dwellings only. By
and by the roomy stone or brick mansions would be erected, when the
Texas Pacific Railroad--the highway of traffic across the
continent--should bring through San Diego the commerce between Asia and
the Atlantic seaboard, between China and Europe. San Diego lived her
short hour of hope and prosperity, and smiled and went to sleep on the
brink of her own grave, the grave that Mr. C. P. Huntington had already
begun to excavate, to dig as he stealthily went about the halls of our
National Capitol "offering bribes." But such "foul work" was then only
surmised and scarcely believed. It was reserved for Mr. Huntington
himself to furnish proof that this was the fact. His letters were not
published until years after, but the world has them now, and the
monopoly, with all its power, cannot gainsay them.
The three friends were yet discussing this painful topic of their
pilgrimage, when Mr. Mechlin observed that Don Mariano was looking very
pale, and asked if he felt ill.
"Yes," Don Mariano replied; "I feel very cold. I feel as if I was frozen
through and through. When we were at the Governor's office I felt very
warm, and when we came out my clothing was saturated with perspiration.
Now I feel as if I had been steeped in ice."
"This won't do. You must change your clothes at once," said Mr. Mechlin.
Mr. Holman also became alarmed at seeing the bluish pallor of his face.
"Why, this is a congestive chill," said he, hurrying off to call the
doctor, who resided at the hotel, and who fortunately was at home.
Prompt and efficient medical attendance saved Don Mariano's life, but he
was too ill to leave his bed for several days. His two friends remained
with him, writing home that business matters detained them.
Dona Josefa did not feel anxious; she thought that her husband was busy
negotiating a loan on his land, and this detained him.
Gabriel and Lizzie also were in constant attendance, and thus the sick
man was kept in a cheerful frame of mind, a thing much to be desired in
sickness always, but more especially in his case, accustomed as he was
to be surrounded by a loving family.
Still he was anxious to return home. Reluctantly the doctor allowed him
to do so, hoping that the salubrious climate of Southern California
would be beneficial. But he said to him:
"I let you go on condition that you pledge me your word to be very
careful not to get into a profuse perspiration and then rush out into
the cold air. If your lungs had not been originally so healthy and
strong you could not have rallied so soon, if ever; but they are yet
filled with phlegm, and the least cold might give you pneumonia." To
Gabriel the doctor repeated the same words of warning, adding: "Not only
is the condition of your father's lungs very precarious, but also that
of his heart. He must not task either too much."
Gabriel was thoroughly alarmed at hearing the doctor's opinion, and
immediately wrote to his mother how careful his father ought to be, and
how she should watch him.
Don Mariano tried to be careful, but having been very healthy all his
life, he did not know how to be an invalid, nor guard against fresh
colds.
About two weeks had elapsed since his return from San Francisco, when a
notice that many of his city lots would be sold for taxes brought Don
Mariano to town. He still held to the belief that a railroad to San
Diego would surely be built at some future day, but had ceased hoping to
see that day. However, he would willingly have waited for a rise in real
estate before selling any of his city property, but he saw it was
ruinous for him to pay taxes--taxes for town property and taxes for
squatters--it was too much; so he reluctantly concluded that it would be
best to lose a great many lots (yes, whole blocks), permitting them to
be sold for taxes, hoping to redeem them on the following year if Tom
Scott was more successful with the Texas Pacific. Mr. Mechlin and Mr.
Holman did the same, and many other unlucky ones followed their
discouraging examples. Thus city lots by the hundreds were sold every
year.
Don Mariano saw his city property thus sacrificed before his eyes at
public sale, just as he had seen his cattle buried under the snow. He
submitted in both cases to the inevitable without a murmur; but this
time the blow seemed heavier. He was pecuniarily less able to bear it,
and being in bad health and discouraged, his misfortunes were more
depressing. He rode home saddened indeed.
Victoriano, who was now able to be about (but said he _mistrusted_ his
legs), was with him.
"Father, why don't you use some of that money Clarence sent you? I am
sure he would approve your doing so, and feel glad, _very_ glad, indeed,
that you did it," said Victoriano, when they had driven for a long time
without uttering a word.
Don Mariano turned sharply and said: "Why should I use Clarence's money?
If I had delivered the cattle to Fred Haverly, as it was agreed I
should, then I would have a right to take from Clarence's money the
price of the cattle delivered. But having delivered no cattle, I take no
money."
"Everett was saying that Clarence distinctly stated to his father that
the cattle in the Alamar rancho with your brand were all his, and would
be driven as soon as the weather permitted. Mr. Darrell thinks that the
cattle lost belonged to Clarence, and not to you."
"Mr. Darrell is wrong, then. I cannot expect to be paid for cattle I did
not deliver."
"But he says you had sold them already. If they were lost on the way it
was neither your fault nor your loss."
"No, but was my misfortune, not Clarence's."
"The cattle were going to Clarence's mines, which goes to prove that
they had been bought by him."
"I cannot view the matter like that," Don Mariano said, and Victoriano
saw his mind was settled upon the subject, and it was best not to annoy
him by insisting in opposition.
When they arrived home they found that Dona Josefa had received a
telegram from Gabriel, sent the night before, saying that he, Lizzie and
the baby would spend Christmas and New Year's Day at the rancho. This
was glad news, indeed, and most unexpected, for inasmuch as Lizzie had
just been down on a visit and hurried back, so that Gabriel would not be
all alone on Christmas, they did not think that Lizzie would want to
take the trip so soon again. But Lizzie would travel many more miles to
be with her family. And the reason that Gabriel had for coming was,
moreover, a most powerful one.
He had one day casually met the doctor who attended his father, and
after inquiring whether Don Mariano was better, added:
"I tell you frankly, Don Gabriel, your father may yet live many years,
but he is in danger, too, of dying very suddenly."
"How? Why so?" Gabriel asked, pale with alarm.
"Because his heart may give out if his lungs don't work well, and as he
is not very careful of himself, you see he might task his heart with
heavier work than it can perform. If he is kept from excitement and gets
rid of all that phlegm which has accumulated in his lungs, he will be
well enough. So write to him to be careful in avoiding colds," said the
doctor.
"I will go and tell him so myself," Gabriel said.
"That is right. The case is serious, I assure you."
This short dialogue brought Gabriel home.
From the time he had entered the bank he had never been absent from it
one minute during office hours, so a three weeks' vacation was readily
granted to him.
All the Mechlins would come to Alamar to pass the holidays. George told
his father that they might as well go back to their home again since his
lameness did not require daily medical attendance.
Mr. Mechlin replied that they would decide upon that after New Years,
but he was evidently pleased at the prospect of returning to Alamar.
The Alamar house looked once more as it had in the days of old, before
squatters invaded the place; it was full of people, and music and
laughter resounded under the hospitable roof. Mercedes, however, sat
silent, and though she smiled her own sweet smile, it was too sad; it
failed to deepen the cunning little dimples as it did in other days. The
Don and Mr. Mechlin, too, were not as cheerful as they used to be. In
that visit to San Francisco "_a change came over the spirit of their
dream_," and it seemed to have come to quench the light of their lives.
But the young people wanted to decorate the house with green boughs and
have a huge Christmas-tree, and the Don himself went to help them to get
pine branches and red "_fusique_" berries. The tree would be in honor of
his two grandchildren; they were now eighteen months old, and the proud
mammas said they were so intelligent that they would surely appreciate
the tree.
Everett, Alice, Rosario and Victoriano were the committee on
decorations; Carlota, Caroline, Lucy and Webster were the committee on
refreshments. While the laughter of the young people came ringing out
through the parlor windows, Don Mariano and Mr. Mechlin slowly walked up
and down the back veranda in earnest conversation.
"Yes," Mr. Mechlin said, as if to reiterate some previous assertion,
"yes, I have lived my allotted term; my life is now an incumbrance--nay,
it is a burden on those who love me. If I were not living, George could
take his wife, his mother and sister, to reside in New York, but because
I cannot live in that climate, all those dear ones remain in this
exile."
"But why should you call it exile? They don't think it is; and even if
it were, my friend, you have no right to cut your life off at your
will," said Don Mariano.
"Why not? Life is a free gift, and often a very onerous one. Why keep
it, when to reject it would be preferable? when it would release others
from painful obligations?"
"But are you sure that the grief and horror of knowing that you took
your own life would not be a million times worse than the supposed exile
you imagine to be so objectionable?"
"Perhaps so; but I assure you, since I have lost all my money, and when
I am too old to make another fortune, my health has begun to fail again.
I hate life without health, and these constant annoyances of financial
difficulties will end by prostrating me on a sick-bed again. Now, when I
have lost nearly all the money I invested in San Diego, now they come
down on me to pay a note of ten thousand dollars which I endorsed, with
five others. Why don't the others pay their share? I am willing to pay
two thousand dollars, but not the entire sum."
"I don't see why you should, either. What does your lawyer say?"
"He shrugs his shoulders, caresses his side-whiskers, and says he
_thinks_ that some of the other indorsers are insolvent, because their
property has depreciated so much that it would bring nothing if sold;
while those that have some means, no doubt, put everything out of their
hands, so I am left alone to pay the entire sum."
The sad dialogue of the grandpapas was now interrupted, as they were
called to witness the glee of the babies at the sight of the illuminated
Christmas-tree. When the surprise of first sight was over, little
Mariano Mechlin stretched out both hands for the colored candles. His
uncle Tano gave him a tin trumpet, teaching him how to blow it;
whereupon baby Mechlin gave the company a blast, and looked so surprised
at his own performance, and gazed around so triumphantly and yet so
perplexed, that he made everybody laugh. Josefita looked at her cousin
distrustfully and gave her arms to her papa, as if she thought Marianito
was entirely too martial for the vicinity of peaceful babies like
herself. Gabriel took her near the tree to select any toy she liked. She
fancied a string of bright balls, which her father gave her. The babies
were allowed to be in the parlor for nearly an hour, and they were so
bright, trying to repeat what was taught them, that it was really
amusing to watch them. Marianito sang for the company; all were
surprised to hear so young a baby sing so well. None enjoyed more
heartily their cunning ways than the two grandfathers, especially Don
Mariano, and both babies clung to him when the nurses came to take them
to bed.
When the babies had made their exit, the children of larger growth had
their music and dancing until ten, supper being then announced. On
returning to the parlor, after supper, the clock upon the mantel struck
twelve; at the same time a curtain ran up, and an altar was disclosed to
view, tastefully decorated in the Roman Catholic style, having statues
of the Virgin Mary, the divine infant, enveloped in fleecy drapery, and
St. Joseph standing by his side. Behind the cradle were three magi, and
further off, the hills of Judea were seen. As all the company were Roman
Catholics, all entered into the spirit of the commemoration, and joined
with true feeling in the carol led by Mrs. Darrell and Alice. Other
sacred songs were sung, and then all retired for the night; the Darrells
promising to come on the following evening to have another dance,
because--said Victoriano--it must be celebrated that they had heard from
Clarence, and that he had found his legs, meaning that he (Tano) had
again the use of his limbs.
Christmas Day was passed very happily, and in the evening the young
people assembled in the parlor for a dance. Don Mariano excused himself
to Mr. Mechlin, saying he felt badly, and thought that he ought to be in
bed.
At about eleven o'clock he sat up in bed and looked around as if wishing
to speak. Gabriel and Mercedes were sitting by his bed, and promptly
asked if he wished for anything.
"The sins of our legislators have brought us to this," he exclaimed,
leaning back. Presently he said: "Call your mother, my son."
Gabriel called his mother, who being in the next room, talking with Mrs.
Mechlin, was quickly by his side.
"Call Elvira and Tano. Call Carlota and Rosario and George. Call all,
all, quickly! I fear, my beloved son, I fear I am dying! Bring all my
girls; I must bless them all!"
Mercedes had her arms around him. He looked at her lovingly.
"My baby, kiss me. Tell Clarence I bless him with my last breath." His
voice began to fail him, but his eyes seemed glowing with an intensity
that was startling. He sat up again, looking at each one of the anxious
faces around his bed. "God bless you all, my beloved ones," said he,
hoarsely.
"Papa, darling, can't we do something to relieve you?" asked Mercedes.
He shook his head and whispered:
"Too late. The sins of our legislators!"
"Do you feel pain, father?" Gabriel asked.
"Not now," he whispered, extending his hand to George as if to say
good-by. He looked again to see whether every one of his family was
there; he forgot no one; he seemed anxious to see them all for the last
time. He extended his arms to his wife; she came to him. "Pray for me,"
he whispered, moving his lips as if in prayer, and leaning on Gabriel,
who held him, closed his eyes and sighed. A few aspirations followed
that last sigh, and all was over--his noble soul had passed away.
For some moments no one believed that his lofty and noble spirit had
left the earth, but when the truth was at last realized, the scene of
grief, of heart-rending agony, that followed would be impossible for me
to describe.
Closely in the sad train of this mournful event, and as a fitting sequel
and a complement of such dire misfortune, another disaster, more
unexpected, more dreadful and tragic, followed, which must now be
related. It shall be told as briefly as possible.
A few days had passed after the funeral, and the Alamar family were
still in town. Dona Josefa and Mercedes were at the Mechlins.
Victoriano, Carlota and Rosario were at the Holmans; that is, they slept
there, but as Mercedes was again prostrated with fever, they, as well as
the Holmans, divided their time between the two houses.
One morning Mr. Mechlin arose from the breakfast table and said he was
going hunting.
"Don't go far, James; you are too weak," said Mrs. Mechlin.
"I think, papa, you ought not to carry that heavy gun. You eat nothing,
and walk too far, carrying it," Caroline said.
"Will you carry it for me?" he said, smiling.
"I will," Gabriel said; "I'll take George's, too, and go with you, if
you'll permit me."
"It isn't necessary," he replied, going towards his room.
"I think papa has taken to heart the death of Don Mariano more than any
one sees," said Caroline.
"I know he has; he has hardly slept or eaten enough to sustain life
since that awful night," Mrs. Mechlin said, "and constantly talks about
soon joining his best friend."
"I have observed how very sad he is. I wrote uncle to come; I think to
see his brother will be great consolation to him," said George.
The report of a gun was heard in Mr. Mechlin's room, and all jumped to
their feet. Gabriel was the first to run and got to the room in advance
of the others. He found Mr. Mechlin shot through the heart.
"Oh, God! Was it accidental?" Mrs. Mechlin exclaimed, clasping her
husband to heart. The dying man smiled, whispering:
"Do not mourn for me; it is best so; I shall be happier." He looked
lovingly at the anxious faces surrounding him, and closed his eyes
forever.