Whales--Sunshine--The Pacific Ocean and Tom Moore--Wormy Bread and
Impure Water--A Pilot--Arrival in the Harbor of San Francisco--The
City--Dismantled Ships--My last Visit to the Bark--Statement and
Counter Statement--Angry Remonstrance--Mr. Spring and his two
Journals--Final Adieu to the James W. Paige.
We beat all day to the north against a head wind, and made but slow
progress. We strove to wear away the tedium of the day by looking
at the land, and watching the birds and the whales, of which last a
considerable number were seen near the ship, sometimes three or four
together. We saw one of these monstrous animals plunge down into the
water, throwing his tail above the surface as he made his plunge, and
in a moment after, come up again with such force and rapidity as to
carry his ponderous body entirely into the air. Such an immense body,
as it came down again into the water, could not fail to produce a great
commotion. This act of leaping out of the water seemed to be performed
in a similar manner to that of the sturgeon and smaller fish in our
rivers and lakes. They frequently came close to the ship, playing by
its sides, plunging down on one side, and coming up on the other. Among
the birds, were a number I had not seen before, and several Brown
Pelicans.
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.
We then sought a hotel, and, what we least expected in California,
the first one we tried was a temperance house, the "United States
Temperance House." After tea I took a walk with J. Tyler up Telegraph
Hill, whence we had a fine view of the city and harbor. On our return
we went into several gambling-saloons. These were large rooms, richly
furnished, and supplied with large tables, loaded with heaps of
glittering gold and silver, to be staked in the various games, for
which each table was appropriated. Hundreds of people crowded into
these saloons, many of them with no other motive than mere curiosity,
but others with the foolish hope of filling their pockets from those
tempting heaps of coins.
A peculiar feature in the harbor of San Francisco at this time, and
one that struck me very forcibly on our first approach, was the great
number of dismantled ships that lay thickly scattered around it.
These ships had a very old, ruinous, antiquated appearance, and at
first sight, gave me an impression, that this new-born city had been
inhabited for ages, and was now going to ruin. Most of them have their
lower masts standing, and supported by a few ropes and chains. A large
portion of them had been deserted by their crews on the first outbreak
of the gold excitement, and were recklessly left to their destruction,
while men and officers rushed blindly and wildly to the mines. These
ships have, however, been made subservient to a valuable purpose,
having been converted into store-ships by the merchants. Some of them
had doors cut in their sides, with short flights of steps from the
water. Some were run aground near the shore, and wharfs and streets
were built around them, where, with houses erected on them they could
scarcely be distinguished from the surrounding stores.
_September 8._ I went on board the bark for my baggage. The captain,
mate, and a large portion of the passengers were ashore. On going
into the after house, my eye accidentally caught a letter which was
addressed to Captain Jackson, expressing great thankfulness for his
kind and gentlemanly treatment of the passengers, and charging the
blame of disputes and quarrels to the passengers. It was written by
Mr. Johnson and signed by Mr. Spring and several others, who were well
aware of its utter falsity. Knowing that it was intended to counteract
the numerous statements, which would be made at home prejudicial to
Captain Jackson, I seized a pen and wrote a certificate, as near as I
can remember, in the following words:
"Bark JAMES W. PAIGE, Sept. 8, 1852.
Whereas, a paper highly laudatory of Captain Jackson has been
circulated for signatures on board this bark, a regard for truth
impels us to say, that the conduct of Captain Jackson during
the voyage just ended has been highly arbitrary, ungentlemanly,
insulting and abusive, and that even the female passengers have,
in many instances, been subjected to the grossest abuse from him."
During the few moments I was engaged in getting signatures to
this paper, Mr. Spring, who was standing near, overheard me read
it. It gave him great offense, and he remonstrated very strongly
with me against the terms in which it was expressed. He said I had
virtually charged him and others with falsehood, and urged me to
withdraw or modify my statement. I refused to do either; and this
good man, with whom I had had the most friendly relations during
the voyage, now quivered with passion, while he intimated that a
prosecution for libel would be instituted against me. Mr. Spring
was liable to the charge of duplicity in signing that paper, so
full of flattery and falsehood; and his chief occupation during
the voyage was marked by a singularity, to say the least
of it, not quite compatible with a strict regard for truth. He had
kept a journal of the voyage, and noted the occurrences of each
day much more carefully and minutely than I did. He often read
passages from his journal to the passengers, and it was well
known that his opinion of the captain coincided with that of a
large majority of the company. He had been several times chosen
on committees to remonstrate with Captain J. on our treatment and
fare. But towards the latter part of the voyage it was observed
that a friendly understanding had grown up between him and the
captain, which gave rise to many conjectures as to the cause.
But whatever may have been the cause, the effect of this newly
formed friendship was a revision of Mr. Spring's journal, or,
more properly speaking, a rejection of it, and the writing of a
new one, in which every thing offensive to Captain Jackson, and
all occurrences of an unpleasant nature, in which the captain
had acted a part, were omitted, and only the more agreeable
transactions and events were recorded; in fact, changing the true
and unvarnished record of the voyage, which he had made with so
much labor, for a smooth and sunny picture, which, though it might
not be chargeable with actual falsehood in its details, would,
nevertheless, convey to the reader a grossly false impression of
the character of Captain Jackson, and the annoyances and vexations
attending the voyage. This revision of his journal cost him much
time, though not so much as might, on first thought, have been
expected. So many occurrences were necessarily omitted, that for
every sheet he had at first written, a page now sufficed. His
original journal, which I would have given a dollar to possess,
he threw overboard. His new one was to be forwarded to a paper in
Calais, Me., for publication.
I obtained twenty-five signatures to my paper in a few minutes, and
then, gathering up my baggage, I bade a final adieu to the James
W. Paige with a regret, which I think was remarkable only for its
minuteness.
* * * * *
Our voyage is ended, but not quite our book. Many incidents of an
unpleasant nature, which had occurred on the voyage, have been omitted,
and the omission has somewhat shortened the book. The following
extracts from the continuation of my journal through a long sojourn
on the Pacific Coast, are appended as a substitute for the rejected
passages.
[Illustration]
CALIFORNIA SCENES.
Scenes in Sacramento.
_May, 1853._ California in early times offered innumerable scenes
partaking of the ludicrous and the horrible, and a person in search of
either, might have his taste and his curiosity gratified at almost any
moment. The Horse Market in Sacramento was the great resort of every
imaginable description of characters, and such a scene of uproar and
confusion as it presented at a public sale is utterly indescribable.
There were some fine sycamores standing there before the Great Fire
which destroyed the greater portion of the city. They had been found
very useful for suspending thieves and robbers in the days of lynch
law. After the fire, the trees were felled, and the stumps afforded
excellent stands for the auctioneers. At one of the public sales
of horses I saw four auctioneers stationed upon these stumps. The
full strength of their lungs was called into exercise, and they were
vociferating in their loudest tones, each one striving to outdo
the others in noise, and all extolling the various merits of their
respective animals with an eloquence peculiar to horse-jockeys, while
their assistants, mounted on the horses, were riding around with a
speed and a carelessness that threatened death to half the multitude
that thronged the streets.
While this scene was enacting, a fight was taking place in a
neighboring gambling-house between two combatants who were seen rushing
from the house followed by an excited multitude. One of the duelists,
bruised and bloody, was retreating from the other, who followed close
upon him, dealing repeated blows, which the poor fellow sometimes
turned to parry, while hastening to make his escape. The crowd followed
on, shouting like demons, and increasing in numbers at every step.
"Oh, that is dreadful!" exclaimed a horror-struck young man, who had
but recently arrived in California, and had not been initiated in its
manners and customs. The throng of excited brutes at length came to a
stand; the chase and the battle were ended; the victory was won, and
the defeated combatant was taken to a surgeon who seemed to be the only
one benefitted by the affray, and who exclaimed in a tone of charming
sensibility: "Let them fight to their hearts' content, if they will
only employ me to repair their broken heads!"
Scarcely was this affair ended, when a loud shout was heard down the
street, and we beheld a stampede of Spanish cattle followed by several
herdsmen on horseback, who rushed along with furious speed, swinging
their coiled lassos as they went, now striving to turn the drove of
wild cattle, and now retreating before them as they pressed forward
unchecked by horses or riders; now dashing along side by side with a
single ox, whose speed nearly equalled the fleetness of the horse; and
now in the midst of the drove, which seemed scarcely to make room for
them. However, after much shouting, hallooing, and racing, the cattle
were turned back, and the exciting scene was over.
But again another shout, and a team of oxen was seen running away with
a wagon in which was seated the teamster. After running a considerable
distance, the teamster, watching a favorable opportunity, leaped
nimbly from his wagon, and headed his oxen, who, stopping suddenly,
broke the rigging attached to the yoke, and letting the tongue of the
wagon fall to the ground, brought oxen and wagon together in a heap.
All this for one hour's sport in one locality in Sacramento. What sort
of amusements they were enjoying at the same time in other parts of the
city I did not learn.
Cattle Stealing in Contra Costa.
_August 17, 1854._ My neighbor, Mr. R., has lost an ox. It was stolen;
and a horse stolen also. Another neighbor, Mr. A., has lost three
valuable oxen in the same way.
The great facilities for concealing oxen, horses, and other property in
the innumerable deeply secluded valleys and hiding-places that occur
in every direction in the mountainous country, which, commencing at
these Redwoods, extend to the valley of the San Joaquin, offer too many
inducements to the numerous idlers and vagabonds that prowl about the
land to be visited; and consequently theft, robbery, and I may almost
add, murder, are but every day occurrences. No man who owns a horse, an
ox or swine, can feel secure of them for a moment when out of sight.
These thieves are often associated in large gangs, and consist of both
Americans and Mexicans; and so great is the number of their accomplices
in some of the villages, that when one of their number is detected,
means are immediately furnished him to escape. The very officer who is
commissioned to secure him, is not unfrequently a party concerned in
the thefts. Many of the butchers are supposed to be leagued with the
thieves, and, by purchasing their stolen property at low prices, they
thus share the profits with them.
_August 23._ Justice has at last overtaken two of the cattle thieves.
Suspicion had for some time past rested on some butchers at San
Antonio, and they were watched, and detected in the act of slaughtering
in the night some cows and oxen that had just been stolen. Messengers
were immediately sent many miles around the country to notify the
inhabitants to assemble for the trial of the felons. The people of
the Redwoods, who had suffered severely from the depredations of the
thieves, turned out almost _en masse_. The house of the butchers was
the place appointed for the trial. Passing by that place at the time,
I had the curiosity to stop for a moment, and was surprised to observe
a strange hesitation and faltering among the people assembled. A long
discussion ensued as to the proper mode of conducting the trial, which
ended in turning the thieves over to the legal authorities. This, under
the existing state of things, was nearly equivalent to giving them
their liberty; and it was resolved by a number of determined fellows,
that they should not so easily escape. They were taken before a justice
for examination, and their guilt fully proved. But they asked for an
adjournment of the trial till the next day, for the alleged purpose
of getting some witnesses, but in fact, to give their friends and
associates an opportunity to rescue them. The adjournment was granted,
and they were taken to a hotel and put under a guard, of which Andrews,
from whom they had stolen the oxen, was the head. In the course of the
day, a party proceeded to the house and corral of the thieves, and
burned them to the ground with all their contents. Not an article was
appropriated to their own use by these avengers of their own wrongs. It
was justice, not plunder, they sought. Valuable saddles, harnesses and
furniture, were all sacrificed.
There was a gathering of the friends of the thieves in the night, but
they were driven off by the boys from the Redwoods, who had stationed
themselves around the house. These men now began to see that they
must act, and act promptly too, or the whole business would prove
but a farce, and the guilty villains would escape. They therefore
dispatched horsemen to the Redwoods to summon the people again to come
and assist in the execution of the two principal criminals. Before
morning, a sufficient number had arrived to carry out their plans, and
they proceeded to action. A number of them went to the house where
the prisoners were confined, and in defiance of the proprietor, who
was supposed to be confederate with the thieves, they rushed to the
room, and seized one of them, whom they hurried away. It was a scene
of great confusion and terror. The guard made a show of resistance,
but it was only a show. They fired several shots, but were careful to
elevate their revolvers above the heads of their assailants; the balls
lodged in the ceiling, and nobody was killed or wounded. The affair had
doubtless been preconcerted between Andrews and the assailing party.
They hastened the guilty thief to an oak a few rods distant, having
at the outset fastened a rope to his neck; and scarcely a moment had
elapsed ere he was dangling from a branch. They then returned to the
house, and seizing another of the thieves, hurried him away as before.
The fellow was in an agony of fear and horror, begged most piteously
for his life, protested his innocence, and offered to make important
disclosures if they would spare him. All this would not have saved
him had it not been discovered by one of the party when they arrived
at the tree, that this was not the man they intended to execute. He
was therefore led back more dead than alive, having endured far more
suffering and horror than his more hardened confederate, whom he
saw hanging from the tree, and who had paid the penalty which he so
narrowly escaped. The intended victim was then taken to the place of
execution, and immediately suspended beside his dead comrade.
While these executions were taking place, many friends of the thieves
gathered round, uttering threats and denunciations, but a dozen rifles
and revolvers were leveled at them, and they were intimidated into
silence.
These executions caused great excitement at the time, and much
discussion ensued in the papers respecting them. But the community
very generally acquiesced in the necessity of the measure, though
every one regretted it. Complaint was made to the grand jury of the
county against several of the leaders of the lynching party, but no
bill of indictment was found against them for want of evidence. Many of
the people of Oakland were highly exasperated at the audacity of the
Redwoods boys, and threatened to go and hang them to their own trees.
But this served rather to amuse the boys than to frighten them.
A few weeks after these executions, word was brought to the Redwoods
that a poor man had been robbed of some oxen in Oakland through the
villainy of one of the officials in that city. A company quickly
assembled and marched down to the city, determined to have justice
done the poor man, and hang the officer if circumstances required it.
They had not forgotten the threats of the Oaklanders to hang them, and
determined to put their courage to the test. The case was investigated
by the mayor of the city, and the mob resolved to await his decision.
But much time was occupied in the investigation, and they grew
impatient and clamorous. Meanwhile many of them paraded through the
streets, uttering defiance to the citizens. "Here is a target," said a
brawny, black-bearded Kentuckian, (the same I had encountered in the
Redwoods, and who sold me a vulture,) as he strode along with a rusty
rifle on his shoulder, and struck his breast. "Here is a target for
the Oakland sharp-shooters. Let 'em try it if they dare." "I'm from
the Redwoods," roared out another. "Where is your Oakland company to
hang me?" "What are you after?" asked a spectator of one of the boys.
"Justice," he replied. "But how are you going to obtain it?" "By the
halter, if the money isn't paid pretty soon," he replied with an oath.
The affair was approaching a crisis. The mayor's investigation had
been protracted, and the clamors and shouts of the mob often reached
his ears, when at last he found it necessary to acknowledge that the
proceedings of the officer were illegal, that the city was liable for
the value of the cattle, and in order to appease the mob, he pledged
his individual word for the payment of the money. The party then
returned triumphantly to their homes in the Redwoods, and thus the
affair ended.
Felling Trees in the Redwoods.
_January 30, 1854._ On an excursion to-day I stopped on the way to
see two trees felled. When the reader is told that I had passed more
than six months in the Redwoods, and had seen the trees fall around me
almost every day, he will suppose that such scenes would lose their
novelty for me. It is, however, a scene of no ordinary sublimity to
behold one of those monster trees, nearly as high as the Bunker Hill
Monument, fall to the ground, and it is a sight which I never tire of
seeing.
I speak of them as being _nearly_ as high as the Bunker Hill Monument,
because I have seen none of the largest and tallest trees, they having
been felled before I arrived here. But a comparison with the monument
will serve to give a better idea of their great height than a statement
in figures. Imagine then one of them, such as have grown here, and such
as are still standing in other forests,--imagine one placed beside the
monument, and towering fifty or even seventy-five feet above it, and
you will have a conception of the grandeur of these magnificent forests.
The two trees whose fall I was about to witness stood side by side
half way up a steep acclivity. One of them had been cut off, and stood
leaning against the other.
Two men were at work on the latter tree. I seated myself on a stump at
the foot of the hill, and awaited the result. Presently a sharp snap
or crackle announced that the tree was about yielding to the efforts
of the axe-men, and they stopped and looked up. It stood, however, and
they continued to ply their axes. Soon there came another loud crackle,
and the two trees began to sway in the direction the axe-men had
intended. They now retreated to a secure place, while the trees, moving
slowly and majestically at first, but with an accelerated motion, came
sweeping down, accompanied with a loud and protracted crash as the
fibres of the uncut portion were torn asunder, and striking the ground
with a force that made it tremble, and with a noise like the booming
report of a heavy cannon. Each tree was broken into several pieces,
which came rolling like mighty giants down the hill, tumbling over each
other, and strewing the ground with large fragments torn from their
sides and ends, while every branch was stripped from the trunks. They
landed at last at the foot of the hill, and within a rod of the stump
on which I sat, and sent forward a thick and suffocating cloud of dust,
from which I hastened to make my escape.
"Ah! we would go a great many miles in Massachusetts to see such a
sight as this;" said one of the axe-men, a young man from that state,
"But we can never see any thing like it there."
Solitude.
_December, 1853._ An important change has been in progress for some
time past in the Redwoods. Three or four months ago I was surrounded by
a deep, dense forest, in which was a busy population at work. But this
industry fast swept away the forest, and as the timber grew scarce,
they began to remove to other places. They continued to go until our
society was reduced to ten men, living in a little cluster of four
cabins. But even this colony has taken a sudden resolution to migrate,
and this morning the last man went, and I am left alone. So now,
nothing remains for me but to go too, which I shall do as soon as I can
determine where.
As for a portion of my departed neighbors--brutal, lawless
scoundrels--I am heartily glad they are gone. But I had one good
friend, whose absence I deeply regret. From the first moment I came
into the woods until we shook hands and parted this morning, Mr.
Wakefield has stood by me, a kind, benevolent, warm-hearted, steadfast
friend. His disinterested kindness, his anxiety for my welfare, and my
success in business, his watchfulness of two or three bitter foes,
with whom I have had to contend, and his timely warnings of dangers,
have entitled him to my warmest gratitude.
Well, here I am in the depths of a California forest, shut up in a
lonely cabin on a winter night, scribbling my diary for the amusement
of my daughter, rejoicing in the departure of my foes, and deploring
the absence of my friends. And while I ponder on the perfect solitude
that surrounds me, I find myself almost unconsciously repeating from
Kirk White:
"It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that makes me moan;
It is that I am all alone."
I had a cat. She has been with me all day; but now, when the society
of any domestic animal would be some relief against the tedium of this
deep loneliness, even she has left me and instead of the purring of
a gentle house cat, I am for a moment startled by the dismal howling
of a wild animal outside of my cabin. I am unfortunately possessed of
an unsocial disposition; I love solitude, but I have at last found a
solitude more profound than I have a taste for.
A Collector of Natural Curiosities.
_July 30, 1854._ In company with a young man in San Francisco, who
had been informed of my taste for the odd and curious productions of
nature, I visited a man who had made a considerable collection of
objects of Natural History. We found him in a small room in a second
story, with his boxes and trunks all packed preparatory to a removal.
But on announcing the object of our visit, he seemed much pleased, and
though I remonstrated with him against the trouble it would cost him,
he proceeded at once to unpack his treasures and spread them before us.
But before I speak of them let me describe the man. He was a Norwegian,
but having resided several years in the United States, he spoke pretty
good English. He was about forty years of age, sprightly and active,
with a sparkling eye, and a face covered with a very thick red beard
that hung down upon his breast. He was naturally intelligent, though
his faculties wanted cultivation. He had never studied Natural History,
and did not know a single specimen in his collection by its scientific
name. He had passed much time at sea, I do not know in what capacity,
but it had afforded him time and opportunity to make a valuable
collection.
The first curiosity he exhibited was a family of young mice which he
had bottled the day before. Next he produced a bottle containing a
little shapeless mass apparently folded up in a bleached tobacco-leaf,
and challenged me to tell him the name of it. "A young bat," said I.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, "you are the first man that has guessed it." Then
he set out bottle after bottle of snakes, some of them very rare and
beautiful. These reptiles had the greatest attractions for him, and
they composed the largest and most valuable portion of his collection.
Then a fine variety of lizards, and a considerable collection of
coleopterous insects, among which were some very large and brilliant
specimens. Next he produced a Bible, whose pages he had embellished
with a variety of butterflies; and lastly, several boxes filled with
sea-shells and corals, pieces of crystalized quartz, some specimens of
gold in quartz, a copper ball nearly an inch in diameter, which he had
found in the mountains, and many other specimens in mineralogy, which
he had collected in the mines. He gave me several shells and crystals,
and in return I promised him some bones and feathers of the California
Vulture and other birds from my cabinet.
He had one live snake which he intended to bottle after it had shed
its skin, which it was about to do. This snake was kept in a wooden
box; and, while we were engaged in examining his preserved congeners,
finding the door of his prison open, he resolved to take an airing
on the balcony. Here he was accidentally discovered by the next door
neighbors, who gave our friend timely notice. He immediately gave
chase, and found his snakeship ensconced among some boxes and other
rubbish. Seizing him by the tail, he brought him in writhing and
twisting about his hand and arm, darting out his red forked tongue,
flashing fire from his eyes, and betraying a total absence of those
blandishments with which an ancestor of his once induced a pretty woman
to sin. Some one present asked the man if he was not afraid the snake
would bite him. "No," he answered, "no snake can bite me." I did not
ask him if he was a serpent-charmer, but have been told that he was.
The only ornithological specimens he possessed were the skeleton
head and a wing bone of an albatross. He had not learned the art of
preserving the skins of birds, and I promised to give him a little
instruction if I had time and opportunity. I told him how I had been
thwarted in my intention to make a collection in my voyage round Cape
Horn by the captain of the ship, and he seemed to struggle for words to
express his scorn and contempt for such an ignorant and superstitious
ship-master.
His principal collection was in Philadelphia. He had been offered a
high price for it, but no amount of money would induce him to sell it.
After a visit of more than two hours, which I engaged to repeat soon,
we shook hands and parted. I have seldom seen a man display so much
enthusiasm in an occupation which he followed solely for his amusement.
I took occasion some weeks after this, while making another visit at
San Francisco, to renew my acquaintance with my Norwegian friend. He
had recently received a very fine snake, with which he was highly
pleased. I admired his enthusiasm. "O," said he in the course of our
conversation, "there is nothing in nature so beautiful as a snake."
I remarked that this new specimen was certainly a very handsome one.
"O it is splendid, it is most magnificent." We passed an hour very
pleasantly together, and parted with much reluctance. I have never seen
him since.
A Pair of Rattlesnakes.
_September 12, 1854._ My account of the Norwegian snake-collector,
naturally recalls a little experience of my own in the same line. A
fellow in the Redwoods, near which I was then tarrying, brought me at
different times, two splendid rattlesnakes, which I bought and placed
in a long box with a glass front, through which I could observe all
their motions. It may, perhaps, excite a smile, when I state that by
constant familiarity with these reptiles, I had acquired a sort of
affection for them, that would have prompted me to defend them from
harm, though I never saw one of the species at large, but I made no war
upon him, except in one instance in which the snake began the battle,
and I fought in self-defense, and happily won the victory. An Indian
enriches himself with the scalp of his defeated enemy, and I know not
but I might have followed his example in this instance had it been
possible, but in the absence of a scalp-lock I was obliged to content
myself with such a trophy, as his other extremity afforded, his rattle.
These two reptiles became my pets, and afforded me much amusement. I
do not think that I was "charmed" by that wonderful power which is
often attributed to the serpent family. There was no "fascination
in their eyes," though we often sat and gazed at each other during
several minutes. But I liked to watch their motions, and study their
habits; to see them thrust out their long, dark, forked tongues as I
approached their prison, or erect their tails and shake their rattles
when disturbed. I liked to behold their spotted bodies, flattened as
they lay quietly stretched on the floor of their cage, but swollen and
distended when aroused by a sense of danger; or to see their fangs as
they sometimes opened their mouths, as if in the act of gaping. I was
amused with a habit they had of slowly stretching themselves at full
length along the box, and then suddenly drawing themselves back again.
And most of all, I was amused to see them on a cold morning folded
together into a coil, from the center of which their flattened heads
protruded, and rested side by side upon their bodies, looking, despite
their venomous natures, the very picture of affection and of innocence,
and affording a lesson, which many a rational biped might study with
profit.
These reptiles never quarreled. Place two foxes in a cage, and they
will fight from day to day, until one or the other is killed. Even two
birds of many species will destroy each other, when confined together.
But here was an instance of perfect harmony. In truth they had nothing
to quarrel about. They seemed to have no wants except that of liberty,
the love of which they probably possessed in common with every other
animal. They could fast without hunger or thirst. I placed fresh meat
and water in their cage, but they never tasted of either. I threw
several lizards in to them, but they allowed them to run over the
cage, and even over their bodies unmolested. Still they do eat, though
individuals have been known to live many months and even years without
tasting food. White in his Natural History of Selbourne, says: "The
serpent-kind eat, I believe, but once a year, or, rather, but only just
at one season of the year."
But my pets were doomed to a tragical end, which it pains me record.
Two old men, who had no fondness for beautiful things in animated
nature, nor a taste for any thing else but whiskey and tobacco, got
charmingly drunk one day, and being bent on mischief, they broke into
my room during my absence, and seized my snakes, took them into the
street where they had kindled a fire for the occasion, and with much
ceremony and mock solemnity, offered them up to their god, whoever he
might be, as a burnt sacrifice. The loss of those snakes was a source
of great annoyance and vexation to me, and I earnestly and devoutly
prayed that in every fit of delirium-tremens which those old sinners
should bring upon themselves during the remainder of their worthless
lives, they might be haunted by the ghosts of those murdered innocents.
A Queer Fellow.
_April 18, 1860._ Mr. Van Wee was one of the queerest compounds of
oddity, with whom it was my fortune to meet in my travels. He kept a
hotel at Oak Bottom, ten miles from Shasta. Two Irish women, sisters,
were his housekeepers and servants. Many a lively scene was enacted
about his establishment, and scarcely a day passed without bringing
some extraordinary excitement. One day there was a great uproar in and
around the house occasioned by the arrival of a skunk on a visit to the
chickens. The dogs barked, the hens cackled, the women screamed, and
Van Wee flew round wild with excitement, his gun was brought to him,
the intruder chased into the stable and shot, and quiet was restored.
Next day two valuable dogs, very useful for barking at travelers and
eating superfluous food, which would otherwise be thrown to the pigs
and lost, strayed away or were stolen. A boy and an Irish woman were
sent off on horseback after them, and great was the rejoicing in the
afternoon on the safe return of dogs, horses, boy and woman.
On the morning of the third day I was surprised to learn that there
had been a wedding in the house, and that Mr. Van Wee, in obedience to
a sudden impulse had married one of his housekeepers. The wedding had
been very private, so much so, that the sister of the bride was not
aware that such an event was in contemplation until the hour before its
consummation.
This Van Wee, as I have said before, is a queer fellow. He hates the
liquor business, but keeps a bar, drinks with all his friends--and
they are numerous--and gets mellow every day. He is, or rather was,
a Know-Nothing in politics, and hates all foreigners of whatever
nation, although his father and mother are Dutch, and his wife is
Irish. An infidel in religion, he read me a chapter from Tom Paine's
Age of Reason. He contributes freely to churches, and is hospitable to
clergymen of whatever creed. He receives a great many rudely expressed,
but hearty congratulations from his friends, whom he treats, drinks
with, swears at, blackguards, and invites to see "the gal," who
receives her friends in the kitchen, while attending to her duties over
the stove, with her gown pinned up in true Irish style. His affection
for his wife continues unabated, notwithstanding he has been married
three days,--this was when I last saw him,--and he betrays it in many
acts of coarse kindness; calls her Biddy, ridicules her nation and her
religion, damns her priests and feeds them all.
He has sent invitations to all his friends, far and near, men,
women and children, to assemble at his house, next week for a grand
jollification in commemoration of his wedding. Long may he flourish.
A Sandwich Island Woman
AND HER YANKEE HUSBAND.
_Red Woods, Contra Costra, Dec. 16, 1854._ I have made acquaintance
with a Kanaka woman, the only one I have ever seen. She is known by the
name of Hannah, is eighteen years of age, was married five years ago to
a Yankee sailor, and left her native island for a home in California.
She is short and thick, with a complexion darker than that of our
Indians, has a broad nose and wide mouth, her countenance partaking of
a mixture of the Indian and the Negro. She is kind and affectionate,
lively and excitable, quick and passionate, simple and guileless. Her
mind is uncultivated, and she is grossly vulgar and profane in her
language, and disgustingly filthy in her person and dress. She is very
temperate, drinking no strong liquors, but smokes cigars. She is
honest and trusty, faithful to discharge all debts she may contract,
and to fulfil all her engagements. She is a simple-minded child of
nature, and I am often amused with her child-like talk.
This morning she was very inquisitive, and made many inquiries about
my home and family. I showed her a daguerreotype of my daughter. She
examined it with much curiosity and in silence for several minutes,
when she broke out in a shower of questions, ejaculations and remarks,
which could not but amuse me.
"Dat you little gal? Don to see dranfader? Petty woman, brack hair. Dot
a rin on her han. (Ring on her finger.) What you gal name? How old you
gal? Very petty. You gal, he no come to Californy? You no want to see
you gal? Petty dress." And then she asked me about my father, mother,
sister, brothers, and every thing relating to them, until she got a
pretty full account of my family.
Hannah is a good rider, and often figures on horseback in a very long
blue calico riding-dress, a man's straw hat with a narrow brim, and
tied with a string under the chin, and a woolen jacket belonging to
her husband. Our circus riders might learn some useful lessons from
Hannah's equestrian feats.
Mr. Joseph Tracy, or as he is more familiarly called, Kanaka Joe, is
a sailor from Maine, has seen much of the world, was on board the
Princeton steamship at the time of the explosion of the great gun, by
which several gentlemen of John Tyler's cabinet were killed, and has
spent considerable time in the Sandwich Islands, whither he intends to
return after he shall have made his fortune in California. Joe is a
still, quiet, peaceable fellow, though quick to resent an insult, and
can fight beautifully when necessary. He has a sailor's high notions
of honor and a sailor's deep passion for drink. He is fond of reading
withal, has quite a taste for the yellow-covered literature, talks
learnedly of books, and often philosophizes very wisely, and has no
mean opinion of his own literary taste and scientific attainments.
Joe is very fond of his Kanaka wife, though he flogs her occasionally
in the heat of passion, repenting of it immediately after. As Joe's
improvident habits are not conducive to a rapid accumulation of riches,
the time of his return to his island-home may be considered somewhat
uncertain.
A Party.
_January, 1855._ Señor Moraga was one of those land owners, whose
domains, over which immense droves of wild cattle roamed, extended
over many a league of rich land, until the advent of the Americans,
who lawlessly despoiled them of large numbers of their cattle, and
who introduced many expensive habits among them, which they were but
too ready to adopt; when necessity compelled them to part with large
tracts of their lands to the greedy foreigners, and their estates
dwindled down to insignificant ranches. Señor Moraga, though shorn of
many thousand acres, had still a large and exceedingly valuable estate
remaining.
I received an invitation to attend a party at his house on New Year's
eve, 1855. I set out on foot in the evening, which was lighted up by
a moon approaching the full, that often breaking forth from masses of
dark clouds, which had been pouring down a plentiful supply of rain
during the day, enabled me to follow a trail that led up the valley
and over the mountain ridge, on the opposite side of which stood
Moraga's residence. It was a fine evening, and I--I scarcely knew
why--was in a mood to enjoy it. It may have been the breaking up of the
storm and the appearance of the clouds and the sky, which resembled
more nearly the moonlight views we have in New England than any thing
I had beheld for many a long month; or it may have been the pleasing
anticipation of the novelties I was about to witness and enjoy during
the evening, though what they were I had not been informed and could
hardly imagine. But whatever may have been the cause, my spirits were
buoyant, and my thoughts busy and pleasant.
I arrived at Moraga's at an early hour. His house overlooked a
beautiful valley, and commanded a fine view of the hills beyond. It
was built of adobes, and the walls were several feet thick. A broad
piazza extended along the front, affording a pleasant shade in summer.
I entered by a broad door-way, a capacious room well finished, and
handsomely papered and painted. There was neither stove nor fire-place
in it, nor any furniture, with the exception of chairs and a small
time-piece. In this room the gentlemen were assembled, and this was
the hall in which we were to pass the evening. In a smaller room on
the left, I saw two neat-looking beds, one of which was furnished
with handsome figured, white muslin curtains. There were also chairs,
tables, and a looking-glass in the room. This room I observed was
occupied by the family, and the lady guests. The only other room I saw
was that in which we took supper, and was like the rest, finished in a
style of considerable neatness.
And now for the company. First comes Señor Moraga, the father of our
host and owner of the estate, an old man of seventy, short, thick,
corpulent and coarse-featured, but sprightly, active and polite.
Then his sons, José and Francisco, between thirty and forty years
of age, swarthy men with very good features, black hair, whiskers
and mustaches. They were very gentlemanly in their deportment. There
were several Mexicans, some of whom were tolerably polished in
their manners, and others as uncouth as the Indians with whom they
associated. But the greater part of the company consisted of Americans,
rough men from the Redwoods, who, however, deported themselves with a
considerable degree of propriety.
Next come the ladies, who, by all the laws of gallantry, should have
been mentioned first. And foremost among them was Doña Maria, our
hostess, and the lady of José Moraga. She was a large, corpulent woman
with a fairer complexion and better features than most Mexican women I
had seen, and she was said to be of pure Castilian blood. Her black,
glossy hair was arranged in the usual Spanish style, in two braids
that hung down her back. She was dressed in a black silk that fitted
well her capacious person. She had several daughters, whose personal
attractions I cannot extol, but who were very pretty dancers. There
were two old women, very ugly, whose names I did not learn. I observed
a considerable number of Indian women in the house, and there was no
lack of pappooses among them. I was pleased with the little imps, and
they did not reject my overtures for a frolic occasionally, and were
not disinclined to be on familiar terms with me. They constituted,
indeed, a very amusing part of the evening's entertainment.
Two musicians had been employed for the occasion. Their instruments
were a violin and a guitar. Dancing was the principal amusement.
The ladies entered the room and seated themselves without ceremony, the
musicians struck up a lively tune, and one of the gentlemen arose and
waved his handkerchief towards a lady, whereupon she arose and moved
moderately over the floor, and while her feet, hid by her long dress,
drummed out almost every note of the music, her body seemed to glide
along without any apparent exertion, neither rising nor falling, as if
she were carried along by invisible machinery, or was floating over
the floor without touching it. While she was thus moving along in this
peculiar dance, one of the gentlemen seized his neighbor's hat--all the
gentlemen wore their hats except when dancing--and placed it on the
young lady's head. She still continued to dance without appearing to
pay the slightest attention to this apparently uncivil act. She soon,
however, took her seat and displaced the hat, holding it in her hand.
Another and another of the ladies were called, or rather motioned up,
who each performed the same dance, and each was similarly crowned with
a hat or a handkerchief, and sometimes with several of each. Doña Maria
was also called to the floor. She executed the dance with superior
grace, and with greater success than the girls in collecting hats and
handkerchiefs. All this was carried on with great merriment on the
part of the young fellows, but with the greatest apparent gravity and
seriousness on that of the ladies. I was at a loss to know the meaning
of this strange performance, or if it had any meaning at all, until my
own _sombrero_ was suddenly snatched from my head, and placed on that
of a young señorita. I was then informed that each article thus seized
and appropriated must be redeemed by a payment in money to the fair
one on whom it had been bestowed, and that half a dollar was the sum
agreed on by general assent. In this way, considerable sums of money
are sometimes gathered by the ladies from a company of liberal young
men, who enjoy the sport of thus victimizing each other. This amusement
was called up repeatedly in the course of the evening, and some of the
young men paid a pretty handsome tax for the sport. I saw Doña Maria
at one time with three hats crowded on her head, and at least half a
dozen handkerchiefs on her shoulders. Besides the tax thus collected,
an assessment of two dollars each was levied on us to pay for the music.
Besides the singular dance I have just described we had cotillions
and waltzes. In the first, the fat Doña Maria was the most graceful
dancer, but in the waltzes--Doña Maria did not waltz--several of the
girls performed very prettily. But foremost among them was Francisco's
daughter, Juana, and another young lady whose name I did not learn, who
waltzed with much ease and grace, and who prided themselves on tiring
out, not only the other dancers, but even the musicians. My head grew
giddy as I sat and saw those two girls twirling about the room.
Supper was ready at an early hour. My friend, Francisco, did me the
unexpected honor to lead me in and seat me at the head of the first
table. Doña Maria sat at the opposite extremity of the table, and the
other ladies, numbering from sixteen to twenty, occupied the sides.
Myself was the only male. Our supper consisted of soup, baked meats,
boiled chickens and bread, with wine in glass tumblers instead of tea
or coffee. We were waited upon by our host, José, assisted by another
gentleman. There was but little conversation among us, but we got along
very pleasantly. I proposed a glass of wine with Doña Maria by signs,
which she readily understood, and she drank her glass with much grace.
Perceiving José to be rather inexpert at carving chickens, I offered
my services, which he accepted. We afterwards drank a glass of wine
together, and thus ended the ceremony of supper. The table was soon
cleared and rearranged for another set of occupants.
Dancing was kept up pretty constantly, I did not join in it, but was
for the most part a silent spectator. I found myself frequently, in
the course of the evening, seated by the side of our hostess, who was
disposed to make herself agreeable, and would, I doubt not, really
have been so, had she understood my language, or I hers. As it was, I
contrived to ask her a few questions, and found her quick to comprehend
my signs. I inquired about her children, knowing that to be the
subject, of all others, the most interesting to a mother. She pointed
to those who were dancing, and to several that were seated. I asked her
how many she had, and she held up her five fingers of one hand, and
three of the other. "_Ocho_," said I. "_Si, Señor, ocho_," she replied
with a smile, amused, perhaps, that I had learned one word of Spanish.
Francisco, also, with not a little pride, directed my attention to his
daughters, who were dancing so merrily; and I could only express my
admiration of them by exclaiming, "_bueno; bueno_!"
Thus pleasantly passed the evening until eleven o'clock, when giving
my friendly entertainers a cordial shake of the hands, I bade them _á
Dios_, and wended my way back again over the mountains to my lodgings.
The company continued dancing till morning.
I have been thus particular in giving the details of this party,
believing that whatever is peculiar in the manners and customs of any
people may be interesting, and perhaps, not wholly useless to know. And
having been myself much interested in the amusements of the evening, I
cannot but hope that the reader will find something to please him in
this account of them.
Indians and Their Costumes.
_September 23, 1856._ There was a company of Indians encamped in the
vicinity of Oroville, for the purpose of gathering their harvest of
acorns, which grew in great abundance there. They passed my temporary
home every morning, men, boys, and women, furnished with sacks made of
netting, earned by the men, and conical baskets for the women, and with
a pole eight or ten feet long, with which to beat off the acorns. The
pole had a short stick fastened to the butt end with strings, by means
of which they suspended it to the limb of a tree when they ascended the
trunk. The acorn is one of their most valuable articles of food, and
they gather large quantities of them.
These Indians were more scantily clad than any I had ever seen, many of
them having only a shirt, sometimes but a very ragged one; and in one
instance I saw a tall brawny Indian, who was entirely destitute of even
this scanty covering.
One day a woman with pretty good features, the wife of the chief,
came to our house in company with other Indians. A large portion of
her face was besmeared with pitch, and the locks over her forehead
were matted with the same substance. I enquired the reason of this
disfigurement, and was told that it was the Indian's badge of mourning,
and that she had probably lost a relative. A few days after this call,
she came again accompanied by her husband, the chief, who was superior
in intelligence, as well as in rank, to his companions. He spoke a
little English. The squaw had renewed the coat of pitch, and looked
more hideously than before. I could see, however, in spite of the
pitch, that she was a pretty woman, and in spite of the scantiness
of her covering, that she was modest. Some remarks were made by
one of the company present, in allusion to her besmeared face. Her
husband understood them, and explained the custom in a word or two.
"Indian's way," said he. "Lost little boy," pointing to his wife. We
all understood him, and the eyes of the poor squaw moistened as she
comprehended the subject of our conversation. The Indians are not
destitute of natural affection.
Few hearts can witness unmoved the tears of a woman, though she be a
wild and filthy Indian; and the feelings of this poor untutored savage
were respected by our company, who refrained from any further allusion
to the subject that brought painful recollections to her mind.
_March 3, 1857._ During a long walk to-day, I stopped to sketch some
singular hills, consisting of two, and sometimes of three, plateaus or
terraces, each terrace being supported by a layer of rock, resting on a
stratum of clay, or soft sandstone, which, in many places was worn out
a foot or two beneath the rock, and making a distinct dark line in the
landscape.
Before sketching one of these hills, I ascended it and clambered up
the rock, which varied from six to eight feet in height. Here, among
some bushes, I saw a smoke arising, and on one of the shrubs hung an
Indian's cap and his lance. I approached the spot, and suddenly found
myself in the presence of a large, fat squaw, who lay basking in the
sunshine, clad in the habiliments which nature had given her, with the
addition of a very slight substitute, for that leafy garment which was
once the fashion at a very remote period in the world's history. Two
little dusky cherubs sat near her, and the partner of her joys and
sorrows lay on the ground at a little distance, enjoying a comfortable
_siesta_. It was a charming picture of contented indolence, and I
have seen more than one lazy white man, who would have coveted their
enjoyment.
I attempted to enter into conversation with the lady, and asked her if
she had some baskets to sell. She made no reply, but, with becoming
modesty, though with no affectation of haste, took up her blanket
that lay near her, and half veiled her charms from my admiring gaze.
Finding her disinclined to talk, I left her, descended the hill, made
my sketch, and continued my walk.
_March 6, 1875._ With an Indian for a guide, I visited a fine
water-fall in a solitary place among the mountains. On our return, my
guide conducted me to a rancherie, consisting of half a dozen wigwams.
As we approached them, the dogs barked, the children screamed, the old
women drew on their blankets, and the naked girls retreated behind the
cabins. An old man and an old woman sat quietly on their haunches, and
a young man lay sick and squalid on the ground beside a bed of embers
that were kept alive at his head. My guide sat down beside them without
any ceremony, and they all preserved a profound silence during several
minutes, as if they were offering up a silent prayer to the Great
Spirit for the recovery of the invalid. At the end of this ceremony,
they became talkative, the young man ate the remains of a lunch I had
brought with me, and the old man begged two bits, (for these Indians,
like all others, are inveterate beggars) when we proceeded on our
journey.
[Illustration]
The Yosemite Falls.
_May 29, 1859._ A rude dug-out having been brought up the river,
I crossed over in it, and walked to the foot of the fall. A dense
spray prevents a near approach to the fall, which comes down in a
perpendicular descent, until within a hundred feet of the bottom, when
it strikes a projecting rock, and dashes off in a shower of spray. I
speak of the lower fall only, for the cataract is divided into three
portions, the upper portion coming down perpendicularly; the middle
portion being a wild rapid, in a deep, dark, and fearful canyon, in
which the stream falls four hundred feet, and then drops down six
hundred feet further to the base of the great wall, making an aggregate
of more than half a mile.
The view upward from the foot of the fall is particularly impressive.
The middle fall of four hundred feet, is entirely hid from the sight,
and such is the immense height of the whole, that the space occupied by
this middle fall seems dwindled to a few feet, and the spectator can
scarcely realize that such a fall does, indeed, exist. But the view
of the fall from this near approach is more than impressive, it is
sublime; and the spectator finds himself overwhelmed with a feeling of
intense awe, as he looks upward and beholds the foaming, roaring water
pouring down, as it were, from the very depths of heaven,
"So wild and furious in its sparkling fall,
Dashing its torrents down, and dazzling all;
Sublimely breaking from its glorious height,
Majestic, thundering, beautiful and bright."
I have alluded to the influence of the wind upon the upper portion of
the fall. It often reminds me of the writhings of an immense serpent,
when two or three opposing currents of air are blowing it from side to
side. Sometimes a blast of wind sways it wholly out of its accustomed
course, with the exception of a few hundred feet of its uppermost
portion, and lays bare nearly the whole surface of the rock which it
covers in its undisturbed descent, but hiding for a minute another
portion. Now large clouds of spray are thrown out from one side, and
then from the other, still forever falling; now the whole fall is
spread out to twice, or thrice, its usual width, and the next moment,
as the wind subsides, it becomes straightened and narrowed to its usual
proportions. These continued changes add exceedingly to the beauty, and
even grandeur, of the fall, and one never wearies of beholding it as it
pours, crashing and roaring, down its enormous wall of rock.
"Roar, roar, thou waterfall! lift up thy voice
Even to the clouded regions of the skies:
Thy brightness and thy beauty may rejoice,
Thy music charms the ears, thy light the eyes,
Joy-giving torrent! sweetest memory
Receives a freshness, and a strength from thee."
The Domes.
The rounded summits of many of the mountains of the Yosemite Valley,
which gives them a domelike appearance, constitutes one of its
peculiarities. The North and South Domes have been often described and
painted. Situated on opposite sides of the lower Valley at its eastern
extremity, and forming portions of its two great walls, they are not
the least of its most prominent objects. Indeed, the South Dome is the
highest point around the Valley, and rises to an altitude of nearly
five thousand feet above the plain.
A tremendous disruption of this mountain is apparent on its western
face, where it has been cleft from its summit, perpendicularly down to
a depth of two thousand feet, and the western portion thrown off and
hurled down the mountain, at whose base it lies in fragments, a huge
heap, a mountain of itself.
What a sublime, a terrifying spectacle would here have presented itself
to a spectator standing on the North Dome and looking across the
Valley, to behold a part of the mountain before him two thousand feet
in depth, starting from its foundation, breaking away from the firmer
portion, and falling, rolling, grinding, crashing, down the mountain
side, with the roar and shaking of a terrible earthquake, and dashing
into millions of fragments, until it reached the plain, three thousand
feet below its starting point. I can imagine what overwhelming emotions
would seize him as he beheld the mountain falling, and in dread and
horror thinking the end of the world was approaching, and that the
mountain on which he stood might fall next.
This is a region of wonders. They meet us at every step. The Valley
itself is a vast aggregate of wonders. There was a time when it was
elevated to a level with the walls that now surround it, when the
Merced flowed along at a height of two or three thousand feet above its
present bed, and before the Yosemite and all these falls were created.
It is an interesting question, How came the Valley lowered to its
present depth? Without a very deep investigation of the subject, I have
formed an opinion in opposition to that of many persons, who attribute
it to an earthquake; that at some remote period a deluge occurred here,
and that the Valley was formed by the torrents that swept through it,
carrying away the earth, and leaving the bare walls in their present
wild desolation, with the newly created cataracts pouring down their
sides.
Farewell to the Yosemite.
_June 30, 1859._ Early in the morning and before breakfast, Camerer,--a
German friend,--and I, were on our way. As we went down the beautiful
Valley, we often stopped to gaze at the stupendous scenes we were about
to leave; and never before had they looked so grand, and glorious.
Lingering, loitering, talking, and discussing the several points of
interest, time passed rapidly, and the sunbeams soon began to gild the
summits of the mountains, the lofty rock of Tutocanula catching his
first rays. A hundred birds strained their little throats and poured
out their sweetest strains of melody, as if to bid us farewell, and
cheer us on our way.
As the scenes with which we had been so long familiar, now passed again
in review before us; the Yosemite, the Sentinel, the Cathedral Rocks,
Tutocanula, the Bridal Veil; each claimed for the hundredth, and last
time, our attention and admiration. "O," exclaimed my German friend,
when the necessity of hastening our journey occurred to us, "O, it is
very hard to get out of this Valley."
We at length arrived at the end of the plain, and began to ascend the
mountain. Half way up the height we came to a spot from which we had so
fine a view, that we resolved to stop and sketch it. This was a general
view of the Valley, and its surrounding walls, and of course, it was
my last sketch. Having accomplished this task, we hastened forward,
scarcely looking around us, until we reached an elevation whence we
were about to take our last look. But we had loitered too long by the
way, and had little time to spare. Stopping, therefore, but for a
minute, and filled with emotions such as Adam and Eve may be supposed
to have felt when,
"They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow,
Through Eden took their solitary way,"
we cast one sad look at the scene behind us, and bade a sorrowful and
final adieu to the wonderful Yosemite Valley.
The California Vulture.
_February 9, 1854._ In a walk some days since through the Redwoods,
I encountered an old man by the side of the road engaged in making
shingles. He was a very coarse-looking fellow with a dark complexion
and a black, bushy beard, that more than half covered his face, giving
an additional grimness to his rough, harsh features. He was an old
Kentucky rifleman, and, as I learned to-day, a first-rate marksman. He
had shot a Vulture some time before, and it was lying near his cabin,
half decayed. Some quills were scattered over the ground, and I picked
up two or three of them, when he ordered me in the rudest manner to
leave them. I then offered to buy some of them, but he would neither
sell nor give them away. He wanted them for himself.
While I stood there another man joined us, and asked the name of
the bird. "A Turkey Buzzard," said the old man. I disputed him, and
endeavored to point out the difference between this bird and the Turkey
Buzzard. But he would not be convinced. He had seen thousands of them
in Kentucky, though he admitted they were smaller there than here. I
replied that he might with equal propriety say that a Raven was a large
Crow, or a Crow a large Blackbird. But he did not admit the analogy of
the two cases, and the bird _was_ a Turkey Buzzard and nothing more. So
I left him in the enjoyment of his own opinion.
To-day I passed his cabin again, and he accosted me with considerable
civility. A sort of grim smile played over his harsh features, his
manners were wonderfully softened, and the gruff old savage seemed to
have been suddenly transformed into a half civilized being. He had
shot two Vultures yesterday, though one of them, which he had only
wing-tipped, and tied to a stake, had escaped. He was willing to sell
me the remaining bird, and the payment of five bits made me its owner.
On further conversation with him, I found that he possessed a taste
for birds and other natural curiosities, and had some preparations for
preserving specimens. He showed me some birds and a horned toad which
he had preserved.
I skinned my bird, and left it with the Kentuckian, while I continued
my walk. But this walk furnished me with nothing further to record
except a word or two concerning the habits of these same Vultures. I
saw six or eight of them perched on trees, sitting in perfect idleness
and scarcely moving. I believe Audubon says that they are very shy
and difficult to approach. But Audubon had never seen one. A man was
cutting up a fallen tree near one of the birds, but without disturbing
him. Another one sat on a branch of a low tree, which I approached.
When I arrived within less than gunshot distance, he half spread his
wings and stood up, as if preparing to fly. But after a minute's
hesitation he folded his pinions again, and seemed to have come to the
conclusion that there was no danger from a man with only a stick in his
hand. As I continued to approach the tree on which he stood, he thrust
his head down below his body, and turned it about most whimsically,
while he kept his keen eye fastened on me as though he were quizzing
me; but still he showed no disposition to fly. I now began to shout
at him, and to swing my cap, and i' faith, it seemed as if my noise
and gesticulations served rather to amuse than to frighten him. Then
I threw my cane up in the air towards him, but he only gave his head
an extra cant, and continued peering at me with such an impudent,
derisive, no-ye-don't sort of a look, that I almost expected to see him
raise his thumb to his nose, and shake his fingers at me. Finding him
thus firmly resolved not to be driven from his position, I left him,
fully believing that if a man wishes to hunt California Vultures, their
shyness will be no obstacle to his success.
On returning, I called for the skin of my bird which measured nine feet
four inches from tip to tip of the wings, and three feet eleven inches
in length.
My Skill at Rifle Shooting.
_March 29, 1854._ I went out to try my skill at rifle shooting. Saw
a pair of Vultures in a tree on the heights in front of my house.
I clambered up the hill and approached within a short distance of
the birds, but the trunk of the tree, on the branches of which they
stood, hid them from my view, and I made a short circuit, and crept
behind a tree that brought me still nearer the Vultures. I now had
one of them in full view, and was in a fair way to have him in my
possession. I cocked my rifle for the fatal shot, brought it up to my
face, and closed my left optic, preparatory to the death-dealing aim,
when the foolish bird, as if he were actuated by a spirit of reckless
daring, bravado and defiance, sidled out on the branch that held him,
stood erect with his breast square before me, half expanded his broad
wings, while he cast a glance of his keen eyes upon me, and seemed
to say, "Here is your mark; now try your skill." I did so. The report
of my rifle reverberated over the hills; the ball sped--I knew not
whither--and the birds left their perch with a precipitancy, and flew
away with a haste I have seldom witnessed. The smoke of the powder had
scarcely cleared away ere they were seen performing their gyrations
over a neighboring mountain. I made my way speedily, down the hill,
and----sold my rifle.
Incident at a Camp-meeting.
I accepted an invitation from a friend to attend a Methodist
camp-meeting, which was held in a grove about five miles distant
from the Contra Costa Redwoods. The services did not vary much from
similar services in New England. But a little incident occurred of
such a novel character, and so singularly beautiful, that I record
it for the benefit of Christians in other portions of the country.
When the collection was about to be taken, the Presiding Elder, the
Rev. Mr. Fulton, addressed the audience in these words: "At the last
Presbyterian camp-meeting, the collection taken for the support of
the ministry was, most unexpectedly to me, divided between all of us
who had taken part in the services; and I was constrained to share
it equally with my Presbyterian brethren. Such an act, the first of
the kind I have ever known, was as gratifying as it was unexpected;
and most happy am I to say, that we have this day an opportunity to
reciprocate the favor, by sharing with the brother of that denomination
now present, the collection to which we invite you to contribute."
The effect of this address upon the audience was manifested by the
jingling of the coin which was poured into the hats from every quarter
of the field.
* * * * *
With this little anecdote I take leave of the reader, remarking,
however, that I passed nine years in California; resided in many of its
principal cities; roamed over a large part of the northern portion of
the State; visited most of the mines from Mariposa to Yreka; traveled
across the State of Oregon and into Washington Territory; sailed up
the Columbia River to the Cascades; visited a great number of places
remarkable for their scenery; spent five weeks in the wonderful
Yosemite Valley; lodged in a hollow of one of the "Big Trees" of
Mariposa; listened to the mighty roar of the Geysers; walked round the
beautiful Clear Lake, and paddled my canoe round the far-famed Lake
Tahoe; clambered up the sides, and stood upon the highest pinnacles of
Mount Shasta, and many other mountains of the Sierra Nevada range; and
encountered people of all descriptions, characters, and nationalities.
Reader, shall I give you a further account of my observations and
adventures?
_THE END._
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Inconsistencies in the author's use of hyphens have been
left unchanged, as in the original text. Obvious printer errors have been
corrected without comment. Otherwise, the author's original spelling,
punctuation, hyphenation and use of accents have been left intact with the
following exceptions:
Page 44: The word "we" was added in the following phrase: "This
morning, just as we were about to sail,"
Page 148: Yosemite Fall was changed to Yosemite Falls to match Yosemite
Falls in the Contents.
Capitalisation and periods have been standardised in the Chapter
Headings and the Contents so that these do not differ.