Every point having been arranged, I received my final instructions, and
letters for the Governor of Monterey, to which was added a heavy bag of
doubloons for my expenses. I bade farewell to the Prince and my father,
and with six well-armed Indians and the Padre Marini, I embarked in a
long canoe on the Buona Ventura river, and carried away by the current,
soon lost sight of our lonesome settlement.
We were to follow the stream to the southern lakes of the Buona Ventura,
where we were to leave our Indians, and join some half-bred
Wachinangoes, returning to Monterey, with the mustangs, or wild horses,
which they had captured in the prairies.
It was a beautiful trip, just at the commencement of the spring; both
shores of the river were lined with evergreens; the grass was luxuriant,
and immense herds of buffaloes and wild horses were to be seen grazing
in every direction. Sometimes a noble stallion, his long sweeping mane
and tail waving to the wind, would gallop down to the water's edge, and
watch us as if he would know our intentions. When satisfied, he would
walk slowly back, ever and anon turning round to look at us again, as if
not quite so convinced of our peaceful intentions.
On the third night, we encamped at the foot of an obelisk in the centre
of some noble ruins. It was a sacred spot with the Shoshones. Their
traditions told them of another race, who had formerly lived there, and
which had been driven by them to the south. It must have been ages
back, for the hand of time, so lenient in this climate, and the hand of
man, so little given to spoil, had severely visited this fated city.
We remained there the following day, as Padre Marini was anxious to
discover any carvings or hieroglyphics from which he might draw some
conclusions; but our endeavours were not successful, and we could not
tarry longer, as we were afraid that the horse-hunters would break up
their encampments before we arrived. We, therefore, resumed our
journey, and many were the disquisitions and conjectures which passed
between me and the holy father, as to the high degree of civilisation
which must have existed among the lost race who had been the architects
of such graceful buildings.
Four days more brought us to the southern shore of the St. Jago lake.
We arrived in good time, dismissed our Indians, and having purchased two
excellent mules, we proceeded on our journey, in company with the
horse-hunters, surrounded by hundreds of their captives, who were loudly
lamenting their destiny, and shewed their sense of the injustice of the
whole proceeding by kicking and striking with their fore-feet at
whatever might come within the reach of their hoofs. Notwithstanding
the very unruly conduct of the prisoners, we arrived at Monterey on the
sixth evening.
The reader will discover, as he proceeds, that my adventures are about
to commence from this journey to Monterey; I therefore wish to remind
him that I was at this time not eighteen years old. I had a remembrance
of civilisation previous to my arrival among the Indians, and as we
enjoyed every comfort and some luxuries at the settlement, I still had a
remembrance, although vague, of what had passed in Italy and elsewhere.
But I had become an Indian, and until I heard that I was to undertake
this journey, I had recollected the former scenes of my youth only to
despise them.
That this feeling had been much fostered by the idea that I should never
again rejoin them, is more than probable; for from the moment that I
heard that I was to proceed to Monterey, my heart beat tumultuously and
my pulse was doubled in its circulation. I hardly know what it was that
I anticipated, but certainly I had formed the idea of a terrestrial
paradise.
If not exactly a paradise, Monterey is certainly a sweet place; 'tis
even now a fairy spot in my recollection, although sobered down, and, I
trust, a little wiser than I was at that time. There certainly is an
air of happiness spread over this small town. Every one is at their
ease, every body sings and smiles, and every hour is dedicated to
amusement or repose.
None of your dirty streets and sharp pavements; no manufactories with
their eternal smoke; no policemen looking like so many knaves of clubs;
no cabs or omnibuses splashing the mud to the right and to the left;
and, above all, none of your punctual men of business hurrying to their
appointments, blowing like steam-engines, elbowing every body, and
capsizing the apple-stalls. No; there is none of these at Monterey.
There is a bay, blue and bottomless, with shores studded with tall
beautiful timber. There is a prairie lawn, spread like a carpet in
patterns composed of pretty wild flowers. Upon it stand hundreds of
cottage-built tenements, covered with the creeping vine. In the centre,
the presidio, or government-house; on one side the graceful spire of a
church, on the other the massive walls of a convent. Above, all is a
sky of the deepest cobalt blue, richly contrasting with the dark green
of the tall pines, and the uncertain and indescribable tints on the
horizon of these western prairies.
Even the dogs are polite at Monterey, and the horses, which are always
grazing about, run up to you, and appear as if they would welcome you on
your arrival; but the fact is, that every traveller carries a bag of
salt at his saddle-bow, and by their rubbing their noses against it, it
is clear that they come to beg a little salt, of which they are very
fond. Every body and every animal is familiar with you, and, strange to
say, the English who reside there are contented, and still more strange,
the Americans are almost honest. What a beautiful climate it must be at
Monterey!
Their hospitality is unbounded. "The holy Virgin bless thee," said an
old man, who watched our coming; "tarry here and honour my roof."
Another came up, shook us by the hand, his eye sparkling with kind
feelings. A third took our mules by the bridles and led us to his own
door, when half-a-dozen pretty girls, with flashing dark eyes and long
taper fingers, insisted on undoing our leggings and taking off our
spurs.
Queen city of California! to me there is poetry in thy very name, and so
would it be to all who delight in honesty, bonhommie, simplicity, and
the dolce far niente.
Notwithstanding the many solicitations we received; Padre Marini went to
the convent, and I took up my quarters with the old governor.
All was new to me, and pleasant too, for I was not eighteen; and at such
a time one has strange dreams and fancies of small waists, and pretty
faces, smiling cunningly. My mind had sometimes reverted to former
scenes, when I had a mother and a sister. I had sighed for a partner to
dance or waltz with on the green, while our old servant was playing on
his violin some antiquated en avant deux.
Now I had found all that, and a merry time I had of it. True, the sack
of doubloons helped me wonderfully. Within a week after my arrival, I
had a magnificent saddle embossed with silver, velvet breeches instead
of cloth leggings, a hat and feathers, glossy pumps, red sash, velvet
round-about, and the large cape or cloak, the eternal, and sometimes the
only, garment of a western Mexican grandee, in winter or in summer, by
night or by day. I say it was a merry time, and it agreed well with me.
Dance I did! and sing and court too. My old travelling companion, the
missionary, remonstrated a little, but the girls laughed at him, and I
clearly pointed out to him that he was wrong. If my English readers
only knew what a sweet, pretty little thing is a Monterey girl, they
would all pack up their wardrobes to go there and get married. It would
be a great pity, for with your mistaken ideas of comforts, with your
love of coal-fire and raw beef-steak, together with your severe notions
of what is proper or improper, you would soon spoil the place, and
render it as stiff and gloomy as any sectarian village of the United
States, with its nine banks, eighteen chapels, its one "a-b-c" school,
and its immense stone jail, very considerately made large enough to
contain its whole population.
The governor was General Morreno, an old soldier, of the genuine
Castilian stock; proud of his blood, proud of his daughters, of himself,
of his dignities, proud of every thing--but, withal, he was benevolence
and hospitality personified. His house was open to all (that is to say,
all who could boast of having white blood), and the time passed there in
continual fiestas, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, music to
dancing; courting with the eyes to courting with the lips, just as
lemonade succeeded to wine, and creams to grapes and peaches. But
unhappily, nature made a mistake in our conformation, and, alas! man
must repose from pleasure as he does from labour. It is a great pity,
for life is short, and repose is so much time lost; at so thought I at
eighteen.
Monterey is a very ancient city; it was founded in the seventeenth
century by some Portuguese Jesuits, who established a mission there. To
the Jesuits succeeded the Franciscans, who were a good, lenient, lazy,
and kind-hearted set of fellows, funny yet moral, thundering against
vice and love, and yet giving light penalties and entire absolution.
These Franciscans were shown out of doors by the government of Mexico,
who wished to possess their wealth. It was unfortunate, as for the
kind, hospitable, and generous monks, the government substituted agents
and officers from the interior, who, not possessing any ties at
Monterey, cared little for the happiness of the inhabitants. The
consequence is, that the Californians are heartily tired of these agents
of extortion; they have a natural antipathy against custom-house
officers; and, above all, they do not like the idea of giving their
dollars to carry on the expense of the Mexican wars, in which they feel
no interest. Some morning (and they have already very nearly succeeded
in so doing) they will haul down the Mexican flag from the presidio,
drive away the commissarios and custom-house receivers, declare their
independence of Mexico, and open their ports to all nations.
Monterey contains about three thousand souls, including the half-breeds
and Indians acting as servants in the different dwellings. The
population is wealthy, and not having any opportunity to throw away
their money, as in the eastern cities (for all their pleasures and
enjoyments are at no expense), they are fond of ornamenting their
persons, and their horses and saddles, with as much wealth as they can
afford. A saddle of 100 pounds in value is a common thing among the
richer young men, who put all their pride in their steeds and
accoutrements.
The women dress richly and with an admirable taste; the unmarried girls
in white satin, with their long black hair falling upon their shoulders;
their brow ornamented with rich jewels when at home, and when out, their
faces covered with a long white veil, through which their dark eyes will
shine like diamonds.
The married women prefer gaudy colours, and keep their hair confined
close to their head by a large comb. They have also another delightful
characteristic, which indeed the men share with them; I mean a beautiful
voice, soft and tremulous among the women, rich, sonorous, and majestic
among their lords. An American traveller has said, "A common
bullock-driver on horseback, delivering a message, seemed to speak like
an ambassador to an audience. In fact, the Californians appear to be a
people on whom a curse had fallen, and stripped them of every thing but
their pride, their manners, and their voices."
There is always much amusement in Monterey; and, what betwixt
cock-fighting, racing, fandangoing, hunting, fishing, sailing, and so
forth, time passes quickly away. Its salubrity is remarkable; there has
never been any disease--indeed sickness of any kind is unknown. No
toothache nor other malady, and no spleen; people die by accident or
from old age; indeed, the Montereyans have an odd proverb, "El que
quiere morir que se vaya del pueblo"--that is to say, "He who wishes to
die must leave the city."
While remaining there I had rather a perilous adventure. I had gone
with some of my friends to great fishing party at the entrance of the
bay, which, by the bye, is one of the finest in the world, being
twenty-four miles in length and eighteen in breadth. The missionary,
Padre Marini, not being very well, had an idea that the sea-air would do
him good, and joined our company. We had many boats; the one in which
the Padre and I embarked was a well-shaped little thing, which had
belonged to some American vessel. It was pulled with two oars, and had
a small mast and sail.
Our fishing being successful, we were all in high glee, and we went on
shore to fry some of our victims for our afternoon's meal. During the
conversation, somebody spoke of some ancient ruins, fifteen miles north,
at the entrance of a small creek. The missionary was anxious to see
them, and we agreed that our companions should return to Monterey while
he and I would pass the night where we were, and proceed the next
morning on an exploring expedition to the ruins. We obtained from
another boat a large stone jug of water, two blankets, and a
double-barrelled gun. As soon as our companions quitted us, we pulled
the boat round to the northern point of the bay, and having selected
proper quarters for the night, we made a kind of shelter on the beach
with the oars, mast, and sail, and lighted a fire to make ourselves more
comfortable. It was one of those beautiful mild evenings which can be
found only in the Bay of Monterey; the gentle and perfumed breeze softly
agitated the foliage around and above us, and as night came on, with its
myriads of stars and its silvery moon, the missionary having, for some
time, raised his eyes above in silent contemplation, reverted to scenes
of the past, and of other climes.
He spoke of Hurdwar, a far distant mission in the north of India, close
to the Himalayas. The Hindoos call it the "City of a Thousand Palaces;"
they say it was built by the genii on the very spot where Vishnu had
reposed himself for a few weeks, after one of his mystic transmutations,
in which he had conquered Siva, or Sahavedra, the spirit of evil.
Though not so well known, Hurdwar is a place still more sacred than
Benares; people assemble there once a year from all parts, and
consecrate several days to their ablutions in the purifying waters of
the Ganges. In this noble city is also held one of the greatest fairs
of India, indeed of all the world; and as its time is fixed upon the
same month as that in which the Hindoo devotees arrive at the city,
numerous caravans from Persia, Arabia, Cashmere, and Lahore repair to
the spot, and erect their bazaars along the banks of the river, forming
a street of many miles. The concourse collected at these times has been
ascertained to number more than one million of souls.
There the Padre Marini had remained as a missionary for some years, all
alone. His flock of converts was but a small one; he had little to do,
and yet his mind could not be arrested by the study of all the wonders
around him; his heart was sad; for years he had had a sorrow which
weighed heavily upon him, and he was wretched. Before he had embraced
the solitude of a monastic life, he had with him a younger brother, of
whom he was very fond. The young man was a student in medicine, with
fair capacity and an energy which promised to advance him in his
profession. When Marini entered the convent, his brother went to
Turkey, where men of his profession were always certain of a good
reception, and for a long time was never heard of. At last, when the
missionary was ready to start for a distant mission, he learned that
which proved so destructive to his peace of mind. From Constantinople,
his brother had gone to Persia, where he was residing in easy
circumstances; but, ambitious of advancement, he had abjured the faith
of his fathers and become a follower of Mahommed.
It was a melancholy intelligence, and many were the tears of the good
monk. The first year of his arrival at Hurdwar, he met with a Jewish
merchant who had accompanied a Persian caravan. That man knew his
brother, the renegade, and informed the Padre that his brother had
fallen into disgrace, and as a punishment of his apostacy, was now
leading a life of privation and misery.
Deep and fervent were now the monk's prayers to heaven; he implored
forgiveness for his brother, and offered penance for him. Poor man! he
thought if he could but see him and talk to him, he would redeem him
from his apostacy; but, alas! his duty was in Hurdwar, he was bound
there and could not move. One day (it was during the fair) he had
wandered at a distance from the river, that he might not witness the
delusions of Paganism, and his mind was intensely absorbed in prayer.
Anon, unusual sounds broke on his ears; sounds well known, sounds
reminding him of his country, of his beautiful Italy. They came from a
little bower ten steps before him; and as past scenes rushed to his
memory, his heart beat tremulously in his bosom; the monk recognised a
barcarole which he had often sung in his younger days; but although the
air was lively, the voice which sung it was mournful and sad. Stepping
noiselessly, he stood at the entrance of the bower. The stranger
started and arose! Their separation had been a long one, but neither
the furrowed cheeks and sallow complexion of the one, nor the turbaned
head of the other, could deceive them; and the two brothers fell in each
other's arms.
On its return, the Persian caravan had one driver the less, for the
apostate was on his death-bed in the humble dwelling of his brother.
Once more a Christian, again reconciled to his God, he calmly awaited
his summons to a better world. For two weeks he lingered on, repenting
his error and praying for mercy. He died, and in the little jessamine
bower where he had met with the Mussulman, the monk buried the
Christian; he placed a cross upon his grave and mourned him long; but a
heavy load had been removed from his breast, and since that time he had
felt happy, having no weight on his mind to disturb him in the execution
of his sacred ministry.
Having narrated this passage in his history, the Padre Marini bid me
good night, and we prepared to sleep. I went to the boat, where,
stretching myself at the bottom, with my face turned towards the
glittering canopy above, I remained pensive and reflecting upon the
narrative of the monk, until at last I slept.