A LADY IN THE MOUNTAINS.—TOWN OF STOCKTON.—CROSSING THE VALLEY OF THE
SAN JOAQUIN.—THE ROBBED FATHER AND BOY.—RIDE TO SAN JOSÉ.—RUM IN
CALIFORNIA.—HIGHWAYMEN.—WOODLAND LIFE.—RACHEL AT THE WELL.—FAREWELL
TO MY CAMPING-TREE.
WEDNESDAY, NOV. 15. Another day had dawned fresh and brilliant; we
breakfasted with our friends, who ordered up their horses, and started
with us for Stockton, twelve miles distant. Our lady hostess and myself
led off; she had crossed the Rocky Mountains on horseback into
California, and was, of course, at home in the saddle. She was mounted
on a spirited animal, and my little Indian almost blew the wind out of
him to keep up. My companion, though accomplished in all the refinements
of metropolitan life, was yet in love with the wild scenes in which her
lot had been cast. The rose of health blushed in her cheek, and the
light of a salient soul revelled in her eye. “I would not exchange,” she
said, “my cabin for any palace in Christendom. I have all that I want
here, and what more could I have elsewhere? I have tried luxury without
health, and a wild mountain life with it. Give me the latter, with the
free air, the dashing streams, the swinging woods, the laughing flowers,
and the exulting birds; and
“Let him who crawls enamored of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away.”
We were now at Stockton, the nucleus of a town at the head waters of a
narrow arm of the San Joaquin. The site is well chosen; its central
position to the gold mines, the broad fertile plain which spreads around
it, and the water communication which connects it with the commerce of
the Sacramento and San Francisco, will lift it into a town of the first
importance. Charles Weber, a gentleman much esteemed for his liberality
and enterprise, is the owner of the land now occupied by the town, and
many leagues adjacent. He has given spacious lots to all who would erect
buildings. His policy is marked with wisdom; he will find his advantage
in the results. His ample store is well filled with provisions,
groceries, and ready-made clothing. The amount of business is immense,
and the profits would phrensy our Philadelphia merchants.
We found Stockton without a hotel, the private houses unfinished; and,
caring but little for either, camped under the trees. We took supper
with Mr. Weber, and, at a late hour, wound ourselves in our blankets for
repose. The dew fell heavy, but we slept through it without the least
harm. A hydropathist might have exchanged his sheet for a twist in one
of our wet blankets. But we had no rheumatic joints to be relaxed, and
no bone-burrowed mercury to be douched. What an envied lot, that of the
pearl-diver! He gets not only his bath, but a pearl besides. And what a
happy fellow is a fish! He is always head and tail in the hydropathic
process. I wonder if it is not this that gives the shark such an
appetite, and lends wings to the flying-fish. Even the bullfrog comes up
only to twang his joy, and the whale to blow off his excess of pleasure,
while the mermaid, lost in transport, sings in her coral hall till the
listening naiads feel
“Their souls dissolve in her melodious breath.”
THURSDAY, NOV. 16. Replenishing our panniers with hard bread, and a few
pounds of dried venison and coffee, we bade adieu to our Oregonian
friends and the hospitable proprietor of Stockton, and were off for our
distant home. Our trail for sixteen miles lay through an arid plain,
when we brought up on the bold bank of the San Joaquin. Our saddles,
bridles, packs, and persons were thrown into a boat, our horses driven
into the stream, and over we dashed to the opposite bank, where we paid
two dollars each for our ferriage, and mounted for a fresh start. It was
near sunset when we reached the line of trees which belt, with their
thick umbrage, the great valley which stretches in barrenness beyond.
Here we camped for the night, and soon found, to our pleasurable
surprise, our friends Lieut. Bonnycastle and Lieut. Morehead, of the
army, in a camp not more than an arrow’s flight distant. They were on
their way to the mines, and if excellent qualities of head and heart can
secure success, must return with fortunes. Night deepened apace, and our
simple repast finished, we wrapped ourselves in our blankets, and were
soon in sound sleep.
FRIDAY, NOV. 17. The day glimmered over the hill-tops: a cup of coffee,
a cake of hard bread, and a scrap of dried venison, and we were under
way again. Our trail lay for fifteen miles over the prairie of the San
Joaquin. Though now in November, yet the heat was oppressive. We
encountered groups of disbanded volunteers, on their way to the mines.
The soldiers’ improvidence had left but very few the means of procuring
horses, and they were generally on foot, and crippled with blisters.
Going _to_ the mines is one thing; returning _from_ them is another. A
dream of victory animates the soldier, and visions of gold stimulate the
digger. It is only the result under which the heart droops and the
muscles give way.
It was mid-day when we struck the hills which roll their low forests to
the verge of the prairie. In a glen, where sparkled a spring and the
pine threw its shadows, we encountered an elderly man and his little
boy. The parent was silent, downcast, and abstracted, and his boy was
evidently trying to cheer him. The father, in reply to our inquiries,
informed us that they had been in the mines, where, by great industry
and good fortune, they had got out twenty pounds of gold; that on their
return they had camped for the night near Stockton; that leaving their
camping-tree for a few hours to renew their stock of provisions, they
had buried their bag of gold under the tree; but on their return their
gold could not be found! that the most diligent search had led to no
results; that he had been robbed! that the loss was less for him, but
that he had eight motherless children, dependent on him for a support.
Who could listen to such a tale as this and not feel his blood tingle at
the callous wretch who could thus ruin another? Even the forgiving Uncle
Toby would deliver him over to the avenging angel, to be driven down
under double-bolted thunder: nothing could rescue him, unless the
Universalists catch him in their creed, which saves a man in spite of
the Evil One, and in spite of himself, too.
We invited the father and son to join our company; and when on the way,
the little boy, who was mounted on a pony at my side, told me a
subscription had been started at Stockton for his father, and that Mr.
Weber and Dr. Isabell had subscribed a pound of gold each. Blessings on
those liberal men! such a charity will throw a circle of light around
misfortune, should it ever be _their_ lot. The sun was far down his
western dip when we reached the hospitable hearth of our friend Mr.
Livermore; but finding that he had no grain for our horses, and that the
grass around had utterly perished under the summer’s drought, we
determined to push on; and, crossing a plain of eight miles, reached the
mountain rollers, where we struck into a ravine, through which a
streamlet murmured, and where a plot of grass still preserved some
portion of its freshness. Here we tethered and camped. The brief
twilight that remained had passed into night’s bosom before we had
gathered sufficient wood for our camp-fire: and we needed a large pile;
for the air was chill and penetrating. We made our supper on hard bread,
dried venison, and coffee; while clouds, the sure precursors of the
winter rains, drifted above in sluggish masses. Our camp-fire threw its
column of waving flame on the beetling crags; not a sound from cavern or
cliff disturbed the silence; we gazed into the fire, lost in pensive
musing; and a more melancholy group seldom gathers over that face—
“Where life’s last parting pulse has ceased to play,”
when an owl perched near, gave a deep hoot! Each broke into an
involuntary laugh. The philosophy of that transition I leave to those
whose metaphysical acumen can split the shadow which falls between
melancholy and mirth.
SATURDAY, NOV. 18. Another morn full of rosy charms comes blushing over
the hills; at the glance of her eye the shadows flee away, and the birds
awaken into song. The stir of preparation rustles the leaves under our
camping-tree, and while the dew yet gems the grass, we are up and away.
What salient freshness and force are in the heart which takes its pulses
from the waving wild-wood and the dashing stream! The exhilaration in
its fullest tide never ebbs; it bears you on with sympathies and
enjoyments still expanding, till all nature, with her intense life and
rapture, is yours.
Our path, which lay through a mountain gorge, bent its line to a winding
rivulet, laughing and singing through the solitude. Little cared _that_
for marble fount or sculptured dolphin; it was happy in its own free
life, and the kisses of the enamored pebbles, which danced in its limpid
wave. And now the white walls of the old church, where the mission of
San José reared its altars, glimmered into vision. Fast and far the
separating interval was left behind, when we dashed up to its welcome
portal. Here we found an Irish restaurant, and set its culinary
functions in motion—
“Nothing’s more sure at moments to take hold
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
More tender, as we every day behold,
Than that all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell!”
SUNDAY, NOV. 19. My companions pushed on last evening to San
José—fifteen miles distant. My old Russian friend, who occupies one of
the mission buildings, invited me to spend the Sabbath with him; an
invitation which I gladly accepted, as it afforded a refuge from the
restaurant, with the roar of its revelry and rum. The United States have
sent out enough of this fire here to burn up a continent. The
conflagration, kindled by the battle-brand or bolt of the electric
cloud, may sweep a forest, or lay a city in ashes; but from the
smouldering ruins new structures will rise, and a new generation of
plants spring; but where the spirit of rum hath spread its flame a
desolation follows, which the skill of man and the reviving dews of
heaven can never reach. It is barren and verdureless as the sulphurous
marl which paves
“The deep track of hell.”
MONDAY, NOV. 20. For a moment this morning I regretted having parted
with my pistols, and thrown myself on the non-resistant principle. I was
alone, and on my way to San José, when two horsemen suddenly broke from
the covert of the woods on my left, and swept down upon the line of my
path. They were well mounted, and had the dare-devil air of the brigand.
It was near this spot, too, that a young friend of mine had been
recently murdered. To attempt flight on my Indian pony from the
lightning hoof of my pursuers, would have given to consternation itself
a hue of the ludicrous. I determined to die decently, if die I must. My
supposed assailants dashed close to my side, and then, without uttering
a word, spurred back to the forest, from which they had debouched. They
were foreigners, disguised as Californians; for a native always salutes
you, and would, were his hand on the trigger of his pistol. They went as
they came, and the secret of their impetuous visit is in their own
keeping. I was quite willing to part with their company, and ascribe
their intrusion to a violent curiosity, or any other motive untouched by
crime, so that they would let me pass in peace to the Pueblo of San
José.
TUESDAY, NOV. 21. Arriving at the Pueblo, I found my companions had
hired four horses, accustomed to the harness, attached them to the
wagon, which we had left here, on our way to the mines, and were ready
to start for Monterey. I threw my saddle, bridle, and blanket into the
wagon, and parted with my Indian pony: he had done me good service, and
got me out of a bad fix in the mines; he had pounded me some, it is
true; but that was no fault of his; nature never intended him to tread
on flowers without bending their stems. May his new owner treat him
kindly; and when age has withered his strength, not turn him out on a
public common to die! Had we as little mercy shown us as we extend to
the noblest animal committed to our care, we should never get to heaven.
The sun was far down his western slope when we reached the rancho of Mr.
Murphy, and camped for the night under the evergreen oaks, which throw
the soft shade of their undying verdure over a streamlet that murmurs
near his door. The old gentleman invited us in to share his restricted
apartments, but we had so long slept under trees, that we preferred the
free air, the maternal earth, and the stars to light us to our slumber.
Truly I never slept so soundly on the garnished couch, and never found
in sleep such a renovating refreshment. I can now comprehend why it is
the hunter clings to his wild life, and prefers the precarious
subsistence of his rifle to teeming stalls. He lives out of himself; his
sympathies are with nature; his sensations roll through boundless space.
It is for _his_ eye the violet blooms, and the early cloud catches the
blush of morn; it is for _his_ ear the bird sings from its green covert,
and the torrent shouts from its cliff; it is to cheer _his_ footsteps
that the twilight lingers, and the star blazes in the coronet of night:
all the changes of the varied year are for _him_; and around his
wild-wood home the seasons lead the hours in perpetual dance; and when
his being shall resign its trust, the dirge of the deep wood will sing
his requiem, and the wings of the wind, filled with the fragrance of
flowers, bear his spirit to its bright abode.
WEDNESDAY, NOV. 22. We broke camp at sunrise, took our coffee, harnessed
up, and began to lumber ahead. Our driver, who owned the dull steeds
which he reined, was a native of New England, and betrayed his origin in
the perpetual hum of a low plaintive tune, which spun on for hours in
the same unconscious monotony. Even the crack of his whip, which came in
frequently, had only the effect to give some note a slight emphasis,
while the low dirge still murmured on, true to its unbroken flow as the
tick of the death-watch to its admonitory errand. Thus the hours of the
day, their tender requiem being sung, stole silently into the past.
But now occurred a wayfaring incident which could not thus be charmed to
rest. Our team, about half-way up the long hill of San Juan, balked, and
the wagon began to roll back to its base. We jumped out and clogged the
wheels, for we had no idea of returning again to the mines. Having
breathed a moment, we made another attempt, but without success; we now
put our shoulders to the wheels, while the lash fell fast on the flanks
of our horses. But no pushing, coaxing, or whipping availed; our journey
for the day was done, and abruptly too as that of a migratory goose
struck by a rifle ball. The shadows of the mountain pines were
lengthening fast, and we retired into a glen at a short distance, and
camped. It was my duty to procure water for coffee; the spring where the
horses drank was too full of impurities; I followed up the unseen vein
marked by the green willows, till its flowing wave murmured on the ear
from the depths of a shadowy chasm. But the method of reaching it
puzzled me as much as the faithful proxy of the Patriarch would have
been, but for the pitcher and line of the gentle Rachel. How free of
affectation and false alarm that daughter of Israel, as her snow-white
arms drew the limpid tide to quench the stranger’s thirst! How free of a
distrustful spirit, or disdaining pride, when told that one whom her
father loved, sued for her bridal hand! The wave which swelled in her
milk-white bosom may have trembled a moment, like the leaf stirred in
the rosy twilight, and the dream of her pillowed slumber may have
flushed through the snow-curl of her cheek, but with the early lark, she
was up and away—happy in her own youth and innocence, and in the thought
that these were inwoven with the happiness of another. How hollow the
pretexts of protracted delay, when touched by the light which glimmers
down through ages from the example of this primitive maiden! But where
am I?—in the infant world instead of these chasmed rocks, which frown
through the wrinkles of its decrepitude and age. How thought annihilates
time and space! The flower that first bloomed on the verge of the globe,
as it emerged from chaos, and the cinder that will fade last in the
embers of its final conflagration, lie side by side in the domain of
thought; and the star that hailed its birth, and the planet that will
guard its tomb, are twin-born in the eternity of time. But I am off
again in a philosophic revery, and must come back to my coffee-pot and
chasm! With the aid of a long riata, my bucket was lowered sufficiently
to dip the unseen stream; but drawing it up I discovered in its wave, as
the surface became tranquil, what might well startle any one whose
nerves were not of steel. It was a human face of bronze hue, half
covered with tangled locks, and a beard of hermit growth, and so like
that bent above, there was a relief in the ripple that destroyed the
resemblance. But my camping companions will never, at this rate, get
their coffee.
THURSDAY, NOV. 23. We escaped this morning another balk of our animals
by a circling road which in the dusk of the last eve we had missed. It
was mid-day when we rumbled from the hills of San Juan upon the plain of
the Salinas, and near sunset when we reached the river, which rolls its
yellow wave fifteen miles from Monterey. We might have pushed through,
but why be impatient over a night’s delay? I had no one there watching a
husband’s return, or waiting a father’s kiss. These objects of
endearment were in other lands, and oceans rolled between. More than
three long years had worn away since I waved my adieu, and weary moons
must set before my return. I may find the eyes that beamed so kindly,
closed forever; the bud of infant being, on which their last light fell,
withered.
We were roused in the night by screams from the river; an ox-cart, with
three women in it, had tumbled down the opposite bank. The cattle seemed
as much frightened as their passengers, and fared better, as they had
struck a shallower bottom. We plunged in and reached the cart. Our first
impulse was to take the women out and _tote_ them ashore, but their
great size and weight forbade. We wished to carry the thing through as
gallantly as it had been begun; but after casting about—the cold stream
all the while lowering the thermometer of our enthusiasm—we concluded to
drive the team out, and scramble out ourselves.
FRIDAY, NOV. 24. We broke camp at an early hour, and were off for
Monterey. I left my camping-tree as one parts with a tried friend. It
was the last of a vernal band, that had thrown over me, at burning noon
and through the chilly night, their protecting shade. While our driver
hummed his low monotonous stave to his steeds, my neglected reed
murmured in the counter—
TO MY CAMPING-TREE.
Farewell to thee, my camping-tree,
The last to shade this breast,
Where twilight weaves, with tender leaves,
Her couch of rosy rest.
Thy trembling leaf seemed shook with grief,
As on it gleamed the dew;
As woke the bird, by night-winds stirred,
The stars came dancing through.
In lucid dreams I caught the gleams—
Through chasmed rocks unrolled—
Of gems, where blaze the diamond’s rays
And massive bars of gold.
I saw a ship her anchor trip,
All stowed with gold below,
Depart this bay for Joppa’s quay,
Three thousand years ago!
A star-lit dome, of amber foam,
Loomed in the liquid blue,
Where reigned of old, on thrones of gold,
The Incas of Peru.
The midnight moans, and phrensied groans,
Of miners near their last,
In tones that cursed the gold they nursed
Came trembling on the blast.
While one apart, with gentler heart,
His still tears dashed aside,
That he might trace a pictured face,
At which he gazed, and died.
On steep and vale, in calm and gale,
Like music on the sea—
Sweet slumber stole, within my soul,
Beneath the camping-tree.
A low-voiced tone, the wind hath thrown
Upon my dreaming ear,
Of ONE, whose smiles, and gentle wiles,
Are still remembered here:—
Of one, whose tears—where each endears
The more the heart that wept—
From swimming lid in silence slid,
And on her bosom slept.
A blue-eyed child, with glee half wild,
In infant beauty’s beams,
And lock that rolled, in waving gold,
Came glancing through my dreams.
Farewell to thee, my camping-tree;
Till life’s last visions gleam,
Thy leaves and limbs, and vesper hymns,
Shall float in memory’s dream.