On the evening of Saturday, the 13th of August, 1859, the superb steamship21 Golden Gate, gay with crowds of passengers, and lighting22 the sea for miles around with the glare of her signal lights of red, green, and white, and brilliant with lighted saloons and staterooms, bound up from the Isthmus23 of Panama, neared the entrance to San Francisco, the great centre of a world-wide commerce. Miles out at sea, on the desolate24 rocks of the Farallones, gleamed the powerful rays of one of the most costly25 and effective light-houses in the world. As we drew in through the Golden Gate, another light-house met our eyes, and in the clear moonlight of the unbroken California summer we saw, on the right, a large fortification protecting the narrow entrance, and just before us the little island of Alcatraz confronted us — one entire fortress26. We bore round the point toward the old anchoring-ground of the hide ships, and there, covering the sand-hills and the valleys, stretching from the water’s edge to the base of the great hills, and from the old Presidio to the Mission, flickering27 all over with the lamps of its streets and houses, lay a city of one hundred thousand inhabitants. Clocks tolled28 the hour of midnight from its steeples, but the city was alive from the salute29 of our guns, spreading the news that the fortnightly steamer had come, bringing mails and passengers from the Atlantic world. Clipper ships of the largest size lay at anchor in the stream, or were girt to the wharves30; and capacious high-pressure steamers, as large and showy as those of the Hudson or Mississippi, bodies of dazzling light, awaited the delivery of our mails to take their courses up the Bay, stopping at Benicia and the United States Naval31 Station, and then up the great tributaries32 — the Sacramento, San Joaquin, and Feather Rivers — to the far inland cities of Sacramento, Stockton, and Marysville.
The dock into which we drew, and the streets about it, were densely34 crowded with express wagons35 and hand-carts to take luggage, coaches and cabs for passengers, and with men — some looking out for friends among our hundreds of passengers — agents of the press, and a greater multitude eager for newspapers and verbal intelligence from the great Atlantic and European world. Through this crowd I made my way, along the well-built and well-lighted streets, as alive as by day, where boys in high-keyed voices were already crying the latest New York papers; and between one and two o’clock in the morning found myself comfortably abed in a commodious36 room, in the Oriental Hotel, which stood, as well as I could learn, on the filled-up cove, and not far from the spot where we used to beach our boats from the Alert.
Sunday, August 14th. When I awoke in the morning, and looked from my windows over the city of San Francisco, with its storehouses, towers, and steeples; its court-houses, theatres, and hospitals; its daily journals; its well-filled learned professions; its fortresses37 and light-houses; its wharves and harbor, with their thousand-ton clipper ships, more in number than London or Liverpool sheltered that day, itself one of the capitals of the American Republic, and the sole emporium of a new world, the awakened38 Pacific; when I looked across the bay to the eastward14, and beheld39 a beautiful town on the fertile, wooded shores of the Contra Costa, and steamers, large and small, the ferryboats to the Contra Costa, and capacious freighters and passenger-carriers to all parts of the great bay and its tributaries, with lines of their smoke in the horizon — when I saw all these things, and reflected on what I once was and saw here, and what now surrounded me, I could scarcely keep my hold on reality at all, or the genuineness of anything, and seemed to myself like one who had moved in “worlds not realized.”
I could not complain that I had not a choice of places of worship. The Roman Catholics have an archbishop, a cathedral, and five or six smaller churches, French, German, Spanish, and English; and the Episcopalians a bishop40, a cathedral, and three other churches; the Methodists and Presbyterians have three or four each, and there are Congregationalists, Baptists, a Unitarian, and other societies. On my way to church, I met two classmates of mine at Harvard standing41 in a door-way, one a lawyer and the other a teacher, and made appointments for a future meeting. A little farther on I came upon another Harvard man, a fine scholar and wit, and full of cleverness and good-humor, who invited me to go to breakfast with him at the French house — he was a bachelor, and a late riser on Sundays. I asked him to show me the way to Bishop Kip’s church. He hesitated, looked a little confused, and admitted that he was not as well up in certain classes of knowledge as in others, but, by a desperate guess, pointed43 out a wooden building at the foot of the street, which any one might have seen could not be right, and which turned out to be an African Baptist meeting-house. But my friend had many capital points of character, and I owed much of the pleasure of my visit to his attentions.
The congregation at the Bishop’s church was precisely44 like one you would meet in New York, Philadelphia, or Boston. To be sure, the identity of the service makes one feel at once at home, but the people were alike, nearly all of the English race, though from all parts of the union. The latest French bonnets46 were at the head of the chief pews, and business men at the foot. The music was without character, but there was an instructive sermon, and the church was full.
I found that there were no services at any of the Protestant churches in the afternoon. They have two services on Sunday; at 11 A.M., and after dark. The afternoon is spent at home, or in friendly visiting, or teaching of Sunday Schools, or other humane47 and social duties.
This is as much the practice with what at home are called the strictest denominations49 as with any others. Indeed, I found individuals, as well as public bodies, affected50 in a marked degree by a change of oceans and by California life. One Sunday afternoon I was surprised at receiving the card of a man whom I had last known, some fifteen years ago, as a strict and formal deacon of a Congregational Society in New England. He was a deacon still, in San Francisco, a leader in all pious51 works, devoted52 to his denomination48 and to total abstinence — the same internally, but externally — what a change! Gone was the downcast eye, the bated breath, the solemn, non-natural voice, the watchful53 gait, stepping as if he felt responsible for the balance of the moral universe! He walked with a stride, an uplifted open countenance54, his face covered with beard, whiskers, and mustache, his voice strong and natural — and, in short, he had put off the New England deacon and become a human being. In a visit of an hour I learned much from him about the religious societies, the moral reforms, the “Dashaways,”— total abstinence societies, which had taken strong hold on the young and wilder parts of society — and then of the Vigilance Committee, of which he was a member, and of more secular55 points of interest.
In one of the parlors56 of the hotel, I saw a man of about sixty years of age, with his feet bandaged and resting in a chair, whom somebody addressed by the name of Lies.2 Lies! thought I, that must be the man who came across the country from Kentucky to Monterey while we lay there in the Pilgrim in 1835, and made a passage in the Alert, when he used to shoot with his rifle bottles hung from the top-gallant studding-sail-boom-ends. He married the beautiful Do?a Rosalía Vallejo, sister of Don Guadalupe. There were the old high features and sandy hair. I put my chair beside him, and began conversation, as any one may do in California. Yes, he was the Mr. Lies; and when I gave my name he professed58 at once to remember me, and spoke59 of my book. I found that almost — I might perhaps say quite — every American in California had read it; for when California “broke out,” as the phrase is, in 1848, and so large a portion of the Anglo–Saxon race flocked to it, there was no book upon California but mine. Many who were on the coast at the time the book refers to, and afterwards read it, and remembered the Pilgrim and Alert, thought they also remembered me. But perhaps more did remember me than I was inclined at first to believe, for the novelty of a collegian coming out before the mast had drawn60 more attention to me than I was aware of at the time.
Late in the afternoon, as there were vespers at the Roman Catholic churches, I went to that of Notre Dame61 des Victoires. The congregation was French, and a sermon in French was preached by an Abbé; the music was excellent, all things airy and tasteful, and making one feel as if in one of the chapels62 in Paris. The Cathedral of St. Mary, which I afterwards visited, where the Irish attend, was a contrast indeed, and more like one of our stifling64 Irish Catholic churches in Boston or New York, with intelligence in so small a proportion to the number of faces. During the three Sundays I was in San Francisco, I visited three of the Episcopal churches, and the Congregational, a Chinese Mission Chapel63, and on the Sabbath (Saturday) a Jewish synagogue. The Jews are a wealthy and powerful class here. The Chinese, too, are numerous, and do a great part of the manual labor65 and small shop-keeping, and have some wealthy mercantile houses.
It is noticeable that European Continental66 fashions prevail generally in this city — French cooking, lunch at noon, and dinner at the end of the day, with café noir after meals, and to a great extent the European Sunday — to all which emigrants67 from the United States and Great Britain seem to adapt themselves. Some dinners which were given to me at French restaurants were, it seemed to me — a poor judge of such matters, to be sure — as sumptuous68 and as good, in dishes and wines, as I have found in Paris. But I had a relish-maker which my friends at table did not suspect — the remembrance of the forecastle dinners I ate here twenty-four years before.
August 17th. The customs of California are free; and any person who knows about my book speaks to me. The newspapers have announced the arrival of the veteran pioneer of all. I hardly walk out without meeting or making acquaintances. I have already been invited to deliver the anniversary oration69 before the Pioneer Society, to celebrate the settlement of San Francisco. Any man is qualified70 for election into this society who came to California before 1853. What moderns they are! I tell them of the time when Richardson’s shanty of 1835 — not his adobe71 house of 1836 — was the only human habitation between the Mission and the Presidio, and when the vast bay, with all its tributaries and recesses72, was a solitude — and yet I am but little past forty years of age. They point out the place where Richardson’s adobe house stood, and tell me that the first court and first town council were convened73 in it, the first Protestant worship performed in it, and in it the first capital trial by the Vigilance Committee held. I am taken down to the wharves, by antiquaries of a ten or twelve years’ range, to identify the two points, now known as Clark’s and Rincon, which formed the little cove of Yerba Buena, where we used to beach our boats — now filled up and built upon. The island we called “Wood Island,” where we spent the cold days and nights of December, in our launch, getting wood for our year’s supply, is clean shorn of trees; and the bare rocks of Alcatraz Island, an entire fortress. I have looked at the city from the water, and at the water and islands from the city, but I can see nothing that recalls the times gone by, except the venerable Mission, the ruinous Presidio, the high hills in the rear of the town, and the great stretches of the bay in all directions.
To-day I took a California horse of the old style — the run, the loping gait — and visited the Presidio. The walls stand as they did, with some changes made to accommodate a small garrison74 of United States troops. It has a noble situation, and I saw from it a clipper ship of the very largest class, coming through the Gate, under her fore-and-aft sails. Thence I rode to the Fort, now nearly finished, on the southern shore of the Gate, and made an inspection75 of it. It is very expensive and of the latest style. One of the engineers here is Custis Lee, who has just left West Point at the head of his class — a son of Colonel Robert E. Lee, who distinguished76 himself in the Mexican War.3
Another morning I ride to the Mission Dolores. It has a strangely solitary77 aspect, enhanced by its surroundings of the most uncongenial, rapidly growing modernisms; the hoar of ages surrounded by the brightest, slightest, and rapidest of modern growths. Its old belfries still clanged with the discordant78 bells, and Mass was saying within, for it is used as a place of worship for the extreme south part of the city.
In one of my walks about the wharves, I found a pile of dry hides lying by the side of a vessel. Here was something to feelingly persuade me what I had been, to recall a past scarce credible79 to myself. I stood lost in reflection. What were these hides — what were they not? — to us, to me, a boy, twenty-four years ago? These were our constant labor, our chief object, our almost habitual80 thought. They brought us out here, they kept us here, and it was only by getting them that we could escape from the coast and return to home and civilized82 life. If it had not been that I might be seen, I should have seized one, slung83 it over my head, walked off with it, and thrown it by the old toss — I do not believe yet a lost art — to the ground. How they called up to my mind the months of curing at San Diego, the year and more of beach and surf work, and the steeving of the ship for home! I was in a dream of San Diego, San Pedro — with its hill so steep for taking up goods, and its stones so hard to our bare feet — and the cliffs of San Juan! All this, too, is no more! The entire hide-business is of the past, and to the present inhabitants of California a dim tradition. The gold discoveries drew off all men from the gathering84 or cure of hides, the inflowing population made an end of the great droves of cattle; and now not a vessel pursues the — I was about to say dear — the dreary, once hated business of gathering hides upon the coast, and the beach of San Diego is abandoned and its hide-houses have disappeared. Meeting a respectable-looking citizen on the wharf85, I inquired of him how the hide-trade was carried on. “O,” said he, “there is very little of it, and that is all here. The few that are brought in are placed under sheds in winter, or left out on the wharf in summer, and are loaded from the wharves into the vessels86 alongside. They form parts of cargoes87 of other materials.” I really felt too much, at the instant, to express to him the cause of my interest in the subject, and only added, “Then the old business of trading up and down the coast and curing hides for cargoes is all over?” “O yes, sir,” said he, “those old times of the Pilgrim and Alert and California, that we read about, are gone by.”
Saturday, August 20th. The steamer Senator makes regular trips up and down the coast, between San Francisco and San Diego, calling at intermediate ports. This is my opportunity to revisit the old scenes. She sails today, and I am off, steaming among the great clippers anchored in the harbor, and gliding88 rapidly round the point, past Alcatraz Island, the light-house, and through the fortified89 Golden Gate, and bending to the southward — all done in two or three hours, which, in the Alert, under canvas, with head tides, variable winds, and sweeping90 currents to deal with, took us full two days.
Among the passengers I noticed an elderly gentleman, thin, with sandy hair and a face that seemed familiar. He took off his glove and showed one shrivelled hand. It must be he! I went to him and said, “Captain Wilson, I believe.” Yes, that was his name. “I knew you, sir, when you commanded the Ayacucho on this coast, in old hide-droghing times, in 1835–6.” He was quickened by this, and at once inquiries91 were made on each side, and we were in full talk about the Pilgrim and Alert, Ayacucho and Loriotte, the California and Lagoda. I found he had been very much flattered by the praise I had bestowed92 in my book on his seamanship, especially in bringing the Pilgrim to her berth94 in San Diego harbor, after she had drifted successively into the Lagoda and Loriotte, and was coming into him. I had made a pet of his brig, the Ayacucho, which pleased him almost as much as my remembrance of his bride and their wedding, which I saw at Santa Barbara in 1836. Do?a Ramona was now the mother of a large family, and Wilson assured me that if I would visit him at his rancho, near San Luis Obispo, I should find her still a handsome woman, and very glad to see me. How we walked the deck together, hour after hour, talking over the old times — the ships, the captains, the crews, the traders on shore, the ladies, the Missions, the southeasters! indeed, where could we stop? He had sold the Ayacucho in Chili95 for a vessel of war, and had given up the sea, and had been for years a ranchero. (I learned from others that he had become one of the most wealthy and respectable farmers in the State, and that his rancho was well worth visiting.) Thompson, he said, hadn’t the sailor in him; and he never could laugh enough at his fiasco in San Diego, and his reception by Bradshaw. Faucon was a sailor and a navigator. He did not know what had become of George Marsh96 (ante, pp. 255–258), except that he left him in Callao; nor could he tell me anything of handsome Bill Jackson (ante, p. 104), nor of Captain Nye of the Loriotte. I told him all I then knew of the ships, the masters, and the officers. I found he had kept some run of my history, and needed little information. Old Se?or Noriego of Santa Barbara, he told me, was dead, and Don Carlos and Don Santiago, but I should find their children there, now in middle life. Do?a Angustias, he said, I had made famous by my praises of her beauty and dancing, and I should have from her a royal reception. She had been a widow, and remarried since, and had a daughter as handsome as herself. The descendants of Noriego had taken the ancestral name of De la Guerra, as they were nobles of Old Spain by birth; and the boy Pablo, who used to make passages in the Alert, was now Don Pablo de la Guerra, a Senator in the State Legislature for Santa Barbara County.
The points in the country, too, we noticed, as we passed them — Santa Cruz, San Luis Obispo, Point A?o Nuevo, the opening to Monterey, which to my disappointment we did not visit. No; Monterey, the prettiest town on the coast, and its capital and seat of customs, had got no advantage from the great changes, was out of the way of commerce and of the travel to the mines and great rivers, and was not worth stopping at. Point Conception we passed in the night, a cheery light gleaming over the waters from its tall light-house, standing on its outermost98 peak. Point Conception! That word was enough to recall all our experiences and dreads99 of gales100, swept decks, topmast carried away, and the hardships of a coast service in the winter. But Captain Wilson tells me that the climate has altered; that the southeasters are no longer the bane of the coast they once were, and that vessels now anchor inside the kelp at Santa Barbara and San Pedro all the year round. I should have thought this owing to his spending his winters on a rancho instead of the deck of the Ayacucho, had not the same thing been told me by others.
Passing round Point Conception, and steering101 easterly, we opened the islands that form, with the main-land, the canal of Santa Barbara. There they are, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa; and there is the beautiful point, Santa Buenaventura; and there lies Santa Barbara on its plain, with its amphitheatre of high hills and distant mountains. There is the old white Mission with its belfries, and there the town, with its one-story adobe houses, with here and there a two-story wooden house of later build; yet little is it altered — the same repose102 in the golden sunlight and glorious climate, sheltered by its hills; and then, more remindful than anything else, there roars and tumbles upon the beach the same grand surf of the great Pacific as on the beautiful day when the Pilgrim, after her five months’ voyage, dropped her weary anchors here; the same bright blue ocean, and the surf making just the same monotonous103, melancholy104 roar, and the same dreamy town, and gleaming white Mission, as when we beached our boats for the first time, riding over the breakers with shouting Kanakas, the three small hide-traders lying at anchor in the offing. But now we are the only vessel, and that an unromantic, sail-less, spar-less, engine-driven hulk!
I landed in the surf, in the old style, but it was not high enough to excite us, the only change being that I was somehow unaccountably a passenger, and did not have to jump overboard and steady the boat, and run her up by the gunwales.
Santa Barbara has gained but little. I should not know, from anything I saw, that she was now a seaport105 of the United States, a part of the enterprising Yankee nation, and not still a lifeless Mexican town. At the same old house, where Se?or Noriego lived, on the piazza106 in front of the court-yard, where was the gay scene of the marriage of our agent, Mr. Robinson, to Do?a Anita, where Don Juan Bandini and Do?a Angustias danced, Don Pablo de la Guerra received me in a courtly fashion. I passed the day with the family, and in walking about the place; and ate the old dinner with its accompaniments of fríjoles, native olives and grapes, and native wines. In due time I paid my respects to Do?a Angustias, and, notwithstanding what Wilson told me, I could hardly believe that after twenty-four years there would still be so much of the enchanting107 woman about her. She thanked me for the kind and, as she called them, greatly exaggerated compliments I had paid her; and her daughter told me that all travellers who came to Santa Barbara called to see her mother, and that she herself never expected to live long enough to be a belle108.
Mr. Alfred Robinson, our agent in 1835–6, was here, with a part of his family. I did not know how he would receive me, remembering what I had printed to the world about him at a time when I took little thought that the world was going to read it; but there was no sign of offence, only a cordiality which gave him, as between us, rather the advantage in status.
The people of this region are giving attention to sheep-raising, wine-making, and the raising of olives, just enough to keep the town from going backwards109.
But evening is drawing on, and our boat sails to-night. So, refusing a horse or carriage, I walk down, not unwilling110 to be a little early, that I may pace up and down the beach, looking off to the islands and the points, and watching the roaring, tumbling billows. How softening111 is the effect of time! It touches us through the affections. I almost feel as if I were lamenting112 the passing away of something loved and dear — the boats, the Kanakas, the hides, my old shipmates! Death, change, distance, lend them a character which makes them quite another thing from the vulgar, wearisome toil113 of uninteresting, forced manual labor.
The breeze freshened as we stood out to sea, and the wild waves rolled over the red sun, on the broad horizon of the Pacific; but it is summer, and in summer there can be no bad weather in California. Every day is pleasant. Nature forbids a drop of rain to fall by day or night, or a wind to excite itself beyond a fresh summer breeze.
The next morning we found ourselves at anchor in the Bay of San Pedro. Here was this hated, this thoroughly114 detested115 spot. Although we lay near, I could scarce recognize the hill up which we rolled and dragged and pushed and carried our heavy loads, and down which we pitched the hides, to carry them barefooted over the rocks to the floating long-boat. It was no longer the landing-place. One had been made at the head of the creek116, and boats discharged and took off cargoes from a mole117 or wharf, in a quiet place, safe from southeasters. A tug118 ran to take off passengers from the steamer to the wharf — for the trade of Los Angeles is sufficient to support such a vessel. I got the captain to land me privately119, in a small boat, at the old place by the hill. I dismissed the boat, and, alone, found my way to the high ground. I say found my way, for neglect and weather had left but few traces of the steep road the hide-vessels had built to the top. The cliff off which we used to throw the hides, and where I spent nights watching them, was more easily found. The population was doubled, that is to say, there were two houses, instead of one, on the hill. I stood on the brow and looked out toward the offing, the Santa Catalina Island, and, nearer, the melancholy Dead Man’s Island, with its painful tradition, and recalled the gloomy days that followed the flogging, and fancied the Pilgrim at anchor in the offing. But the tug is going toward our steamer, and I must awake and be off. I walked along the shore to the new landing-place, where were two or three store-houses and other buildings, forming a small depot120; and a stage-coach, I found, went daily between this place and the Pueblo121. I got a seat on the top of the coach, to which were tackled six little less than wild California horses. Each horse had a man at his head, and when the driver had got his reins122 in hand he gave the word, all the horses were let go at once, and away they went on a spring, tearing over the ground, the driver only keeping them from going the wrong way, for they had a wide, level pampa to run over the whole thirty miles to the Pueblo. This plain is almost treeless, with no grass, at least none now in the drought of midsummer, and is filled with squirrel-holes, and alive with squirrels. As we changed horses twice, we did not slacken our speed until we turned into the streets of the Pueblo.
The Pueblo de los Angeles I found a large and flourishing town of about twenty thousand inhabitants, with brick sidewalks, and blocks of stone or brick houses. The three principal traders when we were here for hides in the Pilgrim and Alert are still among the chief traders of the place — Stearns, Temple, and Warner, the two former being reputed very rich. I dined with Mr. Stearns, now a very old man, and met there Don Juan Bandini, to whom I had given a good deal of notice in my book. From him, as indeed from every one in this town, I met with the kindest attentions. The wife of Don Juan, who was a beautiful young girl when we were on the coast, Do?a Refugio, daughter of Don Santiago Argüello, the commandante of San Diego, was with him, and still handsome. This is one of several instances I have noticed of the preserving quality of the California climate. Here, too, was Henry Mellus, who came out with me before the mast in the Pilgrim, and left the brig to be agent’s clerk on shore. He had experienced varying fortunes here, and was now married to a Mexican lady, and had a family. I dined with him, and in the afternoon he drove me round to see the vineyards, the chief objects in this region. The vintage of last year was estimated at half a million of gallons. Every year new square miles of ground are laid down to vineyards, and the Pueblo promises to be the centre of one of the largest wine-producing regions in the world. Grapes are a drug here, and I found a great abundance of figs123, olives, peaches, pears, and melons. The climate is well suited to these fruits, but is too hot and dry for successful wheat crops.
Towards evening, we started off in the stage-coach, with again our relays of six mad horses, and reached the creek before dark, though it was late at night before we got on board the steamer, which was slowly moving her wheels, under way for San Diego.
As we skirted along the coast, Wilson and I recognized, or thought we did, in the clear moonlight, the rude white Mission of San Juan Capistrano, and its cliff, from which I had swung down by a pair of halyards to save a few hides — a boy who could not be prudential, and who caught at every chance for adventure.
As we made the high point off San Diego, Point Loma, we were greeted by the cheering presence of a light-house. As we swept round it in the early morning, there, before us, lay the little harbor of San Diego, its low spit of sand, where the water runs so deep; the opposite flats, where the Alert grounded in starting for home; the low hills, without trees, and almost without brush; the quiet little beach; — but the chief objects, the hide-houses, my eye looked for in vain. They were gone, all, and left no mark behind.
I wished to be alone, so I let the other passengers go up to the town, and was quietly pulled ashore124 in a boat, and left to myself. The recollections and the emotions all were sad, and only sad.
Fugit, interea fugit irreparabile tempus.
The past was real. The present, all about me, was unreal, unnatural126, repellant. I saw the big ships lying in the stream, the Alert, the California, the Rosa, with her Italians; then the handsome Ayacucho, my favorite; the poor dear old Pilgrim, the home of hardship and hopelessness; the boats passing to and fro; the cries of the sailors at the capstan or falls; the peopled beach; the large hide-houses, with their gangs of men; and the Kanakas interspersed127 everywhere. All, all were gone! not a vestige128 to mark where one hide-house stood. The oven, too, was gone. I searched for its site, and found, where I thought it should be, a few broken bricks and bits of mortar129. I alone was left of all, and how strangely was I here! What changes to me! Where were they all? Why should I care for them — poor Kanakas and sailors, the refuse of civilization, the outlaws130 and beach-combers of the Pacific! Time and death seemed to transfigure them. Doubtless nearly all were dead; but how had they died, and where? In hospitals, in fever-climes, in dens33 of vice45, or falling from the mast, or dropping exhausted131 from the wreck132 —
“When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan133,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.”
The light-hearted boys are now hardened middle-aged134 men, if the seas, rocks, fevers, and the deadlier enemies that beset135 a sailor’s life on shore have spared them; and the then strong men have bowed themselves, and the earth or sea has covered them.
Even the animals are gone — the colony of dogs, the broods of poultry136, the useful horses; but the coyotes bark still in the woods, for they belong not to man, and are not touched by his changes.
I walked slowly up the hill, finding my way among the few bushes, for the path was long grown over, and sat down where we used to rest in carrying our burdens of wood, and to look out for vessels that might, though so seldom, be coming down from the windward.
To rally myself by calling to mind my own better fortune and nobler lot, and cherished surroundings at home, was impossible. Borne down by depression, the day being yet at its noon, and the sun over the old point — it is four miles to the town, the Presidio — I have walked it often, and can do it once more — I passed the familiar objects, and it seemed to me that I remembered them better than those of any other place I had ever been in; — the opening to the little cave; the low hills where we cut wood and killed rattlesnakes, and where our dogs chased the coyotes; and the black ground where so many of the ship’s crew and beach-combers used to bring up on their return at the end of a liberty day, and spend the night sub Jove.
The little town of San Diego has undergone no change whatever that I can see. It certainly has not grown. It is still, like Santa Barbara, a Mexican town. The four principal houses of the gente de razon — of the Bandinis, Estudillos, Argüellos, and Picos — are the chief houses now; but all the gentlemen — and their families, too, I believe — are gone. The big vulgar shop-keeper and trader, Fitch, is long since dead; Tom Wrightington, who kept the rival pulpería, fell from his horse when drunk, and was found nearly eaten up by coyotes; and I can scarce find a person whom I remember. I went into a familiar one-story adobe house, with its piazza and earthen floor, inhabited by a respectable lower-class family by the name of Machado, and inquired if any of the family remained, when a bright-eyed middle-aged woman recognized me, for she had heard I was on board the steamer, and told me she had married a shipmate of mine, Jack97 Stewart, who went out as second mate the next voyage, but left the ship and married and settled here. She said he wished very much to see me. In a few minutes he came in, and his sincere pleasure in meeting me was extremely grateful. We talked over old times as long as I could afford to. I was glad to hear that he was sober and doing well. Do?a Tomasa Pico I found and talked with. She was the only person of the old upper class that remained on the spot, if I rightly recollect125. I found an American family here, with whom I dined — Doyle and his wife, nice young people, Doyle agent for the great line of coaches to run to the frontier of the old States.
I must complete my acts of pious remembrance, so I take a horse and make a run out to the old Mission, where Ben Stimson and I went the first liberty day we had after we left Boston (ante, p. 140). All has gone to decay. The buildings are unused and ruinous, and the large gardens show now only wild cactuses, willows138, and a few olive-trees. A fast run brings me back in time to take leave of the few I knew and who knew me, and to reach the steamer before she sails. A last look — yes, last for life — to the beach, the hills, the low point, the distant town, as we round Point Loma and the first beams of the light-house strike out towards the setting sun.
Wednesday, August 24th. At anchor at San Pedro by daylight. But instead of being roused out of the forecastle to row the long-boat ashore and bring off a load of hides before breakfast, we were served with breakfast in the cabin, and again took our drive with the wild horses to the Pueblo and spent the day; seeing nearly the same persons as before, and again getting back by dark. We steamed again for Santa Barbara, where we only lay an hour, and passed through its canal and round Point Conception, stopping at San Luis Obispo to land my friend, as I may truly call him after this long passage together, Captain Wilson, whose most earnest invitation to stop here and visit him at his rancho I was obliged to decline.
Friday evening, 26th August, we entered the Golden Gate, passed the light-houses and forts, and clipper ships at anchor, and came to our dock, with this great city, on its high hills and rising surfaces, brilliant before us, and full of eager life.
Making San Francisco my head-quarters, I paid visits to various parts of the State — down the Bay to Santa Clara, with its live oaks and sycamores, and its Jesuit College for boys; and San José, where is the best girls’ school in the State, kept by the Sisters of Notre Dame — a town now famous for a year’s session of “The legislature of a thousand drinks,”— and thence to the rich Almaden quicksilver mines, returning on the Contra Costa side through the rich agricultural country, with its ranchos and the vast grants of the Castro and Soto families, where farming and fruit-raising are done on so large a scale. Another excursion was up the San Joaquin to Stockton, a town of some ten thousand inhabitants, a hundred miles from San Francisco, and crossing the Tuolumne and Stanislaus and Merced, by the little Spanish town of Hornitos, and Snelling’s Tavern139, at the ford137 of the Merced, where so many fatal fights are had. Thence I went to Mariposa County, and Colonel Fremont’s mines, and made an interesting visit to “the Colonel,” as he is called all over the country, and Mrs. Fremont, a heroine equal to either fortune, the salons140 of Paris and the drawing-rooms of New York and Washington, or the roughest life of the remote and wild mining regions of Mariposa — with their fine family of spirited, clever children. After a rest there, we went on to Clark’s Camp and the Big Trees, where I measured one tree ninety-seven feet in circumference141 without its bark, and the bark is usually eighteen inches thick; and rode through another which lay on the ground, a shell, with all the insides out — rode through it mounted, and sitting at full height in the saddle; then to the wonderful Yo Semite Valley — itself a stupendous miracle of nature, with its Dome142, its Capitan, its walls of three thousand feet of perpendicular143 height — but a valley of streams, of waterfalls, from the torrent144 to the mere145 shimmer146 of a bridal veil, only enough to reflect a rainbow, with their plunges147 of twenty-five hundred feet, or their smaller falls of eight hundred, with nothing at the base but thick mists, which form and trickle149, and then run and at last plunge148 into the blue Merced that flows through the centre of the valley. Back by the Coulterville trail, the peaks of Sierra Nevada in sight, across the North Fork of the Merced, by Gentry’s Gulch150, over hills and through ca?ons, to Fremont’s again, and thence to Stockton and San Francisco — all this at the end of August, when there has been no rain for four months, and the air is clear and very hot, and the ground perfectly151 dry; windmills, to raise water for artificial irrigation of small patches, seen all over the landscape, while we travel through square miles of hot dust, where they tell us, and truly, that in winter and early spring we should be up to our knees in flowers; a country, too, where surface gold-digging is so common and unnoticed that the large, six-horse stage-coach, in which I travelled from Stockton to Hornitos, turned off in the high road for a Chinaman, who, with his pan and washer, was working up a hole which an American had abandoned, but where the minute and patient industry of the Chinaman averaged a few dollars a day.
These visits were so full of interest, with grandeurs and humors of all sorts, that I am strongly tempted152 to describe them. But I remember that I am not to write a journal of a visit over the new California, but to sketch153 briefly154 the contrasts with the old spots of 1835–6, and I forbear.
How strange and eventful has been the brief history of this marvellous city, San Francisco! In 1835 there was one board shanty. In 1836, one adobe house on the same spot. In 1847, a population of four hundred and fifty persons, who organized a town government. Then came the auri sacra fames, the flocking together of many of the worst spirits of Christendom; a sudden birth of a city of canvas and boards, entirely155 destroyed by fire five times in eighteen months, with a loss of sixteen millions of dollars, and as often rebuilt, until it became a solid city of brick and stone, of nearly one hundred thousand inhabitants, with all the accompaniments of wealth and culture, and now (in 1859) the most quiet and well-governed city of its size in the United States. But it has been through its season of Heaven-defying crime, violence, and blood, from which it was rescued and handed back to soberness, morality, and good government, by that peculiar156 invention of Anglo–Saxon Republican America, the solemn, awe157-inspiring Vigilance Committee of the most grave and responsible citizens, the last resort of the thinking and the good, taken to only when vice, fraud, and ruffianism have intrenched themselves behind the forms of law, suffrage158, and ballot159, and there is no hope but in organized force, whose action must be instant and thorough, or its state will be worse than before. A history of the passage of this city through those ordeals160, and through its almost incredible financial extremes, should be written by a pen which not only accuracy shall govern, but imagination shall inspire.
I cannot pause for the civility of referring to the many kind attentions I received, and the society of educated men and women from all parts of the union I met with; where New England, the Carolinas, Virginia, and the new West sat side by side with English, French, and German civilization.
My stay in California was interrupted by an absence of nearly four months, when I sailed for the Sandwich Islands in the noble Boston clipper ship Mastiff, which was burned at sea to the water’s edge; we escaping in boats, and carried by a friendly British bark into Honolulu, whence, after a deeply interesting visit of three months in that most fascinating group of islands, with its natural and its moral wonders, I returned to San Francisco in an American whaler, and found myself again in my quarters on the morning of Sunday, December 11th, 1859.
My first visit after my return was to Sacramento, a city of about forty thousand inhabitants, more than a hundred miles inland from San Francisco, on the Sacramento, where was the capital of the State, and where were fleets of river steamers, and a large inland commerce. Here I saw the inauguration161 of a Governor, Mr. Latham, a young man from Massachusetts, much my junior; and met a member of the State Senate, a man who, as a carpenter, repaired my father’s house at home some ten years before; and two more Senators from southern California, relics162 of another age — Don Andres Pico, from San Diego; and Don Pablo de la Guerra, whom I have mentioned as meeting at Santa Barbara. I had a good deal of conversation with these gentlemen, who stood alone in an assembly of Americans, who had conquered their country, spared pillars of the past. Don Andres had fought us at San Pazqual and Sepulveda’s rancho, in 1846, and as he fought bravely, not a common thing among the Mexicans, and, indeed, repulsed163 Kearney, is always treated with respect. He had the satisfaction, dear to the proud Spanish heart, of making a speech before a Senate of Americans, in favor of the retention164 in office of an officer of our army who was wounded at San Pazqual, and whom some wretched caucus165 was going to displace to carry out a political job. Don Andres’s magnanimity and indignation carried the day.
My last visit in this part of the country was to a new and rich farming region, the Napa Valley, the United States Navy Yard at Mare166 Island, the river gold workings, and the Geysers, and old Mr. John Yount’s rancho. On board the steamer, found Mr. Edward Stanley, formerly167 member of Congress from North Carolina, who became my companion for the greater part of my trip. I also met — a revival168 on the spot of an acquaintance of twenty years ago — Don Guadalupe Vallejo; I may say acquaintance, for although I was then before the mast, he knew my story, and, as he spoke English well, used to hold many conversations with me, when in the boat or on shore. He received me with true earnestness, and would not hear of my passing his estate without visiting him. He reminded me of a remark I made to him once, when pulling him ashore in the boat, when he was commandante at the Presidio. I learned that the two Vallejos, Guadalupe and Salvador, owned, at an early time, nearly all Napa and Sonoma, having princely estates. But they have not much left. They were nearly ruined by their bargain with the State, that they would put up the public buildings if the Capital should be placed at Vallejo, then a town of some promise. They spent $100,000, the Capital was moved there, and in two years removed to San José on another contract. The town fell to pieces, and the houses, chiefly wooden, were taken down and removed. I accepted the old gentleman’s invitation so far as to stop at Vallejo to breakfast.
The United States Navy Yard, at Mare Island, near Vallejo, is large and well placed, with deep fresh water. The old Independence, and the sloop169 Decatur, and two steamers were there, and they were experimenting on building a despatch170 boat, the Saginaw, of California timber.
I have no excuse for attempting to describe my visit through the fertile and beautiful Napa Valley, nor even, what exceeded that in interest, my visit to old John Yount at his rancho, where I heard from his own lips some of his most interesting stories of hunting and trapping and Indian fighting, during an adventurous171 life of forty years of such work, between our back settlements in Missouri and Arkansas, and the mountains of California, trapping the Colorado and Gila — and his celebrated172 dream, thrice repeated, which led him to organize a party to go out over the mountains, that did actually rescue from death by starvation the wretched remnants of the Donner Party.
I must not pause for the dreary country of the Geysers, the screaming escapes of steam, the sulphur, the boiling caldrons of black and yellow and green, and the region of Gehenna, through which runs a quiet stream of pure water; nor for the park scenery, and captivating ranchos of the Napa Valley, where farming is done on so grand a scale — where I have seen a man plough a furrow173 by little red flags on sticks, to keep his range by, until nearly out of sight, and where, the wits tell us, he returns the next day on the back furrow; a region where, at Christmas time, I have seen old strawberries still on the vines, by the side of vines in full blossom for the next crop, and grapes in the same stages, and open windows, and yet a grateful wood fire on the hearth174 in early morning; nor for the titanic175 operations of hydraulic176 surface mining, where large mountain streams are diverted from their ancient beds, and made to do the work, beyond the reach of all other agents, of washing out valleys and carrying away hills, and changing the whole surface of the country, to expose the stores of gold hidden for centuries in the darkness of their earthy depths.
January 10th, 1860. I am again in San Francisco, and my revisit to California is closed. I have touched too lightly and rapidly for much impression upon the reader on my last visit into the interior; but, as I have said, in a mere continuation to a narrative177 of a sea-faring life on the coast, I am only to carry the reader with me on a revisit to those scenes in which the public has long manifested so gratifying an interest. But it seemed to me that slight notices of these entirely new parts of the country would not be out of place, for they serve to put in strong contrast with the solitudes178 of 1835–6 the developed interior, with its mines, and agricultural wealth, and rapidly filling population, and its large cities, so far from the coast, with their education, religion, arts, and trade.
On the morning of the 11th January, 1860, I passed, for the eighth time, through the Golden Gate, on my way across the delightful179 Pacific to the Oriental world, with its civilization three thousand years older than that I was leaving behind. As the shores of California faded in the distance, and the summits of the Coast Range sank under the blue horizon, I bade farewell — yes, I do not doubt, forever — to those scenes which, however changed or unchanged, must always possess an ineffable180 interest for me.
It is time my fellow-travellers and I should part company. But I have been requested by a great many persons to give some account of the subsequent history of the vessels and their crews, with which I had made them acquainted. I attempt the following sketches181 in deference182 to these suggestions, and not, I trust, with any undue183 estimate of the general interest my narrative may have created.
Something less than a year after my return in the Alert, and when, my eyes having recovered, I was again in college life, I found one morning in the newspapers, among the arrivals of the day before, “The brig Pilgrim, Faucon, from San Diego, California.” In a few hours I was down in Ann Street, and on my way to Hackstadt’s boarding-house, where I knew Tom Harris and others would lodge184. Entering the front room, I heard my name called from amid a group of blue-jackets, and several sunburned, tar-colored men came forward to speak to me. They were, at first, a little embarrassed by the dress and style in which they had never seen me, and one of them was calling me Mr. Dana; but I soon stopped that, and we were shipmates once more. First, there was Tom Harris, in a characteristic occupation. I had made him promise to come and see me when we parted in San Diego; he had got a directory of Boston, found the street and number of my father’s house, and, by a study of the plan of the city, had laid out his course, and was committing it to memory. He said he could go straight to the house without asking a question. And so he could, for I took the book from him, and he gave his course, naming each street and turn to right or left, directly to the door.
Tom had been second mate of the Pilgrim, and had laid up no mean sum of money. True to his resolution, he was going to England to find his mother, and he entered into the comparative advantages of taking his money home in gold or in bills — a matter of some moment, as this was in the disastrous185 financial year of 1837. He seemed to have his ideas well arranged, but I took him to a leading banker, whose advice he followed; and, declining my invitation to go up and show himself to my friends, he was off for New York that afternoon, to sail the next day for Liverpool. The last I ever saw of Tom Harris was as he passed down Tremont Street on the sidewalk, a man dragging a hand-cart in the street by his side, on which were his voyage-worn chest, his mattress186, and a box of nautical187 instruments.
Sam seemed to have got funny again, and he and John the Swede learned that Captain Thompson had several months before sailed in command of a ship for the coast of Sumatra, and that their chance of proceedings188 against him at law was hopeless. Sam was afterwards lost in a brig off the coast of Brazil, when all hands went down. Of John and the rest of the men I have never heard. The Marblehead boy, Sam, turned out badly; and, although he had influential189 friends, never allowed them to improve his condition. The old carpenter, the Fin42, of whom the cook stood in such awe (ante, p. 47), had fallen sick and died in Santa Barbara, and was buried ashore. Jim Hall, from the Kennebec, who sailed with us before the mast, and was made second mate in Foster’s place, came home chief mate of the Pilgrim. I have often seen him since. His lot has been prosperous, as he well deserved it should be. He has commanded the largest ships, and, when I last saw him, was going to the Pacific coast of South America, to take charge of a line of mail steamers. Poor, luckless Foster I have twice seen. He came into my rooms in Boston, after I had become a barrister and my narrative had been published, and told me he was chief mate of a big ship; that he had heard I had said some things unfavorable of him in my book; that he had just bought it, and was going to read it that night, and if I had said anything unfair of him, he would punish me if he found me in State Street. I surveyed him from head to foot, and said to him, “Foster, you were not a formidable man when I last knew you, and I don’t believe you are now.” Either he was of my opinion, or thought I had spoken of him well enough, for the next (and last) time I met him he was civil and pleasant.
I believe I omitted to state that Mr. Andrew B. Amerzene, the chief mate of the Pilgrim, an estimable, kind, and trustworthy man, had a difficulty with Captain Faucon, who thought him slack, was turned off duty, and sent home with us in the Alert. Captain Thompson, instead of giving him the place of a mate off duty, put him into the narrow between-decks, where a space, not over four feet high, had been left out among the hides, and there compelled him to live the whole wearisome voyage, through trades and tropics, and round Cape81 Horn, with nothing to do — not allowed to converse190 or walk with the officers, and obliged to get his grub himself from the galley191, in the tin pot and kid of a common sailor. I used to talk with him as much as I had opportunity to, but his lot was wretched, and in every way wounding to his feelings. After our arrival, Captain Thompson was obliged to make him compensation for this treatment. It happens that I have never heard of him since.
Henry Mellus, who had been in a counting-house in Boston, and left the forecastle, on the coast, to be agent’s clerk, and whom I met, a married man, at Los Angeles in 1859, died at that place a few years ago, not having been successful in commercial life. Ben Stimson left the sea for the fresh water and prairies, settled in Detroit as a merchant, and when I visited that city, in 1863, I was rejoiced to find him a prosperous and respected man, and the same generous-hearted shipmate as ever.
This ends the catalogue of the Pilgrim’s original crew, except her first master, Captain Thompson. He was not employed by the same firm again, and got up a voyage to the coast of Sumatra for pepper. A cousin and classmate of mine, Mr. Channing, went as supercargo, not having consulted me as to the captain. First, Captain Thompson got into difficulties with another American vessel on the coast, which charged him with having taken some advantage of her in getting pepper; and then with the natives, who accused him of having obtained too much pepper for his weights. The natives seized him, one afternoon, as he landed in his boat, and demanded of him to sign an order on the supercargo for the Spanish dollars that they said were due them, on pain of being imprisoned192 on shore. He never failed in pluck, and now ordered his boat aboard, leaving him ashore, the officer to tell the supercargo to obey no direction except under his hand. For several successive days and nights, his ship, the Alciope, lay in the burning sun, with rain-squalls and thunder-clouds coming over the high mountains, waiting for a word from him. Toward evening of the fourth or fifth day he was seen on the beach, hailing for the boat. The natives, finding they could not force more money from him, were afraid to hold him longer, and had let him go. He sprang into the boat, urged her off with the utmost eagerness, leaped on board the ship like a tiger, his eyes flashing and his face full of blood, ordered the anchor aweigh, and the topsails set, the four guns, two on a side, loaded with all sorts of devilish stuff, and wore her round, and, keeping as close into the bamboo village as he could, gave them both broadsides, slam-bang into the midst of the houses and people, and stood out to sea! As his excitement passed off, headache, languor193, fever, set in — the deadly coast-fever, contracted from the water and night-dews on shore and his maddened temper. He ordered the ship to Penang, and never saw the deck again. He died on the passage, and was buried at sea. Mr. Channing, who took care of him in his sickness and delirium194, caught the fever from him, but, as we gratefully remember, did not die until the ship made port, and he was under the kindly195 roof of a hospitable196 family in Penang. The chief mate, also, took the fever, and the second mate and crew deserted; and, although the chief mate recovered and took the ship to Europe and home, the voyage was a melancholy disaster. In a tour I made round the world in 1859–1860, of which my revisit to California was the beginning, I went to Penang. In that fairy-like scene of sea and sky and shore, as beautiful as material earth can be, with its fruits and flowers of a perpetual summer — somewhere in which still lurks197 the deadly fever — I found the tomb of my kinsman198, classmate, and friend. Standing beside his grave, I tried not to think that his life had been sacrificed to the faults and violence of another; I tried not to think too hardly of that other, who at least had suffered in death.
The dear old Pilgrim herself! She was sold, at the end of this voyage, to a merchant in New Hampshire, who employed her on short voyages, and, after a few years, I read of her total loss at sea, by fire, off the coast of North Carolina.
Captain Faucon, who took out the Alert, and brought home the Pilgrim, spent many years in command of vessels in the Indian and Chinese seas, and was in our volunteer navy during the late war, commanding several large vessels in succession, on the blockade of the Carolinas, with the rank of lieutenant199. He has now given up the sea, but still keeps it under his eye, from the piazza of his house on the most beautiful hill in the environs of Boston. I have the pleasure of meeting him often. Once, in speaking of the Alert’s crew, in a company of gentlemen, I heard him say that that crew was exceptional; that he had passed all his life at sea, but whether before the mast or abaft200, whether officer or master, he had never met such a crew, and never should expect to; and that the two officers of the Alert, long ago shipmasters, agreed with him that, for intelligence, knowledge of duty and willingness to perform it, pride in the ship, her appearance and sailing, and in absolute reliableness, they never had seen their equal. Especially he spoke of his favorite seaman93, French John. John, after a few more years at sea, became a boatman, and kept his neat boat at the end of Granite201 Wharf, and was ready to take all, but delighted to take any of us of the old Alert’s crew, to sail down the harbor. One day Captain Faucon went to the end of the wharf to board a vessel in the stream, and hailed for John. There was no response, and his boat was not there. He inquired, of a boatman near, where John was. The time had come that comes to all! There was no loyal voice to respond to the familiar call, the hatches had closed over him, his boat was sold to another, and he had left not a trace behind. We could not find out even where he was buried.
Mr. Richard Brown, of Marblehead, our chief mate in the Alert, commanded many of our noblest ships in the European trade, a general favorite. A few years ago, while stepping on board his ship from the wharf, he fell from the plank202 into the hold and was killed. If he did not actually die at sea, at least he died as a sailor — he died on board ship.
Our second mate, Evans, no one liked or cared for, and I know nothing of him, except that I once saw him in court, on trial for some alleged203 petty tyranny towards his men — still a subaltern officer.
The third mate, Mr. Hatch, a nephew of one of the owners, though only a lad on board the ship, went out chief mate the next voyage, and rose soon to command some of the finest clippers in the California and India trade, under the new order of things — a man of character, good judgment204, and no little cultivation205.
Of the other men before the mast in the Alert, I know nothing of peculiar interest. When visiting, with a party of ladies and gentlemen, one of our largest line-of-battle ships, we were escorted about the decks by a midshipman, who was explaining various matters on board, when one of the party came to me and told me that there was an old sailor there with a whistle round his neck, who looked at me and said of the officer, “he can’t show him anything aboard a ship.” I found him out, and, looking into his sunburnt face, covered with hair, and his little eyes drawn up into the smallest passages for light — like a man who had peered into hundreds of northeasters — there was old “Sails” of the Alert, clothed in all the honors of boatswain’s-mate. We stood aside, out of the cun of the officers, and had a good talk over old times. I remember the contempt with which he turned on his heel to conceal206 his face, when the midshipman (who was a grown youth) could not tell the ladies the length of a fathom207, and said it depended on circumstances. Notwithstanding his advice and consolation208 to “Chips,” in the steerage of the Alert, and his story of his runaway209 wife and the flag-bottomed chairs (ante, p. 318), he confessed to me that he had tried marriage again, and had a little tenement210 just outside the gate of the yard.
Harry211 Bennett, the man who had the palsy, and was unfeelingly left on shore when the Alert sailed, came home in the Pilgrim, and I had the pleasure of helping212 to get him into the Massachusetts General Hospital. When he had been there about a week, I went to see him in his ward7, and asked him how he got along. “Oh! first-rate usage, sir; not a hand’s turn to do, and all your grub brought to you, sir.” This is a sailor’s paradise — not a hand’s turn to do, and all your grub brought to you. But an earthly paradise may pall213. Bennett got tired of indoors and stillness, and was soon out again, and set up a stall, covered with canvas, at the end of one of the bridges, where he could see all the passers-by, and turn a penny by cakes and ale. The stall in time disappeared, and I could learn nothing of his last end, if it has come.
Of the lads who, beside myself, composed the gig’s crew, I know something of all but one. Our bright-eyed, quick-witted little cockswain, from the Boston public schools, Harry May, or Harry Bluff214, as he was called, with all his songs and gibes215, went the road to ruin as fast as the usual means could carry him. Nat, the “bucket-maker,” grave and sober, left the seas, and, I believe, is a hack-driver in his native town, although I have not had the luck to see him since the Alert hauled into her berth at the North End.
One cold winter evening, a pull at the bell, and a woman in distress216 wished to see me. Her poor son George — George Somerby — “you remember him, sir; he was a boy in the Alert; he always talks of you — he is dying in my poor house.” I went with her, and in a small room, with the most scanty217 furniture, upon a mattress on the floor — emaciated218, ashy pale, with hollow voice and sunken eyes — lay the boy George, whom we took out a small, bright boy of fourteen from a Boston public school, who fought himself into a position on board ship (ante, p. 295), and whom we brought home a tall, athletic219 youth, that might have been the pride and support of his widowed mother. There he lay, not over nineteen years of age, ruined by every vice a sailor’s life absorbs. He took my hand in his wasted feeble fingers, and talked a little with his hollow, death-smitten voice. I was to leave town the next day for a fortnight’s absence, and whom had they to see to them? The mother named her landlord — she knew no one else able to do much for them. It was the name of a physician of wealth and high social position, well known in the city as the owner of many small tenements220, and of whom hard things had been said as to his strictness in collecting what he thought his dues. Be that as it may, my memory associates him only with ready and active beneficence. His name has since been known the civilized world over, from his having been the victim of one of the most painful tragedies in the records of the criminal law.4 I tried the experiment of calling upon him; and, having drawn him away from the cheerful fire, sofa, and curtains of a luxurious221 parlor57, I told him this simple tale of woe222, of one of his tenants223, unknown to him even by name. He did not hesitate; and I well remember how, in that biting, eager air, and at a late hour, he drew his cloak about his thin and bent224 form, and walked off with me across the Common, and to the South End, nearly two miles of an exposed walk, to the scene of misery225. He gave his full share, and more, of kindness and material aid; and, as George’s mother told me, on my return, had with medical aid and stores, and a clergyman, made the boy’s end as comfortable and hopeful as possible.
The Alert made two more voyages to the coast of California, successful, and without a mishap226, as usual, and was sold by Messrs. Bryant and Sturgis, in 1843, to Mr. Thomas W. Williams, a merchant of New London, Connecticut, who employed her in the whale-trade in the Pacific. She was as lucky and prosperous there as in the merchant service. When I was at the Sandwich Islands in 1860, a man was introduced to me as having commanded the Alert on two cruises, and his friends told me that he was as proud of it as if he had commanded a frigate227.
I am permitted to publish the following letter from the owner of the Alert, giving her later record and her historic end — captured and burned by the rebel Alabama:—
New London, March 17, 1868.
Richard H. Dana, Esq.:
Dear Sir — I am happy to acknowledge the receipt of your favor of the 14th inst., and to answer your inquiries about the good ship Alert. I bought her of Messrs. Bryant and Sturgis, in the year 1843, for my firm of Williams and Haven228, for a whaler, in which business she was successful until captured by the rebel steamer Alabama, September, 1862, making a period of more than nineteen years, during which she took and delivered at New London upwards229 of twenty-five thousand barrels of whale and sperm230 oil. She sailed last from this port, August 30, 1862, for Hurd’s Island (the newly discovered land south of Kerguelen’s), commanded by Edwin Church, and was captured and burned on the 9th of September following, only ten days out, near or close to the Azores, with thirty barrels of sperm oil on board, and while her boats were off in pursuit of whales.
The Alert was a favorite ship with all owners, officers, and men who had anything to do with her; and I may add almost all who heard her name asked if that was the ship the man went in who wrote the book called “Two Years before the Mast”; and thus we feel, with you, no doubt, a sort of sympathy at her loss, and that, too, in such a manner, and by wicked acts of our own countrymen.
My partner, Mr. Haven, sends me a note from the office this P.M., saying that he had just found the last log-book, and would send up this evening a copy of the last entry on it; and if there should be anything of importance I will enclose it to you, and if you have any further inquiries to put, I will, with great pleasure, endeavor to answer them.
Remaining very respectfully and truly yours,
Thomas W. Williams.
P.S. — Since writing the above I have received the extract from the log-book, and enclose the same.
The last Entry in the Log–Book of the Alert.
“September 9, 1862.
“Shortly after the ship came to the wind, with the main yard aback, we went alongside and were hoisted231 up, when we found we were prisoners of war, and our ship a prize to the Confederate steamer Alabama. We were then ordered to give up all nautical instruments and letters appertaining to any of us. Afterwards we were offered the privilege, as they called it, of joining the steamer or signing a parole of honor not to serve in the army or navy of the United States. Thank God no one accepted the former of these offers. We were all then ordered to get our things ready in haste, to go on shore — the ship running off shore all the time. We were allowed four boats to go on shore in, and when we had got what things we could take in them, were ordered to get into the boats and pull for the shore — the nearest land being about fourteen miles off — which we reached in safety, and, shortly after, saw the ship in flames.
“So end all our bright prospects232, blasted by a gang of miscreants233, who certainly can have no regard for humanity so long as they continue to foster their so-called peculiar institution, which is now destroying our country.”
I love to think that our noble ship, with her long record of good service and uniform success, attractive and beloved in her life, should have passed, at her death, into the lofty regions of international jurisprudence and debate, forming a part of the body of the “Alabama Claims”; — that, like a true ship, committed to her element once for all at her launching, she perished at sea, and, without an extreme use of language, we may say, a victim in the cause of her country.
R.H.D., Jr.
Boston, May 6, 1869.
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1
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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3
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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4
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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5
cove
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| n.小海湾，小峡谷 | |
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6
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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7
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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8
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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9
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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10
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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11
retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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12
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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13
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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14
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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15
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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16
buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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17
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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18
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
groves
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| 树丛，小树林( grove的名词复数 ) | |
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20
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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21
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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22
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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23
isthmus
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| n.地峡 | |
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24
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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25
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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26
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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27
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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28
tolled
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| 鸣钟（toll的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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29
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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30
wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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31
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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32
tributaries
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| n. 支流 | |
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33
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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34
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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35
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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36
commodious
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| adj.宽敞的；使用方便的 | |
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37
fortresses
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| 堡垒，要塞( fortress的名词复数 ) | |
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38
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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39
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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40
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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41
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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42
fin
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| n.鳍；(飞机的)安定翼 | |
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43
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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44
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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45
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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46
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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47
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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48
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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49
denominations
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| n.宗派( denomination的名词复数 )；教派；面额；名称 | |
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50
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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51
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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52
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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53
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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54
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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55
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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56
parlors
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| 客厅( parlor的名词复数 )； 起居室； （旅馆中的）休息室； （通常用来构成合成词）店 | |
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57
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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58
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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59
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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60
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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61
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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62
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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63
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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64
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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65
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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66
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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67
emigrants
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| n.（从本国移往他国的）移民( emigrant的名词复数 ) | |
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68
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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69
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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70
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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71
adobe
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| n.泥砖，土坯，美国Adobe公司 | |
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72
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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73
convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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74
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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75
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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76
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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77
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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78
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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79
credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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80
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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81
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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82
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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83
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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84
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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85
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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86
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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87
cargoes
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| n.（船或飞机装载的）货物( cargo的名词复数 )；大量，重负 | |
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88
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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89
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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90
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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91
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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92
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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94
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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chili
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| n.辣椒 | |
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96
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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97
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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98
outermost
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| adj.最外面的，远离中心的 | |
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99
dreads
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| n.恐惧，畏惧( dread的名词复数 )；令人恐惧的事物v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的第三人称单数 ) | |
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100
gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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101
steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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102
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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103
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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104
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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105
seaport
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| n.海港，港口，港市 | |
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106
piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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107
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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108
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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109
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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110
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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111
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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112
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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113
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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114
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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115
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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117
mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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118
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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119
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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120
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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121
pueblo
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| n.（美国西南部或墨西哥等）印第安人的村庄 | |
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122
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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123
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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124
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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125
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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126
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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127
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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128
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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129
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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130
outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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131
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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132
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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133
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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134
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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135
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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136
poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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137
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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138
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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139
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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140
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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141
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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142
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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143
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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144
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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145
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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146
shimmer
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| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
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147
plunges
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| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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148
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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149
trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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150
gulch
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| n.深谷，峡谷 | |
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151
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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152
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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153
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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154
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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155
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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156
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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157
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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158
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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159
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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160
ordeals
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| n.严峻的考验，苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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161
inauguration
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| n.开幕、就职典礼 | |
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162
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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163
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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164
retention
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| n.保留，保持，保持力，记忆力 | |
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165
caucus
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| n.秘密会议；干部会议；v.（参加）干部开会议 | |
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166
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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167
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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168
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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169
sloop
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| n.单桅帆船 | |
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170
despatch
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| n./v.(dispatch)派遣；发送；n.急件；新闻报道 | |
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171
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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172
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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173
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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174
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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175
titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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176
hydraulic
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| adj.水力的；水压的，液压的；水力学的 | |
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177
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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178
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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179
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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180
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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181
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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182
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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183
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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184
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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185
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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186
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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187
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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188
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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189
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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190
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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191
galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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192
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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193
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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194
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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195
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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196
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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197
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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198
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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199
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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200
abaft
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| prep.在…之后；adv.在船尾，向船尾 | |
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201
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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202
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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203
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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204
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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205
cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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206
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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207
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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208
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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209
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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210
tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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211
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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212
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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213
pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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214
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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215
gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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216
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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217
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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218
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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219
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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220
tenements
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| n.房屋，住户，租房子( tenement的名词复数 ) | |
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221
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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222
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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223
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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224
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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225
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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226
mishap
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| n.不幸的事，不幸；灾祸 | |
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227
frigate
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| n.护航舰，大型驱逐舰 | |
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228
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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229
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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230
sperm
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| n.精子，精液 | |
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231
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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232
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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233
miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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