A History Of The
Passage Of This City Through Those Ordeals, 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 inauguration 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, relics 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, repulsed 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
retention in office of an officer of our army who was wounded at
San Pazqual and whom some wretched caucus 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 Mare Island, the river gold workings, and the Geysers,
and old Mr. John Yount's rancho. On board the steamer, found Mr.
Edward Stanley, formerly member of Congress from North Carolina,
who became my companion for the greater part of my trip. I also
met - a revival 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 sloop Decatur, and two steamers were there, and they
were experimenting on building a despatch 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 adventurous
life of forty years of such work, between our back settlements in
Missouri and Arkansas, and the mountains of California, trapping in
Colorado and Gila, - and his celebrated 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 furrow 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 hearth in early morning; nor for the titanic operations of
hydraulic 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 earthly depths.
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