FOOTNOTES:
[2] The crouching position, the favorite one of the Indians in life, is preserved by them in the disposition of their dead.
XII.
Puget Sound to San Francisco.—A Model Vessel.—The Captain's Relation to his Men.—Rough Water.—Beauty of the Sea.—Golden-Gate Entrance.—San Francisco Streets.—Santa Barbara.—Its Invalids.—Our Spanish Neighbors.—The Mountains and the Bay.—Kelp.—Old Mission.—A Simoom.—The Channel Islands.—A New Type of Chinamen.—An Old Spanish House.
San Francisco, March 20, 1875.
We reached here last night, after a rough voyage from Puget Sound. We had all our worst weather first. After three or four days came a bright, clear morning, and the captain called me on deck to see the sunrise. It was all so changed, so beautiful, so joyous,—all around the exquisite green light flashing through the waves as they broke; and as far off as we could see, in every direction, the water leaping and tossing itself into spray. A strong wind had taken the vessel in charge; and it flew swiftly over the water, with no changes needed, no altering of sails, no orders of any kind, and nobody seemed to be about. The captain fixed me a hammock in a sail; and I lay there hour after hour, with no company but the warm, bright sunshine straying over the deck. I felt as if it were an enchanted vessel, on which I was travelling alone.
Cleopatra's barge could not have been more carefully kept. When the men came out to their daily work, all their spare moments were spent in polishing and cleaning every little tarnished or dingy spot. At first it used to seem to me like a wanton risk of life, with the vessel rearing and plunging so that we did not dare to stir on deck, to see them climb the tall masts, and cling there, scraping and oiling them, to bring out the veining of the wood. Perhaps it was partly as a discipline in steadiness, that they were directed to do it,—to get used to working at such a height. What a contrast to the tawdriness of the steamers we had been accustomed to, to see every thing about us made beautiful by exquisite neatness, done chiefly, too, for their own eyes! I saw, then, why the sunshine was so pleasant on the deck; it was because there was nothing about the vessel out of keeping with the pure beauty of nature. I felt safer, too, to think how all things, small and great, conformed to the laws of Heaven.
One day I asked the captain if he had many of the same men with him as on the last voyage we took with him. I remembered his pointing out to me then the fair, honest face of a young Swedish sailor at the wheel. He said most of his men made many voyages with him. I spoke of another captain, who told us his men were almost all new every time. He said that was generally the master's fault; that a captain should not speak to his men just the same in fair weather and in foul. I looked with interest, afterward, to see his management of them, and found that, while every thing went on smoothly, he took pains to converse with them, and to become somewhat acquainted with each man. Then, in emergencies, his brief, clear directions were immediately comprehended, and promptly obeyed. I began to understand the secret of his short voyages (for his vessel had the reputation of being the fastest sailer between San Francisco and the Sound): it was partly from his management of the ship, and partly from his management of the men.
We started in a snow-storm, and at first every thing seemed to be against us. He had told us that March was not generally a very quiet month on the water. We took a tug-boat to tow us out to the entrance of the Straits; but, as the weather grew continually worse, the steamer was obliged to leave us, with wind dead ahead, and against that we had to beat out. As soon as we had made Cape Flattery, the wind changed, and became what would have been a good wind for getting out, but was just the opposite of what we wanted for going down the coast. These reverses the captain received with unruffled serenity; although he dearly delights in his quick trips, and was ready to seize with alacrity the least breath in his favor. After all, he made one of his best voyages, by the help of the strong, steady wind that drove him on at the last. It was perhaps as much, however, from his vigilance in watching when there was so little to take advantage of, and seizing all the little bits of help it was possible to get, as it was from the great help of that powerful wind; for other vessels that started with us, and even days before us, have not come in yet, and they all had the great wind alike.
R—— ventured to inquire of the captain one day, when we were beating about the mouth of the Straits, as to the feasibility of going into Neeah Bay, while it was yet possible to do so; but the captain said he preferred to beat about, and then he was ready to take advantage of the first chance in his favor, which he might lose if he were in shelter.
One day it was more than I could enjoy. The wind roared so loud, and the sound of the waves was so heavy, that I retreated to my berth, and lay down; but I could not keep my mind off the thought of how deep the water was under us. After a while I went on deck and sat there again, and the vessel began to plunge so that it seemed as if it were trying to stand upon one end. I felt so frightened that I thought I would speak to the captain, and ask him if he ever knew a lumber-vessel to tip over; and if I dared I would suggest that he should carry a little less sail. I knew that he was once on a vessel that turned bottom upward in the Straits, and he was left on the overturned hull for three days, in a snow-storm, before help came to him. I spoke to him, and he did not give me much of an answer; but, a little while after, he came to me, and said, "Are you able to go to the forward part of the ship with me? I should like to have you, if you can." So he helped me along to the bow, where it seemed almost too frightful to go, and said, "Kneel down;" and knelt down by me, and said, "Look under the ship." It was one of the most beautiful sights I ever saw,—such a height of foam, and rainbows over it. The dark water beside it seemed to be full of little, sharp, shining needles. I suppose it was moving so quickly that made the elongated drops appear so. Then he took me to the other side, that was in shadow; and there the water was whirled into the most beautiful shapes, standing out distinct from each other, from the swiftness of the motion, that held them poised, like exquisite combinations of snowflakes, only more airy.
Presently he said, "Men don't often speak of these things to each other, but I feel the beauty of it. Nights when the vessel is moving so fast, I come and watch here for hours and hours, and dream over it." When I thought about it afterward, I wondered how he could know that the way to answer my fear was to show me what was so beautiful. I was not afraid any more, whatever the vessel did.
Those three days and nights of lonely watching, floating about in the Straits, must have been a great experience to him, and made him different from what he would otherwise have been; certainly different from most men.
Before sunrise, yesterday morning, we passed the "Seal-Rocks;" as the light just began to reveal a little of the dark, dreamy hills on each side of the long, beautiful entrance to the harbor. A flood of light filled it as we entered, and it must have looked just as it did when it was first named the "Golden Gate." All along, for miles, the water throws itself up into the air, and falls in fountains on the rocky shore. I cannot conceive of a more beautiful harbor in the world; and, as we were two or three hours in coming from the sea up to the city, we had time enough to enjoy it.
The southern headland of the entrance is Point Lobos (Punta de los Lobos, Point of Wolves); the northern, Point Bonita (Beautiful Point).
March 25, 1875.
We could never have stepped out of our wilderness into a stranger city than this. From the variety of foreign names and faces that I see in the streets, I should think I were travelling over the whole world. On one side of us lives a Danish family, on the other a French. I walk along and look up at the signs,—"Scandinavian Society;" "Yang Tzy Association of Shanghae;" "Nuevo Continente Restaurant Mejicano;" "Angelo Beffa, Helvetia Exchange," with the white cross and plumed hat of Switzerland. One street is all Chinese, with shiny-haired women, and little mandarins with long cues of braided red silk. The babies seem to be dressed in imitation of the idol in the temple; their tight caps have the same tinsel and trimmings, and the resemblance their little dry faces bear to it is very curious.
Next to "Tung Wo," "Sun Loy," and "Kum Lum," come "Witkowski," "Bukofski," "Rowminski,"—who keep Russian caviar, etc. Some day, when we feel a little tired of our ordinary food, we think of trying the caviar, or perhaps a gelatinous bird's nest, for variety.
Besides the ordinary residents, we meet many sailors from the hundreds of vessels always in the harbor,—Greeks, Lascars, Malays, and Kanakas. Their picturesque costumes and Oriental faces add still more to the foreign look of the place.
In the midst of the greatest rush and confusion of one of the principal business streets, stands a man with an electrical machine, bawling in stentorian tones, "Nothing like it to steady the nerves, and strengthen the heart,"—ready, for a small fee, to administer on the spot a current of greater or less intensity to whoever may desire it. The contrast is most ludicrous between the need that undoubtedly exists for some such quieting influence, and the utter inefficacy of it, if applied, under such circumstances.
We have just returned from Santa Barbara. How buoyant the air seems, and how brisk the people, after our languid, dreamy life there! I, who went there in robust health, spent six months in bed, for no other reason, that I could understand, than the influence of the climate. Perhaps, on homœopathic principles, as Santa Barbara makes sick people well, it makes well people sick. A physician that I have seen since coming here tells me that he went there himself for his own health, and was so much affected by the general atmosphere of sickness, that he was obliged to return. It is a depressing sight, certainly, to see so many feeble, consumptive-looking people about, as we did there. Where we lived I think it was also malarious, from the estero that winds like a snake about the lowlands near the bay. The favorite part of the city is near the foot-hills. It is probably more healthful there, but we cannot live without seeing at least one little silver line of the sea. So we took up our abode in the midst of the Spanish population, near the water.
We found it very difficult to get any one to help us in our work, although we had supposed that in the midst of poor people we should be favorably situated in that respect. We were told, however, that the true Castilian, no matter how poor, never works; that we might perhaps find some one among the Mexicans to assist us.
Our neighbors were quite interesting to watch, and we were pleased with the simplicity of their lives. They had no apparent means of support, unless it might be lassoing and taming some wild mustangs, which they were sometimes engaged in doing; but this seemed to be more of a recreation than a business with them. They were never harassed nor hurried about any thing. They lived mostly outside their little dark dwelling, only seeking it at noon for a siesta. In the morning they placed a mat under the trees, and put the babies down naked to play on it, shaking dawn the leaves for play-things. Sometimes they cut a great piece of meat into narrow strips, and hung it all over our fence to dry. This dried meat, and melons, constituted a large part of their food. The old mother was called Gracia, but she could never in her youth have been more graceful than now. She was as picturesque still as she could ever have been, and perfectly erect. She wore a little black cap, like a priest's cap, on the top of her head, and her long gray hair floated out from it over her shoulders; and, with her black mantle thrown as gracefully about her as any young person could have worn it, we used to see her starting out every morning to enjoy herself abroad. She appeared one morning at our window, before we were up, with her arms full of roses covered with dew, eager to give them to us while they were so fresh.
We noticed her sometimes out in the yard, preparing some of the family food, by the aid of a curious flat stone supported on three legs, and a stone pestle or roller,—a very primitive arrangement. Kneeling down upon the ground, she placed her corn, or Chili peppers—or whatever article she wished to grind—upon the stone; and, taking the hand-stone, she rolled it vigorously back and forth over the flat surface, crushing up the material, which fell off at the lower end into a dish below. We saw her making tomales, composed of bruised green corn,—crushed by the process just described,—mixed with chopped meat, and seasoned with Chili peppers or other pungent flavoring, and made up into slender rolls, each enveloped in green-corn leaves, tied at the ends, and baked in the ashes,—resulting in a very savory article of food.
Our only New-England acquaintances at Santa Barbara had evidently modified very much their ideas of living. We found them with bare floors; a great bunch of pampas grass, and a guitar hanging against the wall, in true Spanish fashion; the room being otherwise mostly empty.
We had on one side the dark Santa Ynez Mountains, and on the other the sea. The mountains are not very high but bold in their outlines; and the number of crags and ravines gives them a beautiful play of light and shadow. Very early one morning I saw a great gray eagle fly overhead, back to his home in their dark recesses. Some of the slopes are covered with grape-vines, and some with olive-trees. Far up in the hollows can be seen the little white houses of the people who keep the bee-ranches. They live up so high because the flowers last longer there. The mountains form a semicircle on one side of the town; on the other is the beach. An immense bed of kelp, extending for miles and miles along the shore, forms the most beautiful figures, rising and falling as it floats on the water,—so gigantic, and at the same time so graceful. It is of every beautiful shade of pale yellow and brown. In winter the gales sometimes drive it shoreward in such vast quantities that vessels are compelled to anchor outside of it.
There is an old mission there, built in the Moorish style, where all visitors are hospitably received by the Franciscan friars in charge. This mission, like all those we have seen, has a choice situation, sheltered from wind, and with good soil about it. The old monks knew how to make themselves comfortable. Their cattle roamed over boundless pastures, herded by mounted vaqueros; their grain-fields ripened under cloudless skies; their olive-orchards, carefully watered and tended by their Indian subjects, yielded rich returns.
We made the acquaintance of a gentleman from Morocco, who says that the climate there is almost the same as that of Santa Barbara. I suppose the simoom we had there in the summer was a specimen of it. A fierce, hot wind blew from the Mojave desert. There was no possibility of comfort in the house, nor out of it. We could escape the storm of wind and dust by going in, but there was still the choking feeling of the air. The residents of the place could say nothing in defence of it,—only that did not occur often.
We are told that on the 17th of June, 1859, there was much more of a genuine simoom. So hot a blast of air swept over the town as to fill the people with terror. This burning wind raised dense clouds of fine dust. Birds dropped dead from the trees. The people shut themselves up in their thick adobe houses. The mercury rapidly rose to 133 degrees, and continued so for three hours. Trees were blighted, and gardens ruined.
Sailors approaching the coast in a fog can recognize the Santa Barbara Channel by the smell of bitumen which floats on the water. Some of the old navigators thought their vessels were on fire when they noticed it. It gives a luminous appearance to the water at night.
On one side of Santa Barbara is a great table-land, called the Mesa, where there is always a sea-breeze that blows across fields of grain and fragrant grass. That would be a beautiful place to live, but there is no water. The experiment of artesian wells is about being tried.
From the Mesa we looked off to the channel islands,—Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, San Miguel, and Anacapa,—bold, rocky, and picturesque. Anacapa was formerly a great resort for the seal and otter; and the natives from Alaska came down to hunt them, and collected large quantities of their valuable skins. The island is of sandstone, all honeycombed with cavities of different sizes, sometimes making beautiful arches. There is no water on this island, and only cactus and coarse grass grow there. Others of the group have wood and water, and settlements of fishermen. On some of them, interesting historical relics have been discovered,—supposed to be the remains of a temple to the sun, with idols and images. There are also beautiful fossils and corals and abalone shells.
It was hard to make up our minds to leave so lovely a place; but as I looked back, the last morning, to fix the picture of it in my mind, I saw the little white clouds that come before the hot wind, rising above the mountains, and was glad that we were going. Two immense columns of smoke rose out of the cañons, and stood over the place, like genii. In the dry weather it seems that the mountains are almost always on fire, which modifies what is called the natural climate of Santa Barbara, so as to make it very uncomfortable. Its admirers must come from some worse place,—probably often from the interior; no one from Puget Sound ever praises it. We met several families from that region; and they were all anxious to get back to the clear mountain atmosphere of their northern climate, which is as equable as that of Santa Barbara, though far different in character.
We saw there some Chinese quite unlike any that we have met before. We have heard that most of those who come to the Pacific Coast are of an inferior kind, chiefly Tartars. There we saw some quite handsome ones, who had more of an Arab look, and had also elegant manners,—one, especially, who had a little office near us. On the birthday of the Emperor of China, his room was ornamented with a picture of Confucius, before which he burned scented wood; and hanging over it was an air-castle, with the motto, "God is Love."
We visited one day an interesting-looking old house, near our quarter of the town, to see if we could live in it. It was one of the finest there before the place became Americanized, and belonged to an old Spanish don. It stands in the centre of spacious and beautiful grounds, and the avenue leading to it is bordered with olive-trees, which were in bloom. There was a curious, delicate fragrance in the air, quite new to me, which I attributed to them. It was as different from all other odors, as their color is from that of all other trees. They have a little greenish blossom, something like a daphne, and the foliage is of beautiful shades of gray-green, from an almost black to light silvery color. They seem like old Spaniards themselves, they have such an ancient, reserved look. Two magnificent pepper-trees, with their light, graceful foliage trailing from the branches, stand near the door. The house is shut in with dark heavy porches on all sides, and covered with vines. The windows are in such deep recesses, owing to the great thickness of the walls of the house, that the rooms were but dimly lighted, although it was early in the afternoon. Some of the windows are of stained glass, and others of ground glass, to lessen the light still more. It is an adobe house; and the walls are so damp that I gave up all idea of living in it, as soon as I laid my hand on them. The Spaniards, I see, all build their houses on a plan that originated in a hot country, where the idea of comfort was all of coolness and shade. This house, and the one opposite where we lived, are covered with passion-flowers. Near the latter are two dark evergreen-trees,—the Santa Cruz spruce,—trimmed so as to be very stiff and straight, standing like dark wardens before the door. There is a hedge of pomegranate, with its flame-like flowers, which seem to be filled with light. The pepper-tree abounds in Santa Barbara, and the eucalyptus is being planted a good deal. It has a special power to absorb malaria from the air, and makes unhealthy places wholesome.
XIII.
Our Aerie.—The Bay and the Hills.—The Little Gnome.—Earthquake.—Temporary Residents.—The Trade-Wind.—Seal-Rocks.—Farallon Islands.—Exhilarating Air.—Approach of Summer.—Centennial Procession.—Suicides.—Mission Dolores.—Father Pedro Font and his Expedition.—The Mission Indians.—Chinese Feast of the Dead.—Curious Weather.
San Francisco, October 30, 1875.
We have found a magnificent situation. Our little house is perched on such a height, that every one wonders how we ever discovered it. The site of the city was originally a collection of immense sandhills, on the sides and tops of which the houses were built, many of them before the streets were laid out and graded. When the grades were finally determined, and the hills cut through,—as some of them were,—houses were often left perched far above, on the edge of a cliff, and almost as inaccessible as a feudal castle. I feel as if ours might be an eagle's nest, and enjoy the wildness and solitude of it. So does our Scotch shepherd dog, who has been used to lonely places. Sometimes, just as the sun is rising, we see him sitting out on the sandhills, looking about with such a contented expression that it seems as if he smiled. He opens his mouth to drink in the wind, as if it were a delicious draught to him.
The hills are covered with sage-brush, full of little twittering birds. My bed is between two windows, and they fly across from one to the other, without minding me at all. Opposite is Alcatraz, a fortified island, but very peaceful-looking, the waves breaking softly all around it. It has still the Spanish name of the white pelicans with which it used to be covered. The commander of the fort died since we came here, and was carried across the water, with music, to Angel Island, to be buried.
Across the bay is a low line of hills, with softly rounded outlines. They are of pale russet color, from the red earth, and thin, dried grass, that covers them. Farther to the north is Mount Tamalpias, with sharper outlines.
November 8, 1875.
The China boys generally refuse to come out here to live with us, saying it is "too far, too far." The unsettled appearance of this part of the city does not please them. To-day we succeeded in securing a small one. He is a curious-looking little creature, with a high pointed head, stiff, black hair, and small, sparkling eyes. He seems like a little gnome, and might have been living in the bowels of the earth, in mines and caverns, with black coal and bright jewels about him. Before he would agree to come, he said he must go and consult the idol in the temple. He burned little fragrant sticks before him; but how he divined what his pleasure might be, I could not tell.
We hesitated about taking him, considering his very stunted appearance; but he said, "Me heap smart," and that settled it. "Heap" must be a word the Chinese have picked up at the mines. It is in constant requisition in any attempt to converse with them.
Last night we had a heavy shock of earthquake. How different it is from merely reading that the crust of the earth is thin, and that there is fire under it, to feel it tremble under your feet! I was glad to have one thing more made real to me, that before meant nothing. It was a strange, deep trembling, as if every thing were sliding away from us.
It gives one a lonesome feeling to see how many people here lead unsettled lives, looking upon some other place as their home. Even the children, hearing so much talk about the East, seem to have an idea that they really belong somewhere else. One of our little neighbors said to me, "I have never been home;" although she, and all her grown-up brothers and sisters, were born and brought up here. Many of the customs of the place are adapted to a temporary way of living. In most parts of the city, it would be hard to find a street without signs of "Furnished rooms to let." Besides innumerable restaurants, a flying kitchen travels about, with every thing cooking as it goes along, and clean-looking men, with white aprons, to serve the food; one ringing a bell, and looking out in every direction, to see what is wanted.
The numerous windmills, for raising water, give the city a lively look. The wind keeps them always in motion. The constant whirring of the wheels, and the general breezy look of things, distinguish this place from all others that I have seen. Sir Francis Drake, entering the bay nearly three hundred years ago, refers, with great delight, to "a franke wind," that took him "into a safe and good baye." There was, for a long time, some doubt as to which of several ports he made. I think that mention of the wind settles it. The identical wind has been blowing with undiminished vigor ever since. In summer (the time he was here), it will carry a vessel in against the strongest tide.
The city is built mostly of wood. The absence of foliage, and the neutral color of the houses, give the streets a dull gray look, here and there redeemed by the scarlet geranium, which, if not a native, is most thoroughly naturalized,—it grows so sturdily, even in the poorest yards.
April 30, 1876.
We had a long ride out to the Seal-Rocks, past great wavy hills, with patches of gold, brighter than the dandelions and buttercups are at home. This was the eschcholtzia, or California poppy. Occasionally we passed great tracts of lupine. The lowland was a sea of blue iris.
Suddenly, as we surmounted a height, the ocean rolled in before us, line after line of breakers, on a broad beach. When we reached Point Lobos we saw the two great rocks, far out in the water, covered with brown seals that lay in the sun like flocks of sheep, and little slippery, shining ones all the time crawling up out of the water, and dropping back again. As the vessels pass out of the bay, they go near enough to hear them bark; but nothing frightens them away, nor discomposes them in the least, although they are only a few miles from the city, and have a great many visitors. They are protected by law from molestation.
We looked off to the Farallon Islands, which are one of the chief landmarks for vessels approaching the Golden Gate. There was formerly a settlement of Russians there, who hunted the seal and the otter. These islands are still a great resort for seals, also for cormorants and sea-gulls; and the large speckled eggs of the birds are gathered in quantities, and brought to the San Francisco market for sale. They were called by the Spaniards "Farallons de los Frayles" (Islands of the Friars), farallon being a sharp-pointed island.
There is a marvellous exhilaration in the air. The enthusiastic Bayard Taylor said, that, in his first drive round the bay, he felt like Julius Cæsar, Milo of Crotana, and Gen. Jackson, rolled into one. It is an acknowledged fact, that both men and animals can work harder and longer here, without apparent injury or fatigue, than anywhere on the Eastern coast. We have heard it suggested that the abundant actinic rays in the dry, cloudless atmosphere are the cause of this invigoration, and also of the unusual brilliancy of the flowers.
June 1, 1876.
The only way in which we know that summer is coming is by the more chilling winds, the increased dust, the tawny color of the hills, and the general dying look of things. Every thing is bare, sunny, and sandy.
We are surrounded with great wastes of sand, which the wind drives against the house, so that it seems always like a storm. Sometimes, when I sit at work at the window, a gopher comes out of the sandhill, and sits down outside it. His company makes me feel still more remote from all civilized things.
July 4, 1876.
We had a splendid Centennial procession. Things that we imitate at home are all real here. Instead of having our own people dressed up in foreign costume, we have Italians, French, Swiss, Russians, Germans, Chinese, Turks, etc., all ready for any occasion. The newspapers mentioned as a remarkable fact, that there were no suicides for a week beforehand; every one seemed to have something to look forward to.
The night before the celebration, the French residents built up a great arch, as high as the highest buildings, with fine decorations, for the procession to pass under. Some doubt was expressed about the Germans liking to pass beneath the French arch; so three thousand Germans, to show their good-will, went and sung the Marseillaise under it.
The Jews have the handsomest church in San Francisco, which they decorated with the greatest enthusiasm, and had Centennial services, in which they said that they, of all people in the world, ought to appreciate America, as, before they came here, they were outcasts everywhere, while here they were unmolested and prosperous.
I liked best in the procession the Highlanders, who were real Scotchmen, in plaids, and bonnets with eagle feathers. Every one had a claymore by his side, and a thistle on his breast; and there were pipers playing on bagpipes to lead them.
There are a great many Germans in San Francisco, and the brewers had a car dressed with yellow barley and other ripe grains. The great fat men looked so full of enjoyment, it was really picturesque to see them, under the nodding grain. For the first time in my life I appreciated them, as I saw how poorly a thin man would convey the idea of comfort. There are a good many Italian fishermen here too. They are always just fit for processions, without any alteration whatever; their pretty green boat "Venezia," and their Captain Cæsar Celso Morena, seem made for it. They had Roman guards, in golden scale armor. The California Jaegers with their wild brown faces, that seemed to transport us to the great hot plains where they herd and lasso the half-tamed animals, walked too in the procession; and the baby camel, born lately in San Francisco, a great pet. They were led by the silver cornet band, whose music was exquisitely clear and sweet.
August 2, 1876.
In this homeless city, built upon sandhills, and continually desolated by winds, it is no wonder that the blue bay looks attractive, especially to any one thrust aside in the continual vicissitudes of this unsettled life. The first news we heard, on our return from Santa Barbara, was that Ralston, the great banker, and one of the chief favorites in social life, had sought the calm of its still depths as better than any thing life could offer. How serenely the water lay in the sunshine, as we looked at it, hearing this news, which had stirred the city to its utmost! Here all secrets are guarded, all perplexities end. The passion for suicide seeks mostly this pathway, though there is an unprecedented number of intentional deaths of all kinds.
This morning's paper records the suicide of a Frenchman, who half reconciled me to his view, by the cheerful, intelligent way in which he spoke. He left a letter stating that he died with no ill feeling toward any one, and full of faith in God as a Father; that he did not consider that he was to blame for what he was about to do, as he had tried in vain to get work,—probably because he was wholly deaf. He made so little fuss about what almost every one would have considered a terrible calamity,—that his life should end in this way,—that it seemed a pity it could not otherwise have been made known what kind of a man he was. He gave a little account of himself, beginning, "I was born in the province of Haute Vienne, in France, and have lived mostly at the mines," going on to speak as quietly of what he was about to do, as he might if he were going to move from one town to another, not having succeeded in the first; ending by saying, "I have taken the poison,—an acid taste, but not disagreeable." He made only one request,—that a package of old letters should be laid on his breast, and buried with him. A valuable member of society might have been saved, if the result in his case could have been the same as with a man we knew in Santa Barbara, who, becoming discouraged by continual rheumatism, combined with poverty, took a large dose of strychnine, with suicidal intent, but, to his astonishment, was entirely cured of his rheumatism; and the notoriety he acquired presently procured him an abundance of work.
In the winter a man who called himself Professor Blake, a "mind-reader," gave some exhibitions of his power, which were considered wonderful. It might have been better for him, however, not to know what people thought, as it proved. A few weeks ago a man was discovered dead, with this letter beside him: "I die of a weary and a heavy heart, but of a sound mind. If there should be one or two persons to whom I should be known, let them, out of charity to the living, withhold their knowledge. Should my eyes be open, close them, that I may not chance, even in death, to see any more of this hated world." Notwithstanding his wish, of course every effort was made to find out who he was; and it proved to be this "mind-reader."
These cases are very depressing to think of; only that it makes one feel more certain of another life, to see how unfinished and unsatisfactory some things are here.
September 6, 1876.
I have found two beautiful places to visit,—the old Spanish graveyard of the Mission Dolores, and Lone Mountain Cemetery. They have long, deep grass, and bright, exquisite flowers. On the waste tracks about the cemetery, I can still find the fragrant little yerba buena (good herb), from which the Spanish Fathers named the spot where San Francisco now stands, in the primitive times, long before gold was discovered. The cross on the summit of Lone Mountain, erected by the Franciscan friars, is quite impressive from its height and size. It is seen from all parts of the city.
The Mission Dolores (Mission of our Lady of Sorrow) is south of the city, sheltered from the wind, with a clear stream flowing near. The fathers displayed their customary shrewdness in the selection of this situation. The bleak sandhills to the north they left for the future city, and settled themselves in this pleasant valley. The pioneer missionary of Northern California—Father Junipero Serra, that rigorous old Spaniard who used to beat his breast with stones—established himself here, with his Franciscan monks, in the fall of 1776. His old church is still standing,—an adobe building, with earthen floor, the walls and ceiling covered with rude paintings of saints and angels.
The Presidio of San Francisco was established in the spring preceding, by a colony sent out by the Viceroy of Mexico, accompanied by a military command. Father Pedro Font came with the expedition. He was a scientific man, and recorded his observations of the country and the people. Just before starting, a mass was sung for their happy journey, to the Most Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe, whom they chose for their patroness, together with the Archangel Michael and their Father Saint Francis.
When they reached the vicinity of the Gila River, the governors of several of the rancherias came out to meet them, with the alcalde, and a body of Pimas Indians, mounted on horses, who presented them with the scalps of several Apaches they had slain the day before. At the next stopping-place along the river, they were met by about a thousand Indians, who were very hospitable, and made a great shed of green boughs for them, in which to pass the night.
Father Pedro observed that the country must formerly have been inhabited by a different race, as the ground was strewn with fragments of painted earthenware, which the Pimas did not understand making. He saw also the ruins of an ancient building, with walls four and six feet thick. On the east and west sides were round openings, through which, according to the Indian traditions, the prince who lived there used to salute the rising and setting sun.
The company travelled on, singing masses, and resting by the way, until they reached what Father Pedro called "a miracle of Nature, the port of ports" (San Francisco Bay). He ascended a table-land, that ended in a steep white rock, to admire what he calls the "delicious view,"—including the bay and its islands, and the ocean, with the Farallons in the distance, of which he made a sketch. He mentioned Angel Island, which still bears that name. The commandant planted a cross on the steep white rock, as the symbol of possession, and also at Point Reyes (Point of Kings), and selected the table-land for the site of the Presidio. Father Font explored the country about the bay, and made some surveys. He noticed some Indians with launches made of tules (bulrushes), in which they navigated the streams.
It would have been fortunate for the Indians if all the priests sent among them had been of as gentle a spirit as Father Pedro. He says, in his account of this expedition, that they received him everywhere with demonstrations of joy, with dancing and singing. But, some years after, we hear that the soldiers were sent out from the Presidio to lasso the Indians. They were brought in like wild beasts, immediately baptized, and their Christianization commenced. Kotzebue, one of the early Russian explorers, says that in his time (1824) he saw them at Santa Clara driven into the church like a flock of sheep, by an old ragged Spaniard, armed with a stick. Some of the more humane priests complained bitterly of this violent method of converting the heathen, and insisted that all the Indians who had been brought in by force should be restored "to their gentile condition."
In the old Mission of Santa Barbara, we saw some of the frightful pictures considered so very effective in converting them. One special painting, representing in most vivid colors the torments of hell, was said of itself alone to have led to hosts of conversions; but a picture of paradise, in the same church, which was very subdued in its treatment and coloring, had failed to produce any effect.
The services of the Indians belonged for life to the missions to which they were attached. They were taught many useful things. They watered and kept the gardens and fields of grain, and tended the immense herds of cattle that roamed over the hills. Traders came to the coast to buy hides and tallow from the ranches and the missions, and the product of their fields. For seventy years, these old monks, supported by Spain, were the rulers of California. Spain's foreign and colonial troubles, however, led her to appropriate to other purposes the "Pious Fund" by which the missions were maintained. Jealousy of their growing power, and revolutions in Mexico, hastened their downfall. The discovery of gold in 1848 introduced the element which was to prove their final destruction.
It is a curious fact that the first adventurer who ever set foot on this soil, Sir Francis Drake, although he was here for only a month, repairing his ship, became convinced that there was no earth about here but had some probable show of gold or silver in it. If news had spread then as rapidly as now, in these days of newspapers and telegraphs, it would not have lain two hundred and seventy years untouched, and then been discovered only by accident.
November 3, 1876.
A few days ago, I wandered on to the solitary Chinese quarter of Lone Mountain, and happened upon the celebration of the Feast of the Dead. Hundreds and hundreds of Chinamen were bowing over the graves in the sand. Each grave had on it little bright-colored tapers burning, sometimes large fires beside, made of the red and silver paper they use at the New Year. Each had curious little cups and teapots and chop-sticks, rice, sugar-cane, and roast chicken. I saw some little white cakes, inscribed with red letters, similar to children's Christmas cakes with names on them. Every thing that seems nice to a Chinaman was there. They were so engrossed in what they were doing, that they took no notice whatever of my observation of them. At each grave they spread a mat, and arranged the food. Then some one that I took for the nearest friend clasped his hands, and bowed in a sober, reverent way over the grave; then poured one of the little cups of rice wine out on the sand. It reminded me of the offerings I saw made to the spirit of the dead Indian child, at Port Townsend. Then two dead men were brought out to be buried, while we stood there; and the instant they were covered with the sand, the Chinamen called to each other, "fy, fy!" (quick, quick!),—to light the fire, as if it were to guide them on the way, as the Indians think. They threw into the air a great many little papers. I asked if those were letters to the dead Chinamen, and they said, "Yes,"—but I am not sure if they understood me.
It produced such a strange effect, in this wild, desert-looking place, to see all these curious movements, and the fires and the feasts on the graves, that I felt utterly lost. It was as if I had stepped, for a few moments, into another world.
The Chinamen are so very saving, never wasting any thing, and they have to work so hard for all their money, and pay such high duty on the things they import from home, that they would not incur all this expense unless they felt sure that it answered some end. It is a matter for endless pondering what they really believe about it. They are satisfied with a very poor, little, frugal meal for themselves; but on this occasion every thing was done in the greatest style. At one place was a whole pig, roasted and varnished; and every grave had a fat, roasted chicken, with its head on, and dressed and ornamented in the most fanciful manner. The red paper which they use for visiting-cards at the New Year, and seem to be very choice of then, they sacrificed in the most lavish way at this time. They fired off a great many crackers to keep off bad spirits.
Most of the graves were only little sand-mounds for temporary use, until the occupants should be carried back to China; but one was a great semi-circular vault, so grand and substantial-looking that it suggested the Egyptian Catacombs. Over one division of the graveyard, I saw a notice which I could partly read, saying that no woman or child could be buried there.
The Chinese are so out of favor here now, that the State Government is trying to limit the number that shall be allowed to come. About a thousand arrive on each steamer. How foolish it seems to be afraid of them, especially for their good qualities! the chief complaint against them being that they are so industrious, economical, and persevering, that sooner or later all the work here will fall into their hands.
January 9, 1877.
We have been having some very strange weather here,—earthquake weather, it is called by some persons. It seems as if it came from internal fires. It has been so warm at night that we could not sleep, even with two open windows.
The chief thought of every one is, "When will it rain?" Prayers are offered in the churches for rain. It is also the subject of betting; and the paper this morning said that several of the prominent stockbrokers were confined to their rooms, with low spirits, on account of the condition of stocks, caused by the general depression from the dry season. We watch the sky a good deal. Strange clouds appear and disappear, but nothing comes of them. To-day, when I first looked out of my window, there were two together, before it, most human-like in appearance, that seemed to hold out their arms, as if in appeal; but, as I watched them, they only drew their beautiful trailing drapery after them, and moved slowly away.
There is a curious excitement about this weather, coming in the middle of winter. These extremes of dryness, and this strange heat at this season, reversing all natural order, may be one cause of the peculiarities of the Californians; and they are certainly peculiar people. I recently took a little excursion to Oakland, crossing the bay by the ferry, and riding some distance in the cars. A pleasant feeling came over me as I saw that it was like crossing the Merrimac from Newburyport to Salisbury; the distance was about as far, and there were the same low trees and green grass on the opposite side. I felt quite at home, until, on entering the cars, my eyes lighted on this notice, posted conspicuously everywhere: "Passengers will beware of playing three-card monte, strap, or any other game of chance, with strangers. If you do, you will surely be robbed." All visions of respectable New England vanished at that sight.
XIV.
Quong.—His Protégé.—His Peace-Offering.—The Chinese and their Grandmothers.—Ancient Ideas.—Irish, French, and Spanish Chinamen.—Chinese Ingenuity.—Hostility against the Chinese.—Their Proclamations.—Discriminations against them.—Their Evasion of the Law.—Their Perseverance against all Obstacles.—Their Reverence for their Ancestors, and Fear of the Dead.—Their Medical Knowledge.—Their Belief in the Future.—Their Curious Festivals.—Indian Names for the Months.—Resemblance between the Indians and Chinese.—Their Superstitions.
San Francisco, February 20, 1877.
Some time since, we asked the washman to send us a new boy. One evening, in the midst of a great storm of wind and rain, the most grotesque little creature appeared at the door, with his bundle under his arm, as if he were sure of being accepted. We thought we must keep him for a day or two, on account of the weather, and just to show him that he could not do what we wanted; but he proved too amusing for us to think of letting him go. His name is Quong. He is shorter than Margie, who is only nine, and has much more of a baby face, but a great deal of dignity; and he assures me, when they go out together, that he shall take good care of Margie and the baby, and if there is any trouble he will call the police. We felt a little afraid to trust them with him at first, because the Chinese are so often attacked in the streets; but he has unbounded confidence in the police, and has a little whistle with which to call them. It reminds me of Robin Hood; he takes such great pleasure in making use of it, and comes out so safe from all dangers by the help of it.
The first Sunday that he was here, we told him that he could go out for a while, as all the Chinese do on that day. When he came back, I asked him where he had been. These little boys are all petted a good deal at the wash-houses, and I supposed he had been there enjoying himself. But he said that he went every Sunday to see a small boy that he had charge of, who was too young to work; that he sent him now to school, but next year he should tell him, "No work, no eat;" and, if he did not do something to support himself, he should not give him clothes any more. I remember reading that the Chinese were considered men at fourteen. It is very comical to see such a little creature assume these responsibilities, and take such pride in them. He says that he is ten, but his face is perfectly infantine; and he is a baby too in his plays. He rolls and tumbles about like a young dog or kitten. If it rains, he seems like a wild duck, he is so pleased with it; and then, when the sun comes out, he hardly knows how to express his enjoyment of it; he looks at me with such a radiant face, saying, "Oh, nice sun, nice!" I feel ready at that moment to forgive him for every thing that we ever have to blame him for,—such a sun seems to shine out of him; and I feel as if we made a mistake to be critical about his little faults, which are mainly attributable to his extreme youth.
He has lately been away to celebrate the new year. "Going home to China," he calls it, because at that time the Chinese eat their national food, and observe their own customs. We told him, before he left, that he must be sure to come back in two days; but three passed, with no sign of him. Then R—— went down to the wash-house, and left word that he must come directly back. In the course of the afternoon, he walked in. The moment he opened the door, we said to him, very severely, "What for you stop too long?" But he walked up to me, without a word, and put down before me a little dirty handkerchief, all tied up in knots, which I finally made up my mind to open. It was full of the most curious sweet-meats and candy, little curls of cocoanut, frosted with sugar; queer fruits, speckled with seeds; and some nuts that looked exactly like carved ram's-heads with horns. We had to accept this as a peace-offering, and put aside our anger.
He is much pleased to be where there is a woman. Although he is so young, he says that he has lived generally only with men,—Spanish men, he says, where there was "too much tree." I suppose it was some rather unsettled place,—a sheep-ranch, perhaps.
He is so unsophisticated that he will answer all our questions, as the older ones will not, if they can. I asked him, one day, about the ceremonies that I saw at Lone Mountain,—what they burned the red and silver paper on the graves for; and he said that in the other world the Chinamen were dressed in paper, and, if they did not burn some for them on their graves, they would not have any clothes. I told him I saw a boy kneel down on a grave, and take a cup of rice wine, and sip a little, and then pour it out on the sand. He said, Oh, no, that he did not drink any, only put it to his lips, and said, "Good-by, good-by," because the dead Chinaman would come no more.
Whenever he speaks of any thing mysterious, we can see, by the darkening of his face, how he feels the awe of it. One of his friends, in hurrying to get his ironing done, to get ready to celebrate the new year, brought on an attack of hemorrhage of the lungs. Of course, it was necessary to keep him entirely still, which his companions knew; but, at the same time, they were so afraid that he might die where he was, that they insisted on carrying him to another place, a long way off, which killed him. For, they said, if he died at the wash-house, he would come back there; and then all the Chinamen would leave, or they would have to move the house. His grandmother, the boy said, came back in a blue flame, and asked for something to eat, and they had to move the house; then she came back to where the house stood before, but could not get any farther.
The Chinese stand in great awe of their grandmothers. In their estimate of women, as in many of their other ideas, they are quite different from the rest of the world; with them a woman increases in value as she grows older. The young girl who is a slave to her mother can look forward to the prospect of being a goddess to her grandchildren.
Quong observes every thing, and asks endless questions about what he sees. He says that the French and Spanish people here like the Chinamen "too much" (a good deal); and that the "Melicans half likee, half no likee;" but the Irishmen "no likee nothing,"—seeing so plainly who their true enemies are. Many of the principal people here are Irish. On St. Patrick's Day, R—— told him that he was going to take Margie to see the procession, and that he could go too; but he said, with an air of immense superiority, that he did not care to go and see the "whiskey men;" he would rather stop at home, and do his work.
I feel now that all my responsibilities are shared. A while ago, R—— was obliged to stay out one night till twelve o'clock; and, when he came home, he found the boy, with his little black head on the kitchen table, fast asleep. When he waked him, and asked him what he was there for, he said, that, as every one else was asleep, he staid there to take care of the house. On another occasion, when R—— was to be out late again, I took pains to tell him to go right to bed, as soon as he had washed the dishes. He looked up at me, as if he were going to suggest the most insuperable obstacle to that, and asked, "Who fuff the light?" (put it out.)
One thing that I am always very much impressed with, in regard to the Chinese, is the feeling of there being something ancient about them, no matter how young they may be themselves; not only because many of them wear clothes which appear to have been handed down from their remotest ancestors, but they have ancient ideas. This boy, although he is of such a cheerful temperament, seems always to keep his own death in view, as much as the old Egyptian kings ever did. He pays a kind of burial-fee, amounting to nearly a quarter of his wages, every month, to some one appointed by the Chinese company to which he belongs; and when R—— remonstrated with him, and told him how foolish and unnecessary it was, and how much better it would be to spend the money for something else, he seemed to regard his remarks with great horror, and said he must pay it; to leave off wasn't to be thought of, for then, he said, he should have "no hole to get into" (meaning no grave), and there would be no apples thrown away at his funeral.
We one day heard him speaking of one of his countrymen as an Irish Chinaman; and, when we asked him what he meant, he said there were Irish Chinamen, French Chinamen, and Spanish Chinamen. Our own observation seems to confirm this idea. We see often among them the light, careless temperament which marks the French; these are the men who support the theatres, and patronize the gaming-dens. The grave, serene Spanish is the common type; and, since the hoodlum spirit has broken out among the Californians, it has called out a coarse, rough class among the Chinese, corresponding to the lower grades of the Irish. To this class belong the "Highbinders,"—men bound by secret oaths to murder, robbery, and outrage. The actual crimes that can be justly charged against the Chinese in this country are due, almost wholly, to the spirit that evoked these men.
Their ingenuity is equal to their perseverance in accomplishing an end. The Six Companies having made a regulation in regard to the wash-houses, that there should be at least fifteen houses between every two of them, one of the washmen was notified that he must give up his business, there being only fourteen houses between his and the next establishment. Although the Six Companies' directions are absolute law, he had no idea of doing this. He carefully examined the fourteen buildings, and found among them a deserted pickle manufactory, which he hired for one day, with the privilege of putting up a partition which would divide it into two houses,—in that way fulfilling the requirements of the law.
April 30, 1877.
There has lately been a great excitement about the Chinese here, and several meetings have been held to consider how to get rid of them; and anti-Chinese processions, carrying banners with crossed daggers, have paraded the streets. One night the Chinese armed themselves, and went up on to the tops of their houses, prepared to fire on a mob. They issued a proclamation, saying, that they were not much accustomed to fighting (I remember learning, in the geography, that they dressed themselves in quilted petticoats when they went to battle), but they should sell their lives as dearly as they could.
Another proclamation which they sent out was very characteristic of them; it showed so good an understanding of the subject, suggesting so artfully that, if the Chinamen were not allowed unlimited freedom to come here, Americans should not be allowed to go to China.
In an "Address to the Public" which they recently put forth, they explained, that, instead of taking the places of better men, as they are accused of doing, they considered that, in performing the menial work they did, they opened the way to higher and more lucrative employments for others; saying several times, in their simple, impressive way, "We lift others up."
In regard to the other chief accusation,—that they do not profit the country any, do not invest any thing here, but send every thing home to China,—they said, "The money that you pay us for our labor, we send home; but the work remains for you,"—as, for instance, the Pacific Railroad.
In trying to accumulate arguments against them, the anti-Chinese party have made a great deal of the fact that they are bound to companies, who advance money for them to come here, and say that the cooly trade is like the slave-trade. One of the anti-Chinese speakers said he helped make California a free state, and seemed to think he was employed in the same meritorious way now. Upon investigation, it proved that many of them do mortgage themselves—that is, their services—for a number of years, to get here; and that it is often in order that they may support poor relatives at home, who would otherwise starve. This shows some of their heathen virtues. A good deal of the objection to them seems to be on the ground of their being Pagans; some of the speakers saying that it is "so very demoralizing to our Christian youth," that they should be here,—quite overlooking a very large class of the population who are worse than Pagans, and vastly more dangerous.
The idea now seems to be, to drive them away by discriminating against them in State and city regulations; as, for instance, by enforcing the "pure-air ordinance," by which every Chinaman who sleeps where there is less than five hundred cubic feet of air for each person, pays a fine of ten dollars, but white people sleep as they choose. Then, as they value their cues above all things, and are greatly disgraced if they lose them,—having even been known to commit suicide when deprived of them,—an old ordinance is restored, by which every one who is put in jail must have his hair cropped close. They are often arrested on false charges. Then a special tax is levied on their wash-houses, and a new regulation made, by which no one can carry baskets on poles across the sidewalks; that being the way they carry about vegetables to sell. All these little teasing things, and a great many other annoyances which have not any pretence of legality, they bear with patience, and seem in all ways to show more forbearance even, and give, if possible, less ground for complaint, than before.
The poll-tax, which is levied on all males over twenty-one years of age, is rigorously collected from the Chinamen, while no special effort is made to collect it from the whites. In crossing the ferry to Oakland, they are often pounced upon by the collector,—in many instances when they are under age; and, unless they can show a tax receipt, their travelling bags or bundles are taken from them, and retained until the requirements of the collector are satisfied. Their wit and shrewdness avail them, however, to avoid this trouble; and a Chinaman who has occasion to cross the ferry can usually borrow the tax receipt of some one who has already paid. This serves as a passport, as it is not easy for a white man to distinguish them as individuals, on account of their similarity in dress, manners, and general appearance.
The police, being extremely vigilant in respect to all violations of law by the Chinese, have sought out their gambling-dens with great diligence, and made many arrests. The Chinese, not to be baffled,—besides resorting to labyrinthine passages, underground apartments, barricades of various kinds, and other modes of secluding themselves, to indulge in their games undisturbed,—have adopted one medium after another in place of cards, substituting something that could be quickly concealed in case the police should surprise them. At one time they made use of squash or melon seeds for this purpose, cutting on them the necessary devices. These could be much more easily concealed about the folds of their loose garments than cards. When this ruse was detected, they made use of almonds in the same way; and, when surprised, hastily devoured them, leaving not a particle of evidence upon which a policeman could base an arrest.
May 10, 1877.
One of the strongest arguments against the Chinese has been that they could never affiliate with our people, nor enter into the spirit of our institutions; that they had no desire to become citizens, and had no families here. Now that they have petitioned for common-school privileges for their children, stating how many there are here, and to what extent they are taxed to support schools, there is a louder outcry than ever against them, for such audacity. They are slowly asserting themselves, in different ways, and showing that they understand a good deal that we thought they did not. One of them has now protested against being imprisoned for violating the "pure-air ordinance." The city has made a good deal of money by the fines paid on this account, but it has been thought expedient to stop the arrests while this case is being tried.
Then they are making an effort against the injustice of the city in discriminating against them by charging more for laundry licenses where the clothes are carried about by hand, than where horses are used; in this way obliging any one who does a small business to pay more in proportion than one who does a large business. There are a great many large French laundries here, that all send about wagons. The Chinese carry every thing by hand; they seem altogether too meek and timid to have horses; but, as they adapt themselves to every thing, they have looked about, and met the difficulty, in part, by securing quite a number of poor, abject animals, with which they are beginning to appear in the streets. There is no change they are not willing to make; and their patience and perseverance are unconquerable, about staying and going on with their work. As an Eastern writer said of them: "They bow to the storm, and rise up, and plod on in the intervals." It is very true of them, as we see them here,—so unresisting, and yet so resistless.
We have lately made the acquaintance of a man who has lived thirty years in Shanghae, who explained many of their customs and ideas. He confirmed some things that our boys had told us, but we understood them better from him. He said that the Chinese have such perfect faith in continued life after death, and in a man's increased power in another life, that it was not an unusual thing for any one who had some great injury to avenge, to kill himself, in order to get into a position to do it more effectually. To them a dead man is more important than a living one; and the one great feature of their religion is the worship of their ancestors. They make a great many offerings to them,—as we saw them do at Lone Mountain. If any one dies at sea, or in a foreign country, where there is no friend or relative to do this for him, he becomes a beggar spirit. It is the duty of the Chinese at home to make offerings to beggar spirits as well as to their own relatives. If any great misfortune happens to a man, he thinks he must have neglected or offended some dead relative, or perhaps one of these beggar spirits; and will impoverish himself for years, to atone for it by a great feast. They are very much afraid of the spirits, and build their houses with intricate passages, and put up screens, to keep them from seeing what happens; and they especially avoid openings north and south, as they think the spirits move only in north and south lines. What is more important than almost any thing in a man's life, is to be placed right after his death,—toward the south, that he may receive genial and reviving influences from it; but if he is toward the north, and gets chilling influences from that direction, he wreaks his vengeance on his living relatives who placed him there.
We learn a good deal from the boys we have. I should like very much to go into their schools, they are so well taught in many respects. One of our boys once took some fruit-wax, and modelled a perfect little duck. He said he was taught at school how to do it. He also drew several animals with an exceedingly life-like appearance. This early instruction is no doubt the basis of the acknowledged superiority of the Chinese as carvers in wood and ivory.
I have often wondered that more of them do not die in coming to a climate so different from their own, and adopting such new modes of life as most of them are obliged to do. But they all seem to have been taught the rudiments of medicine. A young American boy, if he is sick, has not the remotest idea what to do for himself; but the Chinese boys know in most cases. We have often seen them steeping their little tin cups of seeds, roots, or leaves on the kitchen stove, which they said was medicine for some ailment or other, but "Melican man no sabbe Chinaman medicine;" and sometimes, when they did not have their own remedies at hand, I have offered them pellets or tinctures from my homœopathic supply, which they could rarely be induced to accept, alleging that "Melican medicine no good for Chinaman." One of our little boys went to a Chinese doctor for himself one day, and when he came back, I asked him what the doctor said. He told me that he pressed with his finger here and there on his flesh, to see if it rose readily, and the color came back. I saw that he meant if any one was not very sick, that the flesh was elastic; and I thought it was quite a good test, and one that might perhaps be useful to our doctors. They have one curious idea in their treatment, which is, that, if any one is sick, he is to eat an additional meal instead of less. Nevertheless, they seem to get well with this arrangement.
The belief in a future life, and in improved conditions hereafter, seems to be universal among them. A poor Chinaman was found dead near us, with a letter beside him, which was translated at the inquest held over the body.
Third Month, 27th day [May 4].
To my Father and Mother,—I came to this country, and spent my money at the gambling-table, and have not accomplished any thing. Where I am now, I cannot raise money to return home. I am sick, and have not long to live. My life has been a useless one. When you have read this letter, do not cry yourselves sick on my account. Let my brothers' wives rear and educate my two cousins. I wish to be known as godfather to one of them. I desire Chow He, my wife, to protect and assist you. When you both are dead, she may marry if she wishes. In this world I can do no more for you, father and mother. You must look to the next world for any future benefit to be received from me.
TONG GOOT LOON.
September 10, 1877.
The Chinese generally appear unwilling to talk with us about their religious customs and ideas, apparently from superstitious feelings. Occasionally we meet with an intelligent one, who readily answers our questions, and tells us about many of their festivals celebrated at home, which are not recognized here. Notwithstanding their solemn faces and methodical ways, they are as fond of celebrations as the San Francisco people themselves. They celebrate the Festival of the Little Cold, and of the Great Cold; of the Little Snow, and of the Great Snow; of the Moderate Heat, and of the Great Heat. Early in the autumn comes the Festival of Pak-lo, or the White Dew; later in the autumn, the Festival of Hon-lo, or the Cold Dew. About the time of our harvest moon, the fifteenth day of eighth moon, they celebrate the Festival of the Full Moon, eating moon-cakes, and sending presents to their friends, of tea, wine, and fruits; in February, the Festival of Rain and Water; early in the spring (the sixth day of second moon), the Festival of Enlivened Insects. On the third day of third moon they celebrate, for three days and nights, the birthday of Pak Tai, god of the extreme north; in spring, the birthday of the god of health; in spring also, the great Festival of Tsing Ming (Clear and Bright). On this occasion, they visit and worship at the tombs. In all great festivals the ancestors must share. In early summer occurs the Festival of the Prematurely Ripened. The hour for the offering of each sacrifice is most carefully chosen,—that of the spring sacrifice being at the first glimmering of dawn.
This shows as close observation of nature on their part as the Indians display, and reminds me of the names the Makahs give to the months: December, the moon when the gray whale appears; March, the moon of the fin-back whale; April, the moon of sprouts and buds; May, the moon of the salmon-berry; June, the moon of the red huckleberry; November, the moon of winds and screaming birds. The Makahs select the time of the full moon as an especially favorable one to communicate with the Great Spirit.
I do not know whether it is now considered that our Indians are of Oriental origin. It seems at first as if two races could hardly differ more than Indians and Chinese; but, after living long among them, many resemblances attract our attention. We have seen, occasionally, Indians with quite Mongolian features, and short, square frames. Flattening the head among the Indians is considered a mark of distinction, as compressing the feet is with the Chinese; no slave being allowed to practise either. The reverence of the Indians for the graves of their fathers approaches the worship of ancestors among the Chinese. No outrage is greater to the Indians than to desecrate the burial-places of their dead. They often make sacrifices to them, and celebrate anniversaries of the dead with dancing and feasting. The Chinese feast their dead at regular intervals, and carry them thousands of miles across the ocean from foreign countries to rest in their own land at last. The Manitous (ruling spirits) of earth, air, and water, with the Indians, are, in some respects, like the Shin of the Chinese,—spirits that inhabit all nature; but the Shin are inferior deities, not having much power, being employed rather as detectives,—as the kitchen god, or hearth spirit, who at the end of the year reports the conduct of the family to Shang-te, the God of Heaven. Both races are firm believers in the power and efficacy of charms: the Chinaman, in his green-jade bracelet, is demon-proof; the Indian warrior, in a white wolf-skin, rides to certain victory. Both are excessively superstitious, considering that the ruling spirits are sometimes friendly, sometimes hostile; and feel it necessary, in all the commonest acts of their lives, to be constantly on the watch to guard against malign influences,—attributing great power for harm to the spirits of the dead. An Indian, like a Chinaman, will frequently abandon his lodge, thinking some dead relative whom he has offended has discovered him there. He is afraid to speak the name of any one who is dead, and often changes his own name, that the dead person, not hearing the old name spoken, may not so readily find him. Indians and Chinese are alike in the habit of changing their names, having one for youth, another for manhood, and a third for old age; taking new names many times in the course of their lives,—as after any great event or performance.
They resemble each other in their infatuation for gambling,—a Chinaman, after all his possessions have been staked and lost, sometimes selling himself for a term of years, to keep up the game; or an Indian gambling away a hand, an arm, a leg, and so on, and at last the head, until the whole body is lost at the play, and then he goes into perpetual slavery. The Indians will sometimes gamble away their children, though they are usually very fond of them,—the typical "bad Indian" with them being one who is cowardly, or who neglects his children.
XV.
Chun Fa's Funeral.—Alameda.—Gophers and Lizards.—Poison Oak.—Sturdy Trees.—Baby Lizards.—Old Alameda.—Emperor Norton.—California Generosity.—The Dead Newsboy.—Anniversary of the Goddess Kum Fa.—Chinese Regard for the Moon and Flowers.—A Shin Worshipper.
Alameda, Cal., April 5, 1878.
We have left San Francisco, and come across the bay to live. The last thing I did there was to go to a Chinawoman's funeral. I saw in the papers that Chun Fa, the wife of Loy Mong, was dead; and he would like to have all the Christian Chinese and their friends come to the funeral. I thought I would go. Especially at this time, when the Chinese meet with so much bad treatment, we are glad of an opportunity to show our good-will and sympathy; but I did not expect to be so much interested as I was. The columns in the chapel were wreathed with ivy and lilies, and every thing was very quiet and pleasant in the bright forenoon. One side of the church was filled with Chinese women and girls. It is very hard to tell which are women, and which are children, they all have such childlike faces. I suppose it is because they are so undeveloped. Their uncovered heads, and smooth, shining black hair, looked to me at first all exactly alike; all the company seemed of one pattern. But, when I had noticed them longer, I saw some variety in their manners and expressions. To sit there among them, and feel the differences between them and us, and the resemblances,—so much stronger than the differences,—was a curious experience.
It was a school, I found, and Chun Fa seemed to have been the flower of it. They all mourned very much at losing her. She was the wife of one of their principal merchants,—but their wives are often children. She had a sweet, innocent face; and we heard that she was very intelligent, and eager to learn. With her fair, open look, it seemed as if one could have done a great deal with her in the way of development.
An American man first made a prayer in Chinese; then they all sang—
"Shall we gather at the river?"
in English. They sang with so much fervor, that, although it was so unmusical, I felt more like crying than laughing, to think it was for one of those Chinese women who have been so badly spoken of; the papers often saying that they are all prostitutes, that there are no families among them, and that the California people must purify their State by getting rid of them. Then a serene-looking Chinaman chanted something that sounded very soothing and musical, and another made a prayer. Then we went, each one, and took leave of poor little Chun Fa. I thought I should have been willing to have it my funeral, every thing was so genuine about it; no cant, and nothing superfluous.
We met with quite a disappointment in leaving San Francisco, to find that our little Quong could not go with us. We thought we had obtained leave from the proper patron; but at the last a brother appeared who claimed to be superior authority, and forbade his going. As he seemed a very gruff, disagreeable person, and, as the boy said, had never treated him kindly, we advised him to disobey him; but he said it would never do for a little China boy to disobey a father or an older brother; but, when he was old enough, he would take ten dollars, and buy a pistol, and shoot him.
We are only an hour's ride by cars and steamer from San Francisco. It is hard to believe it, it is so wholly different a place. Before us is a field of blue nemophilas. To see them waving in the wind, recalled to me what Emerson said about its restoring any one to reason and faith to live in the midst of nature,—so many trivial cares and anxieties disappeared at the sight of it. On the other side, the water rolls softly up to our very door. We bathe in it, floating about at will in warm or cold currents.
The first morning after we moved here, I noticed two small hills and holes, newly dug, beside our door. A curious little head thrust itself out of one, and two small eyes peered at me. They belonged to one of the little underground creatures, called gophers, that we have all about us. They eat roots, and it is almost impossible to cultivate any thing where they are. They appeared to have come just because they saw that the house was going to be occupied. I think they like human company, only they want to keep their own distance. They and the lizards quite animate the landscape. The gopher's wise, old-fashioned looking head is quite a contrast to that of the lizard, with its eager, inquisitive expression. There is always a little twisted-up head and bright eye, or a sharp little tail, appearing and disappearing, wherever we look. They spend their whole time in coming and going. Their purpose seems to be accomplished, if they succeed in seeing us, and getting safely away.
The wagoner who moved us over from San Francisco made some commiserating remarks concerning me, as he deposited the last load of furniture; saying that it was a good place to raise children, but would be very solitary for the woman.
It is a lonely place here, but the water is constant company. As I write, the only sound I can hear is the gentle roll of waves, and now and then an under sound that seems to come from far-off caverns,—so soft and so deep. I never lived so close to the water before, so that its changes made a part of my every-day life. Even when I am so busy that I do not look at it, I feel how the tide is creeping in, filling up all the little inlets, and making all waste places bright and full.
May 10, 1878.
We made inquiries of some of the old residents, in reference to the wind, before we decided to come here; but people who live in half-settled places, I find, are very apt to misrepresent,—they are so eager for neighbors. How much wiser we should have been to have consulted the trees!—they show so plainly that they have fought all their lives against a strong sea-wind, bending low, and twisting themselves about, trying to get away from it.
We find that where we live is not Alameda proper, but is called the Encinal District,—encinal being the Spanish for oak. I do not know whether they mean by it the old dusky evergreens, or the poison oak which is every where their inseparable companion. Soon after we arrived, we found ourselves severely affected by it. It was then in flower, and we attributed its strength to that circumstance; but every change it passes through re-enforces its life,—when it ripens its berries, when its leaves turn bright, or when the autumn rains begin. Every thing suits it; moisture or dryness, whichever prevails, appears to be its element. Thoreau, who liked to see weeds overrun flowers, would have rejoiced in its vigor. We never touch it; but any one sensitive to its influence cannot pass near it, nor breathe the air where it grows, without being affected by it. Alameda seems hardly ready for human occupancy yet, unless something effectual can be done to exterminate it. We often see superficial means taken, like burning it down to the level of the earth; but what short-sighted warfare is that which gives new strength after a brief interval! On one account I forgive it many injuries,—that it furnishes our only bright autumn foliage, turning into most vivid and beautiful shades of red. Except for the poison oak, and a few of the long, narrow leaves of the Eucalyptus, that hang like party-colored ribbons on the trees, we have no change in the foliage between summer and winter; there are always the same old dingy evergreen oaks everywhere about us.
There are some cultivated grounds and gardens in the neighborhood, but everywhere interspersed among them are wild fields. The trees have a determined look, as they stand and hold possession of them. The cultivated ones that border the streets, in contrast with them, appear quite tame. I find myself thinking of the latter sometimes as if they were artificial, and only these old aborigines were real; they have so much more character and expression. I heard a lady criticising Alameda, saying that there were so many trees, you could not see the place. We have a general feeling, all the time, as if we were camping out, and everybody else were camping out too. The trees are scattered everywhere; and it is quite the fashion, in this humble part of the town, for people to live in tents while they build their own houses. These trees are of a very social kind, bending low, and spreading their branches wide, so that any one could almost live in them just as they are. They are a great contrast to the firs which we had wholly around us on Puget Sound. They have strange fancies for twisting and turning. I have never seen two alike, nor one that grew up straight. It is not because they are so yielding,—they are as stiff and rugged as they can be,—it must be their own wild nature that makes them like to grow in strange, irregular ways. Sometimes, when I look at great fields of them, I feel as if I were in the midst of a storm, every thing has such a wind-swept look, although it is perfectly still at the time. One day I came upon a body of them, that appeared as if they had all been stopped by some sudden enchantment, in the midst of running away. Often we see trees that look as if they had come out of the wars, with great clefts in their sides, and holes through them. Their foliage is very slight; there is very little to conceal their muscular look. It seems as if we could feel in them the will that tightened all the fibres.
The great event to us lately has been the advent of the baby lizards. The streets are all laid with planks, clean and sunny. The lizards delight in them, they are so bright and warm. I like to see, as I walk along, these curious little bodies, in old-fashioned scale armor, stopping and looking about, as if they were drinking in the comfort of the sunshine, just as I am. Although they stop a great deal, it is very difficult to catch one, for their movements are like a flash. I did succeed once in holding one long enough to examine his beautiful steel-blue bands. The babies are as delicate as if they were made of glass, and as light and airy as if they belonged to fairy-land. They run, all the time, backward and forward, just for the pleasure of moving, over the sidewalk, and under it.
When I read in the papers, every week, about the people who kill themselves in San Francisco,—and they generally say that they do it because there does not seem to be any thing worth living for,—I wonder if it would not make a difference to them if they lived in the country, and saw how entertaining the world looks to the lively little creatures about us, who think it worth while to move so quickly, and look well about on every side, for fear they may miss seeing something.
July 2, 1878.
When we first came here in the spring, and found the ground all blue and yellow and white with blossoms, I thought how interested I should be, to watch the succession of flowers. But that was all. In these dry places, we have only spring flowers. I did, though, the other day, see something red in the distance, and, going to it, found a clump of thistles, almost as tall as I am, of a bright crimson color. The fields are very dry now, and it seems to be the season of the snakes. Under the serpent-like branches, we find nothing but the cast-off skins of the snakes.
There are some curious old men here who tend cattle, sitting under the trees, with their knitting. I think they are Germans. They do not appear to understand when I speak to them. I thought they might be "broke miners," who are generally the most curious people here-abouts.
One of these "broke miners" is employed to take care of two little children near us, whose mother is dead. He dresses them with their clothes hind-side before, and liable at any moment to drop entirely off; but seems to succeed very well in amusing them, quilting up his dishcloths into dolls for them, and transforming their garments into kites. His failing seems to be that a kind of dreamy mood is apt to steal over him, in which he wanders on the beach, regardless of hours; and the master of the house, coming home, has to hunt high and low for him, to come and prepare the meal. On the last bright moonlight night, he wholly disappeared.
October 15, 1878.
We have finally been driven off by the wind from our cottage on the bay. Margie has been so accustomed to moving, that she takes it as easily as an Indian child would. A few days before we left, she gave me an account of the moving of the man opposite, which was all accomplished before breakfast in the morning. First, she said, he put all his things on a wagon, and then took his house to pieces, and put that on; and then he and the wagoner sat down and drank a pot of coffee together, and started off, on their load.
We did not take our house with us, but found a rather dilapidated one, in what is called Old Alameda. It is quite attractive, from the trees and vines about it, and the spacious garden in which it stands. It is owned by an old German woman, who lives next to us. She is rich now, and owns the whole block, but still holds to her old peasant customs, and wears wooden shoes. Opposite is a French family, who go off every year to a vineyard, to make wine; and, next to them, a poor Spanish family, who carry round mussels to sell.
March 3, 1879.
We have had a real winter; not that it was very cold or snowy,—that it never is here,—but so excessively rainy as to keep us a good deal in-doors. The grass grew up in the house, and waved luxuriantly round the edges of the rooms. The oak-trees surprised us by bursting out into fresh young green, though we had not noticed that they had lost any of their hard, evergreen leaves.
April 10, 1879.
While we were crossing the ferry between San Francisco and Oakland one day, a peculiar-looking person appeared on the deck of the boat, who saluted the assembled company in a most impressive manner. He was a large man, serene and self-possessed, with rather a handsome face. On his broad shoulders he wore massive epaulets, a sword hung by his side, and his hat was crowned with nodding peacock feathers. I noticed that he passed the gates where the tickets are delivered, unquestioned, giving only a courteous salute, instead of the customary passport. Upon inquiry, I learned that he was the "Emperor Norton, ruler of California," according to his fancy; and that he passed free wherever he chose to go,—theatres opening their doors to him, railroads and steamers conveying him without charge. He was an old pioneer, distraught by misfortunes, and humored in this hallucination by the people. He was in the habit of ordering daily telegraphic despatches sent to the different crowned heads of Europe. He had once been known to draw his sword upon his washer-woman, because she presumed to demand payment for his washing; whereupon the Pioneer Society, learning of the affair, took upon itself the charge of meeting all little expenses of this nature.
The Californians have a jolly, good-natured way of regarding idiosyncrasies, and a kind of lavish generosity in the distribution of their alms, quite different from the careful and judicious method of the Eastern people. We hear that some of the early miners, passing along the streets of San Francisco, just after it had been devastated by one of the terrible fires that swept every thing before them, and seeing a lone woman sitting and weeping among the ruins, flung twenty-dollar gold pieces and little packages of gold dust at her, until all her losses were made good, and she had a handsome overplus to start anew.
I noticed in Oakland a man who drew the whole length of his body along the sidewalk, like an enormous reptile, moving slowly by the help of his hands, unable to get along in any other way, holding up a bright, sunny, sailor face. On his back was a pack of newspapers, from which men helped themselves, and flung him generally a half or a quarter of a dollar, always refusing the change. That such a man could do business in the streets, was a credit to the kindliness of the people incommoded by him. I hardly think he would have been tolerated in New York or Boston; but his pleasant face and fast-disappearing papers showed that he was not made uncomfortably aware of the inconvenience he caused.
One day, while waiting at the ferry, I saw two men employed in a way that attracted the attention of every one who passed. One of them, who had in his hand a pair of crutches, ascended some steps, and, crossing them, nailed them to the wall, close to the gateway where the passengers passed to the boat. The other arranged some light drapery in the form of wings above them. Below they put a small table, with the photograph of a little newsboy on it. All the business-men, the every-day passengers crossing to their homes on the Oakland side, appeared to understand it, and quietly laid some piece of money beside the picture. It seems that it was the stand of a little crippled boy who had for a year or two furnished the daily papers to the passengers passing to the boat. The money was for his funeral expenses, and to help his family. It was very characteristic of the Californians to take this dramatic and effective way of collecting a fund. Men who would have been very likely to meet a subscription-paper with indifference, on being appealed to in this poetic manner, with no word spoken, only seeing the discarded crutches and the white wings above, with moist eyes laid their little tribute below, as if it were a satisfaction to do so. I thought how the little newsboy's face would have brightened if he could have seen it, and hoped that he might not be beyond all knowledge of it now.
We have had an opportunity to observe some fine-looking Chinamen who have been at work on the railroad all winter opposite our house. There are a hundred or more of them. We understand that they are from the rural districts of China. They are large, strong, and healthy, quite different from the miserable, stunted, sallow-faced creatures from the cities, of whom we see so many, showing that this inferiority is not inherent in the race, but is the effect of unfavorable circumstances.
May 15, 1879.
Day before yesterday was the anniversary of the birthday of the Chinese goddess Kum Fa, or Golden Flower, guardian of children. She is worshipped chiefly by women; but some of the workers on the railroad begged branches of the feathery yellow acacia, which is now in bloom, to carry with them to the temple in San Francisco. They are so unpoetic in many ways, that we should hardly expect them to be so fond of flowers; but they mourn very much if the bulbs which they keep growing in stones and water in their houses in the winter do not open for the new year.
The moon and the flowers they enjoy more than any thing else. In many things they are children, and like what children like. The moon holds a very important place to them, and the dates of the new year and all their festivals are determined by its changes. We used to see one of our boys standing, sometimes for hours together, with his arms folded, gazing into the moonlit sky. When questioned as to what he was doing, he said he was "looking at the garden in the moon," and listening to "hear the star-men sing."
This boy appeared to be a Shin worshipper. He made many drawings representing these spirits, with astonishing facility and artistic skill, but, when pressed to explain them, said it was not good to speak much about them. Some rode upon clouds; some thrust their heads out of the water, or danced upon the backs of fishes; some looked out of caves among the hills. There were serene, peaceful ones, with flowers or musical instruments in their hands; others were fierce and hostile, brandishing weapons, and exploding bombs. Everywhere was the wildest freedom and grace, and apparently much symbolic meaning which we could not understand.
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