SAN FRANCISCO TO NEW YORK.
A ride down the bay (June 8th), through San Mateo and Menlo Park, some fifty miles to San Josè, completed my wanderings on the Pacific Coast. The air at San Francisco, fresh from the ocean, was raw and rasping; but at San Josè, sheltered by the Coast Range, the thermometer measured over twenty degrees warmer, and the valley there seemed sleeping in summer. The whole ride by railroad is through farms and gardens, and San Josè itself we found embowered in roses and foliage. Here are old Spanish convents and churches, with their surroundings of vineyards, fig-trees, orange-groves, etc., as at Santa Barbara and Los Angelos—only better preserved—and the ride thither is a favorite excursion for San Franciscans and strangers. The sleepy old town is in vivid contrast, with the rush and whirl of the Golden Gate; and its soft and delicious air proves a soothing balm, to the invalid and the weak. A fair hotel furnished good entertainment, and the place seemed indeed like a haven of rest, after "roughing it" so in the interior.
Returning to San Francisco, the last farewells were said, and June 10th, at 11 a. m., the good steamer Constitution bore us away for Panama. We had spent six months on the Coast, and would fain have remained longer, especially to visit the "Geysers." But my official work was ended; and besides, I was in receipt of private letters, that required my presence East. The 10th was "steamer-day"—still a recognized event in San Francisco. All business ended then; and from then, began again. There was a bustle about the hotels, and an air of importance everywhere. Hundreds thronged the vessel and wharf, to see their friends off, and tarried till the last moment. But, prompt to the minute, the Constitution cast loose, and rounding into the stream, was soon heading down the bay, for the Golden Gate and the Pacific. Past Alcatraz and Angel Island, past Fort San Josè and Fort Point, we reached the bar, and crossed it in a chopping sea, that soon sent most of the passengers to their berths.
In San Francisco, the sun shone bright as we steamed away, but the air was raw and chilly like our later autumn;[29] and once out at sea, we found an overhanging mist, that often deepened into a winter fog. This uncomfortable weather continued for a day or two, keeping most of the passengers below deck—many of them sea-sick; but as we passed down the coast, the weather gradually moderated, and soon we were sailing beneath perfect skies, over, indeed, "summer seas." The rest of the way down, what a superb voyage it really was! Looking back on it now, it seems rather a grand picnic excursion, than a bona fide journey by sea. The ocean, in the main, proved itself truly Pacific. We were very seldom out of sight of land by day. The purple, and crimson, and golden hues of the Coast Range, were a perpetual wonder and delight. Schools of porpoises, and now and then a vagrant whale enlivened the day; and the phosphorescent waves, wide-spreading from our wake, made our track a blaze of fire by night.
And what skies those were! By day, "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue;" by night, one blaze of flaming stars. It was the very luxury of travel—the very poetry of locomotion. Sometimes I would lie for hours on deck, breathing in the balmy air, watching the gulls and frigate-birds as they hovered in our wake, or gazing on far-off hill and mountain, as the shore opened up before us—losing all sense of thought and action, content solely with being. Even novel-reading sometimes seemed a task, and writing a great burden. And when evening came, we would sit and talk far into the night; or, leaning over the guards, would watch the stream as of liquid fire, that boiled, and curled, and rippled away beneath us.
As we got farther down the coast, the climate became warmer; but blue-flannels and white-linens in place of winter-woolens, rendered this endurable, and indeed the change from temperate to tropic—from latitude 38° to 7°—did not seem so great after all, barring the first day or two out from San Francisco. Some, however, who had not provided themselves with such changes of clothing, complained bitterly of the heat and lassitude, though most of us got on very well. We had a thunderstorm one night, and a stiff rain next day, when well down the Mexican coast; but otherwise were favored with uninterruptedly fine weather.
From San Francisco to Panama is somewhat over three thousand miles, and we were fifteen days in making it. Our steamer was a fine specimen of her class, with a burden of 3,500 tons, and a carrying capacity of eleven hundred passengers, besides freight. She measured three hundred and forty feet in length, by forty-five feet in beam, and her great deck morning and evening was a rare promenade. Of passengers, we had only about four hundred; so that all had state-rooms, and to spare. We carried our own beef, and mutton, and poultry, to be slaughtered as wanted; and our fare, as a whole, was excellent and generous. Our company, it must be confessed, was rather heterogeneous, but altogether was social and enjoyable. We had army officers and their wives, going east, on leave or transfer; a U. S. Consul from the Sandwich Islands, en route to Washington, on public business; Englishmen from Hong Kong, bound for New York or London; merchants, bankers, and gamblers from San Francisco; red-shirted miners from Nevada and Arizona; and women of all sorts, from fine ladies and true mothers, to dulcineas of dubious character. The general decorum, however, was above criticism; and on Sundays, when a San Francisco divine held service, all were attentive listeners, notwithstanding his High-Church absurdities. The morning promenade on deck, and the evening smoke on the guards, were the great occasions for conversation, and all enjoyed them to the full.
Our first stopping-place was at Cape St. Lucas, the extreme point of Southern California, where we put off two passengers, and took on none. Thence, we crossed the mouth of the Gulf of California, and halted at Manzanillo, Mexico—a little hamlet of two or three hundred souls, the sea-port of the fine town of Colima, some seventy-five miles inland. Here we put off a hundred tons of freight, intended for the interior, and spent several hours. Eight days out, we reached Acapulco, the chief Mexican port on the Pacific Coast, and world-famous in other days, when Spain bore rule here. The harbor is perfectly land-locked, with bold islands off the mouth and deep water close in shore, and here ought to be a great and puissant city. From San Francisco down, not counting San Diego, this is the first really good harbor; and here is the great route for trade and travel, across Mexico, via the capital and Vera Cruz, to the Atlantic. Yet we found only a squalid town of two or three thousand inhabitants, mostly half-negro and half-Indian, with a trace of the Spaniard here and there mixed in. A handful of Americans and Germans controlled the business of the town; and as for the rest—they seemed to be a lotus-eating, inert race, not inaptly denominated "greasers." A general look of decadence prevailed everywhere; and if this be a sample of Mexican civilization, after a trial of two centuries, or more, alas for its future! Not a single wagon-road led from the town inland, in any direction; and the only means of transit, to or from the interior, was by horse or mule-back, over winding mountain-trails, the same as in the days of Cortez.
We reached there June 18th, soon after breakfast; and had scarcely rounded to, before the Philistines were—not exactly upon, but—around us. They swarmed about our vessel in bum-boats and dug-outs, of all shapes and sizes, tendering oranges, limes, bananas, shells, etc., for a consideration—sending them up the ship's sides by a cord and tiny basket, trusting us to return the agreed-for coin. When these failed to please, they paraded their skill as swimmers and divers, plunging under like ducks when a coin was tossed overboard, and sure to catch it before it reached the bottom. With little or no clothing, except about the loins, and often not that, they seemed to be an amphibious sort of creatures—equally at home on land, or sea.
As we were to spend several hours here, taking in coal and water to last to Panama, many of us embraced the opportunity to go ashore and see something of the town. When we touched the beach, comely maidens of coffee-colored complexion met us, with baskets and strings of shells, to any of which we were heartily welcome, provided we paid well for them. They always tender their wares as a "gift," a trick of Acapulco's, as also of Manzanillo's and Panama's; but they invariably expect more than their real value, in return. Passing on, we found the town to consist of one-story adobes, with streets hardly more spacious than good foot-pavements East, and with little business to speak of, except what the tri-monthly steamers supplied. The stores were chiefly baskets or boxes on the side-walks or street-corners, and even these were in charge of women, while the lazy-looking men "loafed" or lounged in the shade, sipping their aguardiente or whiffing their cigarritos with infinite content. The flocks of children, from infants to half-grown youths, were usually guiltless of raiment, and all seemed supremely happy, if only sucking an orange or munching a banana.
All gazed at Los Americanos with good-natured curiosity, and a score were eager to show us to the U. S. Consulate, which was already well-designated by the Stars and Stripes drooping idly from its staff. The Consul himself, unfortunately, was absent; but his deputy, Mr. Sutter, gave us kindly welcome, and we spent an instructive hour, listening to his stories of Mexican life and manners. From there, we went to the rude church or "cathedral," on the plaza; and found in its tawdry ornaments and doll-like images—its wax-figure Christs, its tissue-paper angels, and pewter amulets—an easy explanation of the ignorance, and squalor, and stagnation of this people. The fat and jolly priest suspended his devotions, to sell us pewter charms (he swore, by the Virgin, they were silver!) that would insure us against fever and shipwreck on the voyage; and afterwards he invited us round to take a sip of aguardiente and see his favorite game-cock. Thence, we strolled down the beach, between rows of palms and bananas, to the old Spanish fort, and found it a solid and substantial structure still, though a century or two old. True, it would not stand long before one of our modern monitors; but it was a fine work in its day, and showed well yet. A company or two of dirty and ragged soldiers constituted the garrison—their uniforms heterogeneous, and their arms really worthless. We sent our compliments to the commanding officer, hoping to gain an entrance; but he was absent, and his pompous subordinate declined to admit such Northern barbarians.
Returning to the Constitution, late in the afternoon we bade good-bye to Acapulco; and thence, following the trend of the continent, across the gulf of Tehuantepec, by Guatemala, by San Salvador, by Nicaragua, by Costa Rica, and finally by New Granada, at last, on the morning of June 25th, we cast anchor at Panama. During all of this week's sail, we were hardly ever out of sight of land, and usually were so near, that we could note the flocks and herds, the houses and trees, and rich luxuriance of this tropical coast generally, as we glided by. Lofty mountain-ranges and cone-shaped peaks—old volcanoes now extinct, rising thirteen thousand and fourteen thousand feet above the sea—were generally in view by day; and at night fitful lightnings, playing apparently from peak to peak, often lit up the whole heavens.
Here at Panama, the key of two continents and two oceans, we again struck the busy currents of modern life, though but little belonged to the natives there. The broad bay itself, with its shapely islands of perpetual green, crowned with the ever-graceful palm and banana, was a delightful scene, tropical thoroughly; but here also were lines of busy steamers, from Chili and Australia, as well as California, and the old harbor gave multiplied signs of life and energy. The railroad to Aspinwall, costly as it was, both in life and treasure, opened up a pathway across the Isthmus to the commerce of the world, and Panama stands at the gate. In another land, or with a better people, she would soon become a mighty metropolis. But we found her much like Acapulco, though with broader streets, better houses, and more population. I believe she claimed four or five thousand inhabitants then; but they were chiefly a mixed race, in which the most of what is really valuable in humanity seemed to be dying out. They had no public schools, and scarcely knew what popular education meant. Their churches, venerable only for their age, but in this dating back to the Spanish conquest, were crumbling to ruins. Their religion was only an ignorant superstition or savage fanaticism. And their government, so-called, was in a state of chronic revolution, so that nobody seemed to know when it was up or down. Of course, the real business of the town was in the hands of foreigners—chiefly Americans, Germans, and English—and these "pushed things," with much of their wonted skill and energy, notwithstanding the climate. The natives, as a rule, contented themselves with driving a petty traffic in parrots and shells, oranges and bananas; and literally swarmed around us, until we were weary alike of their clamor and dirt.
We reached Panama, as I have said, early in the morning, but did not get off for Aspinwall until about noon. All this time was spent in disembarking passengers, with their baggage, and fast freight; but, at last, the impatient locomotive whistled "up brakes," and we moved slowly off. The ride across the Isthmus is fifty miles, and is usually made in two or three hours; but half-way across, a baggage-car broke down, and we were detained four hours in an impenetrable jungle. It had rained that morning at Panama, and the sun was still obscured; but the air was dense with heat and moisture, that hung as if in strata and folds about you, without a breath to disturb them—and to say we steamed and sweltered, during those four long hours there, would only half express our perspiring experience. All along the road, there was a tropical luxuriance and splendor, which no word-painting can describe, and here in this jungle both seemed to culminate. What we in a sterner clime grow in hot-houses and conservatories, as rare exotics, there rioted in the open air, as well they might, and all nature seemed bursting with exuberance and richness. Underneath, grasses and shrubbery so dense, that only the machete could clear the way, or keep them under. Overhead, the lordly palm and gracious banana, with flowering vines, pendent, interlacing, creeping, and twining everywhere. Bread-fruit and bananas hung everywhere, in clusters as big as half-bushel baskets; and here and there, birds of brilliant plumage flitted to and fro, fit denizens with the chattering monkeys, and screaming parrots, of such a wilderness. The whole ride, indeed, through the heart thus of the tropics, after all, was a rare experience; and the transition from the steamer to the railroad, notwithstanding the heat, a welcome change.
The railroad itself seemed well built, and fairly managed. It was said, indeed, to rest literally on human bodies, so many poor fellows perished in the deadly miasmas, while constructing it. The ties and sleepers were of lignum-vitæ, and the telegraph poles of terra-cotta or cement, as nothing else would withstand the insects and moisture of the Isthmus. The stations were well apart, and seemed maintained solely for the convenience of the road, as hardly a passenger got off or on, except employés of the company. We could see the natives, as we passed along, lolling in their hammocks, or stretched out on mats, in their rude huts of poles and palm-leaves; and their herds of children ran everywhere at will, as naked as when born. Sometimes, a few of the inhabitants clustered about a station; but as a rule, this required too much effort, and they preferred to take their dolce far niente in their huts. The taint of the Spaniard seemed to be over them all; or, else, nature was too kindly to them, removing all incentive to exertion, by omitting the necessity for it.
We ran into Aspinwall at 6 p. m., and remained there until 8 p. m. We spent the time in exploring the town, but found little to interest any one. It had no storied past, like Panama; and its future depended on—Pacific Mail. Some found cheap linens, wines, and cigars, as Aspinwall was a free port, and laid in a stock for future consumption, to the damage of our Customs Revenue. But the most of us were sated and weary, with the day's rare experiences, and were glad when the steamer's bell rang "All aboard!" Our High-Church chaplain proved to be our only really useful man, at Aspinwall, after all. He married a couple, while we halted there; and would have married another, had there been time. Both had been waiting several weeks, much-enduring souls—Aspinwall, it seems, not affording a minister.
Our complement of passengers had been swelled, by accessions from Valparaiso and Melbourne; and hence, from Aspinwall to New York, we were rather overcrowded. Our good ship Rising Star was staunch and sea-worthy; but without the roomy accommodations of the Constitution, or her thorough appointments. Her beef and mutton were all brought from New York on ice, to last for a twenty-day's voyage to Aspinwall and back; and, before we reached New York, were not like Cæsar's wife—above suspicion. But, on the whole, there was little to complain of; and the ship's officers certainly did their utmost, to make everybody content and comfortable.
Our route to New York, distant about two thousand miles, lay across the Caribbean Sea, and thence off the eastern terminus of Cuba, through the West Indies, home. We had some rough weather, with continuous thunder and lightning, as it seemed, for a day or two, while crossing the Caribbean. But, once past that, we entered a region of blue skies and balmy breezes, and sighted New York in eight days from Aspinwall. We passed Cuba so near, that her green hills and mountains seemed within a stone's throw; and, threading the West Indies, struck the Gulf Stream, whence both steam and current hurried us forward. We reached Sandy Hook at sundown, July 3d, where they quarantined us till morning, much to our disgust. But the 4th broke gloriously, over city and bay; and amid ringing bells, and firing cannon, and fluttering bunting, we steamed proudly up the harbor—it never seemed so magnificent before—and touching the pier, thus ended our journey.
To land on such a day seemed a fit conclusion, to such a twelve-month's ramble, across the continent and over the seas; and that evening at home, surrounded by loving friends, seemed doubly dear from the long absence and safe return. How much we had seen of the Great Republic—only a little can be told here! How it enlarged, and dignified, one's conception of the Fatherland! What a magnificent country we really have—washed by two oceans, crowned with mountains, and gemmed with lakes; and yet, evidently, it is only a prophecy of that Greater America, when we shall occupy the continent, from the Arctic down to the Isthmus, with teeming millions, and convert the Pacific practically into a Yankee sea. Well might Whittier, our truest seer, melodiously sing:
"I hear the tread of pioneers,
Of nations yet to be;
The first low wash of waves, where soon
Shall roll a human sea."
And, best of all, over all this broad land, there shall then be but one flag and one freedom, one law and one liberty, one Right and one Justice, for us and for all men—wherever born and of whatever faith, however poor or however humble. And to this end, and for this purpose, let us, and all who love the English-speaking race, if not mankind, sincerely pray, God save the Republic!
In conclusion, let me add, to the many friends we met everywhere en route, for their numberless kindnesses and unstinted courtesies, we were much indebted; and I would gratefully record my sense of this here. Nobler souls, more generous spirits, than most of the people we encountered, especially in Colorado and California, never breathed; and here is good fortune to them, one and all, wherever they may chance to be! Surely, they have fought a good fight, in their rough life on the border, preparing the way for civilization, and deserve well of their country and their kind.
But, all things must end—this volume included; and so, O reader, in the vernacular of the Coast, "Adios," and good-bye!
Trenton, N. J., March, 1874.