THE ONE MOON TOWN.
The recent discovery of Trinidad bay, which lies about two hundred miles north of San Francisco, will have a material effect on the local interests of the country. It will open a new channel of commerce into the northern mines, and render accessible the finest forests in California. This bay, as represented, has sufficient depth and capacity to shelter a large marine. A town has already been laid out on the curve of its bold shore; streets, squares, and edifices have ceased to figure on the map, and become a reality. Where but one moon since the shark and seal plunged and played at will, freighted ships are riding at anchor; while the indignant bear has only had time to gather up her cubs and seek a new jungle.
Before this sheet can get to press, there will be a daily on Trinidad bay, with the price-current of New York and London figuring in its columns, and an opera of Rossini singing its prelude between the reeling anthems of the church-going bell. Why, man! you talk of the slumbers of Rip Van Winkle, and the visions of the seven sleepers of Ephesus! Know you not the whole world is asleep, save what wakes and works on Trinidad bay? It takes an age in other lands to rear a city; but here, one phase of the fickle moon, and up she comes, like Venus from the wave, or the peak of Pico at the call of the morning star. Clear the coast with your old dormitory hulks of slumbering ages, and let this new Trinidad launch her keeled thunder! Her pennant unrolls itself in flame on the wind, and her trident is tipt with the keen lightning. The great whale of the Pacific turns here his startled gaze—plunges, and blows next half-way to Japan.
Hurra for Trinidad! Let nations sleep,
And empires moulder in their misty shroud;
She shakes her trident on her golden steep,
O’er waving woods, in solemn reverence bowed;
Her bright aurora throws its flashing ray
Where primal worlds in sunless darkness stray!
A shout from those touched orbs comes rolling back,
As rose the anthem of this earth, when first
Around the night that sphered her rayless track,
The breaking morn in golden splendors burst—
The king of chaos sees the new-born light,
And, howling, plunges down the gulf of night.
OLD AND WELL-TRIED FRIENDS.
I must not forget in my reveries over the map marvels of the new towns, the fireside friends of good old Monterey. Among them my three years circled their varied rounds, now stored with memories that can never die. I must introduce them to the reader before we part, and pay them the tribute of a farewell word. They have no splendor of outward circumstance to stir your wonder, but hearts as true as ever throbbed in the human breast. Here is David Spence, from the hills of Scotland, a man of unblemished integrity and sterling sense, married to a daughter of the late Don José Estrada, a resident of twenty-five years in Monterey, my predecessor in the office of alcalde, and recently prefect of the department. Here is W. P. Hartnell, from England, married into the Noriega family, the best linguist in the country, and the government translator, with the claims of a twenty-seven years’ residence, and a circle of children, in which yours, my gentle reader, would only appear as a few more added to a sweeping flock.
Here is Don Manuel Dias, a native of Mexico, married to a sister of Mrs. Spence, a gentleman whose urbanity and intelligence honors his origin. Here is James McKinley, a gentleman of liberality and wealth from the Grampian Hills, married to a daughter of a Spanish Don from the Bay of Biscay. Here is Don Manuel Jimeno, once secretary of state, married into the Noriega family, to a lady of sparkling wit and gentle benevolence. Here is Milton Little, a man of mind and means, who broke into California many years ago from the west, and whom I joined in wedlock to a fair daughter of the empire state. Here is Don José Abrigo, blest with wealth, enterprise, and a fine family of boys. Here is J. P. Lease, from Missouri, long resident in California, with ample fortune and generous heart, and whose amiable wife is the sister of Gen. Vallejo. Here is James Watson, born on the Thames; came to Monterey twenty-five years since, married a lady of the country, is now a heavy capitalist, with a charity open as day. Here is Charles Walter, of German origin, a resident of many years, married into the Estrada family, and possessed of wealth. Here is Gov. Pulacio, from Lower California—a gentleman of the old school—with a wife and daughter imbued with the same spirit of refinement. Here is J. F. Dye, from our own shores, long identified with the interests of the country, and married to one of its daughters. Here are Messrs. Toomes & Thoms, bosom friends, partners in business, and men of enterprise and substance. Here is James Stokes, from England, for twenty-five years a citizen of Monterey, a merchant, farmer, and doctor, married to a lady of the country, in whom the afflicted always find a friend.
Here is Señor Soveranez, whose saloon is lit by eyes bright as nuptial tapers, and where the Castilian flows soft as if warbled by a bird. Here is Padre Ramirez, an intelligent, liberal, and warm-hearted canon of the Catholic church; and also the Rev. S. H. Willey, of the Protestant persuasion, who is organizing a society, and who has the zeal and energy to carry the enterprise through. Monterey lost one of its most cherished ladies, when Mrs. Larkin took her departure. Here for eighteen years she had lent a charm to its society. She was the first lady from the United States that settled in California. Long will the good old town lament the departure of T. H. Green. His enterprise and integrity as a merchant, and his benevolence as a citizen, were everywhere felt. The widow and the orphan ever found in him a generous friend. Nor must I forget the young and gentle Saladonia, who has often hovered like a ministering angel in the family of the poor emigrant. Nor must I pass unheeded the grave of my revered friend Don Juan Malerine, beloved in life, and who died
“Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”