December, 1853. An important change has been in progress for some time past in the Redwoods. Three or four months ago I was surrounded by a deep, dense forest, in which was a busy population at work. But this industry fast swept away the forest, and as the timber grew scarce, they began to remove to other places. They continued to go until our society was reduced to ten men, living in a little cluster of four cabins. But even this colony has taken a sudden resolution to migrate, and this morning the last man went, and I am left alone. So now, nothing remains for me but to go too, which I shall do as soon as I can determine where.
As for a portion of my departed neighbors—brutal, lawless scoundrels—I am heartily glad they are gone. But I had one good friend, whose absence I deeply regret. From the first moment I came into the woods until we shook hands and parted this morning, Mr. Wakefield has stood by me, a kind, benevolent, warm-hearted, steadfast friend. His disinterested kindness, his anxiety for my welfare, and my success in business, his watchfulness of two or three bitter foes, with whom I have had to contend, and his timely warnings of dangers, have entitled him to my warmest gratitude.
Well, here I am in the depths of a California forest, shut up in a lonely cabin on a winter night, scribbling my diary for the amusement of my daughter, rejoicing in the departure of my foes, and deploring the absence of my friends. And while I ponder on the perfect solitude that surrounds me, I find myself almost unconsciously repeating from Kirk White:
"It is not that my lot is low,
That bids this silent tear to flow;
It is not grief that makes me moan;
It is that I am all alone."
I had a cat. She has been with me all day; but now, when the society of any domestic animal would be some relief against the tedium of this deep loneliness, even she has left me and instead of the purring of a gentle house cat, I am for a moment startled by the dismal howling of a wild animal outside of my cabin. I am unfortunately possessed of an unsocial disposition; I love solitude, but I have at last found a solitude more profound than I have a taste for.
[A Collector of Natural Curiosities.]
July 30, 1854. In company with a young man in San Francisco, who had been informed of my taste for the odd and curious productions of nature, I visited a man who had made a considerable collection of objects of Natural History. We found him in a small room in a second story, with his boxes and trunks all packed preparatory to a removal. But on announcing the object of our visit, he seemed much pleased, and though I remonstrated with him against the trouble it would cost him, he proceeded at once to unpack his treasures and spread them before us. But before I speak of them let me describe the man. He was a Norwegian, but having resided several years in the United States, he spoke pretty good English. He was about forty years of age, sprightly and active, with a sparkling eye, and a face covered with a very thick red beard that hung down upon his breast. He was naturally intelligent, though his faculties wanted cultivation. He had never studied Natural History, and did not know a single specimen in his collection by its scientific name. He had passed much time at sea, I do not know in what capacity, but it had afforded him time and opportunity to make a valuable collection.
The first curiosity he exhibited was a family of young mice which he had bottled the day before. Next he produced a bottle containing a little shapeless mass apparently folded up in a bleached tobacco-leaf, and challenged me to tell him the name of it. "A young bat," said I. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "you are the first man that has guessed it." Then he set out bottle after bottle of snakes, some of them very rare and beautiful. These reptiles had the greatest attractions for him, and they composed the largest and most valuable portion of his collection. Then a fine variety of lizards, and a considerable collection of coleopterous insects, among which were some very large and brilliant specimens. Next he produced a Bible, whose pages he had embellished with a variety of butterflies; and lastly, several boxes filled with sea-shells and corals, pieces of crystalized quartz, some specimens of gold in quartz, a copper ball nearly an inch in diameter, which he had found in the mountains, and many other specimens in mineralogy, which he had collected in the mines. He gave me several shells and crystals, and in return I promised him some bones and feathers of the California Vulture and other birds from my cabinet.
He had one live snake which he intended to bottle after it had shed its skin, which it was about to do. This snake was kept in a wooden box; and, while we were engaged in examining his preserved congeners, finding the door of his prison open, he resolved to take an airing on the balcony. Here he was accidentally discovered by the next door neighbors, who gave our friend timely notice. He immediately gave chase, and found his snakeship ensconced among some boxes and other rubbish. Seizing him by the tail, he brought him in writhing and twisting about his hand and arm, darting out his red forked tongue, flashing fire from his eyes, and betraying a total absence of those blandishments with which an ancestor of his once induced a pretty woman to sin. Some one present asked the man if he was not afraid the snake would bite him. "No," he answered, "no snake can bite me." I did not ask him if he was a serpent-charmer, but have been told that he was.