Burt, sc.
CHAPTER VIII.
LITTLE ADELAIDA.—COL. FREMONT’S BATTALION.—SANTIAGO IN LOVE.—SENTIMENTS OF AN OLD CALIFORNIAN.—THE PRIZE JULIA.—FANDANGO.—WINTER CLIMATE.—PATRON SAINT OF CALIFORNIA.—HABITS OF THE NATIVES.—INSURRECTION IN THE NORTH.—DRAMA IN A CHURCH.—POSITION OF COM. STOCKTON.
Saturday, Dec. 12. Our paper, the only one published in California, made its hebdomadal appearance again to-day. It is a little fellow, but is half filled or more with original matter. A paper is much like an infant; the smaller it is, the more anxious the attentions which it requires. My partner promised to stick by me, but has been the greater part of the time since its commencement on the bay of San Francisco. He went there to locate a city, but if rumor speaks truly, has gone off in quest of his Aphrodite before he builds her shrine. I suppose he thinks there is but little use in a cage without a bird, but there is still less in a bird without a cage. Birds, however, always pair before they rear their nests. So that my partner is after all in nature’s great line, however wide it may run from the columns of the Californian.
Sunday, Dec. 13. I miss very much the light step and laughing eye of my little friend Adelaida, the infant daughter of our consul, Mr. Larkin. She was a sweet child, and beguiled with her gladness, many a moment that had else passed less lightly. But a change came over her brightness, an eclipse whose shadow passes not. We watched its dim veil, and idly dreamed it might still pass, when its faint, inwoven light was lost in spreading darkness. She passed away like a bird from its clouded bower; and though her flight lay over dark waters, she now sings in the purple land of the blest. There no shadows fall, and death has no trophies. One eternal spring, with its sparkling founts and fragrant blossoms, reigns through the vernal year. The soft airs as they stir, wake the strings of invisible lyres; and the tender leaves whisper in music. There walk the pure; there survive the meek who wept with us here. They wait to welcome our flight to their joys and sinless repose. O that I had wings like the dove that I might fly away and be at rest!
Monday, Dec. 14. It is now two weeks since Col. Fremont broke up his encampment in the vicinity of San Juan, and commenced his march south. His progress has been retarded by a succession of heavy rains, and it is feared that some of the rivers which he must cross, swollen by torrents from the mountains, have been rendered impassable. His horses may perhaps swim them, but his artillery and ammunition must be floated over on rafts. The construction of these, especially where the material is not at hand, will occasion long and impatient detentions. The condition of the roads, soaked as they are with rain, will still further delay his progress; still, with all these drawbacks, we believe he will reach his destination.
He moves upon no idle or vague object. The great body of the Californians now in arms are at the capital of the southern department, waiting his hostile arrival. They intend to give him battle, and redeem, if possible, some of the laurels which they lost in their precipitate retreat before Com. Stockton. Their forces outnumber his two or three to one; they excel them as horsemen, but fall far short of them in the dexterous use of the rifle. They want that coolness, deliberation, self-reliance, and resolute firmness which appertain to the character of the Americans. We wait the issue of the encounter with a profound interest. Com. Stockton may, perhaps, march from San Pedro and capture los Angeles, as he has done once before; but with the country around in the possession of the enemy, and the cattle driven off upon distant plains, and the wheat and flour removed into the gorges of the mountains, he could not subsist his forces. So at least it would seem; but we shall see. It was the prospect of famine that drove Napoleon from Moscow.
Wednesday, Dec. 16. An old Californian, much respected for his intelligence and patriotic virtues, sent, a few days since, a communication to our paper, written in good, vigorous Castilian, and which will find an echo in the heart of all the considerate portion of the community. He opens his article in these words:—
“The political aspirants in California have inflicted upon her since 1836, only a continued succession of evils. They have seized all the national property and all the missions, as though they were their own patrimony. These riches they have distributed with a prodigal hand among their satellites; a multitude of officers were created, for whom there was no employment; and military grades established more abundantly than in Paraguay, though with this difference in the result. Doctor Francia, when he died, left eight millions of dollars in the public coffers; while the military chieftains in this country, at the close of their brief career, have left the country overwhelmed in debt. And now, to gratify their infatuated ambition, and secure further plunder, have again hoisted the Mexican flag, which they have long hated and cursed. The rash step taken by these men at the town of the Angeles has only compromised their brethren, and ruined many families. The wealth of this country consists in cattle and agriculture; to maintain the one and carry on the other, horses are indispensable; but these frantic men have driven off the horses and cattle to meet the exigencies of war. They have given their afflicted country her death-stroke, merely because they are not permitted to retain those offices which they are not capable of filling. And such outrageous ambition is called by them, love of country! If there ever existed a spark of patriotism in their hearts, they would never have attempted the slightest revolutionary act. They would have seen and felt that it could end only in general disaster and ruin.”