Thus writes an old Californian, with the frosts of seventy winters on his head. He understands the condition of this country, and the character of her military chieftains, and has the moral courage to tell the world what he thinks.
Thursday, Dec. 17. The United States brig Julia, a prize to the Cyane, left our harbor this morning for the southern coast. She is a beautiful vessel, rides the water like a duck, and sails with the speed of the wind. Her masts rake to an angle that might almost startle a Baltimore clipper. She is commanded by Lieut. Selden, an officer to whose professional attainments she may be safely confided. She goes south to communicate with Col. Fremont at the Rincon, a narrow pass below Santa Barbara. The colonel’s route will lead him through this pass, which lies hemmed in between the bluff of a mountain range and the dashing surge of the sea. A small force can defend it against immense odds. Its advantages are well known to the Californians. They have often in their previous revolutions made a stand here, though they have never made it quite a Thermopylæ. Should they post themselves in this pass, the well-trained gun of the Julia may dislodge them, or, at least, act in concert with Col. Fremont on his arrival. A man wants the eyes of Argus in this California war.
Friday, Dec. 18. The ladies of Monterey have so many relatives, near and remote, involved in the issue of the war, that they have had but little heart for their customary amusements. But time, which assuages grief, has slowly quelled a sense of peril, and they are gradually coming back into their more gay and social element. The lively tones of their guitars salute you from their corridors, and often the fandango shakes its light slipper in the saloon. It has been customary here for a person giving a dance to apply to the alcalde for a permit, which was never refused, and, which always brought to the purse of this functionary three dollars in the shape of a fee. A similar application was made to me a few days since. To grant it would be to sanction the fandango; to refuse it would be an arbitrary exercise of power. Tack which way I would, I must run on a rock, so I determined not to tack at all, and told the applicant I had nothing to do with his fiddles, fandangoes, or fees, so long as the public peace was not disturbed.
Saturday, Dec. 19. The season is now verging towards mid-winter, and we have not yet experienced the first wrinkling frost. The hills and valleys, since the recent rains, are mantled with fresh verdure, and here and there the violet opens its purple eye to the sun. The children are out at play, as in June; their glancing feet are unshod, and their muslin slips but half conceal their pulsing limbs. Even the old men, from whom the ethereal fires have escaped, are abroad in the same garments which covered them in midsummer. Such is the climate of a California winter, or, at least, its interludes, and these will continue to visit us like sunbows between the showering clouds.
Monday, Dec. 21. The house of the humbler Californian has often but one apartment, and is without fireplace or floor. Here a family of ten or fifteen tumble in and sleep on the ground. If they have guests, which is often the case, they turn in among the rest. The thicker they lie, of course, the less covering they need. The walls of this promiscuous dormitory are formed of rough piles, driven in the ground, just sufficiently to support a roof that is thatched with flag. Through the chinked piles the night-wind whistles in gusty glee; through the roof the star-light falls in broken flakes. The shower-cloud often pauses over it, and, as if in wanton mischief, empties its floating cistern. But little heed the sleepers these freaks of the elements: they have been familiar with them from their birth. The only beings that seem at all disturbed are the fleas; but they still manage to dodge the shower-drops and secure their nocturnal repast. Those on whom they commit their depredations spring no rattle, raise no cry of alarm. The thief is there, but they know it not. Habit has exempted them from even a perception of their wrongs. Happy flea of California!
When night-birds fill with waking numbers
The star-lit pauses in the storm,
He deftly springs where Beauty slumbers,
And feasts on her seraphic form.
She little knows who shares her pallet,