Sunday, Jan. 3. The deceased year is in its grave, but its deeds remain. But few of them, it is true, are to be found in the archives of earth; they have been sealed up and transmitted, by invisible hands, to Heaven’s high chancery. There they will remain, above the ranges of time and the wreck of worlds. When the sun’s last ray has expired, every line and letter will flash out in characters of living light. It will then be seen that our minutest action here touches a string that will vibrate forever in the soul; and that issues of happiness or woe, vast as eternity, take their rise in the silent pulses of a hidden thought. We live between two worlds; every impulse we take from this throws an action into the infinitude of the next; we follow it ourselves soon and fast: once beyond the dim veil, we return no more; not a whisper comes back to those we love. We have gone like a shooting-star over the steep verge of night.
Monday, Jan. 4. It is mid-winter, and yet the robins are all out, singing as if the buds of May were bursting around them. You miss none of your favorites in meadow or grove. Hill and vale are echoing with their wild numbers. This is not a gush of music that is to be followed soon by silence; it is not an interval of sunlight that is to be succeeded by cloud and hail. All these charms belong to the season, and make you forget that it is winter. You look to the sun, and see that he circles indeed far to the south; but you look around you and find the sparkling streams unfettered by frost, and hear the whistle of the ploughman as he breaks the glebe. You say to yourself, there is no winter in California.
Tuesday, Jan. 5. Many of the emigrants who have recently arrived, are now with Col. Fremont at the south. By enlisting in this campaign, they will have an opportunity of seeing every important part of California, and will be able to locate themselves with some confidence in their selection of grounds. This will compensate them in some degree in foregoing their first year’s tillage. Besides, they generally arrive here with very little means beyond their own enterprise. They are now receiving twenty-five dollars a month, and have but few temptations for spending it; they will consequently find themselves in funds, small to be sure; but there is a period in almost every man’s life when a penny takes the importance of a pound. “It is more difficult,” said the late Stephen Girard, “to make the first hundred dollars, than the next thousand.” But with all due deference to that eminent economist, I have found it extremely difficult to make either, and when made, still more difficult to keep it. It has slipped out of my hands like a squirming eel in its slime. But this has very little to do with the emigrants. They will, it is hoped, soon be able to return to their families, who are now scattered about in the missions, and in shanties on the Sacramento, without the comforts of life. They have suffered greatly from being massed together in these temporary lodgments; and have often, no doubt, wished themselves where they came from. The pioneers of civilization have always a rough path. They force the bear from his covert, not to make room for a palace, but that they may themselves take his jungle.
Wednesday, Jan. 6. As I was sitting in the house of an old Californian to-day, conversing very quietly about the condition of the country, I felt something break on my head, and, starting around, discovered two large black eyes, lighted with their triumph. It flashed upon me, that the annual egg-breaking festival here had commenced. The rules of this frolic do not allow you to take offence, whatever may be your age or the gravity of your profession: you have only one alternative, and that is, to retaliate if you can. You have not to encounter the natural contents of the egg—these are blown out; and the shell is filled with water, scented with cologne, or lavender; or more often, with gold tinsel, and flashing paper, cut into ten thousand minute particles. The tinsel is rubbed by a dash of the hand into your hair, and requires no little combing and brushing to get it out. Ladies will work at it for hours, and find some of the spangles still remaining. When a liquid is used, the apertures are closed with wax, so that the belligerent may carry it about his person. The antagonist is always of the opposite sex. You must return these shots, or encounter a railery, which is even worse. Having finished my chat, I bade my good old Californian friend, and his daughter, my egg-shell opponent, good morning; but turned into a shop, procured an egg or two, and re-entered the mansion of my friend by a side door, where I watched for my victim. A few moments brought her along, all-unconscious of her danger. I slipped from my covert, and, unperceived, dashed the showering egg on her head. Her locks floated in cologne. I was avenged, and now stood square with the world, so far as egg-breaking is concerned. This seems like children’s play; but here you are forced into it in selfdefence.
Thursday, Jan. 7. Two or three of the Californians who were engaged against the Americans on the Salinas, have since been in town; among these, the leader, Chaves, who was wounded on that occasion. Many attempts have been made to take him, but he has always managed to elude the search. Last night, however, he had an extremely narrow escape. The officer in command of the garrison, having been informed that he was in a particular house, silently posted his sentinels around it, and at about eight o’clock in the evening unceremoniously entered. Quick footsteps were heard here and there, and only a part of the ladies were found in the parlor; but these were calm as moonshine, and extremely polite and amiable.
The officers apologized for their abrupt intrusion, and stated, very frankly, what their object was: the ladies assured them that they were quite right, and they should afford them every facility and aid that might lead to the discovery of the obnoxious person. They took lights and piloted them through every apartment of the house, opening every closet, and lifting every bed-curtain. There was no place in garret, cellar, kitchen or out-house on which their tapers did not shed their light; but in none could a trace of the officer whom they sought be found: so they renewed their apologies to the ladies and departed—when out slipped Chaves from between two ladies, who had jumped into a bed for the purpose of concealing him. They had lain there while the officers were in the chamber; their dark locks floating over the pillows, and their large eyes closed in seeming slumber. Between them
“He had been hid—I don’t pretend to say
How, nor can I, indeed, describe the where:
Young, slender, and pack’d easily, he lay,
No doubt, in little compass, round or square”