“Gone, glimmering through the twilight of the past.”
Tuesday, Feb. 23. We are eagerly looking for the arrival of store-ships from the United States. Our squadron is without provisions, except fresh grub from the shore. Our ships, as far as sea-service is concerned, are of about as much use as so many nautical pictures. They look stately and brave, as they ride at anchor in our bay; but let them go to sea, and they would carry famine with them. It is a strange policy that keeps a squadron on this coast in such a disabled condition. One would suppose the Department had concluded men could live at sea on moonshine.
Wednesday, Feb. 24. A Californian woman complained to me, several months since, of very ill-treatment from her husband. He was thoroughly indolent, cross, and abusive. She had him and the children to feed and clothe, while he did nothing but lounge about, find fault, and abuse her. She asked for a divorce; but I told her she must be satisfied, for the present, with a separation. So I called him before me, and ordered him to gather up his traps, and leave the house for six months. He grumbled a little, but obeyed the order.
To-day, the woman returned, and said she would try to live with her husband again; that he often now walked past the house, and looked very lonely and dejected; that she felt sorry for him, and, if I was willing, she would try him again. I told her, with all my heart; that this was good Christian conduct in her, and much better than a divorce. She seemed gratified with this warm commendation; so did her husband with the permission to return. How the restoration will turn out, remains to be seen. But how forgiving is the heart of woman! Where she has once loved, the affection never dies. Neglect may chill it, but it will bud again, as plants, over which the snows of winter have been spread.
Thursday, Feb. 25. A courier arrived to-day from los Angeles. Every thing continues quiet there. The Californians had entirely dispersed, and retired to their ranchos, with the exception of those few who had gone upon a forlorn hope to Sonora. They will never be able to raise a force there sufficient to make any impression here. Mexico has enough to do in her own borders, without an attempt to retake California.
Friday, Feb. 26. A captain of artillery in the Californian army, said to me a few days since, that his military career was now over, that he had a numerous family to maintain, and he thought of engaging in making adobes, if I would sell him a small patch of ground for that purpose, belonging to the municipality; but stated that he had no money, and was not a little puzzled to know how he was to pay for it, unless I would suggest some method by which he could work it out with his boys and team. I told him I was drawing stone for a prison; that he could engage in this, and should be allowed the highest cash price. To-day I found him, with his boys, at the quarry, lifting the stone into his cart. To show him that I connected no idea of degradation with the work, I turned to and assisted in heaving in one of the hugest in the pile. He wanted to know if the people in the United States generally worked. I told him all, except a few loafers and dandies, who were regarded as a public nuisance. He said he was glad to hear it; for he must now work himself, and it would be an easier lot with others to share it with him. I assured him he would have company enough, as the emigration poured in over the mountains. I must say, I have more respect for this working captain of artillery, than for forty of his rank clinging to the shreds of office, and shrinking from honest labor.
Saturday, Feb. 27. The weather continues bright and beautiful. The air is soft, the sky clear, the trees are in bud, and the fields are medallioned with flowers. A bouquet of these floral offerings was sent me to-day by a California lady, with a little note in liquid Castilian, that I would accept them as emblems of those hopes, which were timidly expanding into life for California. Long may those hopes remain, and long the gentle being who has sent these tokens live to walk in their light. She is one, over whom adversity has swept; but she breaks from its gloomy veil, bright as a star from the shadow of the departed cloud.
Sunday, Feb. 28. It is Lent; and the family that live the next door to mine, are at their evening prayers. They were merry as a marriage-bell during carnival, and now they are in sackcloth and ashes. Religion has a wide vibration to reach these extremes of mirth and melancholy. But life itself is made up of vicissitudes; wealth disappears in poverty; smiles dissolve in tears; and the light of our mortal being goes out in the night of the grave. But there is a higher life that is never overcast—a spirit-home, where sorrow and change come not. Thither let the weary lift the eye of faith, and forget the cares which environ their pilgrimage here.
Monday, Feb. 29. Our harbor has been thrown into some commotion again by another of the great leviathans of the deep. The U. S. ship of the line Columbus, commanded by Capt. Wyman, and bearing the broad pennant of Com. Biddle, entered our bay in stately majesty this morning. She came in before a light breeze, under a vast cloud of canvas, and rounded to in splendid style, near the Independence. She is the largest ship that has ever been on this coast. Ladies and gentlemen watched from hill-top and balcony her approach. She is last from Callao; her crew have recovered from the effects of the East India climate, and her officers are all in excellent spirits. They preferred, of course, a more immediate return home, but evinced no want of alacrity in obeying the mandate that has brought them here. I find among them my esteemed friend, the Rev. Mr. Newton, highly and justly respected in the service. We separated in Philadelphia to meet in California! After this we may expect to encounter each other at the North Pole!
Tuesday, March 3. The U. S. ship Warren, under Commander Hull, is in from San Francisco. She is now in the fourth year of her cruise, and has hardly copper enough on her to make a warming-pan. Some say she will tumble to pieces if an attempt is made to get her around Cape Horn. But she has weathered many stormy headlands, and would undoubtedly weather that. Still, she may be detained here as a harbor-ship; but wiser heads than mine will determine that question. Her crew ought to be permitted to return; it is cruel to keep men out as they have been. The sailor’s lot is hard enough, indeed, when every suitable effort is made to relieve it. There are but few drops of real happiness in his cup of sorrow. He has his pastimes, it is true, but they partake more of insanity than sober gladness. He is cradled in adversity, reared in neglect, and dies in the midst of his days; and over his floating bier the ocean thunders its dirge.