Saturday, Sept. 23. We broke camp, were up and away while the dew was yet fresh on the grass. Ten miles brought us to Fisher’s rancho, where we procured soft bread and fresh milk. But our animals fared hard; the grasshoppers had been there before them. We had yet three hours of sun when we reached the lagoon near San José, but camped there on account of the grass. A shanty stood near by, where we procured a few potatoes and onions, and a piece of fresh meat, with which we made a stew—quite a luxury on a California road. The owner of the shanty invited me to a night’s lodging, which I accepted, but found my host much more hospitable than his fleas, for I was driven back to my camp before midnight. A California flea is not to be trifled with; his nippers drive you into spasms.
Sunday, Sept. 24. This is the Sabbath, and we are in San José, in the house of Dr. Stokes, to whose hospitality we are indebted for a good table and quiet apartments. I must here relate a domestic incident in the doctor’s family, which fell under my eye while he resided at Monterey, and which pictured itself strongly on my mind. It was evening, and the hour for rest with the children, when six little boys and girls knelt around the chair of their father, repeating the Lord’s prayer, and closing with the invocation—“God bless our dear parents, and brothers, and sisters, and grant that we meet in heaven at last.” Then came the good-night, and the cheerful footsteps to the chamber of soft sleep. What are gold mines to this? A glow-worm’s light beneath a star that shall never set!
Monday, Sept. 25. San José is sixty-five miles from Monterey, and stands in the centre of a spacious valley which opens on the great bay of San Francisco. It is cultivated only in spots, but the immense yield in these is sufficient evidence of what the valley is capable. A plough and harrow, at which a New England crow would laugh, are followed by fields of waving grain. Within this valley lie the rich lands of Com. Stockton, and they will yet feel the force of his vivifying enterprise. The mission buildings of Santa Clara lift their huge proportions on the eye. The bells that swing in their towers are silent, but they will yet find a tongue and fill the cliffs with their glad echoes. The Anglo-Saxon blood will yet roll here as if in its first leap.
Such are the representations of the roads between this and the mines, that we have concluded to part with our wagon and pack our mules. Mr. Botts, one of our companions, has received intelligence which requires his return to Monterey. We must proceed without his agreeable society. Wm. Stewart, Esq., secretary of Com. Jones, and Lieut. Simmons, of the Ohio, have just arrived, on their way to the mines. Two of our mules were now packed, the third mounted by our wagoner, and the fourth driven, to guard against contingencies. Thus equipped, we started again for the mines; but we had hardly cleared the town when one of our mules took fright, plunged over the plain, burst his girth, and scattered on the winds the contents of his pack. Capt. Marcy and Mr. Wilkinson, with the mules and their driver, returned into town to repack, and I proceeded on in the company of Mr. Stewart and Lieut. Simmons.
We passed the mission of San José, which stands three leagues from the town. The massive proportions of the church lay in shadow, but the crowning cross was lit with the rays of the descending sun. No hum of busy streets or jocund voice of childhood saluted the ear. No eye regarded us but that of the owl gazing in wise wonder from his ivy tower. He seemed to marvel at the vanity that had brought us here; and as we hurried past on our gold destination, sent after us an ominous hoot! The purple twilight was settling fast when we reached a stream singing along between the slopes of two hills. Here we camped for the night. The grass was scanty and the ground uneven, but it was now too late to look for other spots. The dry willows, which skirted the stream, furnished us with fuel. The lid of our coffee kettle was soon trembling over the steam, while the fresh steaks, curling on the coals, scented the evening air. Our supper over, we talked of friends far away, and spread our blankets for the night. The ground was so descending I put a stone at my feet to keep from slipping down, but must have rolled from my pedestal, for on awaking at daybreak, I found myself at the foot of the slope, and close on the verge of the bubbling stream. My ground-blanket remained where it had been spread, though it seemed higher up the hill, as I clambered back to it from my somnambulic roll.
Tuesday, Sept. 26. My companions, who had returned to San José to repack the mules, arrived at our camp about mid-day, accompanied by W. R. Garner, so long my secretary in the office of alcalde. Our own horses were soon saddled, and we were off, all the more light-hearted for this accession to our numbers. Our road lay through a rolling country covered with live-oak and pine, and through small prairies, cradled in emerald repose among the hills. It was quite dark when we reached the small farm-house of Mr. Livermore. Here we camped. A snag-fence supplied us with fuel, and Mr. L. furnished us with a sheep ready dressed. Our large camp-fire sent up its waving flame, which threw its red light over a group gathered around in every attitude which hunger and culinary care could assume. What was the howl of the wolves on the hills to us, engaged in picking the bones of that sheep? A camp-life teaches you the value of three things—meat, salt, and fire: with these you can travel the globe round.
Wednesday, Sept. 27. The night had been dark, the wind bleak, and the rack was driving on the sky, when the first rays of the sun kindled the soaring cliffs. We had the great Tulare plain to pass, and lost no time in finishing our breakfast and effecting an early start. Crossing the plain attached to the rancho, which we had left, our road lay among steep conical hills feathered with pine, and pyramids of rock piled in naked majesty. From these we opened on the great plain of the San Joaquin, stretching away like a Sahara, and without an object on which the eye could rest. The sun was hot, and not a breath of wind crept over the cheerless expanse. A column of cloud, soaring on the distant horizon, showed where the fearful flame was at work.
We were now in the midst of the plain, when a moving object, dim and distant, rapidly advanced into more distinct vision. It was a band of wild horses, rushing down the plain like a foaming torrent to the sea.
“With flowing tail and flying mane,
With nostrils never stretched by pain,