At this moment the clergyman of the village arrived. All of us observed something peculiar in his manner, and we inquired if he, too, had seen the nun?
“Why,” said he, “while I was passing through Anchor-Wood, I saw what appeared to be a lady in a white dress. I was somewhat startled at this unexpected appearance, and I hardly knew what conclusion to arrive at. I thought at first I would return home, but on second consideration I determined to proceed. I did so, and to my great surprise and amusement, I discovered it was no lady at all, and that the illusion was nothing more than the moon’s rays reflected from a pool of water!”
A roar of laughter, which might have been heard a mile distant, followed this disclosure. But no laugh came from Bob’s mouth or mine. No poor mortals were evermore crest-fallen than we were. Any one might have pitied us, when they saw how wofully down in the mouth we became. I tried to be gay, to enjoy the joke, to alter the current of conversation—but it was “no go;” only made matters worse. Mrs. Scroggins made sundry cuts at my courage, Jane complimented my running, and the old Squire wanted to know if I usually swam with my clothes on? With mortification and anger and shame, I ran in desperation to my bed-room, never more miserable in my life. For a long, long time after, nothing gave me greater horror than to hear the slightest allusion made to the “White Nun!”
THE ISLE AND STAR.
———
BY GEO. D. PRENTICE.
———
In the tropical seasThere’s a beautiful isle,Where storms never darkenThe sunlight’s soft smile.There the hymn of the breezeAnd the hymn of the streamAre mingled in one,Like sweet sounds in a dream.There the song-birds at mornFrom the thick shadows start,Like musical thoughtsFrom the poet’s full heart.There the song-birds at noonSit in silence unbroken,Like an exquisite dreamIn the bosom unspoken.There the flowers hang, like rainbows,On wildwood and lea—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet isle with me?In the depths of the skyThere’s a beautiful star,Where no yew casts a shadowThe bright scene to mar.There the rainbows ne’er fade,And the dews are ne’er dryAnd a circlet of moonsEver shines in the sky.There the songs of the blest,And the songs of the spheres,Are unceasingly heardThrough the infinite years.There the soft airs float downFrom the amaranth bowers,All faint with the perfumeOf Eden’s own flowers.There truth, love and beautyImmortal will be—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet star with me?
In the tropical seasThere’s a beautiful isle,Where storms never darkenThe sunlight’s soft smile.There the hymn of the breezeAnd the hymn of the streamAre mingled in one,Like sweet sounds in a dream.There the song-birds at mornFrom the thick shadows start,Like musical thoughtsFrom the poet’s full heart.There the song-birds at noonSit in silence unbroken,Like an exquisite dreamIn the bosom unspoken.There the flowers hang, like rainbows,On wildwood and lea—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet isle with me?In the depths of the skyThere’s a beautiful star,Where no yew casts a shadowThe bright scene to mar.There the rainbows ne’er fade,And the dews are ne’er dryAnd a circlet of moonsEver shines in the sky.There the songs of the blest,And the songs of the spheres,Are unceasingly heardThrough the infinite years.There the soft airs float downFrom the amaranth bowers,All faint with the perfumeOf Eden’s own flowers.There truth, love and beautyImmortal will be—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet star with me?
In the tropical seasThere’s a beautiful isle,Where storms never darkenThe sunlight’s soft smile.There the hymn of the breezeAnd the hymn of the streamAre mingled in one,Like sweet sounds in a dream.There the song-birds at mornFrom the thick shadows start,Like musical thoughtsFrom the poet’s full heart.There the song-birds at noonSit in silence unbroken,Like an exquisite dreamIn the bosom unspoken.There the flowers hang, like rainbows,On wildwood and lea—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet isle with me?
In the tropical seas
There’s a beautiful isle,
Where storms never darken
The sunlight’s soft smile.
There the hymn of the breeze
And the hymn of the stream
Are mingled in one,
Like sweet sounds in a dream.
There the song-birds at morn
From the thick shadows start,
Like musical thoughts
From the poet’s full heart.
There the song-birds at noon
Sit in silence unbroken,
Like an exquisite dream
In the bosom unspoken.
There the flowers hang, like rainbows,
On wildwood and lea—
O, say, wilt thou dwell
In that sweet isle with me?
In the depths of the skyThere’s a beautiful star,Where no yew casts a shadowThe bright scene to mar.There the rainbows ne’er fade,And the dews are ne’er dryAnd a circlet of moonsEver shines in the sky.There the songs of the blest,And the songs of the spheres,Are unceasingly heardThrough the infinite years.There the soft airs float downFrom the amaranth bowers,All faint with the perfumeOf Eden’s own flowers.There truth, love and beautyImmortal will be—O, say, wilt thou dwellIn that sweet star with me?
In the depths of the sky
There’s a beautiful star,
Where no yew casts a shadow
The bright scene to mar.
There the rainbows ne’er fade,
And the dews are ne’er dry
And a circlet of moons
Ever shines in the sky.
There the songs of the blest,
And the songs of the spheres,
Are unceasingly heard
Through the infinite years.
There the soft airs float down
From the amaranth bowers,
All faint with the perfume
Of Eden’s own flowers.
There truth, love and beauty
Immortal will be—
O, say, wilt thou dwell
In that sweet star with me?
A CANTER TO CALIFORNIA.[2]
To be very sure of what he is about to say, and to say it in the fewest possible words, are golden rules which every young author should inscribe, in letters of the same metal, upon the most prominent panel of his study. Had the Hon. Henry Coke done this when he stepped out of his stirrup, on his return from his Ride to California, he would have spared himself the painful throes which appear to have attended the commencement of his literary labor—would have spared his readers, too, the triviality and platitudes which deface some of the earlier pages of his otherwise spirited narrative of a most adventurous expedition. We reckon it amongst the remarkable and hopeful signs of the times, that young men of family and fortune voluntarily abandon the luxurious ease of home for such break-neck and laborious expeditions as that whose record is before us. Whatever the faults of the nobles of Great Britain, effeminacy is certainly not of the number.
It is, indeed, from no feather-bed journey or carpet-knight’s tour that Mr. Coke has recently returned. Take the map, reader, and trace his route. From England to Jamaica, Cuba, Charleston, New York and St. Louis, the great and rising capital of the Western States. We omit the minor intermediate places at which he touched or paused. Thus far all was plain sailing and easy civilized travel. The rough work began when St. Louis was left behind. Across the wide wastes of Missouri territory, through the inhospitable passes of the Rocky Mountains, the traveler passed on to Oregon City and Fort Vancouver, thence took ship to the Sandwich Islands, returned to San Francisco, visited the gold diggings, steamed to Acapulco, rode across Mexico, and came home to England after an absence of a year and a half, during which he had been half round the world and back again.
Mr. Coke started from St. Louis with two companions: one an old college friend, whom he designates as Fred; the other “a British parson, whose strength and dimensions most justly entitled him to be called a pillar of the church.” What the parson did in the prairies of the Far West does not clearly appear. He certainly did not go as a missionary, so far as we can ascertain from his friend’s book, and indeed his habits and tendencies were evidently sporting and jovial rather than clerical, although we do catch him reading Sunday prayers to Mr. Coke, when the latter had the chills, and lay wrapped up in wet blankets on the banks of Green River, with a boxful of Brandreth’s pills in his stomach. We regret to believe that instanceshavebeen known of parsons employing their time far worse than in an adventurous ramble across the American continent. Mr. Coke, nevertheless, thinks proper to veil his chaplain’s identity under the heroic cognomen of Julius Cæsar, against which distinguished Roman, could he be recalled to life, we would unhesitatingly back the reverend gentlemen to box a round, wrestle a fall, or handle a rifle, for any number of ponies the ancient backers might be disposed to post. A stalwort priest and a powerful was Parson Julius, and is still, we trust, if nothing has happened to him since Mr. Coke left him at the court of his majesty Tamehameha III., at Honolulu, on the eve of setting sail for the island of Owyhee. No better companion could be desired on a rough and perilous expedition; and although his careless friend manages to let his true name slip out before ending his volume, we will not allow that the slip affords grounds for regret, or that there is any thing in his journey of which, as a clergyman, he need be ashamed.
Considerably over-provided with attendants, horses, mules, and, above all, with baggage, the three friends left St. Louis. Their “following” comprised “four young Frenchmen of St. Louis; Fils, a Canadianvoyageur; a little four-foot-nothing Yankee, and Fred’svalet-de-champs, familiarly called Jimmy.” The journey was commenced on the 28th of May, 1850, per steamer, up the Missouri. On the morning of the 29th a disagreeable discovery was made. Fils, the guide, had disappeared. The scamp had levanted in the night; how, none could tell. Drowning was suggested; but as he had taken his baggage, and had forgotten to leave behind him the rifle and three months’ advance of pay which he had received from his employers, the hypothesis was contemptuously scouted. Consoling themselves with the reflection that his desertion would have been far more prejudicial at a later period of their journey, the travelers continued their progress up the Missouri (for whose scenery Mr. Coke can find no better comparison than the Cockney one of “Rosherville or Cremorne”) to St. Joseph, which the Yankees familiarize intoSt. Joe. Here they were to exchange the deck for the saddle; and so impatient were they for the substitution that they actually felt “annoyed at being obliged to sleep another night on board the steamer.” They had yet to learn the value of a coarse hammock in a close cabin. At last they made a fair start:
“3d June.—After much bother about a guide, and loss of linch-pins, fitting of harness, kicking and jibbing of mules, etc., we left the Missouri, and camped five miles from the town. We pitched our tents in a beautiful spot, on the slope of a hill, surrounded by a large wood. A muddy little stream ran at the bottom. To this (with sleeves turned up and braces off trying, I suppose, to look as much like grooms or dragoons as we were able) we each led our horses: no doubt we succeeded, for we felt perfectly satisfied with every thing and every body. The novelty put us all in excellent humor. The potatoes in the camp-kettle had a decidedly bivouacking appearance; and though the grass was wet, who, I should like to know, would have condescended to prefer a camp-stool? As to the pistols, and tomahawks, and rides, it was evident that they might be wanted at a moment’s notice, that it would have been absolutely dangerous not to have them all in perfect readiness. Besides, there was a chance of finding game in the wood. If the chance had been a hundred times as diminutive, we were in duty bound to try it.”
Playing at traveling, like playing at soldiers, is all very well when the campaign is brief. The raw recruit or amateur campaigner plumes himself on a night passed upon straw in a barn. Give him a week’s bivouacking in damp ploughed fields, and he sings small and feels rheumatic, and prefers the domestic nightcap to the warrior’s laurel. Thus with Messrs. Coke and Company. They were in a monstrous hurry to begin gypsying. What would they not have given, a week or two later, for a truckle bed and a tiled roof? The varnish of the picture, the anticipated romance, was soon rubbed off by the rough fingers of hardship and reality. What a start they made of it! Mr. Coke is tolerably reserved on this head; but through his reserve it is not difficult to discern that, unless they had taken hair powder and a grand piano, they could hardly have encumbered themselves with more superfluities than those with which their mules and wagons were overloaded. Many who read these lines will remember the admirable and humorous account given by our lamented friend Ruxton, of the westward-bound caravan which fell in with Killbuck and La Bonté at the big granite block in Sweet Water Valley. Few, who have ever read, will have forgotten that characteristic sketch;—the dapper shooting-jackets, the fire-new rifles, the well-fitted boots and natty cravats, the Woodstock gloves and elaborate powder-horns, the preserved soup, hotch-potch, pickles, porter, brandy, coffee, sugar, of the amateur back-woodsmen who found the starving trappers dining on a grilled snake in the heart of the Rocky Mountains, and generously ministered to their necessities. With somewhat similar, but still more extravagant provision, did our Jockey of Norfolk, Fred, and Julius Cæsar, go forth into the prairie. Less fortunate than Ruxton’s Scotchman, they failed to retain or enjoy what they had dearly paid for. Sadly altered was their trim, piteous their plight, long, long before they reached the Rocky Mountains. Disasters soon arrived, with disgust and discord in their train. At their first halting-place, five miles from St. Joseph, a pouring rain, pattering on their tent, forbade sleep; a horse and mule, disgusted by the dirty weather and foretaste of rough work, broke loose and galloped back to the town. These recovered, and the new guide, successor to the faithless Fils, having joined, they again went ahead. We may cull from Mr. Coke’s pages a few of the impediments and annoyances encountered at this early period of the journey:
“Nothing could be more provoking than the behavior of our teams; each animal seemed to vie with its yoke-mate in making itself disagreeable. They had no idea of attempting to pull together, and all exertions on our parts were discouraged by the most vehement kicks and plunges on theirs. . . . The men were as incapable of driving as the mules were unwilling to be driven, and before we had traveled three miles the heaviest of our wagons was stuck fast. . . . . A doubt here arose as to which road we had better take, and I clearly perceived that our guide was deplorably ignorant of his calling, since in the very outset he was undecided as to which route we should pursue. . . . .7th June.—Started at seven. Roads worse than ever. Heavy wagon, as usual, sticks in a rut, and is nearly upset. Discharge cargo, and find it hard work to carry heavy boxes up the hill. . . . . My black mare, Gipsy, has run away. Take Louis, the Canadian, and go after her. Find her tracks in a large wood, and hunt the whole day in every direction, but are at last obliged to give her up.”
Incidents such as these, and others still more disagreeable, were of daily occurrence. Nothing could tame the wilfullness of the mules, or check the erratic propensities common to them and to the horses. The wagons, overladen, continually broke down. Indeed, so aggravating were most of the circumstances of the journey in this its early stage, and so few the compensating enjoyments, that we believe most persons in the place of Mr. Coke and his friends would have turned back within the week, and desisted from an expedition which had been undertaken solely with a view to amusement and excitement. With extraordinary tenacity of purpose the three Englishmen persevered. Their followers proved terribly helpless, and they were indebted to an old Mormon, whom they met upon the road, for the repairs of their frequently broken wheels. Here is the journal for the 12th June:
“Blazard (the Mormon) repairs our wheels. We three go out hunting in different directions. See the tracks and skin of a deer, also fresh tracks of wolves. Put up a wild turkey—horse too frightened to allow me to fire at it. Killed a large snake marked like a rattlesnake, and shoot a gray squirrel and two wild ducks, right and left, with my rifle. When we came home we made a bargain with Blazard, letting him have the small wagon for fifteen dollars, on condition that he took 300 lb. weight for us as far as the mouth of the Platte. We talk of parting with four of our men, and packing the mules, when we get to Council Bluffs.”
This project was soon put into execution. There the travelers camped, at about four miles from the river; and Mr. Coke and Fred rode over to Trader’s Point, crossed the Missouri, and called on Major Barrow, an Indian agent, who cashed them a bill, recommended them a half-breed servant, bought their remaining wagon and harness at an “alarming sacrifice;” bought of them also “forty pounds of powder, a hundred pounds of lead, quantities of odds and ends, and all the ginger beer!!!” They had previously sent back or sold several hundred pounds’ weight of lead and provisions; so we get some idea of the scale on which the young gentlemen’s stores had been laid in. By this time, Mr. Coke says, “we begin to understand the mysteries of ‘trading’ a little better than formerly; but somehow or other a Yankee always takes us in, and that, too, in so successful a manner as to leave the impression that we have takenhimin.” Besides buying their goods a dead bargain, the Major—a remarkably smart man, who doubtless thought that greenhorns capable of taking ginger beer to the Rocky Mountains were fair game—attempted to make money out of them in another way.
“The day cleared, and as we could not start till the evening, the Major proposed to get up a race. He knew of a horse (his own) that could beat any in our ‘crowd.’ He had seen him run a good many times, and ‘just knowed how he could shine.’ Fifty dollars was the stake, and ‘let him what won take the money.’ ”
Fred volunteered to ride a fast little gray of Mr. Coke’s. Three-quarters of a mile were measured on the prairie. The Major brought out his animal, greased its hoofs, washed its face, brushed its hair, mounted the half-breed upon it barebacked, and took his station at the winning-post. At first the half-breed made the running. Major and friends were cock-a-hoop; but the Englishman was a bit of a jockey.
“They were now about three hundred yards from the post. Fred had never used the spur; he needed but to slack the reins—away dashed the little gray, gaining at every stride upon the old horse. It is our turn to cheer! The Major begins to think seriously of his fifty dollars, when, in an instant, the fate of the game is changed. The little gray stumbles; he has put his foot in a hole—he staggers, and with difficulty recovers himself. The big horse must win. Now for whip and spur! Neck and neck, in they come—and which has won the race? ‘Well, sir!’ said the Major, ‘slick work, wasn’t it? what is your opinion?’ I might have known by this deferential question what his opinion was; but, to tell the truth, I could not decide which horse was the winner, and so I said. He jumped at this favorable decision on my part, and ‘calculated’ forthwith that it was a dead heat. I learned afterward that he had confessed we had won, and thought little of our ‘smartness’ for not finding it out. My little gray was thenceforth an object of general admiration; and the utilitarian minds of the Yankees could not understand why I was not traveling through the States with such a pony, and making my fortune by backing him against every thing of its size.”
Mr. Coke is a good appreciator of the Yankees, and so lively and successful in his sketches of their national traits and peculiarities, that it is to be regretted he does not talk rather more about them. His stay at New York he passes over in a couple of pages.
“I am not ambitious,” he says, “of circulating more American notes, nor do I care to follow in the footsteps of Mrs. Trollope. Enough has been written to illustrate the singularities of second-rate American society. Good society is the same all the world over. General remarks I hold to be fair play. But to indulge in personalities is a poor return for hospitality; and those Americans who are most willing to be civil to foreigners, receive little enough encouragement to extend that civility, when, as is too often the case, those very foreigners afterward attempt to amuse their friends on one side of the Atlantic, at the expense of a breach of good faith to their friends on the other. . . . . I have a great respect for almost every thing American. I do not mean to say that I have any affection for a thorough-bred Yankee, in our acceptation of the term; far from it. I think him the most offensive of all bipeds in the known world.”
The English are perhaps too apt to judge a whole nation upon a few unfavorable specimens; also to attach exaggerated importance to trifling peculiarities. This latter tendency is fostered, in the case of America, by those relentless book-makers, who, to point a chapter and raise a laugh, are ready, as Mr. Coke justly remarks, to sacrifice a friend and caricature facts. In our opinion, Englishmen and Americans will like each other better when they see each other more. “All Americans I have met,” says Mr. Coke, “were agreeable enough if humored a little, and perfectly civil if civilly treated.” Brutes and ruffians (like good society) are the same in all countries. At Sacramento, Mr. Coke one day took up a newspaper to read an account of a Lynch execution which had taken place at four that morning.
“I was perusing the trial, when a ruffianly-looking individual interrupted me with, ‘Say, stranger, let’s have a look at that paper, will you?’ ‘When I have done with it,’ said I, and continued reading. This answer would have satisfied most Christians endowed with any moderate degree of patience; but not so the ruffian. He bent himself over the back of my chair, put one hand on my shoulder, and with the other held the paper, so that he could read as well as I. ‘Well, I guess you’re reading about Jim, aint you?’ ‘Who’s Jim?’ said I. ‘Him as they hung this morning,’ he answered, at the same time resuming his seat. ‘Jim was a particular friend of mine, and I helped to hang him.’ ”
The narrative that follows, and which is rather too lengthy to extract entire, is very graphic and striking—an excellent specimen of life in California. Jim, it appeared, was a “Britisher,” an ex-convict from the penal settlements, a terrible scamp and desperado. His offenses were many, but murder was the crime he suffered for. Here is the horribly thrilling account of his execution, as given to Mr. Coke by the “friend” who helped to Lynch him.
“It was just about daylight. They carried him to the horse-market, set him on a table, and tied the rope round one of the lower branches of a big elm-tree. All the time I kept by his side, and when he was getting on the table he asked me to lend him my revolver to shoot one of the jurymen, who had spoken violently against him. When I refused, he asked me to tie the knot so as it wouldn’t slip. ‘It aint no account,’ said I, ‘to talk in that way, Jim; old fellow, you’re bound to die; and if they didn’t hang you I’d shoot you myself.’ ‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘give me hold of the rope, and I’ll show you how little I care for death.’ He seized the cord, pulled himself in an instant out of the reach of the crowd, and sat cross-legged on the bough. Half-a-dozen rifles were raised to bring him down, but reflecting that he could not escape, they forebore to fire. He tied a noose in the rope, put it round his neck, slipped it up till it was pretty tight, and then stood up and addressed the mob. He didn’t say much, except that he hated them all. He cursed the man he shot; he then cursed the world; and last of all he cursed himself; and with a terrible oath he jumped into the air, and with a jerk that shook the tree swung backward and forward over the heads of the crowd.”
We are cantering rather ahead of Mr. Coke and his friends, whom we left at Trader’s Point, with a long trail before them. Their councils were already divided. The members of the triumvirate could not agree as to how many of their attendants should be retained. Finally, most of them were paid off and sent back. This was a very painful and arduous part of the journey. On the second day after leaving Major Barrow’s station, they reached Elk Horn ferry. It had been broken up by the Indians, and a raft had to be made, and the baggage taken across piecemeal. “The animals were not so easy to get across. Some of us were obliged to swim the river (which was sixty or seventy yards wide) eight or nine times, taking one horse at a time, or driving two or three by flogging and shouting behind them.” The musquetoes were in the ascendant; the rains heavy and frequent; the Sioux Indians, it was reported, had received from the Pawnees intimation of the movements of the Pale-face band.
“All the party rather out of sorts,” writes Mr. Coke on the 26th June. “Our two best men, Louis and Jim, are very unwell. Nelson, a most willing and hard-working fellow, is unused to the sort of life, and wants to turn back. As to Jacob, his utter uselessness is a constant source of provocation to me; and the parson’s indifference, and Fred’s fidgetty disposition, make the chapter of our miseries complete. The mules are not much better off than we are; five of them are suffering from severe back-sores, and all of them object strongly to carrying the packs; they frequently cast themselves in the night, and get their legs badly cut with the picket ropes. It seems after all doubtful how far we shall get. Some of us talk of going on alone.”
Trials of temper are inseparable from expeditions of this kind, and here was a trio manifestly ill-assorted; one of its members rather fanciful and capricious, another too phlegmatic and easy-going, the third—Mr. Coke, could not be expected to set forth his own failings, but we suspect him of being a little irritable and hot-tempered, although evidently a good fellow, with plenty of pluck and perseverance. As yet, however, there was no break-up. The party kept together, often in straggling order, but usually reuniting at evening, to feed on rancid ham, mouldy biscuit, and such flesh or fowl as their rifles had procured them during the day. Nor were fish and reptiles despised when obtainable. Occasional attempts at angling were not very fortunate, the American fish being apparently unused to English flies; but sometimes a fine salmon or two were got by barter, from the Indians who had speared them. And a roast snake is by no means a despicable thing. Both Mr. Coke and the Parson—for whom we entertain an intense respect, as a man of few words but energetic action, a little tardy to move, perhaps, (a slight dash of Athelstane the Unready in his character,) but most effective and vigorous when movement was decided upon—went a snaking now and then. He of Norfolk seems to have been a fair shot at starting, and a first-rate one before he had half got over his journey, and he stalked the buffalo very successfully, shot snakes through the head, and contributed a large quota to the contents of the camp-kettle. The chaplain also was considerable of a sportsman, and ready with his rifle. Fat cow, tender loin, and juicy hump at times were plentiful in camp. Failing those delicate viands, all was made game of that offered itself to the wanderers’ muzzles.
“12th July.—Shot two prairie dogs. Jim killed a hare and rattle-snake. They were all capital eating, not excepting the snake, which the parson cooked and thought as good as eel.”
Following a band of buffaloes, Mr. Coke was charged by a bull, and awaited his onset, but waited a little too long. “My horse never stirred; I had no time for any thing but to take aim, and having fired between the neck and shoulder, I was the next minute, sprawling on my back, with the mare rolling over four or five yards beyond me. Recovering from the shock, I could not help admiring the picturesque group we presented; I rubbing my bruised limbs, and the buffalo looking on, half stupefied and astonished at the result of his charge.” The contents of the rifle’s second barrel roused the bull from his stupefaction, and he moved off. Up came the unfeeling parson and followed the wounded brute, perfectly heedless of his friend’s mishaps. Quite a man of business was this parson. Mr. Coke gives a description of his appearance in the prairies, on the occasion of his purchase of an Indian pony fourteen hands high. “He weighs fifteen stone, rides on a heavy saddle with a heavy pair of holster pistols, carries a very heavy rifle and telescope, a heavy blanket and great-coat, a pouch full of ammunition, a girdle stuck with small arms and bowie-knives, and always has his pockets crammed withet ceteras.”
Not altogether the right costume for a stall in a cathedral, although highly appropriate upon the trail to California.
Incompatibility of taste and temper at last produced a split in the caravan. Fred went on ahead, expecting to march thirty or thirty-five miles a day. Mr. Coke and the parson kept together, proposing to limit their daily progress to twenty-five miles. It was much oftener sixteen or eighteen, sometimes only seven or ten. The men hired for the journey had become so mutinous and discontented, and, upon the whole, were of so little use, that to two of them a share of the provisions were given, and they were allowed to go alone. Two others marched with Fred, the fifth and last went alone, but occasionally joined company with Mr. Coke and the parson, who were otherwise without attendants, and who had eleven animals to drive and look after—“an awful number for two men,” especially when they were unused to horse-driving and to the management of the abominably vicious, obstinate, perverse brutes of mules, which were constantly kicking off their loads, biting their masters, and straying from camp. The first day’s march after the separation was the most unpleasant they had yet had. The rain fell in chilling torrents; a little black mule, the vixen of the party, kicked Mr. Coke to the ground; and a gray one, her rival in mischief, who bit like a dog, made a furious attack upon his calves. The distance accomplished was but six miles. There were worse times coming, however, even than these. The trouble occasioned by the mules and horses was soon diminished by the loss of three or four of them, strayed, stolen, or foundered. The country was barren and inhospitable, and destitute of game, and often grass and water were for long distances unobtainable.
“Our provisions are barely sufficient to last, with the greatest economy, to Fort Hall, even at the rate we are traveling now. Should the horses give up, it will be impossible for us to carry enough food to reach that station on foot. . . The only way to get out of the scrape was to lighten the burden of the pack-mules, by throwing away every ounce of superfluous weight. Turning out the contents of our bags on the ground, we selected such things only as were absolutely necessary to existence. What with lead, bullets, powder, geological specimens, and old clothes, we diminished our load so as to make one pack out of two, and left the ground strewed with warnings for future emigrants.”
Sand, sage-bushes, and weeds uneatable by the horses, were now the chief productions of the country. Wood for fires was often lacking; raw ham is heating and unsatisfactory food; the sun was blazing hot, and its rays were fiercely reflected from the sand. Mr. Coke lost his appetite, and suffered much from weakness. At last matters mended a little. They came to a succession of small streams; caught some trout, and obtained other fresh provisions; fell in with trappers, and with an express dispatch from Oregon to the States, escorted by twelve soldiers. These had come by the same road the Englishmen were about to travel, and the Boss, or head man of the party, furnished information concerning grass, water, and halting-places. From Fort Hall, he told them, they were still two hundred miles, and from Oregon nine hundred! A trifling distance in railroad-furrowed Europe, but oh! what a weary way in yonder arid wastes, with those fractious mules, and amidst incessant toils and hardships. “No one,” says Mr. Coke, “can form any idea of the real length ofonemile till he has traveled a thousand with pack-mules.” By this time, for various reasons, the travelers had given up the idea of going straight to California, and had fixed upon Oregon as their destination.
“October 1st.—This month, please God, will see us through. The animals, I am sure, will not survive another. As for ourselves, we have but few provisions. The season, too, is getting late; and if we are out much longer, I fear we shall suffer greatly from cold. Already a blanket and a buffalo-robe are little enough covering for the nights. My buffalo-robe, which I spread over the blanket, is always frozen quite stiff. . . . Yesterday I met with a disaster, which distresses me exceedingly; I broke my pipe, and am able neither to repair nor to replace it. Julius has one, the fumes of which we are compelled to share. If this should go, (and it is already in four pieces, and bound up like a mummy,) I tremble to think of the consequences. In all our troubles the pipe is the one and only consolation.4th.—Oh, how cold it was this morning, and how cold it was in the night! I could not sleep for the cold, and yet I dreaded the approach of daylight, and the tugging at the frozen ropes which it entailed. . . . Our poor beasts actually cringed when the saddle touched the great raws on their backs; the frost had made them so painful. . . . It seems as if this sort of life was to last forever. Day follows day, without the slightest change.”
Things got worse and worse. One after the other, the animals perished. By-and-by Mr. Coke found himself a-foot. They had nothing to eat but salt meat and salmon, and little enough of that. “Yesterday I tightened my belt to the last hole; we are becoming more and more attenuated; and the waist of my gigantic companion is almost as delicate as that of a woman.” At last, on the 12th October, in rags, and with two mules alone remaining out of their once numerous team, but still of good courage and in reviving spirits, Mr. Coke and Julius reached the Dalles, a military post in Oregon, where they found Fred, who had arrived two days before them, and received a kind welcome and good treatment from the officers of the garrison.
After a few days’ repose at the Soldier’s House, as the post at the Dalles is called, the three friends, who had again joined company, boated down the Columbia. This was a rather amusing part of their expedition. The boat was manned by a Maltese sailor and a man who had been a soldier in the American army. The only passenger besides themselves was a big officer of the Yankee Mounted Rifles, a regular “heavy,” and awful braggadocio, who boasted continually of himself, his corps, his army and its campaigns. What were the Peninsular campaigns to the Mexican war? Talk of Waterloo! Look at Chepultapec. Wellington could not shine in the same crowd with General Scott. All this vastly amused the Englishmen. What was less amusing was the utter ignorance of seamanship displayed by the soldier-skipper, who, as part owner of the boat, assumed the command. They were nearly swamped by his clumsiness, and Mr. Coke, who has served in the navy, was obliged to take the rudder. The rudder broke, the wind freshened, the river was rough, the boat drifted into the surf and narrowly escaped being dashed to splinters on the rocks. They drew her up high and dry on the beach, lit a fire and waited for the storm to blow over. Wrangling ensued. The Yankee, who had got drunk upon his passengers’ whisky, swore that, soldier though he was, he knew as much about boat-sailing as any midshipman or post-captain in the British navy. The “heavy” backed him, and the military skipper swore he would be taught by none, and wound up with the stereotyped Yankee brag, that “his nation could whip all creation.”
“We had been laughing so much at his boasting that he doubtless thought himself safe in accompanying the remark with an insolent look of defiance. But what was his surprise when the parson, usually a most pacific giant, suggested that if Fred would take the Maltese, I the amphibious captain, he himself would with great pleasure thrash the mounted rifle, and so teach the trio to be more civil and submissive for the future. Whatever the other two might have thought, the ‘heavy’ was by no means inclined to make a target of his fat ribs for the sledge-hammer blows of Julius’s brawny arms; and with a few remarks upon the folly of quarreling in general, and of fighting on the present occasion in particular, not forgetting to remind us of ‘one original stock,’ ‘Saxon race,’ etc., the good-natured ‘plunger’ effected an armistice, which was sealed and ratified with the remains of the whisky-bottle.”
After his recent severe experience, it seemed unlikely that Mr. Coke would soon regret life in the prairies, with its painful alternations of bitter cold and parching heat; its frequent privations, hunger, thirst, fatigue, restive mules, hard labor, and scanty rest. During a seven weeks’ passage between Fort Vancouver and the Sandwich Islands, on board the Mary Dare, a wretched little coal-tub of a brig, he and his companions actually found themselves vaunting the superior comforts of their late land-journey. Confined by constant wet weather to a cabin twelve feet by eight, without a mattress to lie on, but with a superabundance of fleas, rats and cockroaches, they blessed the hour when they first caught sight of the palm-crowned shores of the Sandwich group. Mr. Coke’s account of his stay at the Hawaiian court is lively enough, but of no particular interest; and the sort of thing has been much better done before by Herman Melville and others. After the adventurous journey across the Rocky Mountains, this part of the book reads but tamely, and we are not sorry to get Mr. Coke back to North America. He and Fred landed at San Francisco. A long letter which he wrote thence, after a month’s stay in the country, is here reprinted, having originally been inserted in theTimesnewspaper by the friend to whom it was addressed. He adds some further particulars and characteristic anecdotes. His account of the diggings, both wet and dry, but especially of the latter, fully confirms the mass of evidence already adduced as to their incalculable richness.
“The quartz rock,” he says, “which is supposed to be the only permanent source from which gold will eventually be derived, extends north and south for more than a degree and a half of latitude. At Maripoosa, a society, possessing several ‘claims,’ have established, at a great expense, machinery for crushing the rock. They employ thirty men, whom they pay at the rate of 100 dollars each a month. This society is now making a clear gain of 1500 dollars a-day. This will show you what is to be expected when capital sets to work in the country.”
Some of the sketches attable-d’hôtesand gambling-tables are extremely natural and spirited. Mr. Coke and Fred, whilst at San Francisco, lived at El Dorado, the best hotel there; four meals a-day, dinner as good as at Astor’s at New York, venison, grizzly-bear, Sandhill-crane, and other delicacies; cost of board and lodging eight dollars a-day—not dear for California. At the dinner-table they made some queer acquaintances; amongst others a certain Major M., whose first mark of good-will, after his introduction to them by a judge, (judges and majors swarm at San Francisco) was to offer to serve as their friend in any “difficulty” into which they might get. The judge suggested that the two English gentlemen might probably have no need of a “friend” in that sense of the word. The Major’s reply will be our last extract.
“ ‘Sir,’ said the Major, ‘they are men of honor; and as men of honor, you observe, there is no saying what scrapes they may get into. I remember—it can’t be more than twenty years ago—a brother officer and I were opponents at a game of poker. That officer and I were most intimately acquainted. Another bottle of champagne, you nigger, and fill those gentlemen’s glasses. Very fine that, sir—I never tasted better wine,’ said the Major, as he turned his mustaches up, and poured the gooseberry down. ‘Where was I, Judge? Ah! precisely—most intimate acquaintance, you observe—I had the highest opinion of that officer’s honor—the highest possible opinion,’ with an oath. ‘Well, sir, the luck was against me—I never won a hand! My partner couldn’t stand it. ’Gad, sir, hedidswear. But my friend—another slice of crane, nigger, and rather rare; come, gentlemen, help yourself, and pass the bottle—that’s what I call a high old wine, you observe. Where was I, Judge? Ah! just so.—Well, my friend, you observe, did not say a word; but took it as coolly as could be. We kept on losing; they kept on winning; when, as quick as greased lightning, what do you think my partner did, sir? May I be stuck, forked end up, in a ’coon hole, if he didn’t whip out his knife and chop off three of my friend’s fingers. My friend, you observe, halloo’d loud enough. ‘You may halloo,’ says my partner, ‘but if you’d had a full, sir, you’d have lost your hand,’ (an oath.) My intimate friend, you observe, had been letting his partner know what cards he had by putting out a finger for each one; and having the misfortune, you observe, to hold three when my partner found him out, why, sir, you observe, he lost three of his fingers.’ ”
Between his roguish friend and his ruffianly partner, the Major felt himself in a dilemma how to act.
“ ‘I think,’ said the Judge, ‘I have heard the story before; but, excuse me, I do not see exactly what relation it bears to these gentlemen, and your offer to serve them.’ ‘That,’ said the Major, ‘if you will give me time, is exactly what I am coming to.—Nigger, bring me a dozen cigars.—The sequel is soon told. Considering my duty as an officer, a friend, and a gentleman, I cut my friend, and shot my partner for insulting him; and if, you observe, these gentlemen shall honor me with their friendship, I will be most happy to do the same by them.’ ”
Whilst deprecating the good offices of this Yankee O’Trigger in the shooting or cutting line, Mr. Coke and his companion availed of him as a guide to an adjacent faro table, where the gallant Major lost eight hundred dollars with infinite coolness, drank a cocktail, buttoned his coat, and walked away.
As matter of mere amusement, Mr. Coke’s last chapter is his best. It is crammed with diverting stories of “smart” Yankees and other originals whom he encountered in California. The whole book, although in parts a little drawn out, does him credit, and will doubtless be extensively read and well liked. For various classes it has features of attractive interest. The emigrant, the gold-seeker, the sportsman, the mining speculator, the lover of adventure for mere adventure’s sake, will all derive pleasure from its pages, and occasionally glean from them a hint worth remembering.
[2]A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California. By the Hon. Henry J. Coke. London: 1852.
[2]
A Ride over the Rocky Mountains to Oregon and California. By the Hon. Henry J. Coke. London: 1852.
HOMER.
———
BY TRUEMAN S. PERRY.
———
Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios,Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he—Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds driftingHis words, like leaves about a withered tree.Patiently all the day had he been standingWhere pour the ways their turbid tides along,Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.And now at night no home or friend received him;Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,For he had always walked apart from others,A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,And few did note that face so high and sad,And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,And many said the strange old man was mad.Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,He wist the coming of the even-tide.Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,Bathed in the amber light of setting day?Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,In the light leapings of the silver spray?Vainly did even and her fairer sisterPour all their glories on his sightless eye,Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor,The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye.Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead,With beard white waving round his loosened zone,While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosomSpake to the mightier stirring in his own.The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts,The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye,And now he hears the sound of many myriadsRushing along in thundering onset by.Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides,The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car,The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus,Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.He marks the brief recoil, the fiercer onset,The struggling waver of the deathful shock,And hosts convulsed around each god-like hero,Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosomHeaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,His night ended, and his day begun.And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,And listened to the wave’s untiring beat,And sang of earth, and heaven, and hell, till morningRecalled him, hungering, to the dusty street.Sad was the hour that scourged thy spirit homeward,While yet her pinions were untired and strong,From those bright fields where she had found and tastedThe honied lotus, mighty one of song.Loneness of soul, phantasies bright and wayward,Neglect and sorrow, longings sad and wild,Well didst thou prove, and faithfully bequeath them,E’en to thy latest and thy meanest child.O, pitied, jeered, adored! Time’s latest offspringShall turn with reverent heed those pages o’er,Great with thy deathless thoughts—thy peerless gloryShall brighten aye, till time shall be no more.
Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios,Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he—Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds driftingHis words, like leaves about a withered tree.Patiently all the day had he been standingWhere pour the ways their turbid tides along,Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.And now at night no home or friend received him;Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,For he had always walked apart from others,A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,And few did note that face so high and sad,And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,And many said the strange old man was mad.Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,He wist the coming of the even-tide.Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,Bathed in the amber light of setting day?Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,In the light leapings of the silver spray?Vainly did even and her fairer sisterPour all their glories on his sightless eye,Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor,The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye.Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead,With beard white waving round his loosened zone,While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosomSpake to the mightier stirring in his own.The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts,The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye,And now he hears the sound of many myriadsRushing along in thundering onset by.Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides,The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car,The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus,Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.He marks the brief recoil, the fiercer onset,The struggling waver of the deathful shock,And hosts convulsed around each god-like hero,Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosomHeaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,His night ended, and his day begun.And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,And listened to the wave’s untiring beat,And sang of earth, and heaven, and hell, till morningRecalled him, hungering, to the dusty street.Sad was the hour that scourged thy spirit homeward,While yet her pinions were untired and strong,From those bright fields where she had found and tastedThe honied lotus, mighty one of song.Loneness of soul, phantasies bright and wayward,Neglect and sorrow, longings sad and wild,Well didst thou prove, and faithfully bequeath them,E’en to thy latest and thy meanest child.O, pitied, jeered, adored! Time’s latest offspringShall turn with reverent heed those pages o’er,Great with thy deathless thoughts—thy peerless gloryShall brighten aye, till time shall be no more.
Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios,Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he—Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds driftingHis words, like leaves about a withered tree.
Upon the rocks, the wave-worn rocks of Chios,
Sat an old beggar—hoar and bent was he—
Still murmuring to himself, the lone winds drifting
His words, like leaves about a withered tree.
Patiently all the day had he been standingWhere pour the ways their turbid tides along,Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.
Patiently all the day had he been standing
Where pour the ways their turbid tides along,
Meekly had borne the coldness, and the rudeness,
The jeers and jostlings of the thoughtless throng.
And now at night no home or friend received him;Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,For he had always walked apart from others,A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.
And now at night no home or friend received him;
Few e’er had loved him, his nor cot nor hall,
For he had always walked apart from others,
A mark of marvel, or of jest, to all.
Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,And few did note that face so high and sad,And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,And many said the strange old man was mad.
Men lightly heeded him, poor helpless dotard,
And few did note that face so high and sad,
And fewer yet gleaned up his muttered measures,
And many said the strange old man was mad.
Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,He wist the coming of the even-tide.
Each bowing low, to gods that saw not, heard not,
He’d left the herd of folly, gain and pride,
When by its tender kiss, and kind low whisper,
He wist the coming of the even-tide.
Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,Bathed in the amber light of setting day?Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,In the light leapings of the silver spray?
Had he come forth to look on rock and wild-wood,
Bathed in the amber light of setting day?
Was it to watch the rain-bow glowing, fading,
In the light leapings of the silver spray?
Vainly did even and her fairer sisterPour all their glories on his sightless eye,Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor,The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye.
Vainly did even and her fairer sister
Pour all their glories on his sightless eye,
Long had he ceased to mark the sun’s hot splendor,
The wave’s fleet sparkle and the cloud’s rich dye.
Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead,With beard white waving round his loosened zone,While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosomSpake to the mightier stirring in his own.
Low on his shriveled palms he bows his forehead,
With beard white waving round his loosened zone,
While strains majestic from the ocean’s bosom
Spake to the mightier stirring in his own.
The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts,The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye,And now he hears the sound of many myriadsRushing along in thundering onset by.
The towers of Illion, and the Argive ramparts,
The keel-plowed sand he scans with inward eye,
And now he hears the sound of many myriads
Rushing along in thundering onset by.
Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides,The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car,The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus,Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.
Bright ’mid the serried spears he sees Peleides,
The sons of Atreus, Diomed’s swift car,
The goddess-born, and Hector, and the Xanthus,
Rolling his red and spumy waves afar.
He marks the brief recoil, the fiercer onset,The struggling waver of the deathful shock,And hosts convulsed around each god-like hero,Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.
He marks the brief recoil, the fiercer onset,
The struggling waver of the deathful shock,
And hosts convulsed around each god-like hero,
Like storms impetuous torn by mountain rock.
His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosomHeaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.
His snowy hair streams wild, his withered bosom
Heaves as the troubled surges rise and fall,
And hot Promethean fire, intensely gathering,
Now blazing leaps from either sightless ball.
“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,His night ended, and his day begun.
“And night came down and all the ways were shaded,”
Dark green the last hot footsteps of the sun,
Still sat the bard entranced with glowing visions,
His night ended, and his day begun.
And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,And listened to the wave’s untiring beat,And sang of earth, and heaven, and hell, till morningRecalled him, hungering, to the dusty street.
And still he sat and felt the cooling night-wind,
And listened to the wave’s untiring beat,
And sang of earth, and heaven, and hell, till morning
Recalled him, hungering, to the dusty street.
Sad was the hour that scourged thy spirit homeward,While yet her pinions were untired and strong,From those bright fields where she had found and tastedThe honied lotus, mighty one of song.
Sad was the hour that scourged thy spirit homeward,
While yet her pinions were untired and strong,
From those bright fields where she had found and tasted
The honied lotus, mighty one of song.
Loneness of soul, phantasies bright and wayward,Neglect and sorrow, longings sad and wild,Well didst thou prove, and faithfully bequeath them,E’en to thy latest and thy meanest child.
Loneness of soul, phantasies bright and wayward,
Neglect and sorrow, longings sad and wild,
Well didst thou prove, and faithfully bequeath them,
E’en to thy latest and thy meanest child.
O, pitied, jeered, adored! Time’s latest offspringShall turn with reverent heed those pages o’er,Great with thy deathless thoughts—thy peerless gloryShall brighten aye, till time shall be no more.
O, pitied, jeered, adored! Time’s latest offspring
Shall turn with reverent heed those pages o’er,
Great with thy deathless thoughts—thy peerless glory
Shall brighten aye, till time shall be no more.