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AFTER passing a month in this
magnificent island, and finding that my health was not improving, I made up
my mind to push on to South America while my stock of strength, such as it
was, lasted. But fortunately I could not find passage for any South American
port. I had long wished to visit the Orinoco basin and in particular the
basin of the Amazon. My plan was to get ashore anywhere on the north end of
the continent, push on southward through the wilderness around the
headwaters of the Orinoco, until I reached a tributary of the Amazon, and
float down on a raft or skiff the whole length of the great river to its
mouth. It seems strange that such a trip should ever have entered the dreams
of any person, however enthusiastic and full of youthful daring,
particularly under the disadvantages of poor health, of funds less than a
hundred dollars, and of the insalubrity of the Amazon Valley.
Fortunately, as I said, after
visiting all the shipping agencies, I could not find a vessel of any sort
bound for South America, and so made up a plan to go North, to the
longed-for cold weather of New York, and thence to the forests and mountains
of California. There, I thought, I shall find health and new plants and
mountains, and after a year spent in that interesting country I can carry
out my Amazon plans.
It seemed hard to leave Cuba
thus unseen and unwalked, but illness forbade my stay and I had to comfort
myself with the hope of returning to its waiting treasures in full health.
In the mean time I prepared for immediate departure. when I was resting in
one of the Havana gardens, I noticed in a New York paper an advertisement of
cheap fares to California. I consulted Captain Parsons concerning a passage
to New York, where I could find a ship for California. At this time none of
the California ships touched at Cuba.
"Well," said he; pointing
toward the middle of the harbor, "there is a trim little schooner loaded
with oranges for New York, and these little fruiters are fast sailers. You
had better see her captain about a passage, for she must be about ready to
sail." So I jumped into the dinghy and a sailor rowed me over to the
fruiter. Going aboard, I inquired for the captain, who soon appeared on deck
and readily agreed to carry me to New York for twenty-five dollars.
Inquiring when he would sail, "To-morrow morning at daylight," he replied,
"if this norther slacks a little; but my papers are made out, and you will
have to see the American consul to get permission to leave on my ship."
I immediately went to the
city, but was unable to find the consul, whereupon I determined to sail for
New York without any formal leave. Early next morning, after leaving the
Island Belle and bidding Captain Parsons good-bye, I was rowed to the
fruiter and got aboard. Notwithstanding the north wind was still as
boisterous as ever, our Dutch captain was resolved to face it, confident in
the strength of his all-oak little schooner.
Vessels leaving the harbor
are stopped at the Morro Castle to have their clearance papers examined; in
particular, to see that no runaway slaves were being carried away. The
officials came alongside our little ship, but did not come aboard. They were
satisfied by a glance at the consul's clearance paper, and with the
declaration of the captain, when asked whether he had any negroes, that he
had "not a d--d one." "All right, then," shouted the officials, "farewell! A
pleasant voyage to you!" As my name was not on the ship's papers, I stayed
below, out of sight, until I felt the heaving of the waves and knew that we
were fairly out on the open sea. The Castle towers, the hills, the palms,
and the wave-white strand, all faded in the distance, and our mimic sea-bird
was at home in the open stormy gulf, curtsying to every wave and facing
bravely to the wind.
Two thousand years ago our
Saviour told Nicodemus that he did not know where the winds came from, nor
where they were going. And now in this Golden Age, though we Gentiles know
the birthplace of many a wind and also "whither it is going," yet we know
about as little of winds in general as those Palestinian Jews, and our
ignorance, despite the powers of science, can never be much less profound
than it is at present.
The substance of the winds is
too thin for human eyes, their written language is too difficult for human
minds, and their spoken language mostly too faint for human ears. A
mechanism is said to have been invented whereby the human organs of speech
are made to write their own utterances. But without any extra mechanical
contrivance, every speaker also writes as he speaks. All things in the
creation of God register their own acts. The poet was mistaken when he said,
"From the wing no scar the sky sustains." His eyes were simply too dim to
see the scar. In sailing past Cuba I could see a fringe of foam along the
coast, but could hear no sound of waves, simply because my ears could not
hear wave-dashing at that distance. Yet every bit of spray was sounding in
my ears.
The subject brings to mind a
few recollections of the winds I heard in my late journey. In my walk from
Indiana to the Gulf, earth and sky, plants and people, and all things
changeable were constantly changing. Even in Kentucky nature and art have
many a characteristic shibboleth. The people differ in language and in
customs. Their architecture is generically different from that of their
immediate neighbors on the north, not only in planters' mansions, but in
barns and granaries and the cabins of the poor. But thousands of familiar
flower faces looked from every hill and valley. I noted no difference in the
sky, and the winds spoke the same things. I did not feel myself in a strange
land.
In Tennessee my eyes rested
upon the first mountain scenery I ever beheld. I was rising higher than ever
before; strange trees were beginning to appear; alpine flowers and shrubs
were meeting me at every step. But these Cumberland Mountains were timbered
with oak, and were not unlike Wisconsin hills piled upon each other, and the
strange plants were like those that were not strange. The sky was changed
only a little, and the winds not by a single detectible note. Therefore,
neither was Tennessee a strange land.
But soon came changes thick
and fast. After passing the mountainous corner of North Carolina and a
little way into Georgia, I beheld from one of the last ridge-summits of the
Alleghanies that vast, smooth, sandy slope that reaches from the mountains
to the sea. It is wooded with dark, branchy pines which were all strangers
to me. Here the grasses, which are an earth-covering at the North, grow wide
apart in tall clumps and tufts like saplings. My known flower companions
were leaving me now, not one by one as in Kentucky and Tennessee, but in
whole tribes and genera, and companies of shining strangers came trooping
upon me in countless ranks. The sky, too, was changed, and I could detect
strange sounds in the winds. Now I began to feel myself "a stranger in a
strange land."
But in Florida came the
greatest change of all, for here grows the palmetto, and here blow the winds
so strangely toned by them. These palms and these winds severed the last
strands of the cord that united me with home. Now I was a stranger, indeed.
I was delighted, astonished, confounded, and gazed in wonderment blank and
overwhelming as if I had fallen upon another star. But in all of this long,
complex series of changes, one of the greatest, and the last of all, was the
change I found in the tone and language of the winds. They no longer came
with the old home music gathered from open prairies and waving fields of
oak, but they passed over many a strange string. The leaves of magnolia,
smooth like polished steel, the immense inverted forests of tillandsia
banks, and the princely crowns of palms - upon these the winds made strange
music, and at the coming-on of night had overwhelming power to present the
distance from friends and home, and the completeness of my isolation from
all things familiar.
Ersewhere I have already
noted that when I was a day's journey from the Gulf, a wind blew upon me
from the sea — the first sea breeze that had touched me in twenty years. I
was plodding along with my satchel and plants, leaning wearily forward, a
little sore from approaching fever, when suddenly I felt the salt air, and
before I had time to think, a whole flood of long-dormant associations
rolled in upon me. The Firth of Forth, the Bass Rock, Dunbar Castle, and the
winds and rocks and hills came upon the wings of that wind, and stood out in
as clear and sudden light as a landscape flashed upon the view-by a blaze of
lightning in a dark night.
I like to cling to a small
chip of a ship like ours when the sea is rough, and long, comet-tailed
streamers are blowing from the curled top of every wave. A big vessel
responds awkwardly with mixed gestures to several waves at once, lumbering
along like a loose floating island. But our little schooner, buoyant as a
gull, glides up one side and down the other of each wave hill in delightful
rhythm. As we advanced the scenery increased in grandeur and beauty. The
waves heaved higher and grew wider, with corresponding motion. It was
delightful to ride over this unsullied country of ever-changing water, and
when looking upward from the shallow vales, or abroad over the round expanse
from the tops of the wave hills, I almost forgot at times that the glassy,
treeless country was forbidden to walkers. How delightful it would be to
ramble over it on foot, enjoying the transparent crystal ground, and the
music of its rising and falling hillocks, unmarred by the ropes and spars of
a ship; to study the plants of these waving plains and their
stream-currents; to sleep in wild weather in a bed of phosphorescent
wave-foam, or briny scented seaweeds; to see the fishes by night in pathways
of phosphorescent light; to walk the glassy plain in calm, with birds and
flocks of glittering flying fishes here and there, or by night with every
star pictured in its bosom!
But even of the land only a
small portion is free to man, and if he, among other journeys on forbidden
paths, ventures among the ice lands and hot lands, or up in the air in
balloon bubbles, or on the ocean in ships, or down into it a little way in
smothering diving-bells — in all such small adventures man is admonished and
often punished in ways which clearly show him that he is in places for
which, to use an approved phrase, he was never designed. However, in view of
the rapid advancement of our time, no one can tell how far our star may
finally be subdued to man's will. At all events I enjoyed this drifting
locomotion to some extent.
The tar-scented community of
a ship is a study in itself — a despotism on the small territory of a few
drifting planks pinned together. But as our crew consisted only of four
sailors, a mate, and the captain, there were no signs of despotism. We all
dined at one table, enjoying our fine store of salt mackerel and plum duff,
with endless abundance of oranges. Not only was the hold of our little ship
filled with loose, unboxed oranges, but the deck also was filled up level
with the rails, and we had to walk over the top of the golden fruit on
boards.
Flocks of flying fishes often
flew across the ship, one or two occasionally falling among the oranges.
These the sailors were glad to capture to sell in New York as curiosities,
or to give away to friends. But the captain had a large Newfoundland dog who
got the largest share of these unfortunate fishes. He used to jump from a
dozing sleep as soon as he heard the fluttering of their wings, then pounce
and feast leisurely on them before the sailors could reach the spot where
they fell.
In passing through the
Straits of Florida the winds died away and the sea was smoothed to unruffled
calm. The water here is very transparent and of delightfully pure pale-blue
color, as different from ordinary dull-colored water as town smoke from
mountain air. I could see the bottom as distinctly as one sees the ground
when riding over it. It seemed strange that our ship should be upborne in
such an ethereal liquid as this, and that we did not run aground where the
bottom seemed so near.
One morning, while among the
Bahama dots of islands, we had calm sky and calm sea. The sun had risen in
cloudless glory, when I observed a large flock of flying fish, a short
distance from us, closely pursued by a dolphin. These fish-swallows rose in
pretty good order, skimmed swiftly ahead for fifty or a hundred yards in a
low arc, then dipped below the surface. Dripping and sparkling, they rose
again in a few seconds and glanced back into the lucid brine with wonderful
speed, but without apparent terror.
At length the dolphin,
gaining on the flock, dashed into the midst of them, and now all order was
at an end. They rose in scattering disorder, in all directions, like a flock
of birds charged by a hawk. The pursuing dolphin also leaped into the air,
showing his splendid colors and wonderful speed. After the first scattering
flight all steady pursuit was useless, and the dolphin had but to pounce
about in the broken mob of its weary prey until satisfied with his meal.
We are apt to look out on the
great ocean and regard it as but a half-blank part of our globe —a sort of
desert, "a waste of water." But, land animals though we be, land is about as
unknown to us as the sea, but the turbid glances we gain of the ocean in
general through commercial eyes are comparatively worthless. Now that,
science is making comprehensive surveys of the life of the sea, and the
forms of its basins, and similar surveys are being made into the land
deserts, hot and cold, we may at length discover that the sea is as full of
life as the land. None can tell how far man's knowledge may yet reach.
After passing the Straits and
sailing up the coast, when about opposite the south end of the Carolina
coast, we had stiff head winds all the way to New York and our able little
vessel was drenched all day long. Of course our load of oranges suffered,
and since they were boarded over level with the rail, we had difficulty in
walking and had many chances of being washed overboard. The flying fishes
off Cape Hatteras appeared to take pleasure in shooting across from wave-top
to wave-top. They avoided the ship during the day, but frequently fell among
the oranges at night. The sailors caught many, but our big Newfoundland dog
jumped f or them faster than the sailors, and so almost monopolized the
game.
When dark night fell on the
stormy sea the breaking waves of phosphorescent light were a glorious sight.
On such nights I stood on the bowsprit holding on by a rope for hours in
order to enjoy this phenomenon. How wonderful this light is! Developed in
the sea by myriads of organized beings, it gloriously illuminates the
pathways of the fishes, and every breaking wave, and in some places glows
over large areas like sheet lightning. We sailed through large fields of
seaweed, of which I procured specimens. I thoroughly enjoyed life in this
novel little tar-and-oakum home, and, as the end of our voyage drew nigh, I
was sorry at the thought of leaving it.
We were now, on the twelfth
day, approaching New York, the big ship metropolis. We were in sight of the
coast all day. The leafless trees and the snow appeared wonderfully strange.
It was now about the end of February and snow covered the ground nearly to
the water's edge. Arriving, as we did, in this rough winter weather from the
intense heat and general tropical luxuriance of Cuba, the leafless,
snow-white woods of New York struck us with all the novelty and
impressiveness of a new world. A frosty blast was sweeping seaward from
Sandy Hook. The sailors explored their wardrobes for their long-cast-off
woolens, and pulled the ropes and managed the sails while muffled in
clothing to the rotundity of Eskimos. For myself, long burdened with fever,
the frosty wind, as it sifted through my loosened bones, was more delicious
and grateful than ever was a spring-scented breeze.
We now had plenty of company;
fleets of vessels were on the wing from all countries. Our taut little racer
outwinded without exception all who, like her, were going to the port.
Toward evening we were grinding and wedging our way through the ice-field of
the river delta, which we passed with difficulty. Arrived in port at nine
o'clock. The ship was deposited, like a cart at market, in a proper slip,
and next morning we and our load of oranges, one third rotten, were landed.
Thus all the purposes of our voyage were accomplished.
On our arrival the captain,
knowing something of the lightness of my purse, told me that I could
continue to occupy my bed on the ship until I sailed for California, getting
my meals at a near-by restaurant. "This is the way we are all doing," he
said. Consulting the newspapers, I found that the first ship, the Nebraska,
sailed for Aspinwall in about ten days, and that the steerage passage to San
Francisco by way of the Isthmus was only forty dollars.
In the mean time I wandered
about the city without knowing a single person in it. My walks extended but
little beyond sight of my little schooner home. I saw the name Central Park
on some of the street-cars and thought I would like to visit it, but,
fearing that I might not be able to find my way back, I dared not make the
adventure. I felt completely lost in the vast throngs of people, the noise
of the streets, and the immense size of the buildings. Often I thought I
would like to explore the city if, like a lot of wild hills and valleys, it
was clear of inhabitants.
The day before the sailing of
the Panama ship I bought a pocket map of California and allowed myself to be
persuaded to buy a dozen large maps, mounted on rollers, with a map of the
world on one side and the United States on the other. In vain I said I had
no use for them. "But surely you want to make money in California, don't
you? Everything out there is very dear. We'll sell you a dozen of these fine
maps for two dollars each and you can easily sell them in California for ten
dollars apiece." I foolishly allowed myself to be persuaded. The maps made a
very large, awkward bundle, but fortunately it was the only baggage I had
except my little plant-press and a small bag. I laid them in my berth in the
steerage, for they were too large to be stolen and concealed.
There was a savage contrast
between life in the steerage and my fine home on the little ship fruiter.
Never before had I seen such a barbarous mob, especially at meals. Arrived
at Aspinwall-Colon, we had half a day to ramble about before starting across
the Isthmus. Never shall I forget the glorious flora, especially for the
first fifteen or twenty miles along the Chagres River. The riotous
exuberance of great forest trees, glowing in purple, red, and yellow
flowers, far surpassed anything I had ever seen, especially of flowering
trees, either in Florida or Cuba. I gazed from the car-platform enchanted. I
fairly cried for joy and hoped that some time I should be able to return and
enjoy and study this most glorious of forests to my heart's content. We
reached San Francisco about the first of April, and I remained there only
one day, before starting for Yosemite Valley. [At this point the journal
ends. The remainder of this chapter is taken from a letter written to Mrs.
Ezra S. Carr from the neighborhood of Twenty Hill Hollow in July, 1868.]
I followed the Diablo
foothills along the San Jose Valley to Gilroy, thence over the Diablo
Mountains to the valley of the San Joaquin by the Pacheco Pass, thence down
the valley opposite the mouth of the Merced River, thence across the San
Joaquin, and up into the Sierra Nevada to the mammoth trees of Mariposa, and
the glorious Yosemite, and thence down the Merced to this place. [Near
Snelling, Merced County, California.] The goodness of the weather as I
journeyed towards Pacheco was beyond all praise and description — fragrant,
mellow, and bright. The sky was perfectly delicious, sweet enough for the
breath of angels; every draught of it gave a separate and distinct piece of
pleasure. I do not believe that Adam and Eve ever tasted better in their
balmiest nook.
The last of the Coast Range
foothills were in near view all the way to Gilroy. Their union with the
valley is by curves and slopes of inimitable beauty. They were robed with
the greenest grass and richest light I ever beheld, and were colored and
shaded with myriads of flowers of every hue, chiefly of purple and golden
yellow. Hundreds of crystal rills joined song with the larks, filling all
the valley with music like a sea, making it Eden from end to end.
The scenery, too, and all of
nature in the Pass is fairly enchanting. Strange and beautiful mountain
ferns are there, low in the dark canons and high upon the rocky sunlit
peaks; banks of blooming shrubs, and sprinklings and gatherings of garment
flowers, precious and pure as ever enjoyed the sweets of a mountain home.
And oh! what streams are there! beaming, glancing, each with music of its
own, singing as they go, in shadow and light, onward upon their lovely,
changing pathways to the sea. And hills rise over hills, and mountains over
mountains, heaving, waving, swelling, in most glorious, overpowering,
unreadable majesty.
When at last, stricken and
faint like a crushed insect, you hope to escape from all the terrible
grandeur of these mountain powers, other fountains, other oceans break forth
before you; for there, in clear view, over heaps and rows of foothills, is
laid a grand, smooth, outspread plain, watered by a river, and another range
of peaky, snow-capped mountains a hundred miles in the distance. That plain
is the valley of the San Joaquin, and those mountains are the great Sierra
Nevada. The valley of the San Joaquin is the floweriest piece of world I
ever walked, one vast, level, even flower-bed, a sheet of flowers, a smooth
sea, ruffled a little in the middle by the tree fringing of the river and of
smaller cross-streams here and there, from the mountains.
Florida is indeed a "land of
flowers," but for every flower creature that dwells in its most delightsome
places more than a hundred are living here. Here, here is Florida! Here they
are not sprinkled apart with grass between as on our prairies, but grasses
are sprinkled among the flowers; not as in Cuba, flowers piled upon flowers,
heaped and gathered into deep, glowing masses, but side by side, flower to
flower, petal to petal, touching but not entwined, branches weaving past and
past each other, yet free and separate — one smooth garment, mosses next the
ground, grasses above, petaled flowers between.
Before studying the flowers
of this valley and their sky, and all of the furniture and sounds and
adornments of their home, one can scarce believe that their vast assemblies
are permanent; but rather that, actuated by some plant purpose, they had
convened from every plain and mountain and meadow of their kingdom, and that
the different coloring of patches, acres, and miles marks the bounds of the
various tribes and family encampments. |
