Chapter XXII (5)

“I let myself be beaten as much as I could, amidst the shouts of
laughter of the Pasha, who was delighted at this return to the
amusements of Metz. ‘A Frenchman—a Frenchman who lets himself be
beaten!’ cried he. ‘I admit,’ said I, ‘that St Jean d’Acre is not
favourable to our arms; but here you fight alone, and the former Pasha
of Acre had the cannons of England.’ At last we separated. They
conducted me into a very large apartment, lighted by a wax-candle,
fixed in an enormous candlestick, and placed upon the ground in the
centre of the room. This was a return to local customs. The slaves
made me a bed with cushions upon the ground; upon which they spread
sheets, sewn on one side to the blankets. I was moreover accommodated
with a great nightcap of yellow quilted silk, with quarters like a
melon.”

Greatly diverted was the good natured Pasha on being made acquainted with his guest’s matrimonial designs, and with the countless annoyances he had brought upon his head by the imprudent purchase of a yellow slave, whom he now scrupled to send away, to sell, or to abandon to her fate. To evade these scruples, the Pasha proposed a barter: he would give him a horse for Zeynab. Even this would not do. The fate of the Druse Sheik depended more upon the governor of Beyrout than upon Méhmet Pasha, who, however, interposed his good offices, and the saintly father of Saléma was released and allowed to return to his country. He was informed, at the same time, that he owed his liberty to M. de Nerval’s intercession with the Pasha of Acre. His manner of returning thanks struck his deliverer as strange. “If you wished to be useful,” he said, “you have done but what is every man’s duty; if you had an interested motive, why should I thank you?” This was grateful and encouraging. Nevertheless, M. de Nerval accompanied the old gentleman and his daughter to their abode, a village embowered in vines and mulberry trees, within a day’s journey of Damascus. He is kind enough to suppress the history of his courtship, merely mentioning that the amiable Saléma presented him with a red tulip, and planted in her father’s garden an acacia sapling, which was to have some mysterious connection with their loves. The period of their marriage was fixed, and not very remote, when the future bridegroom was attacked by one of those Syrian fevers which, if they do not carry off the patient in less time, often last for months and even for years. In hopes of regaining his health, he went to Beyrout, which enjoys the reputation of one of the least feverish places in Syria, without on that account, according to Mr Neale, having much to boast of in the way of salubrity. It did not restore M. de Nerval, who with difficulty mustered sufficient strength to proceed, by an Austrian packet, to Smyrna and Constantinople. There he gradually recovered his health. Profiting by the opportunities for cool reflection afforded by a long convalescence, he weighed the advantages and disadvantages of his projected marriage, and finally wrote to the Sheik to declare off. A narrow escape, cheaply purchased at the price of a fever.

Whilst tracing the vagaries of this fantastical Frenchman, we have given less than his share of space to Mr Neale, whose experience of Syria is more recent, and his acquaintance with the country more general and complete. Travel in Syria is not without its perils and inconveniences, even for Englishmen, to whom the events of 1840 have secured, especially along the sea-board, a peculiar degree of civility and consideration.

“The general opinion of an English traveller,” says Mr Neale,
referring particularly to the lower classes, “is, that he is either a
lunatic or a magician;—a lunatic, if on closely watching his
movements, they discover that he pays little attention to anything
around him;—a confirmed lunatic, if he goes out sketching, and spends
his time in spoiling good paper with scratches and hieroglyphics;—and
a magician, when inquisitive about ruins, and given to picking up
stones and shells, gathering sticks and leaves of bushes, or buying up
old bits of copper, iron, and silver. In these cases he is supposed,
by aid of his magical powers, to convert stones and shells into
diamonds of immense price; and the leaves and sticks are charms, by
looking at which he can bestow comforts upon his friends, and snakes
and pestilence upon his luckless enemies. If a traveller pick up a
stone, and examine it carefully, he will be sure to have at his heels
a host of malapert little boys deriding him, though keeping at a very
respectful distance, in deference to his magical powers. Should he,
indeed, turn round suddenly, and pursue them a few steps, they fly in
an agony of fear, the very veins in their naked little legs almost
bursting; and they never stop to look back till they have got well
amongst the crowd again, where, panting for breath, they recount to
their auditors the dreadful look that devil of a Frank gave them,
making fire come out of his eyes, and adders out of his mouth.”

There are places in Syria where Europeans are subject to far more serious annoyances than these. At Latachia, for instance, although it is a place of considerable intercourse with Europe, in the way both of trade and travellers, the Turkish inhabitants are furious fanatics, and have several times assembled in mobs, and attacked and maltreated European and native Christians, compelling them to seek safety in flight. Not more than three years ago, the Roman Catholic inhabitants were besieged within the walls of the Latin monastery, whilst hearing mass in its chapel, by a mob of bigoted Turks, who were escorting a renegade Christian to the mosque. At this fellow’s instigation a plan was formed to storm the convent, and put to death all its inmates. The gates were not strong enough long to resist the desperate assault made upon them; so the congregation, by means of a ladder, got through a window of the adjacent French Consulate, and through a garden to the sea-side, where they took boat for the little island of Ruad, the usual refuge of the Latachia Christians when thus molested. Satisfaction was demanded and obtained by a French man-of-war, and the ringleaders of the riot were bastinadoed and sent into exile, which checked for a while the violence of the Turks; but they are still very insolent to Christians, and Mr Neale declares he should never feel altogether secure at Latachia, “so long as many of the Ayans and Effendis are permitted to carry on their intrigues and machinations with impunity.” But for this drawback, Latachia would be one of the most desirable residences in Syria. “The environs are extremely beautiful, and abound with delicious apricot and peach trees. Mulberry plantations and vineyards are also very plentiful; and the melon and watermelon here attain great perfection. The dark-leaved pomegranate, with its deep vermilion blossoms, intertwines with its fairer neighbour, the orange-tree, and behind them rises the stately poplar, over which peeps the more stately minaret, making altogether a charming picture.” Minarets abound. This little town, of about five thousand inhabitants, “contains upwards of a dozen mosques, each endeavouring to surpass the other in the beauty of its architecture and the quaint elegance of its cupolas and minarets. The other public buildings are also fine structures, and the gardens teem with rich-scented flowers and shrubs.” Water is very scarce, and to get it pure the Latachians are compelled to send daily to a distance of six miles. The climate is excellent, and fever, so general in Syria, would there scarcely be known, but for the uncleanly ways of the people. The streets are the receptacle for skins of fruit, decayed vegetables, dead cats, rats, and dogs. The atmosphere thus generated may be imagined. In vain has the quarantine doctor endeavoured to work a reform by urgent representations to the governor of the town. “_Peki_,” (very good,) says that dignitary, touching the side of his turban with his hand; but that is the whole extent of his co-operation. The doctor is approved of, his wishes are acceded to, but the streets remain foul. Turkish activity seldom gets beyond _peki_. Once, however, some men really _were_ set to play the scavenger. They swept all the offal into heaps at the street-crossings; and having thus stirred up the filth, and concentrated the nuisance, considered their duty done, and retired, proud of their exertions.

The tobacco commonly known in Europe as Latachia, is shipped at that port, but grown at or around the pretty little town of Gibili, a short distance to the south. The Gibili tobacco, and the Aboo Reah, or father of essences, are renowned all over the East, and esteemed the finest and most aromatic tobaccoes in the world. The fields in which they are grown are manured with goats’ dung, and more or less watered according to the strength of tobacco required. The less the water, the stronger the flavour of the weed. When gathered, the leaves are exposed for three nights to the dew, then strung together, hung up to dry, packed in bales and sent in feluccas to Latachia, where they are stored in dry warehouses until exported. The port of Latachia, which retains the town’s ancient name of Laodicea, was once of great capacity, and could contain, it is said, six hundred vessels; but time and earthquakes, warfare and neglect, have played havoc with it. Rocks and ruins have rolled into the basin; and although its surface is still spacious, its depths are treacherous; and it is not deemed safe and convenient for more than thirty vessels, averaging two hundred and fifty to three hundred tons each. The commercial importance of the town would be likely to increase considerably, were the road from Aleppo less steep and dangerous for camels, whose drivers consequently demand exorbitant rates for the carriage of goods to Latachia, and take them on much easier terms to the more northerly port of Scanderoon or Alexandretta, through which passes the whole commerce of northern Syria. Independently of the better road, Scanderoon is nearer than Latachia to Aleppo, and is its natural port; otherwise its abominable climate would alone suffice to make commercial residents prefer its rival.

“The first thing that strikes a stranger on arriving at Alexandretta
is the complexion of the inhabitants, natives as well as Europeans.
They have a strange unearthly yellow tinge, with deep sunken eyes and
a shrivelled frame, facts which speak more than volumes for the
pernicious effects of marsh miasma. Fever and ague have set their seal
on every face; and with so indelible a mark, that a Scanderoon is
easily distinguished in any other city, and immediately pointed out.”

The wretched aspect of these “churchyard deserters,” as an English merchant captain called them, is traceable to the most brutal Turkish folly and obstinacy. Alexandretta is encircled for miles with pestilential marshes. On approaching the port from Aleppo, an ancient Roman road, infamously out of repair, brought Mr Neale and his guide to “a very rickety old bridge, spanning a canal, filled from a small but restless spring, whose waters, (which never cease trickling,) finding no adequate outlet, have created those baneful marshes which surround the town, extending over nearly the whole plain. The canal was originally cut by Ibrahim Pasha, at the instigation of an intelligent Italian, who acted as consul for several European states, Mr Martinelli, and it still retains his name.” So long as the Egyptian viceroy was paramount in Syria, this canal was kept in good order, and duly cleansed of mud and weeds by an English machine. Then came the evacuation of Syria. Before marching away, the Egyptian soldiery destroyed the machine. The canal, which had already in great measure drained the marshes, and had proved a blessing to the feverridden population, was neglected by the Turks, is now choked up, and will soon altogether disappear. The merchants of Aleppo and the European consuls have done all in their power to get the Turkish government to resume the work of drainage. “Some _soi-disant_ engineers were sent to form an estimate of what the cost would be: these _employés_, the bane of Turkey as far as useful works are concerned, estimated what ought to be their gains, and the sum frightened the authorities, who, as they always do upon like occasions, religiously concealed the estimate under the divan cushions, and there the matter rested.” In 1844, the European residents in Scanderoon got up a subscription amongst themselves, and actually began to drain. What did the Turkish authorities? Threatened the labourers with the bastinado, which effectually stopped the good work. The motive assigned was that “the Franks, when the work was completed, would probably lay claim to the recovered land!” Thus are matters managed in Syria, and thus are replenished the graveyards of Scanderoon. The self-same Turks, whose parsimony and paltry jealousy prohibit the sanitary measure so greatly needed, are martyrs to fever and ague, whilst the poor peasants, thanks to unwholesome diet, damp lodgings, and the ridiculously long and rigid fasts prescribed by the Greek church, are subject, in addition to those two maladies, to dropsy and various other diseases. The unwillingness of the local authorities to aid or even to sanction any amelioration of the wretched state of Scanderoon, arises partly from the blundering arrangement by which that port and Aleppo are in different Pashaliks. As the custom-dues are paid at Aleppo, the Pasha of Adana, under whose sway is Scanderoon, takes little interest in the welfare of a port from which he derives no revenue, great though its trade is. “The whole male population of Alexandretta are occupied in landing, weighing, and rolling to the warehouses the cargoes of Manchester bales brought by the different vessels. It is impossible to imagine a scene more bustling and discordant.” Clamorous muleteers and camel-drivers load and unload their beasts, custom-house officers and factors continually dispute, masters of merchantmen are anxious to land their goods, or eager to settle and depart; “cadaverous Italian skippers, who have been three months ‘on the berth’ for Leghorn, and have as yet about as many bales of wool on board, make frantic inquiries about their Syrian consignee’s intentions, and being pacified with stout promises, return on board, and catch fish for the crew till dinner-time.” All are busy, and all foreigners long to get away from a place where, if they stop but a day too long, they may remain for ever, tenants of a grave in its marshy and feverish soil. The loading of the camels is an especially ticklish matter, and leads to much wrath amongst the drivers. “Two bales must be found of equal weight; these are not always to be secured, and the struggle that ensues amongst the cameliers for such a couple defies description.” The Turkoman camel, a much finer animal than the Syrian, will carry, equally poised, two bales weighing together half a ton. “I have seen at times as many as one thousand camels leave Alexandretta for Aleppo in one day, bearing high aloft upon their backs two thousand Manchester iron-bound bales of twist and manufactures.” A sight to rejoice the heart of Cobden, and to reconcile even that peace-loving agitator to the bombardments and skirmishings by which so important a _débouché_ was secured for the produce of the city of his affections. It might interest him to calculate at what rate per quarter, when a loaf of bread costs twopence at Alexandretta, (Neale’s _Syria_, ii. 212,) Syrian wheat might be delivered in Liverpool by way of returns for the camel-borne Manchester cottons. If it is easy to die at Scanderoon, it is certainly cheap to live there. Mutton costs twopence the pound, fresh butter less than a penny, and other articles of food are at proportionably low prices. So says Mr F. A. Neale, who must be held excellent authority, since he was long resident at Scanderoon, where he was never entirely free from ague, but passed his time swallowing quinine, and thought himself the happiest of mortals when he enjoyed three weeks of uninterrupted health.

No book of the class of Mr Neale’s ought to be issued to the public unaccompanied by a map. A small one would suffice, and it need comprise little more than the outline of the coast, the definition of boundaries, the course of large rivers and mountain ranges, and those towns and villages referred to in the text. Such means of reference and elucidation add greatly to the interest and value of a narrative of travel and description of a country. Only a minority of readers are likely to have an atlas always at hand, or to possess such great familiarity with geographical details as may render one unnecessary. Authors and publishers of books of travels are prone to expend upon lithographed landscapes and other embellishments—things glanced at for a moment, and regarded no more—money which might be laid out to the greater advantage of their readers and of themselves in the engraving of maps. We cannot make an exception to this general rule, even in favour of the two pretty sketches of Gaza and Nargheslik, which face the title-pages of Mr Neale’s agreeable volumes.

DAY-DREAMS OF AN EXILE.

LONGINGS.

I.

TO ——.

Come, love, and seat you here awhile,
Cheer me with your happy smile;
Fast the days of life slip by,
Though each may now seem slow,
Comes swift and irresistibly
The last one, and we go.
This I know, and do but crave
(If I leave a word or two)
After I am in my grave,
They may speak of me to you.
Far away from English things,
Here my spirit folds her wings;
Content if all she looks upon,
Even if neither rare nor strange
Speak of pleasures she has known,
Or hopes that cannot change.

Ever, as I gaze around Our little chamber’s hallowed ground, Each familiar sight I see Speaks aloud of Home to me, Here, and there beyond the Sea, And the fair Home that is to be. Familiar as their faces seem Do they not minister a dream Of pasture green, and cool hill-side, Waving wood and moorland wide, Distant meadows white with flocks, Streams that shine among their rocks, Stormy shadow broadly borne O’er yellow fields of bending corn, And sheeny sparklings of the sea Heaving and murmuring delightedly.

In the long dawn of vernal day How often have I burst away,— Fared gaily through the sleeping Town And wandered to the woods alone. The Bee hummed in the Eglantine, And the breeze swayed the curls of the young Woodbine; The May scented the hedges along, The Lark was above like a star of song; Through the hay-hung lanes we go Over the style, across the meadow, Where the swift streams whispering flow, Where the black pools sleep in shadow. Where the angler seeks his sport, That Verdurer of Nature’s Court, Who never lets his occupation Balk him of happy contemplation.

Look down—the long straight Pike has past, Like Death’s keen arrow, flying fast, Where Dace and Minnows, silver-coated fools, Are playing on the surface of the Pools.

Look up—the thin-winged Dragon-fly Is insolently gleaming by; Look up—the Oak-tree stirs, and in it Floods of sweet song betray the linnet; Over all the dark blue sky Overhangs us smilingly, Flecked with many fleecy wreaths As the Watery West wind breathes.

Look round—the Primrose peeps at you From a nest of crumpled leaves; The Periwinkle, bathed in dew, Is like a maiden’s eye of blue Turned to the Moon from under alien eaves. The sword-grass, and the mimic rye, The clover, and the lucerne sweet, And the chamomiles, that die, Spent in fragrance at your feet; Every herb, wind-stirred, or shaking With some insect’s tiny weight, (Such as all around are making Myriad noises delicate) Swells the universal tone That Summer sings—a music of her own.

False season! she has brought the shower! Away to yonder trellised bower Of clematis and vine; The skies may weep ten times an hour, As oft they’ll smile and shine. Here sit secure; or, sweeter still, Seek the hospitable mill, Where the clattering cog-wheels ply, And the clouds of white dust fly, There, leaning at the casement, look On the fresh and fragrant scene: The drops flash in the eddying brook, The grass puts on a tender green; The soft rain whispers to the leaves— Ceases, the shower is done; The big drops hang upon the eaves, And sparkle in the sun.

The images that Memory yields
Are crowding on my mind
Of ruined Abbeys, lone in fields
With purple hills behind.
Of Churchyards, with their tombs and yews,
Seen in a night of June,
What time the fertilising dews
Are falling in the Moon.

The little Church, five hundred years Has seen the spring of hopes and fears To all the lowly villagers;

Who with ancestral tombs around Meet weekly on the holy ground. They seat them orderly within, Purging their hearts from taint of sin; They see the tables of the Law, The Altar that their fathers saw, The war-worn banners, full of rents, The helmets with their stains and dents That hang above the monuments; The squire’s great pew, the lackeys tall, A stately, well-fed band, Who mock the manners of the Hall, Vicariously grand. They hear the minister’s calm voice, The tinklings of a grazing flock, The whispering trees, the runnel’s noise, The pulses of the ancient clock; The which, like well according parts Sound harmony to happy hearts.

And even when the misery Of loved ones having ceased to be Had brought the black and hushed procession To see the friend they could not save Take imperturbable possession Of his last tenement—the grave— And when the Sun was dim and red That shone above that earthy bed, Throwing a watery noon and brief On autumn’s worn and wind-beat leaf; And, for the fog that wrapped the land, The trees were like a spectral band; Even then the lichen-covered tower, The yew-trees and the monuments, Consoled them, howsoe’er the hour Heaped up their withering discontents; Save that nor Hope nor Memory, Nor thought of “sure and certain trust,” Could quell the sob of Agony, As fell those handfuls audibly, Gross Earth, dead Ashes, kindred dust.

Ah come to me! the dream is flown, Thank God, I am not all alone; Thank God, no burthen on me lies, More than the homeless heart can bear; For sadness, and tear-darkened eyes, And visions vague, and Memories, Are sweeter than oblivious Despair.

II.

Where Summer is, there ’tis fresh and fair,
For forest and field are gay,
When the Sun looks down on tower and town
That smile beneath his ray.
Upon the hills the morning breeze
Still whispers in the yellow broom;

The poplar throws a quivering shade,
The oak-tree sheds a broader gloom;
And in the hazel-thicket hangs
The silence of a tomb.

A shade comes o’er the face of day, Tempering afresh the genial May; The light air softly drops, And nestles in the tall tree-heads, And stirs the violets in the glades, The spraylets in the copse.

In such an hour as this, The earth-impeded soul, Entranced with Nature’s bliss, Surmounts the Bear-watched Pole, And the great space wherein the firm spheres roll; Knows of a brighter Sun, Basks in his beams, Sees crystal waters run, And drinks their streams, And spreads her wings, and floats into the land of dreams— Dreams vague, uncomprehended.

Fold again
Those unfledged wings, poor Captive of the clay!
The flesh has need of thee, thy moans are vain,
Vain thy forebodings of the Coming Day;
Only the World’s fair beauty bids thee hope
That none more dark may lie beyond the Cope.

And the Beam, unsaddened
Is on the wood,
And the Soul is gladdened,
And sways her mood
Into a chastened mirth, the joy of Solitude.
Now the hushed noon,
Growing broad and bright,
Like the painless swoon
Of a deep delight,
Slumbers as calmly as a moonlit Night.

The Memories of Childhood cannot pass
The Joy of such an hour of Nature’s Joy;
The brawling of the brook, the lisping grass
Should charm the Man more than they charmed the Boy.
They do, they do, I feel their influence
With fresh delight to-day, and unpolluted sense.
Sickness may bend the weak corporeal frame,
And Grief anticipate the work of years:
Beautiful Nature’s sighs would still the same
Delight mine eye, even through the mist of tears.
The fountains of our pleasures need not change,
—Though Inexperience cease to veil the Truth;
The Senses’ strength not circumscribe their range
Nor the Heart’s impulses have Age and Youth.
O Sun, Earth, Water, all-embracing sky,
May it be mine to see you smiling when I die!

III.

“Death cannot be an evil, for it is universal.”—_Last words of
Schiller._

Earth is the realm of Death, who reigns,
—No King of Shadows he—
O’er towers, and towns, and sacred fanes,
On land, and ships at Sea.
His subjects all avoid his Court,
Small love they bear to him;
For when he mingles in their sport,
The business waxes grim.
They make alliances with life,
And fear to be alone;
Flushed with the brilliancy and strife
Which round their path is thrown.
Yet some can wander up and down,
Where daisies hide the sod;
Far from the turmoil of the Town,
They own that Death is God.
Yes, without Death our Life were nought;
Death consummates our hopes—
The one bright Day-beam softly brought
Above the misty slopes.

IV.

“God said, Let us make man in our own image.”

Stand by the Ocean:
Behold its undulating shelves,
How they alternately uplift themselves—
Their ceaseless motion!
Turn to the Sky:
Night after night, the golden-visaged crowds
Peep at us through the clouds,
Till royal Morning ope her dreaded eye.
Earth’s days and hours,
Seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, remain,
And bring forth fruit, by sunshine and by rain,
After the flowers.
Unchanging laws
This brute Creation’s pulses sway;
Contented, they obey
No self-originated cause.
That power is given,
Of all created things, to Man alone,
Who is, if he will only take his own,
Made free of Heaven.
H. G. K.

_India_, 1851.

A VOICE FROM THE DIGGINGS.[4]

The scapegrace Michael Lambourne, fresh from the Spanish Main, made the mouths of his uncle’s guests to water by stories of lands where the precious metals grew, and might be had for the gathering; where the very pantiles were of purest gold, and the paving-stones of virgin silver. The smug mercer of Abingdon, greedily swallowing these traveller’s tales, thought contemptuously of his moderate but certain gains, and dreamed of rich argosies and of sudden wealth, amassed at will upon a gold-encumbered shore. Many are the changes since Queen Elizabeth’s day, but human nature is ever the same. Instead of the exaggerated reports of roving adventurers, a thousand newspapers trumpet authentic tidings of golden discoveries. The mine is on the farthest shore of a far distant continent; yet, whilst the marvel is still young, and the first ring of the metal still echoes in our ears, we obtain ocular confirmation of the scarcely credible intelligence. The pioneers of enterprise—those who, by accident or activity, were first upon the spot—come straggling, wealthladen, from the glittering strand. Scarcely had the first shovelful of golden sand been thrown up from the bed of the mill-stream at Coloma, when these men, favoured by chance, and well suited to the work, were toiling, delving, washing. Now they are in our streets—rich, comparatively; for less than twelve months ago they were penniless. And see, in the refiners’ windows are heaps of the precious dust, and lumps of the quartz-mingled metal. Forgetting past hardships in the excitement of success, the gold-seekers—their first-fruits safely bestowed—plan a return to El Dorado, and fire the imaginations of eager listeners by glowing accounts of a certain fortune to be made at small pains. No wonder if many snap at the bait—if husbandmen quit their plough, traders their till, publicans their taproom, and if California suddenly becomes a word of daily occurrence upon English shipping-lists. Three thousand miles nearer to the golden vein dwells the most restless, ambitious, speculative, and aggressive of civilised nations; and soon there can be no doubt that to it will fall the lion’s share of the newly-found treasure. Where hundreds sail from Europe, thousands quit the States, for California bound. By land and by sea, across the Isthmus and up the coast, or by the long and dangerous route over the Rocky Mountains, armies of energetic Yankees swarm to the _placeres_. Buoyant and confident, they quit their homes—many to leave their bones in the wide prairies and hungry solitudes of the Far West, others to perish of Californian fever and ague, a few, and but a few, to realise the wealth they so sanguinely anticipate.

Nearly two years ago[5] we noticed the proceedings of a member of the adventurous mob of gold-seekers. Mr Theodore Johnson, of New York, was pretty early in the field; but even in the spring of 1849 the cream had been taken off, and he returned home disheartened, disgusted, and poorer than when he started. Since then, California has filled countless newspaper columns and scores of books in many languages. The latest of these, proceeding from an English pen, has opportunely appeared at the very moment that, from the far south, intelligence has reached us of the discovery of another gold region. Intending gold-seekers, whether in California or Australia, will find much to interest and instruct them in Mr Shaw’s eventful record.

The great majority of the emigrants to California, whether from Europe or from other parts of the globe, has been hitherto composed of needy and reckless adventurers. We trace one proof of this in the terrific amount of crime and immorality of which the new American State has been the constant scene, up to the date of the most recent advices. Mr Shaw belongs to the respectable but exceedingly limited class who contrived to pass through the ordeal with clean hands and a good conscience, enduring much suffering, but preserving an unstained reputation. As a boy, he followed the sea, and sailed for India as a midshipman in 1845, but left the service three years later, and emigrated to Adelaide. Finding no suitable occupation there, he was about to return to England, when news reached South Australia of the golden harvest then reaping in California. He was still a lad—about nineteen, as we infer from his narrative; and in the distant colony where he found himself, he had friends to advise, but none to control him. Of a sanguine spirit, and lured by the hope of fortune, he disregarded remonstrances, dangers, and uncertainties, and embarked as a steerage passenger by the clipper-built ship Mazeppa, manned by a Malay crew, and chartered for San Francisco. This was the first vessel that left South Australia for the gold regions. She took one-and-twenty passengers—five in the cabin at sixty pounds, sixteen in the steerage, who paid but twenty, and included bushmen and blacksmiths, a carpenter and a shoemaker, and some Germans.

“The steerage measured only sixteen feet square by four feet ten
inches high—close packing for sixteen passengers. Our scale of
provisions, however, was exceedingly liberal—far superior to any given
out of English ports—and no ship-regulations were imposed upon us:
each one was left to his own discretion, and the greatest good feeling
and harmony prevailed on board. In the steerage we were very social;
and though, being for the first time in my life thrown amongst such a
rough lot, I felt somewhat embarrassed, yet, being of a flexible
disposition, I soon got accustomed to my companions, and found them a
very good set of fellows.”

On entering the tropics, things became rather less pleasant in the narrow crib, owing to cockroaches and other vermin, to the effluvia from the Malays, and to the visits of rats, who bit the passengers in their sleep, carrying their audacity so far as to browse upon an emigrant’s eyebrows. So the occupants of the steerage were driven to sleep upon deck. A narrow escape from a waterspout was the only incident worth noticing between the Mazeppa’s departure from Adelaide and arrival at San Diego in Lower California, where she cast anchor for a few days, and took on board more passengers—

“Yankee backwoodsmen, some of whom had travelled over the Rocky
Mountains, others through Central America. One of those who had come
the latter route was half crazy from drink and dissipation; he had not
shaved or washed for two months, and had altogether a most repulsive
appearance. The other overlanders looked equally miserable; their
cadaverous features bearing marks of recent suffering; their long
beard and hair clotted into knots, and their clothes and boots
tattered and wayworn. The only articles they possessed were blankets,
wallets, and firearms.”

The exhausting fatigues of a journey by land across the American continent are manifestly a bad prelude to labour in the diggings. Neither weariness, poverty, nor sickness could abate the indomitable national vanity of these Americans. Some of them had agreed only for a deck passage, but when the weather grew wet and squally, the inmates of the steerage were too compassionate to refuse them shelter. They requited the kindness by raising violent political discussions, and continually asserting the immeasurable inferiority of the Britishers to the free and enlightened citizens of the States. Were it only for the release from such ill-conditioned society, Mr Shaw might well rejoice when, at the beginning of September 1849, the Mazeppa dropped her anchor in the bay of San Francisco. Scarcely had she done so, when the anomalies entailed by the strange state of things in the gold regions became apparent to her passengers. The first boat that boarded her was rowed by the doctor and mate of a Sydney vessel, who were plying for hire as watermen, their usual occupations, we are left to infer, being gone in consequence of the desertion of the Sydneyman’s crew. This example, then common enough, was quickly followed by the Malays of the Mazeppa. In the course of the very first night a party of them stole the gig, and ran from the ship. The captain, as yet a novice in Californian ways, went ashore next morning, pulled by four of his men, “saying _that he should pay his respects to the authorities, and bring back the deserters in irons_.” Authorities, indeed, at San Francisco, and in 1849, when, even in 1851, the only real authority is exercised by a revolver-bearing rabble! The captain returned on board in a waterman’s boat, and in a towering passion, minus his four oarsmen, who had followed their comrades. The next night the ship’s boats were hauled on board, but the rest of the crew attempted to float ashore on strong planks. Some were drowned, the remainder reached the land, and the Mazeppa was left to the guardianship of captain, mate, and supercargo.

The reports of visitors from the shore had already somewhat damped the ardour of the treasure-seekers from Adelaide, when they landed at Miller’s Point. Above high-water mark the beach was strewed with quantities of baggage and merchandise, and hard by stood some three hundred fellows, unshaven and disreputable-looking, with knives in their belts, awaiting employment. It was Sunday; but nothing is sacred in California. No Sabbath stillness prevailed amidst the canvass booths and wooden frame-houses of the infant city of San Francisco. Hammers sounded on all sides, and work of every description actively went on.

“Skirting the beach was a vast collection of tents, called the ‘Happy
Valley,’ since more truly designated the ‘Sickly Valley,’ where filth
of all kinds and stagnant pools beset one at every stride. In these
tents congregated the refuse of all nations, crowded together—eight
people occupying what was only space for two. Blankets, firearms, and
cooking utensils were the only worldly property they possessed. Scenes
of depravity, sickness, and wretchedness shocked the moral sense as
much as filth and effluvia did the nerves; and such was the state of
personal insecurity, that few ‘citizens’ slept without firearms at
hand.”

Of course, many fatal broils and accidents arose from the universal practice of carrying arms; but there, where law and justice were alike disregarded, a loaded revolver was the only security from personal outrage and oppression. The extraordinary activity of all, and the immense amount of business transacted, were what chiefly struck Mr Shaw during his first day’s ramble in San Francisco.

“Looking at the rude signboards inscribed in various languages,
glancing at the chaos of articles exposed for sale, and listening to
the various dialects spoken, the city seemed a complete Babel. Gold
was evidently the mainspring of all this activity. Tables, piled with
gold, were seen under tents, whence issued melodious strains of music;
and the most exaggerated statements were current respecting the
auriferous regions. But amid scenes of profusion and extravagance, no
sign of order or comfort was perceptible, nor did any one appear
happy: wan, anxious countenances, and restless, eager eyes, met you on
every side. The aspect of personal neglect and discomfort, rags and
squalor, combined with uneasiness, avidity, and recklessness of
manner—an all-absorbing selfishness, as if each man were striving
against his fellow-man—were characteristics of the gold-fever, at once
repulsive and pitiable; and, notwithstanding the gold I saw on every
side, a feeling of despondency crept insensibly over me.”

An allowance made to Mr Shaw by his friends, and payable in Australia, had been lost by his departure from that colony. In the uncertainty of his movements, he had not written for remittances; and here he was, in California, cast entirely on his own resources. He could not afford to despond, unless he also made up his mind to perish. He had a hard battle to fight; and although little more than a boy, he fought it like a man—with temper, pluck, and judgment. His first move was to get rid of superfluous baggage. Superfluity in California means bare necessaries anywhere else. Warehouse room was scarce and dear, and change of raiment little in vogue. As for luxuries—varnished boots, satin waistcoats, and the like—they strewed the beach. Mr Shaw realised seventy dollars by the sale of part of his kit. This done, one of his shipmates asked his assistance to retail a few barrels of spirits. A tent being unobtainable, they drove posts into the ground, nailed quilts over them, and opened their grog-store. At night his partner, who had been drinking overmuch, went to sleep with his pipe in his mouth, and set fire to the flimsy edifice. Mr Shaw extinguished the flames, and dissolved the partnership in disgust. Thenceforward, until he started for the diggings, he often passed his nights in lodging-houses. Of these there were too few for the numerous lodgers, and sheds, stables, and skittle-alleys were put in requisition. Nasty dens the very best of them were.

“The one I sometimes resorted to was about sixty feet long by twenty
in width; it had no windows, and the walls, roof, and floor were
formed of planks, through the seams of which the rain dripped. Along
the sides were two rows of ‘bunks,’ or wooden shelves, and at the end
was some boarding, serving as a bar for liquors: here the proprietor
slept. From about ten till twelve at night, men flocked in with their
blankets round them, for no mattress or bedding was furnished by this
establishment; and a dollar being paid, your sleeping-place was
pointed out to you.”

Out of consideration for the more squeamish of our readers, we abstain from transcribing Mr Shaw’s vivid account of this abominable caravanserai. On a wet night, the bunks and the floor would be crowded with lodgers of all nations—Yankees, Europeans, Chinese, South Americans—all sleeping in their clothes and boots, many smoking and chewing tobacco, and indulging in the Transatlantic practice which these two enjoyments provoke. The atmosphere was doubtless unfavourable to tranquil repose, for restless sleepers abounded, and kicks in the ribs, or on the head, were no uncommon occurrences. Sometimes, Mr Shaw relates, he awoke with the toe of a boot in his mouth; at others he was so oppressed with heat, that he was glad to rush out into the rain, to inhale fresh air at any price. When the night was fine, he much preferred a bivouac to a dollar’s worth of plank in such company, and under such unpleasant circumstances. If he was disgusted at the sleeping accommodation, he was not much better pleased at meal-times. Plenty of good eating was there in San Francisco—for those who could pay the price. Food was cheaper than it had been a few months previously; but still ten dollars were easily spent by one person, if very hungry or rather dainty, at a Californian eating-house. The _table d’hôtes_ were more economical, varying from one to three dollars a head. Here less fault was to be found with the fare than with the manners of the guests.

“It is not uncommon to see your neighbour coolly abstract a quid from
his jaw, placing it for the time being in his waistcoat pocket or hat,
or sometimes beside his plate even: then commences, on all sides, a
fierce attack on the eatables, and the contents of the dishes rapidly
disappear. Lucky is the man who has a quick eye and a long arm; for
every one helps himself indiscriminately, and attention is seldom paid
to any request. The nature of the _fixing_ (as a viand is called) is
perfectly immaterial; whichever is nearest commonly has the
preference; and as they generally confine themselves to one dish, it
is difficult to get that from their grasp. Molasses is a favourite
_fixing_, and eaten with almost everything.”

Ten minutes sufficed for the Americans to gorge themselves. If slower feeders were behindhand, the worse for them, for it was customary for all to rise together, and the table was cleared and replenished for a second gang of gormandisers. The “free and enlightened,” who had eaten their dinner with their knives, then picked their teeth with their forks, resumed their quids, lit cigars or pipes, and rambled off to liquor and gamble.

“In almost every part of San Francisco there are gaming-houses,
chiefly spacious ‘frame-houses,’ imported from the States. The
interior is hung with coloured calico, and paintings and mirrors
decorate the walls. There is usually a bar at the farther end. It is
very exciting to enter these Pandemoniums: loud music resounds, amidst
which is heard the chinking of money; and the place is redolent of the
fumes of wines, spirits, and tobacco. From the twanging of guitars,
and scraping of violins, to the clashing of cymbals and banging of
drums, musical sounds of all kinds attract the ear of the passer-by.
In the Aguila d’Oro, a band of Ethiopian serenaders beat their banjos,
rattled their bones, and shouted their melodies. In some
gaming-houses, fascinating belles, theatrically dressed, take their
stand at the roulettetables, purposely to allure men to play; and,
there being a scarcity of the fair sex in this country, these syrens
too often prove irresistible.”

In convenient and appropriate proximity to some of the principal hells was the “suicide shop,” a hardware stall, kept by a “Down-Easter,” who sold pistols, bowie-knives, and other weapons. Self-murder was no uncommon occurrence. The desperate character of a large proportion of the crowd that continually thronged the gaming-houses rendered precautions necessary for the safety of the bank of doubloons and gold eagles heaped in the centre of the tables. “In some rooms loaded revolvers garnish the table on each side of the banker; he generally, however, secretes a small one in his breast. On the slightest disturbance, his rigid countenance becomes agitated, and without inquiring into the cause of tumult, the ring of a pistol-ball commonly suppresses the confusion.” In California everything is managed by the trigger.

Mr Shaw cast in his lot with the second mate of the Mazeppa, whom he designates as Mac. Having provisioned themselves with biscuit, ham, and brandy, they embarked on board a small cutter, and sailed up the San Joachim to the new town of Stockton. Their suite consisted of two Chinese (Celestials they are called in California) and a Malay boy. Mac, who spoke Malay, had great influence over all three. Stockton, whatever it may since have become, was then a very primitive-looking place, with few wooden buildings, the stores and taverns being chiefly of canvass nailed on frames, whilst quantities of merchandise lay exposed to the weather. There was great bustle and activity: the gambling was even more extravagant than at San Francisco, and everything was awfully dear—Mac having to pay a dollar for a shave. Mr Shaw arrived just in time to witness two flagrant examples of Californian justice. An emancipated convict, from Van Diemen’s Land, had stolen some trifles from a tent. The usual punishment for such petty offences was the loss of an ear. He was condemned to death and executed within twelve hours of the commission of the theft. The prejudice is strong against emigrants from Australia, who are all set down as convicts. A young man of respectable family, from the States, had shot a German dead with a revolver, for having made some severe remarks on America. An American jury acquitted him of guilt, influenced partly by the feeling address of his counsel, who represented him as “a martyr, who endangered his life in defending the reputation of the republic,” and partly by fear of a lawless mob assembled round the hulk of a superannuated brig, in which this curious and impartial tribunal held its sittings. Stockton was evidently an undesirable abode for Britishers, who might be pistoled without redress, or hung for a petty larceny. Shouldering their “possibles,” Mr Shaw and Mac hastened to quit, with a party of twenty persons bound for the diggings.

“The company was composed mostly of Americans of different grades, two
Chilians, a Frenchman, two Germans, and two Cornish miners. Our
followers, the two Chinese and the Malay boy, stuck pertinaciously to
us: one of them, the cook, we persuaded to return, which he very
reluctantly did; the other two persisting in following us, we
consented, thinking they might be useful. Mahomet, the Malay boy,
carried, strapped to his back, a brass bowl for gold-washing—a utensil
somewhat similar to the barber’s basin that Don Quixote mistook for
Mambrino’s helmet, an appellation which it consequently bore.”

Five mules, loaded with provisions for the storekeepers at some remote diggings, accompanied the party, in charge of two guides. The first day’s march began late, and lasted but four hours. At seven in the evening they halted hard by a band of fifty Americans, who had just arrived at Stockton by the overland route. These emaciated, wayworn men were the remnant of a party of settlers from the backwoods of Illinois. A glance at the map of North America gives the best idea of the immense length of their pilgrimage to Mammon’s new shrine. “The difficulties they had encountered were indescribable—ascending and descending mountains, and crossing rivers, dogged by Indians and wild beasts. Many had died on the way; and the latter part of the track, they said, resembled the route of a retreating army: the road was strewed with abandoned goods and broken-down waggons; funereal mounds were raised by the wayside; whilst carcasses of bullocks and skeletons of men bleached in the sun.”

The next day the start was at sunrise, and until ten o’clock the road lay through woodlands. Then the party entered the plain. As far as they could see were sandhills, without a trace of vegetation; the ground, parched and fissured by the sun, glowed beneath their feet; gigantic columns of dust stalked majestically over the monotonous level. Wearily the travellers proceeded, sinking, at every step, ankle-deep in sand, their eyes inflamed and irritated by the glare and dust, with the thermometer at 120°. A scorching wind closed their pores, and excited intense and unquenchable thirst.

“Most of the party had water-kegs and bottles, which, as joint
property, they carried alternately; the muleteers had skins of water
for themselves and animals. Mac and I luckily had each an India-rubber
bag, which contained a gallon of water, sparing us much suffering and
no little peril: we drank from them very moderately, however, being
uncertain when they would be again replenished.”

This abstinence was most judicious. That day they came to no water. They were promised some for the next morning, but on reaching the water-hole it was found dry. Digging was in vain; not a drop was obtainable. Terrible now was the situation of those who, relying on a supply in the morning, had expended their store during the night. “I thought of the parable of the foolish virgins, as I looked on the flushed faces and glazing eyes of the unfortunates.” But “Forward” was the word, and every man for himself. If any compassionate hearts there were amongst those who had husbanded the precious element, they had to repress their impulses, for generosity would have been suicidal; and resolution was necessary not to swallow at one eager gulp the small remaining supply. Even with occasional moistening of the lips and throat, “my vitals seemed on fire,” says Mr Shaw. Those whose improvidence had forestalled that alleviation soon began to lag behind.

“By degrees they divested themselves of their burdens and their
clothes, which they left strewed on the plain. Two of them actually
licked the bodies of the mules, for the sake of the animal exudations,
to relieve their thirst; but a thick coating of dust prevented their
deriving any beneficial effects. In vain they beseeched us to halt;
our lives were at stake. One man, in his desperation, seized hold of
the water-skin hanging to the mule. ‘Avast there, stranger!’ cried the
muleteer, and a loaded pistol intimidated the sufferer.”

Some had recourse to brandy, which made them almost delirious. At last, in the afternoon, four remained behind; keeping together, as their last slender chance of safety from wolves and Indians. It seemed barbarous to leave them, but what could be done? The life of all depended on their speed. The Stanislaus river was the nearest water, and when they halted, at nightfall, it still was twenty miles distant. That evening, at supper, the majority finished their water, and the muleteer hinted to the fortunate minority the possibility of theirs being forcibly taken from them. Too fatigued to keep watch, they slept together in a group, rolled in their blankets, with pistol in hand and the water-bags tied to them. Their rest was broken by the howling of wolves, and still more by the imploring cries and angry exclamations of the waterless. Before daybreak some of the party were afoot, striding forward at a desperate pace. On reaching the river, “the mules were disencumbered, and, throwing down our burthens, we ran to the banks, and, without doffing our clothes, eagerly rushed into the cooling stream, mules and men indiscriminately, up to the neck.” One can imagine the luxury of such a bath, after such a journey. The river was wide but shallow, the water clear as crystal and full of salmon, the bank fringed with trees. Their bodies cooled, and their clothes washed in the current, the next impulse of the party, it might have been thought, would be to retrace their steps, with good store of water, in search of the companions they had left behind. With Arabs or Indians the expectation might be well founded, but not with gold-hunters. All the worse for stragglers if they could not keep up. Time was precious; the diggings were ahead. Forward! to gather gold!

That evening the camp was at the foot of the Sierra Nevada, whose summits rose, snow-crowned, before the wanderers. Wood and water were plentiful; a blazing fire cheered the bivouac; the mules, luxuriating in abundant herbage, recovered from the exhaustion of the previous day. On the morrow a narrow river was crossed, and the steep ascent of the mountains began. The scenery grew wild and picturesque, and there was evidence of some great convulsion of nature having occurred there. The travellers passed cataracts, ravines, and water-courses, pyramids of rocks piled on each other, and chasms of unfathomable depth. At the extremity of a beautiful valley they came to a singular tumulus, which it was proposed to open, the Germans of the party being particularly desirous of its scientific investigation; but the guides scoffed at archæology. “You will have digging enough,” said they, “when you get to the _placer_, without rummaging in old tombs.” So the progress was uninterrupted; and, before noon upon the following day, the promised land, its golden river and clusters of tents, were in sight.