The Chinese Question, we had an opportunity of looking into considerably, first and last, and here are some conclusions. Striking the orientals at Boisè City, in Idaho, we had followed them down the Columbia and the Coast to San Francisco, and here endeavored to learn all we could about them. We found them everywhere on the streets and in the houses, in pretty much all occupations except the very highest, and were constantly amazed at their general thrift and intelligence. Out of the hundred thousand or so on the Coast, perhaps half were massed in San Francisco and its suburbs; so here was the place to see and study John Chinaman in America, if anywhere. All wore the collarless Chinese blouse, looped across the breast, not buttoned—that of the poorer classes of coarse blue stuff, but of the richer of broadcloth. Otherwise, they dressed outwardly chiefly as Americans. Here and there a Chinese hat, such as you see in the tea-prints, appeared, but not often—the American felt-hat being the rule, stove-pipes never. A Chinaman with a stove-pipe hat on would truly be an anomaly, a violation of all the unities and proprieties at once. A good many still wore the Chinese shoe, wooden-soled, with cotton uppers; but the American boot and shoe were fast supplanting this, especially among the out-door classes, such as mechanics and laborers. Pig-tails were universal, generally hanging down, but often coiled around the head, under the hat, so as to be out of the way and attract less attention. In features, of course, they were all true Mongolians; but here and there were grand faces, worthy of humanity anywhere. Their food consists chiefly of fish and rice; but the wealthier classes indulge freely in poultry and beef, and the Chinese taste for these was constantly on the increase. The old stories of their dog and rat diet are evidently myths, at least here in America, and no doubt are equally so in China, except in very rare instances, among the poorest classes, and even then only under the direst necessity. Intelligent Californians laugh at such reports as antediluvian, and say their Chinese neighbors are only too glad to eat the very best, if they can only get it. Everybody gave them credit for sobriety, intelligence, and thrift, the three great master qualities of mankind, practically speaking; and without them the industry of the Pacific Coast, it was conceded, would soon come to a stand-still. All are expert at figures, all read and write their own tongue, and nearly all seemed intent on mastering English, as quickly and thoroughly as possible. When not at work or otherwise occupied, they were usually seen with a book in their hands, and seemed much given to reading and study. Their chief vices were gambling, and opium-smoking; but these did not seem to prevail to the extent we had heard, and appeared really less injurious, than the current vices of other races on the Coast, all things considered. The statistics of the city and Coast somehow were remarkably in their favor, showing a less percentage of vagrancy and crime among these heathens, than any other part of the population, notwithstanding the absurd prejudices and barbarous discriminations against them. Their quickness to learn all American ways, even when not able to speak our tongue, was very surprising. They engaged in all household duties, ran errands, worked at trades, performed all kinds of manual labor, and yet as a rule, their only dialect was a sort of chow-chow or "Pigeon English," of which the following is a good specimen. It is Longfellow's "Excelsior" done into Pigeon-English, and speaks for itself.
"TOPSIDE GALAH.
"Pigeon" is said to be the nearest approach a Chinaman can make to "business," and hence "Pigeon English" really means business English. Most of the above words are English, more or less distorted; a few, however, are Chinese Anglicised. They always use l for r—thus lice for "rice;" mi for "I," etc.; and abound in terminal "ee's." Chop-chop means "very fast;" maskee, "don't mind;" Topside Galah, "Excelsior, hurrah!" If you call on a lady, and inquire of her Chinese servant, "Missee have got?" He will reply, if she be up and about, "Missee hab got topside;" or, if she be still asleep, "Missee hab got, wakee sleepee." Not wishing to disturb her, you hand him your card, and go away with, "Maskee, maskee; no makee bobbery!"
We had seen a good deal of the Chinese generally, but on the evening of Dec. 31st were so fortunate as to meet most of their leading men together. The occasion was a grand banquet at the Occidental, given by the merchants of San Francisco, in honor of the sailing of the Colorado, the first steamer of the new monthly line to Hong-Kong. All the chief men of the city—merchants, lawyers, clergymen, politicians—were present, and among the rest some twenty or more Chinese merchants and bankers. The Governor of the State presided, and the military and civil dignitaries most eminent on the Coast were all there. The magnificent Dining-Room of the Occidental was handsomely decorated with festoons and flowers, and tastefully draped with the flags of all nations—chief among which, of course, were our own Stars and Stripes, and the Yellow-Dragon of the Flowery Empire. A peculiar feature was an infinity of bird-cages all about the room, from which hundreds of canaries and mockingbirds discoursed exquisite music the livelong evening. The creature comforts disposed of, there were eloquent addresses by everybody, and among the rest one by Mr. Fung Tang, a young Chinese merchant, who made one of the briefest and most sensible of them all. It was in fair English, and vastly better than the average of post-prandial discourses. This was the only set speech by a Chinaman, but the rest conversed freely in tolerable English, and in deportment were certainly perfect Chesterfields of courtesy and propriety. They were mostly large, dignified, fine-looking men, and two of them—Mr. Hop Kee, a leading tea-merchant, and Mr. Chy Lung, a noted silk-factor—had superb heads and faces, that would have attracted attention anywhere. They sat by themselves; but several San Franciscans of note shared their table, and everybody hob-nobbed with them, more or less, throughout the evening. These were the representatives of the great Chinese Emigration and Banking Companies, whose checks pass current on 'Change in San Francisco, for a hundred thousand dollars or more any day, and whose commercial integrity so far was unstained. There are five of these Companies in all, the Yung-Wo, the Sze-Yap, the Sam-Yap, the Yan-Wo, and the Ning-Yung. They contract with their countrymen in China to transport them to America, insure them constant work while here at fixed wages, and at the expiration of their contract return them to China again, dead or alive, if so desired. They each have a large and comfortable building in San Francisco, where they board and lodge their members, when they first arrive, or when sick, or out of work, or on a visit from the interior. Chinese beggars are rare on the Coast, and our public hospitals contain no Chinese patients, although John before landing has always to pay a "hospital-tax" of ten dollars. This is what it is called out there; but, of course, it is a robbery and swindle, which the Golden State ought promptly to repeal. These great Companies also act, as express-agents and bankers, all over the Coast. In all the chief towns and mining districts, wherever you enter a Chinese quarter or camp, you will find a representative of one or more of them, who will procure anything a Chinaman needs, from home or elsewhere; and faithfully remit to the Flowery Kingdom whatever he wants to send, even his own dead body. Both parties appear to keep their contracts well—a breach of faith being seldom recorded. Here, surely, is evidence of fine talent for organization and management—the best tests of human intellect and capacity—and a hint at the existence of sterling qualities, which the English-speaking nations are slow to credit other races with. Such gigantic schemes, such far-reaching plans, such harmonious workings, and exact results, imply a genius for affairs, that not even the Anglo-Saxon can afford to despise, and which all others may ponder with profit. A race that can plan and execute such things as these, must have some vigor and virility in it, whatever its other peculiarities.
Some days after the Banquet, we were driven out to the Mission Woolen Mills, where Donald McLennan, a Massachusetts Scotch-Yankee, was converting California wool into gold. The climate being so favorable to sheep, the wool-product of the coast was already large, and everywhere rapidly increasing. In 1867, California alone yielded ten million pounds, and the rest of the coast fully two millions more. Of this amount, about one-half was consumed on the Pacific Coast, and the balance exported to New York and Liverpool. The average price per pound in San Francisco was about seventeen cents, coin; but this was lower, than it had usually been.[16] There were several other Woolen Mills on the Coast; but the Mission-Mills were the largest, and had a great reputation for honest work. They were then doing a business of about a million dollars per year, coin, in cloths, cassimeres, blankets, flannels, shawls, etc., and the demand for their goods was constantly on the increase. Their work, on the whole, was of a superior character, and Californians were justly very proud of it. They were supplying all the Army blankets in use on the Coast, and what a contrast they were to the "shoddy" webs, issued to our Boys in Blue east during the war! The troops transferred from the east now threw their old Army blankets away, on arriving in San Francisco, and gladly furnished themselves with these Mission blankets, at their own expense, before leaving for the wilds of Washington and Arizona. Some extra specimens, intended for the Paris Exposition, as white as new-fallen snow and soft as satin, had the American and French coats of arms embroidered very handsomely on them. Another pair, meant for General Grant, were lustrous with the Stars and Stripes, and traditional eagle, and now no doubt help to furnish the White House. A pair sent to Gen. M. in the east, a noted connoisseur in blankets, he declared the finest he ever saw, and added, "My daughter would make one of them into an opera-cloak, they are so elegant, if she hadn't one already." I mention all these things thus particularly, in order to emphasize the fact, that out of the 450 persons then employed about these Mills, 350 were Chinamen. For the heavier work, Americans or Europeans were preferred; but the more delicate processes, we were assured, Chinamen learned more quickly and performed more deftly, besides never becoming drunk, or disorderly, or going on a "strike." We saw them at the looms, engaged in the most painstaking and superb pieces of workmanship, and they could not have been more attentive and exact, if they had been a part of the machinery itself. And yet, these one hundred Anglo-Saxons were paid $2,95 per day, coin, while the three hundred and fifty Chinamen received only $1,10 per day, coin, though the average work of each was about the same. Without this cheap labor of John Chinaman, these Mills would have had to close up; with it, they were run at a profit, and at the same time were a great blessing and credit to the Pacific Coast in every way. So, also, the Central Pacific Railroad was then being pushed through and over the Sierra Nevadas, by some ten thousand Chinamen, working for one dollar per day each, in coin, and finding themselves, when no other labor could be had for less than two dollars and a half per day, coin. It was simply a question with the Central directors, whether to build the road or not. Without John, it was useless to attempt it, as the expense would have bankrupted the company, even if other labor could have been had, which was problematical. With him, the road is already a fact accomplished; and in view of possible contingencies, nationally and politically, who shall say we have completed it an hour too soon? Here are practical results, not shadowy theories—of such a character, too, as should give one pause, however anti-Chinese, and ought to outweigh a world of prejudices.
Not long afterwards, we were invited to join a party of gentlemen, and make a tour of the Chinese quarter. Part were from the East, like ourselves, bent on information, and the rest Pacific-Coasters. We started early in the evening, escorted by two policemen, who were familiar with the ins and outs of Chinadom, and did not reach the Occidental again until long after midnight. We went first to the Chinese Theatre, an old hotel on the corner of Jackson and Dupont streets, that had recently been metamorphosed into an Oriental play-house. We found two or three hundred Chinese here, of both sexes, but mainly males, listening to a play, that required eighty weeks or months—our informants were not certain which—to complete its performance. Here was drama for you, surely, and devotion to it! It was a history of the Flowery Kingdom, by some Chinese Shakespeare—half-tragedy, half-comedy, like most human history—and altogether was a curious medley. The actors appeared to be of both sexes, but we were told were only men and boys. Their dresses were usually very rich, the finest of embroidered silks, and their acting quite surprised us. Their pantomime was excellent, their humor irresistible, and their love-passages a good reproduction of the grand passion, that in all ages "makes the world go round." But it is to be doubted, if the Anglo-Saxon ear will ever become quite reconciled to John's orchestra. This consisted of a rough drum, a rude banjo or guitar, and a sort of violin, over whose triple clamors a barbarous clarionet squeaked and squealed continually. Japanese music, as rendered by Risley's troupe of "Jugglers," is much similar to it; only John's orchestra is louder, and more hideous. Much of the play was pantomime, and other much opera; some, however, was common dialogue, and when this occurred, the clash and clang of the Chinese consonants was something fearful. Every word seemed to end in "ng," as Chang, Ling, Hong, Wung; and when the parts became animated, their voices roared and rumbled about the stage, like Chinese gongs in miniature. The general behavior of the audience was good; everybody, however, smoked—the majority cigars and cigarritos, a very few opium. Over the theatre was a Chinese lottery-office, on entering which the proprietor tendered you wine and cigars, like a genuine Californian. He himself was whiffing away at a cigarrito, and was as polite and politic, as a noted New York ex-M. C., in the same lucrative business. Several Chinamen dropped in to buy tickets, while we were there; and the business seemed to be conducted on the same principle, or rather want of principle, as among Anglo-Saxons elsewhere.
Next we explored the famous Barbary Coast, and witnessed scenes that Charles Dickens never dreamed of, with all his studies of the dens and slums of London and Paris. Here in narrow, noisome alleys are congregated the wretched Chinese women, that are imported by the ship-load, mainly for infamous purposes. As a class, they are small in stature, scarcely larger than an American girl of fourteen, and usually quite plain. Some venture on hoops and crinoline, but the greater part retain the Chinese wadded gown and trousers. Their chignons are purely Chinese—huge, unique, indescribable—and would excite the envy even of a Broadway belle. They may be seen on the street any day in San Francisco, bonnetless, fan in hand, hobbling along in their queer little shoes, perfect fac-similes of the figures you see on lacquered ware imported from the Orient. They are not more immodest, than those of our own race, who ply the same vocation in Philadelphia and New York; and their fellow-countrymen, it seemed, behaved decently well even here. But here is the great resort of sailors, miners, 'long-shoremen, and the floating population generally of San Francisco, and the brutality and bestiality of the Saxon and the Celt here all comes suddenly to the surface, as if we were fiends incarnate. Here are the St. Giles of London and the Five Points of New York, magnified and intensified (if possible), both crowded into one, and what a hideous example it is for Christendom to set to Heathendom! San Francisco owes it to herself, and to our boasted civilization, to cleanse this Augean stable—to obliterate, to stamp out this plague-spot—to purge it, if need be, by fire—and she has not a day to lose in doing it. It is the shameful spectacle, shocking alike to gods and men, of a strong race trampling a weaker one remorselessly in the mud; and justice will not sleep forever, confronted by such enormities.
The same evening we took a turn through the Chinese gambling-houses, but did not find them worse than similar institutions elsewhere. Indeed, they were rather more quiet and respectable, than the average of such "hells" in San Francisco. They were frequented solely by Chinamen, and though John is not averse to "fighting the tiger," he proposes to do it in his own dolce far niente way. They seemed to have only one game, which consisted in betting whether in diminishing steadily a given pile of perforated brass-coins, an odd or even number of them would at last be left. The banker with a little rod, drew the coins, two at a time, rapidly out of the pile towards himself, and when the game was ended all parties cheerfully paid up their losses or pocketed their gains. The stakes were small, seldom more than twenty-five or fifty cents each, and disputes infrequent. A rude idol or image of Josh, with a lamp constantly burning before it, appeared in all these dens, and indeed was universal throughout the Chinese quarter.
The Chinese New Year comes in February, and is an occasion of rare festivities. It began at midnight on the 4th that year, and was ushered in with a lavish discharge of fire-crackers and rockets, to which our usual Fourth of July bears about the same comparison as a minnow to a whale. The fusilade of crackers continued, more or less, for a day or two, until the whole Chinese quarter was littered with their remains. It takes them three days to celebrate this holiday, and during all this period there was a general suspension of business, and every Chinaman kept open house. Their leading merchants welcomed all "Melican" men who called upon them, and the Celestials themselves were constantly passing from house to house, exchanging the compliments of the season. I dropped in upon several, whom I had met at the Banquet, and now have lying before me the unique cards of Mr. Hop Kee, Mr. Chy Lung, Mr. Fung Tang, Messrs. Tung Fu and Co., Messrs. Kwoy Hing and Co., Messrs. Sun Chung Kee and Co., etc. Several of these understood and spoke English very well, and all bore themselves becomingly, like well-to-do gentlemen. Like the majority of their countrymen, many were small; but some were full-sized, athletic men, scarcely inferior, if at all, to our average American. Their residences were usually back of their stores, and here we everywhere found refreshments set out, and all invited to partake, with a truly Knickerbocker hospitality. Tea, sherry, champagne, cakes, sweetmeats, cigars, all were offered without stint, but never pressed unduly. For three days the whole Chinese quarter was thus given up to wholesale rejoicing, and hundreds of Americans flocked thither, to witness the festivity and fun. John everywhere appeared in his best bib and tucker, if not with a smile on his face, yet with a look of satisfaction and content; for this was the end of his debts, as well as the beginning of a new year. At this period, by Chinese custom or law, a general settlement takes place among them, a balance is struck between debtor and creditor, and everybody starts afresh. If unable to pay up, the debtor surrenders his assets for the equal benefit of his creditors, his debts are sponged out, and then with a new ledger and a clean conscience he "picks his flint and tries it again." This is the merciful, if not sensible, Bankrupt Law of the Chinese, in force among these heathen for thousands of years—"for a time whereof the memory of man runneth not to the contrary"—and its humane and wise provisions suggest, whether our Christian legislators, after all, may not have something to learn, even from Pagan codes.
The Chinese temple, synagogue, or "Josh-House," of which we had heard such conflicting reports, stands near the corner of Kearney and Pine streets, in the heart of the city. It is a simple structure of brick, two or three stories high, and would attract little or no attention, were it not for a plain marble slab over the entrance, with "Sze-Yap Asylum" carved upon it, in gilt letters, and the same repeated in Chinese characters. It was spoken of as a "Heathen Synagogue," a "Pagan Temple," etc., and we had heard much ado about it, from people of the William Nye school chiefly, long before reaching San Francisco. But, in reality, it appeared to be only an asylum or hospital, for the unemployed and infirm of the Sze-Yap Emigration Company; with a small "upper chamber," set apart for such religious services, as to them seemed meet. The other companies all have similar hospitals or asylums, but we visited only this one. The first room on the ground-floor seemed to be the business-room or council-chamber of the company, and this was adorned very richly with crimson and gold. Silk-hangings were on the walls, arm-chairs elaborately carved along the sides, and at the end on a raised platform stood a table and chair, as if ready for business. The room adjoining seemed to be the general smoking and lounging room of the members of the company. Here several Chinamen lay stretched out, on rude but comfortable lounges, two smoking opium, all the rest only cigarritos—taking their afternoon siesta. Back of this were the dining-room, kitchen, etc., but we did not penetrate thither. A winding stairs brought us to the second floor, and here was the place reserved for religious purposes,—an "upper chamber" perhaps twenty by thirty feet, or even less. Its walls and ceiling were hung with silk, and here and there were placards, inscribed with moral maxims from Confucius and other writers, much as we suspend the same on the walls of our Sunday-school rooms, with verses on them from our Sacred writings. These mottoes, of course, were in Chinese; but they were said to exhort John to virtue, fidelity, integrity, the veneration of ancestors, and especially to admonish the young men not to forget, that they are away from home, and to do nothing to prejudice the character of their country in the eyes of foreigners. A few gilded spears and battle-axes adorned either side, while overhead hung clusters of Chinese lanterns, unique and beautiful. Flowers were scattered about quite profusely, both natural and artificial—the latter perfect in their way. At the farther end of the room, in "a dim religious light," amid a barbaric array of bannerets and battle-axes, stood their sacred Josh—simply a Representative Chinaman, perhaps half life-size, with patient pensive eyes, long drooping moustaches, and an expression doubtless meant for sublime repose or philosophic indifference. Here all orthodox Chinamen in San Francisco, connected with the Sze-Yap company, were expected to come at least once a year, and propitiate the deity by burning a slip of paper before his image. There was also some praying to be done, but this was accomplished by putting printed prayers in a machine run by clock-work. Tithes there were none—at least worth mentioning. Altogether, this seemed to be a very easy and cheap religion; and yet, easy as it was, John did not seem to trouble himself much about it. The place looked much neglected, as if worshippers were scarce, and devotees infrequent. A priest or acolyte, who came in and trimmed the ever-burning lamp, without even a bow or genuflection to Josh, was the only person about the "Temple," while we were there. The dormitories and apartments for the sick and infirm, we were told, were on this same floor and above; but we did not visit them. This Josh-worship, such as it is, seemed to be general among the Chinese, except the handful gathered into the various Christian churches; but it did not appear to be more than a ceremony. The truth is, John is a very practical creature, and was already beginning to understand, that he is in a new land and among new ideas. Surely, our vigorous, aggressive California Christians stand in no danger from such Pagan "Temples," and our all-embracing nationality can well afford to tolerate them, as China in turn tolerates ours. The hospital and asylum part of them, we might well imitate; and as for the rest, is it not Emerson, who says:
Our own religion and civilization are too potent, or ought to be, to be affected by such a worship; and if its simple rites comfort or content John in his rough transition to the nineteenth century, let him practice them in peace. If treated wisely, it will not be long before he discards them forever.
So much for the Chinese in San Francisco. Elsewhere, throughout California and Nevada, subsequently, we saw them at work in vineyards, on farms, in the mines, and their industry, fidelity, and skill were conceded substantially by everybody. This Chinese Problem, of course, has its embarrassments; but it is already looming into importance, and must be met. Already we have nearly a hundred thousand of these almond-eyed strangers on the Pacific Coast, and the number swells monthly. In spite of obstructions and discouragements, this yellow stream sets steadily in, and seems as irresistible as the tide, if not as inexhaustible. China, with her teeming population of four hundred millions of souls, or one-third of the human family, has already overflowed into all the countries adjacent to her, and now seeks further outlet here in America. To her, it is simply a question of increase and subsistence. And here, fortunately, from Alaska to the Isthmus, we have room enough and to spare, for all her surplus millions. With her, labor is a drug, the cheapest article she has, and so she exports it. With us, it is largely in demand, and everywhere rising in value. The Pacific slope, and the great internal basin of the continent, to-day absolutely need millions of cheap workers—men, who can deftly handle the pick-axe and the spade, the plow and the hoe, the shuttle and the loom, and, it is plain, must get them from Asia, or not get them at all; for the Atlantic slope, and our great West, stand ready to absorb all Europe can spare, and more. With John, their mines will be opened, their forests cleared, their fields irrigated and tilled, their railroads built, their cotton and woollen-mills erected and run, and in short every avenue of industry and trade made busy and prosperous. Without John, a vast expanse of matchless territory there must remain practically a wilderness and a desert, for long years to come. Is it wise, then, would it be humane and sensible—to turn aside from and reject these patient, industrious, orderly, frugal, labor-seeking, business-loving strangers, whom Providence just now seems to tender us, as a mighty means for subduing and civilizing the continent; or should we not, rather, accept them thankfully, as God's instruments for good, and make the most of their brain and muscle? The inexorable, all-prevailing law of supply and demand, it would seem, has already settled this question, or is in a fair way to settle it; and it but remains to consider, what we shall do with them.
In the first place, John nowhere aspires to vote, nor even to be a citizen. So far, his sole claim has been for the right to work, and to receive "a fair day's wages for a fair day's work." With the imperturbability of fate, he has settled down on this, and calmly awaits our answer, not doubting the result. If you object, that he persists in being a foreigner, all expecting some day to return to China, his answer is all immigrants to a new country are more or less of that mind; and, besides, as yet nothing has been done to induce him to Americanize himself. Their leading men said, no doubt many of their countrymen would bring their wives and children here, and settle down among us, if they could be sure of safety and protection; but that now California was "no place for a China woman—hardly safe for a Chinaman!" They said, they had found America very good for work, and "muchee" good for business; but they had to pay odious taxes, not exacted of other persons—were not permitted to testify in court, except for or against each other—were abused and maltreated from one end of the Coast to the other—were at the mercy of white ruffians, who might rob and even kill them, with impunity, unless Caucasians were present—and, in short, that as yet Chinamen here "had no rights that Melican men were bound to respect." Now, I say, let us change all this. Let us do justice, even to the poorest and humblest of God's children. Let us give John, too, "a fair start and an equal chance in the race of life," the same as every other human being on American soil; and we shall soon check the re-flow to the Flowery Kingdom, and build up an empire on the Pacific Coast, worthy of our matchless soil and climate there. Existing labor and skill might suffer somewhat at first, as in all industrial changes; but, in the end, they would become employers, and supply the brains to guide the Mongolian hand and foot. The first generation passed away, the next de-Chinaized, Americanized, and educated, would soon become absorbed in the national life, and known only as model artisans and workers. As the ocean receives all rains and rivers, and yet shows it not, so America receives the Saxon and the Celt, the Protestant and the Catholic, and can yet receive Sambo and John, and absorb them all. The school-house and the church, the newspaper and the telegraph, can be trusted to work out their logical results; and time, our sure ally, would shape and fashion even these into keen American citizens.
There were indications, that the Coast had fallen to thinking seriously of all this, and somehow meant to deal more justly with the Chinese hereafter. The anti-Chinese mobs in the cities and towns were passing away, and even among the mining-camps Vigilance Committees were beginning to execute rough justice on thieves and murderers, when their treatment of John became too flagrant and notorious.[17] Capital, always keen-sighted, was getting to see the necessity for their labor and skill, and the culture and conscience of the Coast were already on their side. Gov. Low, (since Minister to China, most fittingly) presided at the Occidental Banquet, and in his remarks there took strong ground in their favor. He said, among other good things:
"We must learn to treat the Chinese who come to live among us decently, and not oppress them by unfriendly legislation, nor allow them to be abused, robbed and murdered, without extending to them any adequate remedy.
"I am a strong believer in the strength of mind and muscle of the Anglo-Saxon race, which will win in the contest for supremacy with any people, without the aid of unequal and oppressive laws; and the man, who is afraid to take his chances on equal terms with his opponents, is a coward and unworthy the name of an American.
"Were I to sum up the whole duty imposed upon us, I should say, let us be honest, industrious and frugal, be persevering and progressive, and remember Raleigh's maxim, that 'Whoever commands the sea commands the trade of the world, and whoever commands the trade of the world commands the riches of the world, and consequently the world itself.'"
So, the pulpit, and the press, as a rule, omitted no opportunity to speak a kind word for them, and to denounce the barbarism, and absurdity, of existing statutes against them. In San Francisco, a public-school had been established for their benefit, and was crowded day and night with adult Chinamen striving to learn English. The public-school fund running short that year, (1867) the Chinese merchants promptly volunteered to eke out the appropriation, rather than have the Board of Education close the school. Since then the Rev. Dr. Gibson, (formerly a Methodist missionary to China, and a man of great energy and force), has started his Sunday-Schools, expecting to plant them all over the Coast, and there seems a marked uprising in John's behalf generally. True, Mr. Senator Casserly, himself a catholic foreigner and the negro-hating democracy, are just now essaying a crusade against them; but this is because the XVth Amendment has ended the "nigger," and they are sadly in want of political capital. Our churches have certainly, now and here, a noble opportunity for effective and valuable missionary work. Instead of having to go half round the globe, across the sea, into malarious regions, among Pagan influences, to seek out the lost sheep of the House of Israel, we here have the heathen at our back-door, and ought to unfurl the Banner of the Cross to them, in every town and from every hillside. The story of the Yankee, who gave a missionary-collector a quarter of a dollar, and when he was leaving called him back, and gave him a dollar more, "to send that quarter along," has it not some grains of truth in it? Here the whole dollar and a quarter may be made immediately effective, and our missionary money should be forthcoming without stint. Not only would we thus more readily and cheaply evangelize the Chinese on our shores, but their returning thousands in turn would evangelize their countrymen at home; and we would thus accomplish a hundredfold more for China, than our missionaries there now seem to be doing, judging by their statistics, all put together. And not only do our Chinese themselves call for this, but the harmony and purity of the national life demand it, and may our churches awake to their great responsibility. Here is their true field for instant and aggressive missionary work, and they should occupy it overwhelmingly.
From a full survey of this questio vexata, I must conclude, if "God made of one blood all the nations of men to dwell upon the earth," if we are children of a common Father, redeemed by a common Saviour, and bound for a common eternity; if the good old rule, "whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them," (which the Chinese had in a negative form a thousand years before the Sermon on the Mount), is not yet effete; if we believe with Thomas Jefferson, that "all men are created equal, and endowed by their Creator with the inalienable rights of life and liberty;" then, we are bound as a nation to accord justice and fair-play even to these poor Mongolians, yellow-skinned, pig-tailed, and heathen though they be. Now, as heretofore, and always, we shall find our reward as a people in right-doing. Right is always politic. Justice is never wrong. And let us as a nation do right, even to the humblest of God's creatures, and leave the consequences with Him, who holds in his hands the destinies alike of individuals and of races. This is not always an easy road; but the Republic has already travelled it so far, and so courageously, we can not now afford to depart from it. Justice, if the sky falls. But, we may be sure, it will not fall. Rather, it will stand all the firmer and broader, for the Justice done and Humanity saved.
We left San Francisco, Feb. 9th, on the good ship Orizaba, for southern California and Arizona. She was a first-class side-wheel steamer, with good accommodations, and belonged to the California Steam Navigation Company—a corporation that then monopolized or controlled all the navigable waters of California, besides running coast-wise lines North and South. She was one of a line, that ran semi-monthly to San Diego and return, touching at Santa Barbara and San Pedro, and seemed to be paying very well. We might have gone southward from San Francisco to San Josè by railroad, and thence by stage to Los Angelos and Fort Yuma; but our long stage-rides, from the Missouri to Salt Lake and thence to the Columbia, had worn the romance off of stage-coaching, and we infinitely preferred to proceed by steamer. It was a superb day, with sea and sky both "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue"—a day of the kind Californians always mean, when they brag about their climate—as we flung off our lines at San Francisco, and steamed down the harbor broadside with the Golden Age en route for Panama. We passed by Alcatraz and through the Golden Gate neck and neck, with the decks of both vessels crowded with excited passengers; but once across the bar, the Orizaba drew steadily ahead, and long before sunset we left the Golden Age hull down astern. I don't say this was a race, indeed. Perhaps their leaving together was quite accidental. But the Orizaba soon showed her mettle, all hands were eager and excited, and her officers were in ecstasies at the results.
Once fairly at sea, our steamer turned her prow sharply south, and all the way down followed the coast from headland to headland. Usually we steamed along some five or six miles off shore, with the land itself always in view, and the ocean everywhere like a millpond. From the Columbia to the Golden Gate in December, we had found the Pacific to belie its name; but now steaming farther south, we saw it in its calmness and beauty, and felt like christening it anew. Most of the way, the sky was magnificently clear, the weather moderate, the air bracing and stimulating, while the whole Coast was a shifting panorama of beauty and grandeur. The ocean too smooth for sea-sickness, we strolled about the deck by twos and fours, or lolled for hours on the settees, inhaling life and vigor at every breath, until we almost seemed to be navigating fabled seas or voyaging into paradise. The Coast itself, never out of sight, rose generally in abrupt hills or mountains, and these were now green and gold to their summits. In places, whole hillsides seemed alive with wild-flowers of every hue, while here and there flocks and herds dotted the landscape far and near. Now and then an adobe house gleamed out of some sheltered nook; but, as a rule, houses were infrequent, and trees and shrubbery very scarce. A few stunted oaks and cedars fringed the ravines here and there, but as a forest they were nothing to speak of. The Coast Mountains lifted themselves everywhere, smooth to the summit as if shaven, with no glory of trees to shelter or crown them; and in summer, when their verdure dries up and blows away, they must seem very bald and desolate.
At Santa Barbara, some three hundred miles down the Coast, we touched for an hour or two, and put ashore several passengers, and some thirty tons of freight. While discharging the latter, we sauntered up into the town, and found it to be a pleasant place of some fifteen hundred inhabitants—county-seat to a county of the same name. The buildings were mostly adobe, of course, and all quite old; but the town had an appearance of comfort and respectability, if not of thrift, and the few Americans we met were sanguine of its future. The Santa Barbara plains, just back of the town, consist of a broad and beautiful valley, enclosed by two imposing mountain ranges, that here jut obliquely into the ocean, and they have a climate that is no doubt seldom equalled even on the Pacific Coast. As a sanatarium, Santa Barbara was already being much resorted to by invalids, and doubtless will become more so when better known. With great evenness of temperature the year round,[18] without either snow or frost, or intense heat, the grape, fig, orange, peach, pomegranate, olive, all nourish here in the open air; and Nature seems so prodigal of her gifts, the Santa Barbarans appear exempted from the primal curse, "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, etc." Mountain streams from the neighboring ranges, they had, however, trained into irrigating ditches, and by these cultivated a considerable breadth of land. They said, they had water sufficient to irrigate thousands of acres more, and needed only capital and population to build up a prosperous and thriving community. In old times—"before the flood," as a Forty-Niner would say—the Jesuit Fathers had one of their most flourishing Missions here, and their old Mission Church on a plateau back of the town was still standing, though now used chiefly as a school. Dr. O. formerly of the Army, but now married to a señorita and settled at Santa Barbara, escorted us through the town, and afterwards regaled us with wine from his own vineyard, of an excellent brand. He pronounced Santa Barbara, with its fruits and its flowers, a second paradise, the only place fit to live in—where one would about never die—and half persuaded some of us to the same way of thinking. The petroleum wells near there, as yet, had produced but little; but there seemed no doubt of the petroleum being there in large quantities. We had noticed it floating on the sea for miles before reaching Santa Barbara; and, if it issues beneath the sea sufficient for this purpose, it ought to be struck somewhere in that vicinity in paying quantities. The Santa Barbarans by no means despaired of doing this yet, and thus hoped to add another item to their already large and growing products. . At San Pedro, the seaport of Los Angelos, a hundred miles or so farther down the Coast, we put off some four hundred tons of freight, and parted with the bulk of our passengers. Of this place, more hereafter. Thence, past Anaheim, a settlement of German wine-growers, we steamed on down a hundred miles farther, and halted at last at San Diego. A stiff breeze, freshening into a gale, and a rough swell, followed us into San Diego; but once inside the jaws of the harbor, we found the bay almost unruffled, while all outside was wild and threatening. The harbor, indeed, is quite land-locked, and after San Francisco is the finest on the Pacific Coast, below Puget Sound. But a few hundred yards in width at the entrance, it soon spreads out into a broad and handsome bay, one or two miles wide by ten or twelve long, and with a depth of water close in shore sufficient to float the largest vessels. A bold promontory running obliquely into the sea, as all the headlands on this coast do, shelters the harbor perfectly from all north and northwest winds, and contributes much to make San Diego what it is. In the old Mexican times, before the days of '49, San Diego was a leading Mission on the Coast, and the chief seaport of California, whence she shipped wool, hides, etc., and where she received supplies. San Francisco, gushing young metropolis now, was then only sterile Yerba Buena, and practically nowhere.[19] When the rush of miners to California came in '49, San Diego still held her own for awhile, quite courageously. The Panama steamers then touched here in going and coming. A large city was projected, and built—on paper, with "water-fronts," "corner-lots," and the like, quite in extenso. But there was no sufficient back country—no mines or agricultural resources to speak of—to support a town, and so in the end San Diego incontinently collapsed. Poor Derby of the engineers, immortal as John Phœnix, flourished here in those days, and afterwards used to say in his own inimitable style, he "Thanked heaven his lot was not cast in San Diego; it had been, but was sold for taxes!" We anchored off the old wharf, then fallen to decay, where in other days the Panama steamers had floated proudly, and after rowing well in were carried ashore on the shoulders of Mexican peons. The U. S. barracks and corral, now empty and without a watchman even, and a score or so of other buildings, were grouped near the landing, constituting New San Diego; but the main town, or Old San Diego, was three miles off up the bay. A rickety old ambulance, once U. S. property, but long since condemned and sold, carried us up to the town, where we spent several hours. Formerly numbering two or three thousand inhabitants, and a pretty stirring place, it now had only about two or three hundred, and was a good illustration of some of California's changes. Its buildings, of course, were all one-story adobe, but partly inhabited, and these were grouped about a squalid, Plaza, that reminded one of Mexico or Spain, rather than the United States. Being the county-seat, of course, it had a court-house and a jail—the one, a tumble-down adobe—the other, literally a cage, made of boiler-iron, six or seven feet square at the farthest. The day we were there three men were brought in, arrested for horse-stealing, or something of the sort; but as the jail would accommodate only two—crowded at that—the judge discharged the third, with an appropriate reprimand. At least, we supposed it "appropriate;" but as it was in Californicè, and the judge a native, we could make nothing of it. In hot weather, this iron jail-cage must be a miniature tophet; but, no doubt, it remains generally empty. On a hill just back of the town, commanding it and the harbor, were the remains of Fort Stockton, which our Jersey commodore of that name built and garrisoned with his gallant Jack-Tars, during the Mexican war, and held against all comers. Beyond it still, were the ruins of the old Mexican Presidio, with palm and olive trees scattered here and there, but all now desolate and forsaken. The general broken-down, dilapidated, "played out" appearance of the town, was certainly most forlorn. And yet, the San Diegoans, like all good Californians, had still a profound faith in their future, and swore by their handsome bay as stoutly as ever. They knew San Diego would yet be the western terminus of the Southern Pacific Railroad, whenever this got itself built; and with this, they fondly believed, would come population, prosperity, power (the three great p's of modern civilization), and come to stay. With the exception of a handful of Americans and Jews, engaged chiefly in merchandizing, the inhabitants consisted mainly of native Californians, in all stages of impecuniosity. Being steamer-day, several Americans—most of them ex-army officers—had galloped in from their neighboring ranches, some coming ten and twenty miles for this purpose, and all were as hospitable and warm-hearted, as men leading such a life usually are. They laughed and chatted over their California experiences, predicted great things for San Diego yet, and offered a hundred acres or more from their leagues-square ranches, to any American who would come and settle among them. All united in pronouncing the climate simply perfect, though a little warm in summer; and, I must say, it really seemed so, when we were there. They declared the thermometer never varied more than twenty degrees the year round, and maintained people never died there, except from the knife or bullet. When reminded of a Mr. S. who had died that morning, they replied, he came there too late—a confirmed consumptive; otherwise, he would have got well, and in the end have shrivelled up and evaporated, like the rest of their aged people.
As to business, the town really seemed to have none, except a little merchandizing and whiskey-drinking, and these only gave signs of life, because it was "steamer-day." The country immediately about the town was dull and barren, from want of water to irrigate and cultivate it. The great ranches were at a distance, and these depended on streams from the Coast Range, that mostly disappeared before reaching the harbor. Here horses, cattle, and sheep were raised in considerable numbers; but the breadth of valuable land was not considered large, and the population of the section seemed to be on the stand-still, if not decrease. A railroad from the Atlantic States, and another north to San Francisco, would of course soon change all this; but these were yet in the future. The splendid harbor, however, is there—the second as I have said, on the California Coast—and it will be passing strange, if the future does not evolve something, that will give it vitality and importance. Its noble waters, surely, cannot lie idle forever. With its superb anchorage and far-stretching shores, it seemed already the prophecy of great things to come, and I sincerely trust the San Diegoans may speedily realize them.[20]
Down by the mouth of the harbor, were several fishermen's huts, whose owners, it was said, gained a precarious living by whaling. Off the harbor, for miles up and down the coast, we noticed a heavy growth of kelp or sea-weed, and this we were told the whales frequented in certain seasons of the year, as a feeding ground. We kept a sharp lookout for them, both coming down and returning; but were rewarded by seeing only a single dead one, which had been harpooned and left floating near shore, with a buoy attached. Capt. Thorne, of the Orizaba, reported these whales as quite numerous off the coast sometimes, and thought this business might readily be made much more lucrative, than it was.
Here at San Diego, we were about five hundred miles south of San Francisco, and less than one hundred and fifty from Fort Yuma. We had expected to find a stage thence to Fort Yuma; but the line had recently been withdrawn,[21] from want of business, and we were compelled to return again up the coast to San Pedro and Los Angelos. On the evening of Feb. 14th, we accordingly bade good-bye to San Diego, and the next morning, when we came on deck, found the Orizaba at anchor again off San Pedro. This, as I have before said, is the old seaport or landing for Los Angelos, and all the country about there, whence supplies were then wagoned into Arizona, Southern Nevada, and even Utah. The Salt Lake merchants, then barred from the East in winter by the heavy snows on the Rocky Mountains, were in the habit of eking out their stocks by purchases in San Francisco, which they shipped 400 miles down the coast to San Pedro, and from here wagoned them via San Bernardino and Cajon Pass, through Southern Nevada, 800 miles more to Great Salt Lake. Of course, the completion of the Pacific Railroad has changed all this. San Pedro itself, unfortunately, has no harbor, but is a mere open roadstead, where vessels may ride at anchor in fine weather, but when storms come must slip to sea. From here a slough or gut of the sea sets up to Wilmington, some six miles through a tide-water marsh, where we found a Mr. Phineas Banning doing his "level best"—and it was a big "best"—to build up a nascent city. Formerly, everything was lightered ashore at San Pedro; but recently, Mr. Banning had introduced steam-tugs, and with these at high tide he carried everything to Wilmington, where he had wharves, store-houses, shops, stages, wagon-trains, and about everything else, on a large scale. He was an enterprising Delawarean, but without much regard for "the eyes of Delaware;" had failed two or three times, but was still wide-awake and keen for business; had come to California a common stage-driver, but now ran lines of stages and freight-wagons of his own all over southern California and Arizona, for eight hundred and a thousand miles; had married a native señorita, with several leagues of land, and made her a good husband; was now state senator on the Republican side, and talked of for governor; and, in short, was a good second edition of Mr. Ben Holliday, yet without his bad politics. His town of Wilmington consisted of a hundred or two frame buildings, in true border style, with perhaps five hundred inhabitants, all more or less in his service, or employed at Drum Barracks, the U. S. military post there. A man of large and liberal ideas, with great native force of character and power of endurance, he was invaluable to Southern California and Arizona, and both of these sections owe him a debt of gratitude, which they never can repay. His "latch-string" was always out to all strangers in that latitude; there was no public interest with which he was not prominently identified; and from San Pedro to Tucson, and back again, via Prescott and Fort Mojave, through some fifteen hundred miles of border travel, there was scarcely a day in which we did not see his teams or stages, or touch his enterprises somewhere.
Here at Wilmington, in the village barber, we found another good illustration of the adaptativeness of the average American. Originally from Independence, Mo., he had emigrated thence to Oregon, thence to San Francisco, and thence to Wilmington. In Missouri, he was a farmer by occupation; in Oregon, a cattle-drover; in San Francisco, a teamster; in Wilmington, he was now regularly a barber, but occasionally cobbled shoes, or worked as a blacksmith, and on a pinch also practiced medicine. He had not preached, or edited a newspaper yet; but doubtless would have had no objection to trying his hand at either or both of these, should opportunity offer or necessity occur! But such men, after all, are our Representative Americans—real pioneers of empire and champions of civilization—and history will not forget to recognize and respect them accordingly.
Back of Wilmington, some thirty miles wide by seventy-five long, from the Pacific to the Mountains, stretch the great Los Angelos plains, than which there are few finer sights on the Coast, at the proper season. Just now they were green with herbage and gemmed with wild flowers in all directions, from the Mountains to the ocean, a perfect sea of verdure, with flocks and herds roaming over them at will, under the guidance of native rancheros. The latter, mounted on gamey little horses, full-blooded mustangs, with saddles that nearly covered their steeds, and tinkling spurs that almost swept the ground, galloped hither and yon as occasion needed, or lolled for hours on the ground, basking in the sun, while their cattle and sheep fed peacefully about them. The landscape one day, when Gen. Banning drove us over to Los Angelos, to see the vineyards and orange-groves there, with the Pacific rolling in the distance, the Mountains towering before us, and the Plains stretching all about us, in green and purple and gold, was a perfect idyllic scene, which lingers in my memory yet, as one of the fairest recollections of a life-time. Just then, the marshes about Wilmington, and the Plains beyond, were a halting place for vast flocks of wild-geese, on their annual migration north, and they thronged the country in countless thousands. Off on the Plains, where they were feeding on the young and succulent grass, they whitened the ground sometimes for acres, and were so careless of danger, you might knock them over with a club. Gen. Banning said, they were even more numerous in former years, but even as they were, we had never seen anything to equal them. As we drove along, they rose up by the roadside in flocks of thousands, and fairly deafened the air with their multitudinous konkings. Further on, we found the grass rank and luxuriant, and it seemed impossible to believe, that when summer came, all this wealth of vegetation would wither up, and substantially blow away. Yet this seemed to be the fact—these broad and beautiful Plains, beneath their then rainless sky, becoming everywhere a barren desert, save where acequias (Mexican for "water-ditches") regularly irrigate and vitalize them.
We struck the acequias several miles out from Los Angelos, and followed them into the town, our road winding about among and crossing them several times. They are simply water-ditches, four or five feet wide by one deep, the same as those at Salt Lake, but most of them far older. They were begun a century ago, by the old Spanish Jesuits, who formerly had one of their largest and most flourishing Missions here, and are kept in repair and regulated by the city corporation—the water being farmed out, at fixed rates. Their source of supply is the Los Angelos river, a little stream that issues from the Coast Range some miles away, and sinks again, I believe, before reaching the ocean. If husbanded properly, with the same care exercised at Salt Lake, it might be made to irrigate many times the present breadth of land, it would seem; but as it is, it suffices to vitalize hundreds, if not thousands, of acres about the town, where they grow wheat, barley, oats, the grape, the orange, the lemon, citron, olive, peach, pear, and almost everything else, in great profusion and of the finest character. Along the road, and skirting all the main acequias, willows have been planted, and these growing rapidly serve for both fencing and fuel. Here and there wild flowers also have been planted, or have sprung up naturally among the hedges, and these shower their wealth of bloom and fragrance almost the year round. The robin, the blue-bird, the oriole, abounded here; and the whole air seemed vocal with song, as we whirled along through the suburbs, and up into the town.
Los Angelos itself proved to be a brisk and thriving town. It is the county-seat of a large county of the same name, and probably contained then some five thousand inhabitants—about one-third Americans and Europeans, and the balance native Californians and Indians. The Americans seemed to own most of the houses and lands, the Europeans—chiefly Jews—to do the business, the native Californians to do the loafing, and the Indians to perform the labor. It had mail communication with San Francisco twice a week by stage, and twice a month by steamer via San Pedro, and telegraphic communication via San Francisco with the whole coast and country. It boasted two or three very fair hotels, a fine old Spanish church, and quite a number of brick and frame residences, that would have been called creditable anywhere. The town seemed steadily increasing in wealth and population, as more and more of the surrounding Plains were brought under cultivation, and already had a substantial basis for prosperity in its vineyards and fruit-orchards, aside from its flocks and herds. It was also doing a considerable business with Utah, Arizona, and Southern California, for all which regions it was then largely a mart and entrepot. Its climate was mild and equable, reminding one more of Italy and the Levant, than America, and already it was quite a resort for invalids from all parts of the Coast. Then in February, and again in May, when we returned there from Arizona, the air really seemed like the elixir of life, and quickened every sense into new life and power of enjoyment. As in all Spanish American towns, however, Sunday seemed to be the chief day for business and pleasure. A few stores and shops were closed; but the majority kept open, the same as any other day. The native Californian and Indian population of the surrounding country flocked into town that day, in holiday attire and, after a brief service at the old church (dedicated "To the Queen of the Angels,") assembled in the Plaza, to witness their customary cock-fights. There were several of these, which men and women, priests and people—alike eager and excited—all seemed to enjoy; but to us, Eastern-bred, they seemed cruel and barbarous. The poor fowls pecked away at each other, until some fell dead, and others dropped exhausted, when the survivors were borne away in triumph.
A ride across the breezy Plains, ten miles to the south, brought us to the ranch and vineyard of Mr. Ben. D. Wilson, noted over all the Coast for his excellent fruits and wines. "Don Benito" Wilson, he is called out there, and the name is a good one. Without much urban polish, he is nevertheless one of nature's noblemen, and a fine Representative Californian. A Tennessean by birth, long before the acquisition of California, he had hunted and trapped across the continent, living for years among the Utes and Apaches, and finally marrying a California señorita, with three leagues square of land, had settled down here. His noble ranch lies at the foot of the Coast Range of mountains, with their snow-clad summits towering above, the Los Angelos plains in front stretching away to the ocean, while an intervening roll of hills shuts out the raw winds and fogs of the summer and autumn. Two or three dashing rivulets, that issue from the mountains like threads of silver, have been caught up and carried by acequias all along the slopes, whence they are distributed wherever the thirsty soil in summer needs them. Here he has orange, lemon, peach, olive, almond, and English walnut groves, by the many acres, while beyond are his vineyards by the hundred acres—part planted by himself, but many a half century ago by the Jesuit Fathers. Just now, his vineyards, trimmed closely as they were, looked for all the world like a Delaware or Jersey field of old peach-trees, with the tops sawn off, as we sometimes see them here. Without trellis or support of any kind, these aged vines stood stiff and gnarled, in rows five or six feet apart, themselves about as many inches thick; but in summer, they throw out runners, that form a leafy wilderness, loaded down with the purpling clusters. In addition, he had great herds of horses, and cattle, and flocks of sheep by the thousand, that roamed over his outlying broad acres and the Los Angelos plains at will. In sauntering through his orange-groves, he showed us trees, from which he had gathered twenty-five dollars' worth of the golden fruit each, that season, and one that yielded him forty dollars' worth. A few of his oranges, dead ripe, were still gleaming amid the rich, deep green of their peculiar foliage, and we had some of these fresh and luscious on the table each meal we took with him. In his wine-cellars, back of the mansion, he showed us two hundred thousand gallons of wine, the product of that year's vintage alone, and it hadn't been much of a year for wine either. This he reported to be worth only fifty cents a gallon then, but as increasing in price, of course, with age. He made both white and red wine, of a superior brand, and had branch houses in San Francisco and New York, that disposed of the bulk of it at fair figures. It all had the peculiar sharpness and alcoholic qualities of the California wines generally; but, he thought, with more careful culture, and increasing age, their wines would improve in this respect. He computed the wine-product of California then, at not less than three millions of gallons annually, and rapidly increasing. The Mission grape was the one mostly grown, as yet; but he thought some foreign varieties, of a finer quality, would gradually supplant this. The white wines were the pure juice of the grape; the red the same, but with the color of the skins added. Farther North, the Sonoma and Sacramento wines were lighter and milder, resembling claret and hock; but these Los Angelos wines were heavy and strong, with a body like those of Spain, whence no doubt the Mission vines originally came. The expressed juice was first put into large casks, holding a hundred and forty gallons or more each, whence after due fermentation it was bottled and sent to market. He said at the end of a year and a half, the wine usually became clear and less alcoholic; but it continued to mellow and soften with age for twenty years, when its delicacy of flavor and oiliness of consistency culminated. Brandy was made from indifferent or miscellaneous grapes, skins and all, and from what we saw of its effects, was as fierce and fiery a liquid, surely, as Jersey lightning, or Nebraska needle-gun.
Mr. Wilson lived rather plainly, in anything but a palatial mansion; but he had a fine library, well-selected, and took most of the leading magazines and newspapers, from San Francisco to Boston. We were really surprised at the extent and variety of his periodical literature. He said he had been intending for years to build himself a new house, on a grander scale; but the old one was very roomy and comfortable, and he had never found time to pull it down. We found him a very bright and intelligent old gentleman, well versed in the world's affairs, with an eye keenly alive to passing events both at home and abroad, notwithstanding his seclusion. He was a warm friend of Gen. Banning's; for they naturally comprehended, and appreciated each other, to the full.
Land just about Los Angelos, and adjacent to the acequias, was held at a good figure; but a few miles from the town, it was selling at only five and ten dollars per acre, and a great stock or fruit ranch, it would seem, could be built up here, at small expense, in a few years. The soil and climate are certainly all anybody could desire; the chief drawbacks seemed to be the absence of good schools and churches. These, however, will come with time and sufficient Yankees; and it is not too much to say, that the Plains and City of the Angels will yet become widely known, and well-peopled. California, rich in so many things, may yet well be vain of them.