In the Footprints of the Padres. by Charles Warren Stoddard
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In the footprints of the padres. By Charles Warren Stoddard Golden Gate, looking west. In the Footprints of the Padres CHARLES WARREN STODDARD San Francisco A.M. ROBERTSON 1902 Copyright, 1901 by A.M. ROBERTSON PRINTED BY THE STANLEY-TAYLOR COMPANY SAN FRANCISCO TO MY FATHER, SAMUEL BURR STODDARD, ESQ., FOR HALF A CENTURY A CITIZEN OF SAN FRANCISCO Through the kindness of the Editors of The San Francisco Chronicle The Ave Maria, Notre Dame, Ind. The Victorian Review, Melbourne v Contents Litany of the Shrines vi Old Days in El Dorado 1 A Memory of Monterey 133 A Bit of Old China 167 A Mysterious History 191 The Egg-pickers of the Farallones 279 Inland Yachting 297 In a Californian Bungalow 317 List of Illustrations The Golden Gate (frontispiece) facing Title Meigg's Wharf “ 46 Telegraph Hill in 1856 “ 50 Alley in Chinatown “ 60 Lone Mountain “ 76 Mission Dolores “ 82 San Carlos de Carmelo, 1776 “ 150 Street in Chinatown “ 170 vi In the footprints of the padres. By Charles Warren Stoddard http://www.loc.gov/resource/calbk.002 Litany of the Shrines. THE Angelus from rise to set of sun Recalls us thrice unto our private prayers; So may these missions memories recall-- With their soft names, now named one after one-- Recall the pious life which once was theirs; Recall their rise, alas! recall their fall-- For all too soon their blessed work was done. In the far south the sunny San Diego, Carmelo, San Antonio, each their way go-- Dust unto dust. so crumbles the adobè Within one year sprang up San Luis Obispo, And San Antonio, and San Gabriel: After five years of struggle, San Francisco, And San Juan Capistrano--it is well To pause a little now and then if, so be, Thou gainest strength; good works rush not pell-mell, Santa Clara and San Buenaventura, Santa Barbara and Purissima; And darling Santa Cruz--sanctissima-- Next Soledad, and then a pause secura. Six years to gather strength, when San José And San Miguel and shortly San Fernando Were born within a twelve-month; what can man do Better than this? And then San Luis Rey Closed a long interval of years eleven-- Friars and neophytes were going to heaven At such a rate!--but the good work progressed: San Juan Bautista closed a century blest. Santa Inez and fair San Rafael Lead to the final effort in Solano; -- 'Twas thus the missions rose and thus they fell -- Perchance a solitary boy-soprano, Last of his race, was left the tale to tell. vii Ring, gentle Angelus! ring in my dream, But wake me not, for I would rather seem To live the life they lived who've slumbered long Beneath their fallen altars, than to waken And find their sanctuaries thus forsaken: God grant their memory may survive in song! CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 1 I.--“STRANGE COUNTRIES FOR TO SEE.” Now, the very first book was called “Infancy”; and, having finished it, I closed it with a bang! I was just twelve. 'Tis thus the twelve-year-old is apt to close most books. Within those pages perhaps-- some day to be opened to the kindly inquiring eye--lie the records of a quiet life, stirred at intervals by spasms of infantile intensity. There are more days than one in a life that can be written of, and when the clock strikes twelve the day is but half over. The clock struck twelve! We children had been watching and waiting for it. The house had been stripped bare; many cases of goods were awaiting shipment around Cape Horn to California. In the footprints of the padres. By Charles Warren Stoddard http://www.loc.gov/resource/calbk.002 California! A land of fable! We knew well enough that our father was there, and had been for two years or more; and that we were at last to go to him, and dwell there with the fabulous in a new home more or less fabulous,--yet we felt that it must be altogether lovely. 2 We said good-bye to everybody,--getting friends and fellow-citizens more or less mixed as the hour of departure from our native city drew near. We were very much hugged and very much kissed and not a little cried over; and then at last, in a half-dazed condition, we left Rochester, New York, for New York city, on our way to San Francisco by the Nicaragua route. This was away back in 1855, when San Francisco, it may be said, was only six years old. It seemed a supreme condescension on the part of our maternal grandfather that he, who did not and could not for a moment countenance the theatre, should voluntarily take us, one and all, to see an alleged dramatic representation at Barnum's Museum--at that time one of the features of New York city, and perhaps the most famous place of amusement in the land. Four years later, when I was sixteen, very far from home and under that good gentleman's watchful supervision, I asked leave to witness a dramatic version of “uncle Tom's Cabin,” enacted by a small company of strolling players in a canvas tent. There were blood-hounds in the cast, and mighty little scenery, or anything else alluring; but I was led to believe that I had been trembling upon the 3 verge of something direful, and I was not allowed to go. What would that pious man have said could he have seen me, a few years later, strutting and fretting my hour upon the stage? Well, we all saw “Damon and Pythias” in Barnum's “Lecture Room,” with real scenery that split up the middle and slid apart over a carpet of green baize. And 'twas a real play, played by real players,--at least they were once real players, but that was long before. It may be their antiquated and failing art rendered them harmless. And, then, those beguiling words “Lecture Room” have such a soothing sound! They seemed in those days to hallow the whole function, which was, of course, the wily wish of the great moral entertainer; and his great moral entertainment was even as “the cups that cheer but not inebriate.” It came near it in our case, however. It was our first matinee at the theatre, and, oh, the joy we took of it! Years afterward did we children in our playroom, clad In the footprints of the padres. By Charles Warren Stoddard http://www.loc.gov/resource/calbk.002 in “the trailing garments of the night” in lieu of togas, sink our identity for the moment and out-rant Damon and his Pythias. Thrice happy days so long ago in California! 4 There is no change like a sea change, no matter who suffers it; and one's first sea voyage is a revelation. The mystery of it is usually not unmixed with misery. Five and forty years ago it was a very serious undertaking to uproot one's self, say good-bye to all that was nearest and dearest, and go down beyond the horizon in an ill-smelling, overcrowded, side-wheeled tub. Not a soul on the dock that day but fully realized this. The dock and the deck ran rivers of tears, it seemed to me; and when, after the lingering agony of farewells had reached the climax, and the shore-lines were cast off, and the Star of the West swung out into the stream, with great side-wheels fitfully revolving, a shriek rent the air and froze my young blood. Some mother parting from a son who was on board our vessel, no longer able to restrain her emotion, was borne away, frantically raving in the delirium of grief. I have never forgotten that agonizing scene, or the despairing wail that was enough to pierce the hardest heart. I imagined my heart was about to break; and when we put out to sea in a damp and dreary drizzle, and the shore-line dissolved away, while on board there was overcrowding, and confusion worse confounded in evidence everywhere,--perhaps it did break, 5 that overwrought heart of mine and has been a patched thing ever since. We were a miserable lot that night, pitched to and fro and rolled from side to side as if we were so much baggage. And there was a special horror in the darkness, as well as in the wind that hissed through the rigging, and in the waves that rushed past us, sheeted with foam that faded ghostlike as we watched it,--faded ghostlike, leaving the blackness of darkness to enfold us and swallow us up. Day after day for a dozen days we ploughed that restless sea. There were days into which the sun shone not; when everybody and everything was sticky with salty distillations; when half the passengers were sea-sick and the other half sick of the sea. The decks were slimy, the cabins stuffy and foul. The hours hung heavily, and the horizon line closed in about us a gray wall of mist. In the footprints of the padres. By Charles Warren Stoddard http://www.loc.gov/resource/calbk.002 Then I used to bury myself in my books and try to forget the world, now lost to sight, and, as I sometimes feared, never to be found again. I had brought my private library with me; it was complete in two volumes. There was “Rollo Crossing the Atlantic,” by dear old Jacob Abbot; and this book of juvenile travel and adventure I 6 read on the spot, as it were,--read it carefully, critically; flattering myself that I was a lad of experience, capable of detecting any nautical error which Jacob, one of the most prolific authors of his day, might perchance have made.