A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
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Thomas Dykes Beasley >> A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
Who is there who walks habitually, who does not know the man who tells
you of the walks he "used to take?" You have known him, say a dozen
years. During all that time, to your knowledge, his walks have
practically been limited by the distance to his office and back from the
ferry boat. When you urge him for perhaps the twentieth time, to essay a
tramp with you, he will say he would like to very much, but
unfortunately so-and-so renders it impossible. And then looking you in
the eye, he will tell you how much he enjoyed tramps he took, of twenty
or thirty miles - but that was before you knew him! As if a Walker with
a big "W," as Thoreau writes the word, would remain satisfied with the
memory of walks of twenty years ago!
I had heard of the "Marysville Buttes," as one has heard of Madagascar,
but their actual appearance on the landscape came as the greatest
surprise of the trip. As I first caught sight of them when within a few
miles of Marysville, they gave me a distinct thrill. I could hardly
believe my eyes and thought of mirages; for those pointed, isolated
peaks rise precipitously from the floor of the Sacramento valley; in
fact, their bases are only a mile or two from the river. They have every
indication, even to the unscientific eye, of having been upheaved by
volcanic action. Perhaps that accounts for the uncanny impression they
impart.
A walk of twenty-one or two miles without food, in any kind of weather,
is apt to produce an aching void. My first efforts on reaching
Marysville were therefore directed to finding the sort of place where I
could eat in comfort. The emphasis which Robert Louis Stevenson employs
when upon this most important quest would be amusing were it not also a
vital problem in your own case. There is nothing humorous per se in
hunger or thirst; at any rate, not until both are appeased. With the
black coffee and cigar, you can tip your chair at a comfortable angle
against the wall, and watching the delicate wreaths of smoke in their
spiral upward course, previous to final disintegration, smile at the
persistent energy with which an hour ago you systematically worked the
town from end to end, anxiously peering in the windows of uninviting
restaurants until you finally found that little "hole in the wall" for
which you were looking, with the bottle of Tipo Chianti, the succulent
chops and the big red tomatoes, in the window. It is always to be found
if you have the necessary perseverance. The genial Italian proprietor,
with the innate politeness of his countrymen, will not bore you with
questions as to where you have come from, whither you are going, or what
you are walking for, anyway, etc., etc. He accepts you just as you are -
haversack, camera, big stick and all, hanging them without comment on
the hook behind your head; while you simply tell him you want a good
dinner, the best he can give you, but to include the chops, tomatoes and
Tipo Chianti. With a smile and that artistic flip of the napkin under
his arm, which only he can achieve, he sets about giving his orders.
Later on, after a hot bath, a shave and the luxury of a clean shirt,
feeling at peace with the world and refreshed in body and soul, you set
out to examine the town in comfort and at your leisure.
In the mining days, Marysville ranked next to San Francisco, Sacramento
and possibly Stockton, not only in interest but in actual volume of
business transacted. It was the natural outlet for all the foot-hill
country tributary to Grass Valley, Nevada City, and Smartsville. There
the miners outfitted and there, when they had "made their pile," they
began the process - subsequently completed in Sacramento and San
Francisco - of reducing it to a negligible quantity. That, of course, is
merely a reminiscence, but as the center of one of the most prosperous
grain and fruit-raising sections of the Sacramento Valley, Marysville is
still a place of considerable importance. The old town is very much in
evidence; so much so that, in spite of the numerous modern buildings,
the general effect produced is of age, as age is understood in
California. I doubt if San Francisco before the fire, or Sacramento
today, could show as many substantial, solid buildings dating back to
the fifties.
Chapter IX
Bayard Taylor and the California of Forty-Nine. Bret Harte and His
Literary Pioneer Contemporaries.
And here in old Marysville, the county seat of Yuba County and situated
on its extreme western boundary, I ended my tramp, having covered a
distance of approximately two hundred and fifty miles, exclusive of
retracements. The ideal time to visit the Sierra foot-hills would be in
the late Spring or early Autumn. I was compelled to grasp the
opportunity when it offered or forego the pleasure altogether. Nor is it
necessary, of course, to walk; the roads, whilst generally speaking not
classed as good going for automobiles, are at least passable. I was
surprised at the number of high grade machines in evidence, in all the
towns of importance mentioned in this narrative. There remains also the
alternative of a good saddle horse, or, better still, a light wagon with
camping outfit, thus rendering hotels unnecessary, the elimination of
which would probably pay the hire of horse and wagon.
Half a century is a long period. You could probably count on the fingers
of one hand persons now living in the Sierra foot-hills who have any
recollection of ever having seen Bret Harte. It must also be remembered
that in the fifties his reputation as an author had not been
established. Of all that group of brilliant young men who visited the
mines in early days, which included for a brief space "Orpheus C. Kerr"
and "Artemus Ward," I can well imagine that Bret Harte attracted the
least attention. It is extremely doubtful to "my mind if he ever had
much actual experience of the mining camps. To a man of his vivid
imagination, a mere suggestion afforded a plot for a story; even the
Laird's Toreadors, it will be recalled, were commercially successful
when purely imaginary; he only failed when he subsequently studied the
real thing in Spain.
Bret Harte was a man who in a primitive community might well escape
notice. In appearance, manner and training, he was the exact antithesis
of Mark Twain. He was a student before he was a writer and possessed the
student's shy reserve. I can well imagine him, a slight boyish figure,
flitting from camp to camp, wrapped in his own thoughts, keeping his own
counsel. Yet he alone of that little band, unless you except Mark Twain,
possessed the divine spark we call "genius." Centuries after the names
of all the rest are buried in oblivion, Bret Harte's stories of the
Argonauts in the mining towns of California will remain the classics
they have already become.
Yet as before stated, when once I got fairly started on the road, the
pioneers themselves and their worthy descendants absorbed my interest
and assumed the center of the stage to the exclusion, for the time
being, of the romancers; who, after all, each in his own fashion,
depicted only what most appealed to him in the characters of these same
men and their contemporaries. Bayard Taylor in his interesting work "El
Dorado," the first edition of which appeared in 1850, thus states his
opinion of the men of '49:
"Abundance of gold does not always beget, as moralists tell us, a
grasping and avaricious spirit. The principles of hospitality were as
faithfully observed in the rude tents of the diggers, as they could be
by the thrifty farmers of the North and West. The cosmopolitan cast of
character in California, resulting in the commingling of so many races,
and the primitive mode of life, gave a character of good-fellowship to
all its members; and in no part of the world have I ever seen help more
freely given to the needy, or more ready co-operation in any human
proposition. Personally, I can safely say that I never met with such
unvarying kindness from comparative strangers."
That last sentence also spelt the literal truth in my experience. Even
the dogs were kindly disposed and though I carried, a "big stick,"
except by way of companionship and as an aid in climbing, I might safely
have left it at home. And while at times I walked through a wild,
mountainous and almost deserted country, the idea of possible danger
never occurred to me. When finally one encountered a human being, he
invariably proved a courteous, obliging and companionable personage to
meet.
Bayard Taylor attended in September and the beginning of October, 1849,
the convention at Monterey, which gave to California its first, and in
the opinion of many, its best constitution. He closes his review of the
proceedings with these forceful and prophetic words:
"Thus we have another splendid example of the ease and security with
which people can be educated to govern themselves. From that chaos
whence under, a despotism like the Austrian, would spring the most
frightful excesses of anarchy and crime, a population of freemen
peacefully and quietly develops the highest form of civil order - the
broadest extent of liberty and security. Governments, bad and corrupt
as many of them are, and imperfect as they all must necessarily be,
nevertheless at times exhibit scenes of true moral sublimity. What I
have today witnessed has so, impressed me; and were I a believer in
omens, I would augur from the tranquil beauty of the evening - from the
clear sky and the lovely sunset hues on the waters of the bay - more
than all, from the joyous expression of every face I see, a glorious and
prosperous career for the State of California."
Southern California, by which is understood all of the State south of
the Tehachapi Mountains, was mostly settled by and is still to a great
extent the objective point of people from the East and Middle West. Most
of them came in search of health and brought a competency sufficient for
their needs. When President Wilson, then Governor of New Jersey, visited
California in 1911, he came over the southern route to Los Angeles.
Addressing a Pasadena audience he said: "I am much disappointed when I
see you. I expected to find a highly individualized people, characters
developed by struggle and mutual effort; but I find you the same people
we have at home," and more, to the same effect. Subsequently, Governor
Wilson delivered an address at the Greek Theater, Berkeley, before the
students of the University of California. At its close, Mr. Maslin
mounted the stage, a copy of the paper containing the account of the
Pasadena speech in his hands, and asked the Governor if he was correctly
reported; to which he replied in the affirmative. "Governor," said Mr.
Maslin, you came into the State at the wrong gate!" "Gate? gate? - what
gate?" inquired the Governor. "You should have come through Emigrant
Gap, through which most of the emigrants from '49 and on entered the
State. Now, Governor, the people you saw at Pasadena never suffered the
trials of a pioneer's lite, they are not knit together by the memory of
mutual struggles and privations. When you come to the State again, come
through Emigrant Gap. Let me know when you come, and I will introduce
you to a breed of men the world has never excelled." With the smile with
which millions have since become familiar, Governor Wilson grasped the
hand of the pioneer and said: "When I come again, as I feel sure I
shall, I shall let you know."
The following morning I took the train for my home in Alameda. As I sat
and meditated on the scenes I had witnessed and the character of the
people I had met, it was borne in upon me that this had been the most
interesting as well as enjoyable experience of my life. Already the
temporary discomforts produced by heat and soiled garments had faded
into insignificance, and assumed a most trivial aspect when I reviewed
the journey as a whole. They were part of the game. To again quote
"Trilby," tramping "is not all beer and skittles." Your true tramp
learns to take things as he finds them and never to expect or ask or the
impossible. He will drink the wine of the country, even when sour,
without a grimace; pass without grumbling a sleepless night; plod
through dust ankle deep, without a murmur; there is but one vulnerable
feature in his armor, and with Achilles, it is his heel! And it is
literally the heel that, is the sensitive spot. I will venture the
assertion that the long-distance tramper - not even excepting Brother
Weston - who has not at some time or another suffered from sore heels,
does not exist. The tramp's feet are his means of locomotion; on their
condition he bestows an anxiety and care which far surpass that of the
man in the automobile, with all his complicated machinery to inspect.
Remains then, the memory of the delicious, faint, cool, morning breeze,
gently stirring the pine needles; the aromatic odor of forest
undergrowth; the murmur of the stream hurrying down the mountain gorge
to mingle its pure waters with those of the muddy Sacramento, far away
in the great valley below; the deep awe-inspiring canons of the
American, Stanislaus and Mokelumne Rivers; and back of all, the azure
summits of the Sierra Nevada.
Remains also, the memory of the kindly-disposed, courteous and
open-hearted inhabitants of the old mining towns. But more forcibly than
all else combined - for it seems to epitomize the whole - the glamour of
the towns themselves appeals with an irresistible fascination, that no
poor words of mine can adequately express.
Appendix
Views of the Bret Harte Country
Here ends A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country by Thomas Dykes
Beasley. Published by Paul Elder and Company and printed for them at
their Tomoye Press in the city of San Francisco, under the direction of
John Swart, in the year Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen