Lost Lenore Part 30

"Do not talk in that profane manner. You had better turn your thoughts to something else: you have not many hours to live."

Neither this rebuke, nor the unpleasant information conveyed by it, seemed to produce the slightest effect on the wretch to whom it was addressed. Instead of becoming silent, he poured forth a fresh storm of blasphemy; and continued cursing all the time I remained within hearing.

I was told that the two men had quarrelled about a horse, that one of them first fired at the other, who fell instantly to the shot; and that the latter, while lying on the floor, had returned the fire of the a.s.sailant, sending three bullets into his body.

I heard afterwards that the shots had proved fatal to both. The man who had fired the first shot died that same night--the other surviving the sanguinary encounter only a few hours longer.

I had no desire to linger among the spectators of that tragical tableau; and I was but too glad to find a cue for escaping from it: in the tolling of the steam-boat bell, as it summoned the pa.s.sengers aboard.

A few minutes after, and we were gliding down the San Joaquin--_en route_ for the Golden City.

The San Joaquin is emphatically a crooked river. It appeared to me that in going down it, we pa.s.sed Mount Diablo at least seven times. Vessels, that we had already met, could be soon after seen directly ahead of us, while those appearing astern would in a few minutes after, encounter us in the channel of the stream!

A "Down-easter," who chanced to be aboard, made the characteristic observation:--that "the river was so crooked, a bird could not fly across it: as it would be certain to alight on the side from which it had started!"

Crooked as was the San Joaquin it conducted us to the capital of California--which we reached at a late hour of the night.

So impatient was I to obtain the information, which had brought me to San Francisco, that on the instant of my arrival I went in search of the tavern, kept by Mr Wilson.

I succeeded in finding it, though not without some difficulty. It was a dirty house in a dirty street--the resort of all the worthless characters that could have been collected from the low neighbourhood around it, chiefly runaway convicts, and gay women, from Sydney. It was just such a hostelrie, as I might have expected to be managed by a quondam companion of Mr Leary.

Mr Wilson was at "home," I was at once ushered into his presence; and, after a very informal introduction, I commenced making him acquainted with my business.

I asked him, if, while at Sydney, he had the pleasure of being acquainted with a man named Mathews.

"Mathews! Let me see!" said he, scratching his head, and pretending to be buried in a profound reflection; "I've certainly heard that name, somewhere," he continued, "and, perhaps, if you were to tell me what you want, I might be able to remember all about it."

I could perceive that my only chance of learning anything from Mr Wilson was to accede to his proposal, which I did. I told him, that a man named Mathews had been hung a few weeks before on the Stanislaus, that it was for the murder of a young girl, with whom he had eloped from Australia; and that I had reason to believe, that the man had left a wife behind him in Sydney. I had heard that he, Mr Wilson, had known Mathews; and could perhaps tell me, if such had been the case.

"If it was the Mathews I once knew something about," said the tavern-keeper, after listening to my explanation, "he could not have left any money, or property, behind him: he hadn't a red cent to leave."

"I didn't say that he had," I answered. "It is not for that I make the inquiry."

"No!" said the tavern-keeper, feigning surprise. "Then what can be your object, in wanting to know whether he left a wife in Sydney?"

"Because that wife, if there be one, is my mother."

This answer was satisfactory; and Mr Wilson, after healing it, became communicative.

He had no objections to acknowledge acquaintance with a man who had been hung--after my having admitted that man's wife to be my mother; and, freely confessed, without any further circ.u.mlocution, that he had been intimate with a man named Mathews, who had eloped from Sydney with a shopkeeper's daughter. He supposed it must be the same, that I claimed as my stepfather.

Wilson's Mathews had arrived in Sydney several years before. About a year after his arrival he was followed by his wife from Dublin--with whom he had lived for a few weeks, and then deserted her.

Wilson had seen this woman; and from the description he gave me of her, I had no doubt that she was my mother.

The tavern-keeper had never heard of her, after she had been deserted by Mathews, nor could he answer any question: as to whether she had brought my children to the colony. He had never heard of her children.

This was the sum and substance of the information I obtained from Mr Wilson.

My mother, then, had actually emigrated to Australia; and there, to her misfortune, no doubt, had once more discovered the ruffian who had ruined her.

Where was she now? Where were her children? My brother William, and my little sister Martha, of whom I was once so fond and proud?

"I must visit Australia," thought I, "before going back to England.

Until I have recovered my relatives I am not worthy to stand in the presence of Lenore!"

Volume Two, Chapter X.

THE PARTNER OF THE IMPATIENT MAN.

As my return to Liverpool and Lenore was now indefinitely postponed, I was in less haste to leave San Francisco. I wished to see something of this singular city, which had grown up, as it were, in a single day.

The citizens of the Californian capital--composed of the young and enterprising of all nations--were at that time, perhaps, the fastest people on record; and more of real and active life was to be seen in the streets of San Francisco in a single week, than in any other city in a month--or, perhaps, in a year.

The quick transformation of the place--from a quiet little seaport to a large commercial city--astonished, even those who had witnessed its growth, and played a part in the history of its development.

Half of the present city is built upon ground, which was once a portion of the bay, and under the water of the sea. Boats used to ply where splendid buildings now stand--in the very centre of the town!

On my visit to San Francisco on this occasion, I saw fine substantial houses, where, only one year before, wild bushes were growing--on the branches of which the bachelors of the place used to dry their shirts!

Mountains had been removed--carried clear into the bay--and hundreds of acres had been reclaimed from the encroachments of the sea.

Twice, too--within a period of only two years--the city had been burned down, and rebuilt; and for all this work that had been done, prices had been paid, that would seem extravagant beyond belief--at least, when compared with the small wages of labour, in any other country than California.

The amus.e.m.e.nts, manners, and customs, of almost every nation upon earth, could, at this time, have been witnessed in San Francisco. There was a Spanish theatre patronised by Chilians, Peruvians, and Mexicans. For the amus.e.m.e.nt of these people there was also a "Plaza de Toros," or amphitheatre for their favourite pastime--the bull fight.

In visiting these places of amus.e.m.e.nt--or the French and Italian opera houses--or some of the saloons where Germans met to continue the customs of their "Faderland"--one could scarce have supposed himself within the limits of a country, whose citizens were expected to speak English.

I paid a visit to all the afore-mentioned spectacles, and many others-- not wholly for the sake of amus.e.m.e.nt; but to learn something of the varied phases of life there presented to observation. I could have fancied, that, in one evening, I had been in Spain, France, Italy, Germany, China, and over all parts of both North and South America!

For several days I wandered about the streets of San Francisco, without meeting a single individual I had ever seen before.

I was beginning to feel as if I knew no one in the world, when one afternoon I was accosted by a person bearing a familiar face.

It was Farrell, whom I had known at the diggings of the Stanislaus--the partner of the impatient man, who used to worry the postmaster of Sonora; and who had gone home in such haste, after learning of the death of his wife.

"Come along with me," cried Farrell, "I have got a queer story to tell you."

I accompanied him to the "Barnum House," where he was staying; and we sat down to have a talk and a drink.

"You were quite right about that fellow Foster," said he, as soon as we had got settled in our chairs; "a more treacherous deceitful villain never trod Californian turf--nor any other, for that matter."

"You are a little mistaken." I replied, "I never accused him of being either treacherous, or deceitful."

"Do you not remember our having a talk about him, the evening before he started home; and my telling you, that he was an honest, plain-speaking fellow?"

"Yes; and I remember telling you, that if your statement, of the reason of his anxiety to get his letters, was true, he could not be so very deceitful, or he would have had the decency to have concealed the cause of that anxiety even from you."

"I have never been more deceived in my life, than I was in that man,"