California Sketches, Second Series | Page 8

cost John the Baptist his head.

There is one thing a Digger cannot bear, and that is the comforts and
luxuries of civilized life. A number of my friends, who had taken
Digger children to raise, found that as they approached maturity they
fell into a decline and died, in most cases of some pulmonary affection.
The only way to save them was to let them rough it, avoiding warm
bed-rooms and too much clothing. A Digger girl belonged to my
church at Santa Rosa, and was a gentle, kind-hearted, grateful creature.
She was a domestic in the family of Colonel H--. In that pleasant
Christian household she developed into a pretty fair specimen of
brunette young womanhood, but to the last she had an aversion to
wearing shoes.
The Digger seems to be doomed. Civilization kills him; and if he sticks
to his savagery, he will go down before the bullets, whisky, and vices
of his white fellow-sinners.

The California Mad-House.
On my first visit to the State Insane Asylum, at Stockton, I was struck
by the beauty of a boy of some seven or eight years, who was moving
about the grounds clad in a strait-jacket. In reply to my inquiries, the
resident physician told me his history:
"About a year ago he was on his way to California with the family to
which he belonged. He was a general pet among the passengers on the
steamer. Handsome, confiding, and overflowing with boyish spirits,
everybody had a smile and a kind word for the winning little fellow.
Even the rough sailors would pause a moment to pat his curly head as
they passed. One day a sailor, yielding to a playful impulse in passing,
caught up the boy in his arms, crying:
"'I am going to throw you into the sea!'
"The child gave one scream of terror, and went into convulsions. When
the paroxysm subsided, he opened his eyes and gazed around with a
vacant expression. His mother, who bent over him with a pale face,
noticed the look, and almost screamed:
"'Tommy, here is your mother--don't you know me?'
"The child gave no sign of recognition. He never knew his poor mother
again. He was literally frightened out of his senses. The mother's
anguish was terrible. The remorse of the sailor for his thoughtless freak
was so great that it in some degree disarmed the indignation of the

passengers and crew. The child had learned to read, and had made rapid
progress in the studies suited to his age, but all was swept away by the
cruel blow. He was unable to utter a word intelligently. Since he has
been here, there have been signs of returning mental consciousness, and
we have begun with him as with an infant. He knows and can call his
own name, and is now learning the alphabet."
"How is his health?"
"His health is pretty good, except that he has occasional convulsive
attacks that can only be controlled by the use of powerful opiates."
I was glad to learn, on a visit made two years later, that the unfortunate
boy had died.
This child was murdered by a fool. The fools are always murdering
children, though the work is not always done as effectually as in this
case. They cripple and half kill them by terror. There are many who
will read this Sketch who will carry to the grave, and into the world of
spirits, natures out of which half the sweetness, and brightness, and
beauty has been crushed by ignorance or brutality. In most cases it is
ignorance. The hand that should guide, smites; the voice that should
soothe, jars the sensitive chords that are untuned forever. He who
thoughtlessly excites terror in a child's heart is unconsciously doing the
devil's work; he that does it consciously is a devil.
"There is a lady here whom I wish you would talk to. She belongs to
one of the most respectable families in San Francisco, is cultivated,
refined, and has been the center of a large and loving circle. Her
monomania is spiritual despair. She thinks she has committed the
unpardonable sin. There she is now. I will introduce you to her. Talk
with her, and comfort her if you can."
She was a tall, well-formed woman in black, with all the marks of
refinement in her dress and bearing. She was walking the floor to and
fro with rapid steps, wringing her hands, and moaning piteously.
Indescribable anguish was in her face--it was a hopeless face. It
haunted my thoughts for many days, and it is vividly before me as I
write now. The kind physician introduced me, and left the apartment.
There is a sacredness about such an interview that inclines me to veil
its details.
"I am