by Win Blevins
All the inhabitants of this immediate country left their farms to hunt and wash gold. All of the summer crop and considerable of the wheat was destroyed by the stock. Oregon has sent us some flour, and more than half of her male population, all of the foreigners and a portion of the Natives have arrived from the Sandwich Islands, and we may expect a large emigration from the States next season. Tell all of the lovers of gold and sunshine that this is the place to suit them. But very little else is to be seen or had here. We had a shower of rain last week for the first time since May, and the grass is beginning is [to] shoot a little. I shall return to the States again in about one year from this time. Give my respects to all enquiring friends.
JAMES CLAYMAN [Clyman].
P. S. Enclosed you will find a small specimen of gold. It is found in all shapes and sizes up to twenty pounds weight.
The letter, though written late in 1848, was postmarked San Francisco March 16, 1849; it took a while to find someone going east to transport mail in those days.
In 1960, when Camp talked to them, Clyman’s descendants still had some egg-sized gold nuggets he found apparently at this time, but the party didn’t remain near the gold fields long. He and the McCombs went on to Napa.
The McCombs finally settled on land now within the city. Clyman lived with them, assisting in the work of laying out the place, and courting Hannah. Their marriage was the first one in the town, celebrated August 22,1849. The groom was 57, the bride 30 years younger. It is reported that the couple bought all the table crockery to be had in Napa and San Francisco; also that they spent the winter with the bride’s family and helped put in the next year’s crops.
It would be fascinating to have a diary from this period. Clyman had apparently lived and worked alone most of his life. Once he had established his brothers on farms in Illinois, he went on to scout more land, and pursue his own interests, and never mentions his family in his journals. Suddenly he not only guided the McCombs across the plains, but remained with them—farming! His distaste for farming was so intense, even when he was fifteen years old, that he seemed willing to do almost anything—cut wood, harvest, help a surveyor—to avoid it. Either he’d gone through a major change in viewpoint, or his young wife had changed his mind for him.
Once he had married Hannah, he seems truly to have become as “settled down” as any civilized citizen might have wished, and he wasn’t alone among the original beaver men in settling on the coast. George Yount, the first white man in the region, had been an old hunter and trapper, as had Peg-Leg Smith, Charlie Hopper, Joel and Joseph R. Walker, Moses Carson, Uncle Billy Gordon, John Wolfskill and Elisha Stephens. Further south, at the Pueblo of Los Angeles, were others, including Nathaniel Pryor and Richard Laughlin, Job Dye and George Nidever. In Oregon were Robert “Doc” Newell, George W. “Squire” Ebberts, Joe Meek and Osborne Russell, who died in the California gold mines.
On March 5, 1850, Clyman bought from William Edgington part of what became his farm at Napa, land which had previously belonged to Salvador Vallejo. Soon afterward the family moved into Sonoma County, between Forestsville and Sebastopol, then back again to Napa. On February 10,1855, Clyman completed the purchase of his ranch by buying part of a tract that belonged to his mother-in-law.
The civilized life soon brought Clyman five children, but it wasn’t to last. Before long, four of his children were dead of scarlet fever. Only one daughter survived.
Clyman was seventy-four by that time, but hardly ready for retirement. He kept busy running a fruit and dairy ranch, planting and pruning trees, plowing and harvesting—all the work he’d hated as a youth. He even developed the “Clyman plum,” a variety once popular. Mrs. Clyman and their one remaining daughter, Lydia Alcinda, milked the cows; Hannah Clyman always maintained that a man would ruin a good milk cow.
They adopted three foster-daughters—Alice Broadhurst, who was Mrs. Clyman’s niece, Geneva Gillin, and Edna Wallingford.
During his eightieth year, Clyman wrote his final diary, showing him still living an active life. It contains a short verse in his typical style.
Chapter 18
Final Days—Diary of 1871
And now the mists arise
With slow and graceful motion
And shews like pillow in the skies
Or island in the ocean
Jan. 28, 1871 to Dec. 10, 1871
[Jan] 28, [1871] A Rainy morning Took my Sheep to pasture….
February the 1 My birthday being the first day of 80 Eightyethe year….
2 Frosty mornings commenced pruning in the Orchard….
17 Frost clear and warm afternoon Pruning in the orchard….
[March] 3 Pleasant and warm good growing weather Planted potates Peas & onions beets….
8 commenced Breaking fallows yestarday….
10 Finished pruning….
15 finished my fence around the garden
[April]9 …Mr Montgomory [R. T. Montgomery, editor of the Napa Reporter] called on me for information on the early character of California gave him my Diary of my first trip across the plains….
11 Trimed and marked my lambs….
12 Finished planting corn & potatoes….
14 …Rode out on the mountain….
19 …Commenced sharing sheep
26 …Went to the Odd fellows Picknick Mr Sargent delivered the adress which was done in oratorical style….
[May] 3…finished the cultivation of the home orchard….
19 …hawled a load of rock for the foundation of Barn….
29 …Comenced framing Barn….
31 …finished the frame of Barn….
[June] 3…went to the picknick at the Boggs ranch heard Mr Ford the country School Supt make an excellent speech….
12 …filled all my barn with hay three tuns left….
15 …Brought my sheep down to the home place
16 Clear sold all our Black Tartaria[n cherries]
17 …gathered Black Beries….
24 …took a severe Cold Laid abed half the day….
25 …still feel seak of a cold….
26 …Hauled one load of wood….
1 st July…Warm some wheet being harvested Wind South…Finished hailing wood due Mr Truebody $3.00….
4 the 95 Jubille of our countrys Independance as nation Went to Napa heard the declaration of Indepenance read….
11 …gathering early apples….
12 …Lent Mrs McCombs $20.00/
[Aug.] 16…the camp Meeting still in Session
[Dec] 10…sowed our Barley last week….
Though Clyman took little part in public affairs as he grew older, he didn’t spend all his time farming. Early settlers remembered him as a bent figure taking his rifle to the mountains hunting deer or bear. He walked with a limp from old wounds, and an accident had cost him the sight in one eye.
He often sat in the sun and wrote out upon a slate the last part of his book of reminiscences, resisting to the end whatever temptation he might have had to include the kind of tall tales and adventures beloved of mountain men like Joe Meek. He sent his story to Lyman C. Draper, who published the first part in the Napa Reporter in 1871. Later, his daughter Lydia took up the task of copying what Clyman had written on his slate, and sending it on to Draper.
In the last ten years of his life Clyman wrote poetry in the style of the age, dealing with philosophical matters and topics of the time, not with his past as a mountain man. The poems are interesting as an illustration of Clyman’s level of education, and the refinement of his mind, despite the rough times his body had survived. Mountain men are sometimes pictured as crude ruffians, but perhaps Clyman demonstrates how varied they were. Some of his verses dwelled on the pleasures of home, as the following example shows.
OUR HOME
The winds were in their chamber sleeping
The light from Orient portals peeping
The stars the lesser ones are dimed or gone
The larger ones more brigtly sh
own
And silver beams of earley daylight
Was breaking through the gloom of night
The little birds in twittering note
Upon the ambient air did float
Again more fervent light behold
The mountain tops in glittering gold
The grass the grain in meadow seen
A gorgeous sight all clothed in green
The dewdrips make a beautious show
In bright translucent globes they glow
All nature now seems to combine
To over flow with bread and wine
And fruit of evrey name and nature
Promise rich returns in the future
The peach the cherry and the pair
In fragrant blooming now appear
And give sweet scent to passing air
The bees then come a perfect swarm
At noon or when the sun shines warm
And sip the necter from the bloom
To fill thier sweetend honey comb
And now we hear the breakfast call
To young to old to friend and all
Now at the table take your seat
A cup of coffee strong and sweet
but first you hear a fervent blessing
To all omnicient power adressing
The mighty source of light
To guide our words and actions right
Through out the day now fast advancing
The glorious sun on nature glancing
Now while hot roles surround your plate
Dont envy either wealth or state
The hour of eight the clock has told
A grumbling first then more Bold
Along the Iron plated way
That runs direct from Napa bay
And if you notice as they pass
A belching forth of steam and gass
They come with raped whirling wheels
The earth blow both quakes and reals
The elements above are riven
By smoke and gas are upward drivn
A heave a blch of scalding gass
Then let the metal monster pass
The hills along the east are seen
Some dark with brush some clothed in green
The sun still shining bold and bright
And not a cloud obscures the sight
The Lilac now in purple bloon
A handsome sight a rich perfume
The Canary in his iron cage
Still chants his love and sings his rage
No answering note no warbling fair
Can touch his melancholy ear,
O give me freedom or a mate
To save me from a lonsome fate.
The sun now strikes meriden line
The laboring men come in to dine
Assembled round the family board
A female blessing now is heard
And then the master carves and sends
The vians round from side to end
Around the yard a playfull noise
This is the prattle of the boys
As up and down the walks they run
With bursting froliich noisy fun
Thier work is play thier play is work
And all is noise from day to day
And infancy is likewise here
A female babe demans our care
Who just begins to crow and smile
And know her mothers voice the while
She fills a space not very small
But she is dear to nurse and all
Our Cottage too is draped anew
And shows in front a handsome vew
As white as bride trips from her room
Steps out to meet her galant groom
The plow for summer crop now turning
The moistned soil in early morning
And soon comes on the planting time
For summer crops of evry kind
As to west the sun inclines
In fervant brightness still it shines
All nature seems to catch the strea[m]
And kiss and drink the glancing beam
And then a slightly southern breese
Comes chanting through the orchard trees
And bends and turns the growing grain
Like tides upon the flowing main
Still lower west the light doth glow
And lengthning shawos [shadows]eastward
Now all the sky in brightest gold
Most beautiful the light unfold
The eastern hills to catch the light
reflected from etherial hight
You see the moons bright cresent form
And silver tips her either horn
The stars now all are brightly shining
And with the moon thier light combining
The galaxy or milky way
Across the zenith makes display
With stars thick studed shining bright
A coronet on brow of night
Is this the hour when lovers meet
Salute each to each in accents sweet
And walk the flowery avanewes
and speak and tell the daily new[s]
Perhaps to taake a walk for life
United in one as man and wife
And call the spangled stars above
As witnesses of mutual love
This natal day now is past
We hope it will not be the last
But even in the midst of such homey reflections, his wit remained sharp and his political sense acute, as in this verse:
The sparrows in convention join
And hold a noisy chirping chime
Like noisy politicians scold
And contradict in axcents bold.
On some topics, Clyman waxed particularly eloquent; the thought of food, for example, made him wax poetic:
Ritch milk rich cream the farmer boast
With butter cakes and swiming toast
And ham and eggs likwise is found
A breackfast rich the table crowns
When at the breackfast take your seat
A cup of coffee is always sweet
And if short biscake grace your plate
You envy not the rich or great
To speak of all you see and find
Cant change the farm for silver mine.
Perhaps it was the good food that changed his mind about farming. He must have sat writing this verse on his slate, thinking of the starving times in the mountains, where ham, eggs, and cream would have been merely dreams. Clyman’s journal of June 27, 1846 mentions tasting coffee for the first time in a year, and that was when he was with the emigrants. In the mountains, coffee was mostly a memory.
Clyman had achieved some fame for his exploits, and a number of visitors came to the farm to visit him. They included some small relatives, Mr. and Mrs. Tom Thumb, the midgets.
His daughter, now married to the Rev. Beverly Lamar Tallman, gradually took over management of the farm, and with seven children and elderly parents to look after she simply didn’t have time to copy her father’s life story at his dictation. She explained rather querulously to Draper. “I can not take time to give fathers life in detail for he has had a long and eventful one. I have a family of seven to look after; three small children doing my own work. We live on a farm and I find my time all occupied. I send a short sketch which is all I promised.” If she’d had fewer children, we might have a tale to eclipse that of any other mountain man
On December 27, 1881, Clyman died; he was eighty-nine years old. Burial was at the Tulocay Cemetery in Napa. He had lived through—and helped create—one of the most exciting periods in our nation’s history. He was one of the last of the mountain men, and he had completely outlived the times in which he was born and raised. Trails that he followed on foot, starving or gnawing on the remains of a pack horse, knee-deep in snow, held highways and steel rails at the time of his death. Cities had grown up where he and his fur trapping comrades told stories and
ate fat buffalo cow. The beaver and buffalo around which so much of his existence was built had become curiosities, preserved in museums and zoos, almost gone from the cold mountain streams and broad prairies. James Clyman lived a life none of us will ever know, but he gave us some of it—bare and without elaboration, but irreducibly authentic—in his journals. Perhaps he was thinking of his own epitaph when he wrote this poem, possibly his last.
