WITHOUT having visited some distant place in the mountains, such as Downieville, it was impossible to realize fully the extraordinary extent to which the country had, in so short a time, been overrun and settled by a population whose energy and adaptive genius had immediately seized and improved every natural advantage which presented itself, and whose quickly acquired wealth enabled them to introduce so much luxury, and to afford employment to so many of those branches of industry which usually flourish only in old communities, that in some respects California can hardly be said to have ever been a new country, as compared with other parts of the world to which that term is applied.
The men who settled the country imparted to it a good deal of their own nature, which knows no period of boyhood. The Americans spring at once from childhood, or almost from infancy, to manhood; and California, no less rapid in its growth, became a full-grown State, while one-half the world still doubted its existence.
The amount of labor which had already been performed in the mines was almost incredible. Every river and creek from one end to the other presenteda busy scene; on the “bars,” of course, the miners were congregated in the greatest numbers; but there was scarcely any part of their course where some work was not going on, and the flumes were so numerous, that for about one-third of their length the rivers were carried past in those wooden aqueducts.
The most populous part of the mines, however, was in the high mountain-land between the rivers, and here the whole country had been ransacked, every flat and ravine had been prospected; and wherever extensive diggings had been found, towns and villages had sprung up.
Young as California was, it was in one respect older than its parent country, for life was so fast that already it could show ruins and deserted villages. In out-of-the-way places one met with cabins fallen into disrepair, which the proprietors had abandoned to locate themselves elsewhere; and even villages of thirty or forty shanties were to be seen deserted and desolate, where the diggings had not proved so productive as the original founders had anticipated.
Labor, however, was not exclusively devoted to mining operations. Roads had in many parts been cut in the sides of the mountains, bridges had been built, and innumerable saw-mills, most of them driven by steam power, were in full operation, many of them having been erected in anticipation of a demand for lumber, and before any population existed around them. Every little valley in the mountains where the soil was at all fit for cultivation was already fenced in, and producing crops of barley or oats; and canals, in some cases forty or fifty miles long, were in course of construction, to bring the waters of the rivers to themountain-tops, to diggings which were otherwise unavailable.
Life for the most part was hard enough certainly, but every village was a little city of itself, where one could live in comparative luxury. Even Downieville had its theater and concerts, its billiard-rooms and saloons of all sorts, a daily paper, warm baths, and restaurants where men in red flannel shirts, with bare arms, spread a napkin over their muddy knees, and studied the bill of fare for half an hour before they could make up their minds what to order for dinner.
I was sitting on a rock by the side of the river one day sketching, when I became aware that a most ragamuffinish individual was looking over my shoulder. He was certainly, without exception, the most tattered and torn man I ever saw in my life; even his hair and beard gave the idea of rags, which was fully realized by his costume. He was a complete caricature of an old miner, and quite a picture by himself, seen from any point of view.
The rim of his old brown hat seemed ready to drop down on his shoulders at a moment’s notice, and the sides, having dissolved all connection with the crown, presented at the top a jagged circumference, festooned here and there with locks of light brown hair, while, to keep the whole fabric from falling to pieces of its own weight, it was bound round with a piece of string in lieu of a hat-band. His hair hung all over his shoulders in large straight flat locks, just as if a handkerchief had been nailed to the top of his head and then torn into shreds, and a long beard of the same pattern fringed a face as brown as a mahogany table. His shirt had once been red flannel—of courseit was flannel yet, what remained of it—but it was in a most dilapidated condition. Half-way down to his elbows hung some shreds, which led to the belief that at one time he had possessed a pair of sleeves; but they seemed to have been removed by the action of time and the elements, which had also been busy with other parts of the garment, and had, moreover, changed its original scarlet to different shades of crimson and purple. There was enough of his shirt left almost to meet a pair of—not trousers, but still less mentionable articles, of the same material as the shirt, and in the same stage of decomposition. He must have had trousers once on a time, but I suppose he had worn them out; and I could not help thinking what extraordinary things they must have been on the morning when he came to the conclusion that they were not good enough to wear. I daresay he would have put them on if he could, but perhaps they were so full of holes that he did not know which to get into. His boots at least had reached this point, and to acknowledge that they had been boots was as much as a conscientious man could say for them. They were more holes than leather, and had no longer any title to the name of boots.
He was a man between thirty and forty, and, notwithstanding his rags, there was nothing in his appearance at all dirty or repulsive; on the contrary, he had a very handsome, prepossessing face, with an air about him which at once gave the idea that he had been used to polite society. I was, consequently, not surprised at the style of his address. He talked with me for some time, and I found him a most amusing and gentlemanly fellow. He was a Germandoctor, but it was hard to detect any foreign accent in his pronunciation.
The claim he was working was a mile or two up the river, and his company, he told me, was one of the greatest curiosities in the country. It consisted of two Americans, two Frenchmen, two Italians, two Mexicans, and my ragged friend, who was the only man in the company who spoke any language but his mother tongue. He was captain of the company, and interpreter-general for the crowd. I quite believed him when he said it was hard work to keep them all in order, and that when he was away no work could be done at all, and for that reason he was now hurrying back to his claim. But before leaving me he said, “I saw you sketching from the trail, and I came down to ask a favor of you.”
There is as much vanity sometimes in rags as in gorgeous apparel; and what he wanted of me was to make a sketch of him, rags and all, just as he was. To study such a splendid figure was exactly what I wanted to do myself, so I made an appointment with him for the next day, and begged of him in the meantime not to think of combing his hair, which, indeed, to judge from its appearance, he had not done for some time.
I found afterwards that he was a well-known character, and went by the name of the Flying Dutchman.
I passed by his claim one day, and such a scene it was! The Tower of Babel was not a circumstance to it. The whole of the party were up to their waists in water, in the middle of the river, trying to build a wing-dam. The Americans, the Frenchmen, theItalians, and the Mexicans, were all pulling in different directions at an immense unwieldy log, and bestowing on each other most frightful oaths, though happily in unknown tongues; while the directing genius, the Flying Dutchman, was rushing about among them, and gesticulating wildly in his endeavors to pacify them, and to explain what was to be done. He spoke all the modern languages at once, occasionally talking Spanish to a Frenchman, and English to the Italians, then cursing his own stupidity in German, and blowing them all up collectively in a promiscuous jumble of national oaths, when they all came to a stand-still, the Flying Dutchman even seeming to give it up in despair. But after addressing a few explanatory remarks to each nation separately, in their respective languages, he persuaded them to try once more, when they got along well enough for a few minutes, till something went wrong, and then the Tower-of-Babel scene was enacted over again.
What induced the Flying Dutchman to form a company of such incongruous materials, and to take so much trouble in trying to work it, I can’t say, unless it was a little of the same innocent vanity which was apparent in his exaggerated style of dress.
There was a considerable number of Frenchmen in the neighborhood of Downieville, but they kept very much to themselves. So very few of them, even of the better class, could speak English, and so few American miners knew anything of French, that scarcely ever were they found working together.
In common intercourse of buying and selling, or asking and giving any requisite information, neither party was ever very much at a loss; a few words ofbroken English, a word or two of French, and a large share of pantomime, carried them through any conference.
When any one capable of acting as interpreter happened to be present, the Frenchman, in his impatience, was constantly asking him “Qu’est ce qu’il dit?” “Qu’est ce qu’il dit?” This caught the ear of the Americans more than anything else, and a “Keskydee” came at last to be a synonym for a “Parleyvoo.”
The “Dutchmen” in the mines, under which denomination are included all manner of Germans, showed much greater aptitude to amalgamate with the people around them. Frenchmen were always found in gangs, but “Dutchmen” were usually met with as individuals, and more frequently associated with Americans than with their own countrymen. For the most part they spoke English very well, and there were none who could not make themselves perfectly intelligible.
But in making such a comparison between the Germans and the French, it would not be fair to leave unmentioned the fact that the great majority of the former were men who had the advantage of having lived for a greater or less time in the United States, while the Frenchmen had nearly all immigrated in shiploads direct from their native country.
About thirty miles above Downieville is one of the highest mountains in the mines. The view from the summit, which is composed of several rocky peaks in line with each other, like the teeth of a saw, was said to be one of the finest in California, and I was desirous of seeing it; but the mountain was on the vergeof settlement, and there was no camp or house of accommodation nearer to it than Downieville. However, the Frenchman in whose house I was staying told me that a friend of his, who was mining there, would be down in a day or two, and that he would introduce me to him. He came down the next day for a supply of provisions, and I gladly took the opportunity of returning with him.
The trail followed the river all the way, and was very rough, many parts of it being nearly as bad as “Cape Horn.” The Frenchman had a pack-mule loaded with his stock of provisions, which gave him an infinity of trouble. He was such a bad packer that the cargo was constantly shifting, and requiring to be repacked and secured. At one spot, where there was a steep descent from the trail to the river of about a hundred feet, the whole cargo broke loose, and fell to the ground. The only article, however, which rolled off the narrow trail was a keg of butter, which went bounding down the hill till it reached the bottom, where at one smash it buttered the whole surface of a large flat rock in the middle of the river. The Frenchman climbed down by a circuitous route to recover what he could of it, while I remained to repack the cargo. Without further accident we arrived about dark at my companion’s cabin, where we found his partners just preparing supper;—and a very good supper it was; for, with only the ordinary materials of flour, ham, and beef, it was astonishing what a very superior mess a Frenchman could get up.
After smoking an infinite number of pipes, I stretched out on the floor, with my feet to the fire, and slept like a top till morning, when, having gotdirections from the Frenchman as to my route, I set out to climb the mountain. The cabin was situated at the base of one of the spurs into which the mountain branched off, and was about eight miles distant from the summit.
When I had got about half-way up, I came in sight of a quartz-grinding establishment, situated on an exceedingly steep place, where a small stream of water came dashing over the rocks. In the face of the hill a step had been cut out, on which a cabin was built, and immediately below it were two “rasters”[4]in full operation.
These are the most primitive kind of contrivances for grinding quartz. They are circular places, ten or twelve feet in diameter, flagged with flat stones, and in these the quartz is crushed by two large heavy stones dragged round and round by a mule harnessed to a horizontal beam, to which they are also attached.
The quartz is already broken up into small pieces before being put into the “raster,” and a constant supply of water is necessary to facilitate the operation, the stuff, while being ground, having the appearance of a rich white mud. The Mexicans, who use this machine a great deal, have a way of ascertaining when the quartz is sufficiently ground, by feeling it between the finger and thumb of one hand, while with the other they feel the lower part of their ear; and when the quartz has the same soft velvety feel, it is considered fine enough, and the gold is then extracted by amalgamation with quicksilver.
A considerable amount of work had been done atthis place. The quartz vein was several hundred yards above the “rasters,” and from it there was laid a double line of railway on the face of the mountain, for the purpose of bringing down the quartz. The loaded car was intended to bring up the empty one; but the railway was so steep that it looked as if a car, once started, would never stop till it reached the river, two or three miles below.
The vein was not being worked just now; and I only found one man at the place, who was employed in keeping the two mules at work in the “rasters.” He told me that the ascent from that point was so difficult that it would be dark before I could return, and persuaded me to pass the night with him, and start early the next morning.
The nights had been getting pretty chilly lately, and up here it was particularly so; but with the aid of a blazing fire we managed to make ourselves comfortable. I lay down before the fire, with the prospect of having a good sleep, but woke in the middle of the night, feeling it most bitterly cold. The fact is, the log cabin was merely a log cage, the chinks between the logs having never been filled up, and it had come on to blow a perfect hurricane. The spot where the cabin stood was very much exposed, and the gusts of wind blew against it and through it as if it would carry us all away.
This pleasant state of things lasted two days, during which time I remained a prisoner in the cabin, as the force of the wind was so great that one could scarcely stand outside, and the cold was so intense that the pools in the stream which ran past were covered with ice. The cabin was but poor protection, the windhaving full play through it, even blowing the tin plates off the table while we were at dinner; and heavy gusts coming down the chimney filled the cabin with smoke, ashes, and burning wood. Two days of this was rather miserable work, but with the aid of my pencil and two or three old novels I managed to weather it out.
The third day the gale was over, and though still cold, the weather was beautifully bright and clear. On setting out on my expedition to the summit of the mountain, I had first to climb up the railway, which went as far as the top of the ridge, where the quartz cropped out in large masses. From this there was a gradual ascent to the summit, about four miles distant, over ground which was stony, like a newly macadamized road, and covered with wiry brushwood waist-high. This was rendered a still more pleasant place to travel over by being infested by grizzly bears, whose tracks I could see on every spot of ground capable of receiving the impression of their feet. At last I arrived at the foot of the immense masses of rock which formed the summit of the mountain, and the only means of continuing the ascent was by climbing up long slides of loose sharp-cornered stones of all sizes. Every step I took forward, I went about half a step backward, the stones giving way under my feet, and causing a general commotion from top to bottom. On reaching the top of this place, after suffering a good deal in my shins and shoe-leather, I found myself on a ledge of rock, with a similar one forty or fifty feet above me, to be gained by climbing another slide of loose stones; and having spent about an hour in working my passage up a succession of places of thissort, I arrived at the foot of the immense wall of solid rock which crowned the summit of the mountain. To reach the lowest point of the top of the perpendicular wall above me, I had some fifteen or twenty feet to climb the best way I could, and the prospect of any failure in the attempt was by no means encouraging, as, had I happened to fall, I should have been carried down to the regions below with an avalanche of loose rocks and stones. Even as I stood studying how I should make the ascent by means of the projecting ledges, and tracking out my course before I made the attempt, I felt the stones beginning to give way under my feet; and seeing there was no time to lose, I went at it, and after a pretty hard struggle I reached the top. This, however, was not the summit—I was only between the teeth of the saw; but I was enabled to gain the top of one of the peaks by means of a ledge, about a foot and a half wide, which slanted up the face of the rock. Here I sat down to enjoy the view, and certainly I felt amply repaid for all the labor of the ascent, by the vastness and grandeur of the panorama around me. I looked back for more than a hundred miles over the mountainous pine-clad region of the “Mines,” where, from the shapes of some of the mountains, I could distinguish many places which I had visited. Beyond this lay the wide plains of the Sacramento Valley, in which the course of the rivers could be traced by the trees which grew along their banks; and beyond the plains the coast range was distinctly seen.
On the other side, from which I had made the ascent, there was a sheer precipice of about two hundred feet, at the foot of which, in eternal shade, layheaps of snow. The mountains in this direction were more rugged and barren, and beyond them appeared the white peaks of the Sierra Nevada. The atmosphere was intensely clear; it was as if there were no atmosphere at all, and the view of the most remote objects was so vivid and distinct that any one not used to such a clime would have been slow to believe that their distance was so great as it actually was. Monte Diablo, a peculiarly shaped mountain within a few miles of San Francisco, and upwards of three hundred miles[5]from where I stood, was plainly discernible, and with as much distinctness as on a clear day in England a mountain is seen at a distance of fifty or sixty miles.
The beauty of the view, which consisted chiefly in its vastness, was greatly enhanced by being seen from such a lofty pinnacle. It gave one the idea of being suspended in the air, and cut off from all communication with the world below. The perfect solitude of the place was quite oppressive, and was rendered still more awful by the occasional loud report of some piece of rock, which, becoming detached from the mass, went bounding down to seek a more humble resting-place, The gradual disruption seemed to be incessant, for no sooner had one fragment got out of hearing down below, than another started after it. There was a keen wind blowing, and it was so miserably cold, that when I had been up here for about an hour, I became quite benumbed and chilled. It was rather ticklish work coming down from my exalted position, and more perilous a good deal than it had been to climb up to it; but I managed it withoutaccident, and reached the cabin of my quartz-grinding friend before dark.
Here I found there had arrived in the meantime three men from a ranch which they had taken up in a small valley, about thirty miles farther up in the mountains. There were no other white men in that direction, and this cabin was the nearest habitation to them. They had come in with six or seven mule-loads of hay for the use of the unfortunate animals who were kept in a state of constant revolution in the “rasters”.
IRETURNED to Downieville the next day, and as the weather was now getting rather cold and disagreeable, and I did not wish to be caught quite so far up in the mountains by the rainy season, I began to make my way down the river again to more accessible diggings.
On leaving, I took a trail which kept along the bank of the river for some miles, before striking up to the mountain ridge. Immediately below the town the mountain was very steep and smooth, and round this wound the trail, at the height of three or four hundred feet above the river. It was a mere beaten path—so narrow that two men could not walk abreast, while there was hardly a bush or a tree to interrupt one’s progress in rolling down from the trail to the river.
When trains of pack-mules met at this place, they had the greatest difficulty in passing. The “down train,” being of course unloaded, had to give way to the other. The mules understood their own rights perfectly well. Those loaded with cargo kept sturdily to the trail, while the empty mules scrambled up the bank, where they stood still till the others had passed. It not unfrequently happened, however, that a loaded mule got crowded off the trail,and rolled down the hill. This was always the last journey the poor mule ever performed. The cargo was recovered more or less damaged, but the remnants of deceased mules on the rocks down below remained as a warning to all future travelers. It was only a few days before that a man was riding along here, when, from some cause, his mule stumbled and fell off the trail. The mule, of course, went as a small contribution to the collection of skeletons of mules which had gone before him; and his rider would have shared the same fate, had he not fortunately been arrested in his progress by a bush, the only object in his course which could possibly have saved him.
The trail, after passing this spot, kept more among the rocks on the river side; and though it was rough traveling, the difficulties of the way were beguiled by the numbers of miners’ camps through which one passed, and in observing the different varieties of mining operations being carried on. For miles the river was borne along in a succession of flumes, in which were set innumerable water-wheels, for working all sorts of pumps, and other contrivances for economizing labor. The bed of the river was alive with miners; and here and there, in the steep banks, were rows of twenty or thirty tunnels, out of which came constant streams of men, wheeling the dirt down to the riverside, to be washed in their long toms.
At Goodyear’s Bar, which is a place of some size, the trail leaves the river, and ascends a mountain which is said to be the worst in that part of the country, and for my part I was quite willing to believe it was. I met several men coming down, who were all anxious to know if they were near the bottom.I was equally desirous to know if I was near the top, for the forest of pines was so thick, that, looking up, one could only get a glimpse between the trees of the zigzag trail far above.
About half-way up the mountain, at a break in the ascent, I found a very new log cabin by the side of a little stream of water. It bore a sign about as large as itself, on which was painted the “Florida House”; and as it was getting dark, and the next house was five miles farther on, I thought I would take up my quarters here for the night. The house was kept by an Italian, or an “Eyetalian,” as he is called across the Atlantic. He had a Yankee wife, with a lot of children, and the style of accommodation was as good as one usually found in such places.
I was the only guest that night; and as we sat by the fire, smoking our pipes after supper, my host, who was a cheerful sort of fellow, became very communicative. He gave me an interesting account of his California experiences, and also of his farming operations in the States, where he had spent the last few years of his life. Then, going backwards in his career, he told me that he had lived for some years in England and Scotland, and spoke of many places there as if he knew them well. I was rather curious to know in what capacity such an exceedingly dingy-looking individual had visited all the cities of the kingdom, but he seemed to wish to avoid cross examination on the subject, so I did not press him. He became intimately connected in my mind, however, with sundry plaster-of-Paris busts of Napoleon, the Duke of Wellington, Sir Walter Scott, and other distinguished characters. I could fancy I saw the wholecollection of statuary on the top of his head, and felt very much inclined to shout out “Images!” to see what effect it would have upon him.
In the course of the evening he asked me if I would like to hear some music, saying that he played a little on the Italian fiddle. I said I would be delighted, particularly as I did not know the instrument. The only national fiddle I had ever heard of was the Caledonian, and I trusted this instrument of his was a different sort of thing; but I was very much amused when it turned out to be nothing more or less than a genuine orthodox hurdy-gurdy. It put me more in mind of home than anything I had heard for a long time. At the first note, of course, the statuary vanished, and was replaced by a vision of an unfortunate monkey in a red coat, while my friend’s extensive travels in the United Kingdom became very satisfactorily accounted for, and I thought it by no means unlikely that this was not the first time I had heard the sweet strains of his Italian fiddle. He played several of the standard old tunes; but hurdy-gurdy music is of such a character that a little of it goes a great way; and I was not sorry when a couple of strings snapped—to the great disgust, however, of my friend, for he had no more with which to replace them.
Hurdy-gurdy player or not, he was a very entertaining, agreeable fellow. I only hope all the fraternity are like him (perhaps they are, if one only knew them), and attain ultimately to such a respectable position in life, dignifying their instruments with the name of Italian fiddles, and reserving them for the entertainment of their particular friends.
I was on my way to Slate Range, a place some distance down the river, but the next day I only went as far as Oak Valley, traveling the last few miles with a young fellow from one of the Southern States, whom I overtook on the way. He had been mining, he told me, at Downieville, and was now going to join some friends of his at a place some thirty miles off.
At supper he did not make his appearance, which I did not observe, as there were a number of men at table, till the landlord asked me if that young fellow who arrived with me was not going to have any supper, and suggested that perhaps he was “strapped,” “dead-broke”—Anglicé, without a cent in his pocket. I had not inferred anything of the sort from his conversation, but on going out and asking him why he did not come to supper, he reluctantly admitted that the state of his finances would not admit of it. I told him, in the language of Mr. Toots, that it was of no consequence, and made him come in, when he was most unceremoniously lectured by the rest of the party, and by the landlord particularly, on the absurdity of his intention of going supperless to bed merely because he happened to be “dead-broke,” getting at the same time some useful hints how to act under such circumstances in future from several of the men present, who related how, when they had found themselves in such a predicament, they had, on frankly stating the fact, been made welcome to everything.
To be “dead-broke” was really, as far as a man’s immediate comfort was concerned, a matter of less importance in the mines than in almost any otherplace. There was no such thing as being out of employment, where every man employed himself, and could always be sure of ample remuneration for his day’s work. But notwithstanding the want of excuse for being “strapped,” it was very common to find men in that condition. There were everywhere numbers of lazy, idle men, who were always without a dollar; and others reduced themselves to that state by spending their time and money on claims which, after all, yielded them no return, or else gradually exhausted their funds in traveling about the country, and prospecting, never satisfied with fair average diggings, but always having the idea that better were to be found elsewhere. Few miners located themselves permanently in any place, and there was a large proportion of the population continually on the move. In almost every place I visited in the mines, I met men whom I had seen in other diggings. Some men I came across frequently, who seemed to do nothing but wander about the country, satisfied with asking the miners in the different diggings how they were “making out,” but without ever taking the trouble to prospect for themselves.
Coin was very scarce, what there was being nearly all absorbed by the gamblers, who required it for convenience in carrying on their business. Ordinary payments were made in gold dust, every store being provided with a pair of gold scales, in which the miner weighed out sufficient dust from his buckskin purse to pay for his purchases.
In general trading, gold dust was taken at sixteen dollars the ounce; but in the towns and villages, at the agencies of the various San Francisco bankers andexpress companies, it was bought at a higher price, according to the quality of the dust, and as it was more or less in demand for remittance to New York.
The express business of the United States is one which has not been many years established, and which was originally limited to the transmission of small parcels of value. On the discovery of gold in California, the express houses of New York immediately established agencies in San Francisco, and at once became largely engaged in transmitting gold dust to the mint in Philadelphia, and to various parts of the United States, on account of the owners in California. As a natural result of doing such a business, they very soon began to sell their own drafts on New York, and to purchase and remit gold dust on their own account.
They had agencies also in every little town in the mines, where they enjoyed the utmost confidence of the community, receiving deposits from miners and others, and selling drafts on the Atlantic States. In fact, besides carrying on the original express business of forwarding goods and parcels, and keeping up an independent post-office of their own, they became also, to all intents and purposes, bankers, and did as large an exchange business as any legitimate banking firm in the country.
The want of coin was equally felt in San Francisco, and coins of all countries were taken into circulation to make up the deficiency. As yet a mint had not been granted to California, but there was a Government Assay Office, which issued a large octagonal gold piece of the value of fifty dollars—a roughly executed coin, about twice the bulk of a crown-piece; while the greater part of the five, ten, and twenty dollar pieces were not from the United States Mint, but were coined and issued by private firms in San Francisco.
Silver was still more scarce, and many pieces were consequently current at much more than their value. A quarter of a dollar was the lowest appreciable sum represented by coin, and any piece approaching it in size was equally current at the same rate. A franc passed for a quarter of a dollar while a five-franc piece only passed for a dollar, which is about its actual worth. As a natural consequence of francs being thus taken at 25 per cent. more than their real value, large quantities of them were imported and put into circulation. In 1854, however, the bankers refused to receive them, and they gradually disappeared.
There was wonderfully little precaution taken in conveying the gold down from the mountains, and yet, although nothing deserving the name of an escort ever accompanied it, I never knew an instance of an attack upon it being attempted. On several occasions I saw the express messenger taking down a quantity of gold from Downieville. He and another man, both well mounted, were driving a mule loaded with leathern sacks, containing probably two or three hundred pounds’ weight of gold. They were well armed, of course; but a couple of robbers, had they felt so inclined, might easily have knocked them both over with their rifles in the solitude of the forest, without much fear of detection. Bad as California was, it appeared a proof that it was not altogether such a country as was generally supposed, when large quantities of gold were thus regularly broughtover the lonely mountain-trails, with even less protection than would have been thought necessary in many parts of the Old World.
From Oak Valley I went down to Slate Range with an American who was anxious I should visit his camp there. After climbing down the mountain side, we at last reached the river, which here was confined between huge masses of slate rock, turning in its course, and disappearing behind bold rocky points so abruptly, that seldom could more of the length than the breadth of the river be seen at a time.
An hour’s scrambling over the sharp-edged slate rocks on the side of the river brought us to his camp, or at least the place where he and his partners camped out, which was on the bare rocks, in a corner so over-shadowed by the steep mountain that the sun never shone upon it. It was certainly the least luxurious habitation, and in the most wild and rugged locality, I had yet seen in the mines. On a rough board which rested on two stones were a number of tin plates, pannikins, and such articles of table furniture, while a few flat stones alongside answered the purpose of chairs. Scattered about, as was usual in all miners’ camps, were quantities of empty tins of preserved meats, sardines, and oysters, empty bottles of all shapes and sizes, innumerable ham-bones, old clothes, and other rubbish. Round the blackened spot which was evidently the kitchen were pots and frying-pans, sacks of flour and beans, and other provisions, together with a variety of cans and bottles, of which no one could tell the contents without inspection; for in the mines everything is pervertedfrom its original purpose, butter being perhaps stowed away in a tin labeled “fresh lobsters,” tea in a powder canister, and salt in a sardine-box.
There was nothing in the shape of a tent or shanty of any sort; it was not required as a shelter from the heat of the sun, as the place was in the perpetual shade of the mountain, and at night each man rolled himself up in his blankets, and made a bed of the smoothest and softest piece of rock he could find.
This part of the river was very rich, the gold being found in the soft slate rock between the layers and in the crevices.
My friend and his partners were working in a “wing dam” in front of their camp, and the river, being pushed back off one half of its bed, rushed past in a roaring torrent, white with foam. A large water-wheel was set in it, which worked several pumps, and a couple of feet above it lay a pine tree, which had been felled there so as to serve as a bridge. The river was above thirty feet wide, and the tree, not more than a foot and a half in diameter, was in its original condition, perfectly round and smooth, and was, moreover, kept constantly wet with the spray from the wheel, which was so close that one could almost touch it in passing. If one had happened to slip and fall into the water, he would have had about as much chance of coming out alive as if he had fallen before the paddles of a steamer; and any gentleman with shaky legs and unsteady nerves, had he been compelled to pass such a bridge, would most probably have got astride of it, and so worked his passage across. In the mines, however, these “pine-log crossings” were such a very common style of bridge,that every one was used to them, and walked them like a rope-dancer: in fact, there was a degree of pleasant excitement in passing a very slippery and difficult one such as this.
WHILE at this camp, I went down the river two or three miles to see a place called Mississippi Bar, where a company of Chinamen were at work. After an hour’s climbing along the rocky banks, and having crossed and recrossed the river some half-dozen times on pine logs, I at last got down among the Celestials.
There were about a hundred and fifty of them here, living in a perfect village of small tents, all clustered together on the rocks. They had a claim in the bed of the river, which they were working by means of a wing dam. A “wing dam,” I may here mention, is one which first runs half-way across the river, then down the river, and back again to the same side, thus damming off a portion of its bed without the necessity of the more expensive operation of lifting up the whole river bodily in a “flume.”
The Chinamen’s dam was two or three hundred yards in length, and was built of large pine trees laid one on the top of the other. They must have had great difficulty in handling such immense logs in such a place; but they are exceedingly ingenious in applying mechanical power, particularly in concentrating the force of a large number of men upon one point.
There were Chinamen of the better class among them, who no doubt directed the work, and paid the common men very poor wages—poor at least for California. A Chinaman could be hired for two, or at most three dollars a day by any one who thought their labor worth so much; but those at work here were most likely paid at a still lower rate, for it was well known that whole shiploads of Chinamen came to the country under a species of bondage to some of their wealthy countrymen in San Francisco, who, immediately on their arrival, shipped them off to the mines under charge of an agent, keeping them completely under control by some mysterious celestial influence, quite independent of the accepted laws of the country.
They sent up to the mines for their use supplies of Chinese provisions and clothing, and thus all the gold taken out by them remained in Chinese hands, and benefited the rest of the community but little by passing through the ordinary channels of trade.
In fact, the Chinese formed a distinct class, which enriched itself at the expense of the country, abstracting a large portion of its latent wealth without contributing, in a degree commensurate with their numbers, to the prosperity of the community of which they formed a part.
The individuals of any community must exist by supplying the wants of others; and when a man neither does this, nor has any wants of his own but those which he provides for himself, he is of no use to his neighbors; but when, in addition to this, he also diminishes the productiveness of the country, he is a positive disadvantage in proportion to the amount ofpublic wealth which he engrosses, and becomes a public nuisance.
What is true of an individual is true also of a class; and the Chinese, though they were no doubt, as far as China was concerned, both productive and consumptive, were considered by a very large party in California to be merely destructive as far as that country was interested.
They were, of course, not altogether so, for such a numerous body as they were could not possibly be so isolated as to be entirely independent of others; but any advantage which the country derived from their presence was too dearly paid for by the quantity of gold which they took from it; and the propriety of expelling all the Chinese from the State was long discussed, both by the press and in the Legislature; but the principles of the American constitution prevailed; the country was open to all the world, and the Chinese enjoyed equal rights with the most favored nation. In some parts of the mines, however, the miners had their own ideas on the subject, and would not allow the Chinamen to come among them; but generally they were not interfered with, for they contented themselves with working such poor diggings as it was not thought worth while to take from them.
This claim on the Yuba was the greatest undertaking I ever saw attempted by them.
They expended a vast deal of unnecessary labor in their method of working, and their individual labor, in effect, was as nothing compared with that of other miners. A company of fifteen or twenty white men would have wing-dammed this claim, and worked it out in two or three months, while herewere about a hundred and fifty Chinamen humbugging round it all the season, and still had not worked one half the ground.
Their mechanical contrivances were not in the usual rough straightforward style of the mines; they were curious, and very elaborately got up, but extremely wasteful of labor, and, moreover, very ineffective.
The pumps which they had at work here were an instance of this. They were on the principle of a chain-pump, the chain being formed of pieces of wood about six inches long, hinging on each other, with cross-pieces in the middle for buckets, having about six square inches of surface. The hinges fitted exactly to the spokes of a small wheel, which was turned by a Chinaman at each side of it working a miniature treadmill of four spokes on the same axle. As specimens of joiner-work they were very pretty, but as pumps they were ridiculous; they threw a mere driblet of water: the chain was not even encased in a box—it merely lay in a slanting trough, so that more than one half the capacity of the buckets was lost. An American miner, at the expenditure of one-tenth part of the labor of making such toys, would have set a water-wheel in the river to work an elevating pump, which would have thrown more water in half an hour than four-and-twenty Chinamen could throw in a day with a dozen of these gimcrack contrivances. Their camp was wonderfully clean: when I passed through it, I found a great many of them at their toilet, getting their heads shaved, or plaiting each other’s pigtails; but most of them were at dinner, squatted on the rocks in groups of eight or ten round a number of curious little blackpots and dishes, from which they helped themselves with their chopsticks. In the center was a large bowl of rice. This is their staple article, and they devour it most voraciously. Throwing back their heads, they hold a large cupful to their wide-open mouths, and, with a quick motion of the chopsticks in the other hand, they cause the rice to flow down their throats in a continuous stream.
I received several invitations to dinner, but declined the pleasure, preferring to be a spectator. The rice looked well enough, and the rest of their dishes were no doubt very clean, but they had a very dubious appearance, and were far from suggesting the idea of being good to eat. In the store I found the storekeeper lying asleep on a mat. He was a sleek dirty-looking object, like a fat pig with the hair scalded off, his head being all close shaved excepting the pigtail. His opium-pipe lay in his hand, and the lamp still burned beside him, so I supposed he was already in the seventh heaven. The store was like other stores in the mines, inasmuch as it contained a higgledy-piggledy collection of provisions and clothing, but everything was Chinese excepting the boots. These are the only articles of barbarian costume which the Chinaman adopts, and he always wears them of an enormous size, on a scale commensurate with the ample capacity of his other garments.
The next place I visited was Wamba’s Bar, some miles lower down the river; and from here I intended returning to Nevada, as the season was far advanced, and fine weather could no longer be depended upon.
The very day, however, on which I was to start,the rain commenced, and came down in such torrents that I postponed my departure. It continued to rain heavily for several days, and I had no choice but to remain where I was, as the river rose rapidly to such a height as to be perfectly impassable. It was now about eighty yards wide, and rushed past in a raging torrent, the waves rolling several feet high. Some of the miners up above, trusting to a longer continuance of the dry season, had not removed their flumes from the river, and these it was now carrying down, all broken up into fragments, along with logs and whole pine trees, which occasionally, as they got foul of other objects, reared straight up out of the water. It was a grand sight; the river seemed as if it had suddenly arisen to assert its independence, and take vengeance for all the restraints which had been placed upon it, by demolishing flumes, dams, and bridges, and carrying off everything within its reach.
The house I was staying in was the only one in the neighborhood, and was a sort of half store, half boarding-house. Several miners lived in it, and there were, besides, two or three storm-stayed travelers like myself. It was a small clapboard house, built on a rock immediately over the river, but still so far above it that we anticipated no danger from the flood. We were close to the mouth of a creek, however, which we one night fully expected would send the house on a voyage of discovery down the river. Some drift-logs up above had got jammed, and so altered the course of the stream as to bring it sweeping past the corner of the house, which merely rested on a number of posts. The waters rose to within an inch or two of the floor; and as they carried logsand rocks along with them, we feared that the posts would be carried away, when the whole fabric would immediately slip off the rocks into the angry river a few feet below. There was a small window at one end through which we might have escaped, and this was taken out that no time might be lost when the moment for clearing out should arrive, while axes also were kept in readiness, to smash through the back of the house, which rested onterra firma. It was an exceedingly dark night, very cold, and raining cats and dogs, so that the prospect of having to jump out of the window and sit on the rocks till morning was by no means pleasant to contemplate; but the idea of being washed into the river was still less agreeable, and no one ventured to sleep, as the water was already almost up to the floor, and a very slight rise would have smashed up the whole concern so quickly, that it was best to be on the alert. The house fortunately stood it out bravely till daylight, when some of the party put an end to the danger by going up the creek, and removing the accumulation of logs which had turned the water from its proper channel.
After the rain ceased, we had to wait for two days till the river fell sufficiently to allow of its being crossed with any degree of safety; but on the third day, along with another man who was going to Nevada, I made the passage in a small skiff—not without considerable difficulty, however, for the river was still much swollen, and covered with logs and driftwood. On landing on the other side, we struck straight up the face of the mountain, and soon gainedthe high land, where we found a few inches of snow fast disappearing before the still powerful rays of the sun.
We arrived at Nevada after a day and a half of very muddy traveling, but the weather was bright and clear, and seemed to be a renewal of the dry season. It did not last long, however, for a heavy snowstorm soon set in, and it continued snowing, raining, and freezing for about three weeks,—the snow lying on the ground all the time, to the depth of three or four feet. The continuance of such weather rendered the roads so impracticable as to cut off all supplies from Marysville or Sacramento, and accordingly prices of provisions of all kinds rose enormously. The miners could not work with so much snow on the ground, and altogether there was a prospect of hard times. Flour was exceedingly high even in San Francisco, several capitalists having entered into a flour-monopoly speculation, buying up every cargo as it arrived, and so keeping up the price. In Nevada it was sold at a dollar a pound, and in other places farther up in the mountains it was doled out, as long as the stock lasted, at three or four times that price. In many parts the people were reduced to the utmost distress from the scarcity of food, and the impossibility of obtaining any fresh supplies. At Downieville, the few men who had remained there were living on barley, a small stock of which was fortunately kept there as mule-feed. Several men perished in the snow in trying to make their escape from distant camps in the mountains; two or three lost their lives near the ranch of my friend the Italianhurdy-gurdy player, while carrying flour down to their camps on the river; and in some places people saved themselves from starvation by eating dogs and mules.
Men kept pouring into Nevada from all quarters, starved out of their own camps, and all bearing the same tale of starvation and distress, and glad to get to a place where food was to be had. The town, being a sort of harbor of refuge for miners in remote diggings, became very full; and as no work could be done in such weather, the population had nothing to do but to amuse themselves the best way they could. A theatrical company was performing nightly to crowded houses; the gambling saloons were kept in full blast; and in fact, every day was like a Sunday, from the number of men one saw idling about, playing cards, and gambling.
Although the severity of the weather interrupted mining operations for the time, it was nevertheless a subject of rejoicing to the miners generally, for many localities could only be worked when plenty of water was running in the ravines, and it was not unusual for men to employ themselves in the dry season in “throwing up” heaps of dirt, in anticipation of having plenty of water in winter to wash it. This was commonly done in flats and ravines where water could only be had immediately after heavy rains. It was easy to distinguish a heap of thrown-up dirt from a pile of “tailings,” or dirt already washed, and property of this sort was quite sacred, the gold being not less safe there—perhaps safer—than if already in the pocket of the owner. In whatever place a man threw up a pile of dirt, he might leave itwithout any concern for its safety, and remove to another part of the country, being sure to find it intact when he returned to wash it, no matter how long he might be absent.
IHAD occasion to return to San Francisco at this time, and the journey was about the most unpleasant I ever performed. The roads had been getting worse all the time, and were quite impassable for stages or wagons. The mail was brought up by express messengers, but other communication there was none. The nearest route to San Francisco—that by Sacramento—was perfectly impracticable, and the only way to get down there was by Marysville, situated about fifty miles off, at the junction of the Yuba and Feather rivers.
I set out one afternoon with a friend who was also going down, and who knew the way, which was rather an advantage, as the trails were hidden under three or four feet of snow. We occasionally, however, got the benefit of a narrow path, trodden down by other travelers; and though we only made twelve miles that day, we in that distance gradually emerged from the snow, and got down into the regions of mud and slush and rain. We stayed the night at a road-side house, where we found twenty or thirty miners starved out of their own camps, and in the morning we resumed our journey in a steady pour of rain. The mud was more than ankle-deep, but was so well diluted with water that it did not cause muchinconvenience in walking, while at the foot of every little hollow was a stream to be waded waist-high; for we were now out of the mining regions, and crossing the rolling country between the mountains and the plains, where the water did not run off so quickly.
When we reached the only large stream on our route, we found that the bridge, which had been the usual means of crossing, had been carried away, and the banks on either side were overflowed to a considerable distance. A pine tree had been felled across when the waters were lower, but they now flowed two or three feet over the top of it—the only sign that it was there being the branches sticking up, and marking its course across the river.
It was not very pleasant to have to cross such a swollen stream on such a very visionary bridge, but there was no help for it; so cutting sticks wherewith to feel for a footing under water, we waded out till we reached the original bank of the stream, where we had to take to the pine log, and travel it as best we could with the assistance of the branches, the water rushing past nearly up to our waists. We had fifty or sixty feet to go in this way, but the farther end of the log rose nearly to the surface of the water, and landed us on an island, from which we had to pass to dry land through a thicket of bushes under four feet of water.
Towards evening we arrived at a ranch, about twenty miles from Marysville, which we made the end of our day’s journey. We were saturated with rain and mud, but dry clothes were not to be had; so we were obliged to pass another night under hydropathic treatment, the natural consequence ofwhich was that in the morning we were stiff and sore all over. However, after walking a short distance, we got rid of this sensation—receiving a fresh ducking from the rain, which continued to fall as heavily as ever.
The plains, which we had now reached, were almost entirely under water, and at every depression in the surface of the ground a slough had to be waded of corresponding depth—sometimes over the waist. The road was only in some places discernible, and we kept to it chiefly by steering for the houses, to be seen at intervals of a few miles.
About six miles from Marysville we crossed the Yuba, which was here a large rapid river a hundred yards wide. We were ferried over in a little skiff, and had to pull up the river nearly half a mile, so as to fetch the landing on the other side. I was not sorry to reachterra firmaagain, such as it was, for the boat was a flat-bottomed, straight-sided little thing, about the size and shape of a coffin, and was quite unsuitable for such work. The waves were running so high that it was with the utmost difficulty we escaped being swamped, and all the swimming that could have been done in such a current would not have done any one much good.
From this point to Marysville the country was still more flooded. We passed several teams, which, in a vain endeavor to get up to the mountains with supplies, were hopelessly stuck in the mud at the bottom of the hollows, with only the rim of the wheels appearing above water.
Marysville is a city of some importance: being situated at the head of navigation, it is the depot andstarting-point for the extensive district of mining country lying north and east of it. It is well laid out in wide streets, containing numbers of large brick and wooden buildings, and the ground it stands upon is ten or twelve feet above the usual level of the river. But when we waded up to it, we found the portion of the town nearest the river completely flooded, the water being nearly up to the first floor of the houses, while the people were going about in boats. In the streets farther back, however, it was not so bad; one could get along without having to go much over the ankles. The appearance of the place, as seen through the heavy rain, was far from cheering. The first idea which occurred to me on beholding it was that of rheumatism, and the second fever and ague; but I was glad to find myself here, nevertheless, if only to experience once more the sensation of having on dry clothes.
I learned that several men had been drowned on different parts of the plains in attempting to cross some of the immense pools or sloughs such as we had passed on our way; while cattle and horses were drowned in numbers, and were dying of starvation on insulated spots, from which there was no escape.
I saw plenty of this, however, the next day in going down by the steamboat to Sacramento. The distance is fifty or sixty miles through the plains all the way, but they had now more the appearance of a vast inland sea.
It would have been difficult to keep to the channel of the river, had it not been for the trees appearing on each side, and the numbers of squatters’ shanties generally built on a spot where the bank was high and showed itself above water, though in many cases nothing but the roof of the cabin could be seen.
On the tops of the cabins and sheds, on piles of firewood, or up in the trees, were fowls calmly waiting their doom; while pigs, cows, and horses were all huddled up together, knee-deep in water, on any little rising ground which offered standing-room, dying by inches from inanition. The squatters themselves were busy removing in boats whatever property they could, and at those cabins whose occupants were not yet completely drowned out, a boat was made fast alongside as a means of escape for the poor devils, who, as the steamer went past, looked out of the door the very pictures of woe and dismay. We saw two men sitting resolutely on the top of their cabin, the water almost up to their feet; a boat was made fast to the chimney, to be used when the worst came to the worst, but they were apparently determined to see it out if possible. They looked intensely miserable, though they would not own it, for they gave us a very feigned and uncheery hurrah as we steamed past.
The loss sustained by these settlers was very great. The inconvenience of being for a time floated off the face of the earth in a small boat was bad enough of itself; but to have the greater part of their worldly possessions floating around them, in the shape of the corpses of what had been their live stock, must have rather tended to damp their spirits. However, Californians are proof against all such reverses,—they are like India-rubber, the more severely they are cast down, the higher they rise afterwards.
It was hardly possible to conceive what an amountof rain and snow must have fallen to lay such a vast extent of country under water; and though the weather was now improving, the rain being not so constant, or so heavy, it would still be some time before the waters could subside, as the snow which had fallen in the mountains had yet to find its way down, and would serve to keep up the flood.
Sacramento City was in as wretched a plight as a city can well be in.
The only dry land to be seen was the top of the levee built along the bank of the river in front of the town; all the rest was water, out of which rose the houses, or at least the upper parts of them. The streets were all so many canals crowded with boats and barges carrying on the customary traffic; watermen plied for hire in the streets instead of cabs, and independent gentlemen poled themselves about on rafts, or on extemporized boats made of empty boxes. In one part of the town, where the water was not deep enough for general navigation, a very curious style of conveyance was in use. Pairs of horses were harnessed to large flat-bottomed boats, and numbers of these vehicles, carrying passengers or goods, were to be seen cruising about, now dashing through a foot or two of mud which the horses made to fly in all directions as they floundered through it, now grounding and bumping over some very dry spot, and again sailing gracefully along the top of the water, so deep as nearly to cover the horses’ backs.
The water in the river was some feet higher than that in the town, and it was fortunate that the levee did not give way, or the loss of life would have been very great. As it was, some few men had beendrowned in the streets. The destruction of property, and the pecuniary loss to the inhabitants, were of course enormous, but they had been flooded once or twice before, besides having several times had their city burned down, and were consequently quite used to such disasters; in fact, Sacramento suffered more from fire and flood together than any city in the State, without, however, apparently retarding the growing prosperity of the people.
I arrived in Sacramento too late for the steamer for San Francisco, and so had the pleasure of passing a night there, but I cannot say I experienced any personal inconvenience from the watery condition of the town.
It seemed to cause very little interruption to the usual order of things in hotels, theaters, and other public places; there was a good deal of anxiety as to the security of the levee, in which was the only safety of the city; but in the meantime the ordinary course of pleasure and business was unchanged, except in the substitution of boats for wheeled vehicles; and the great source of consolation and congratulation to the sufferers from the flood, and to the population generally, was in endeavoring to compute how many millions of rats would be drowned.
On arriving in San Francisco the change was very great—it was like entering a totally different country. In place of cold and rain and snow, flooded towns, and no dry land, or snowed-up towns in the mountains with no food, here was a clear bright sky, and a warm sun shining down upon a city where everything looked bright and gay. It was nearly a year since I had left San Francisco, and in the meantime the greater part of it had been burned down and rebuilt. The appearance of most of the principal streets was completely altered; large brick stores had taken the place of wooden buildings; and so rapidly had the city extended itself into the bay that the principal business was now conducted on wide streets of solid brick and stone warehouses, where a year before had been fifteen or twenty feet of water. All, excepting the more unfrequented streets, were planked, and had good stone or plank side-walks, so that there was but little mud notwithstanding the heavy rains which had fallen. In the upper part of the town, however, where the streets were still in their original condition, the amount of mud was quite inconceivable. Some places were almost impassable, and carts might be seen almost submerged, which half-a-dozen horses were vainly trying to extricate.
The climate of San Francisco has the peculiarity of being milder in winter than in summer. Winter is by far the most pleasant season of the year. It is certainly the rainy season, but it only rains occasionally, and when it does it is not cold. The ordinary winter weather is soft, mild, subdued sunshine, not unlike the Indian summer of North America. The San Francisco summer, however, is the most disagreeable and trying season one can be subjected to. In the morning and forenoon it is generally beautifully bright and warm: one feels inclined to dress as one would in the tropics; but this cannot be done with safety, for one has to be prepared for the sudden change in temperature which occurs nearly every day towards the afternoon, when there blows in off the sea a cold biting wind, chilling the very marrow inone’s bones. The cold is doubly felt after the heat of the fore part of the day, and to some constitutions such extreme variations of temperature within the twenty-four hours are no doubt very injurious, especially as the wind not unfrequently brings a damp fog along with it.
The climate is nevertheless generally considered salubrious, and is thought by some people to be one of the finest in the world. For my own part, I much prefer the summer weather of the mines, where the sky is always bright, and the warm temperature of the day becomes only comparatively cool at night, while the atmosphere is so dry, that the heat, however intense, is never oppressive, and so clear that everything within the range of vision is as clearly and distinctly seen as if one were looking upon a flat surface, and could equally examine each separate part of it, so satisfactory and so minute in detail is the view of the most distant objects.
Considering the very frequent use of pistols in San Francisco, it is a most providential circumstance that the climate is in a high degree favorable for the cure of gunshot wounds. These in general heal very rapidly, and many miraculous recoveries have taken place, effected by nature and the climate, after the surgeons, experienced as they are in that branch of practice, had exhausted their skill upon the patient.