Weaverville, Cal., May 7th, 1855.My Dear Friend,—I owe you anamendefor the “long and silent lapseâ€� that has lately occurred in our correspondence—or rather in that part of it which emanates from me. A simple statement of the fact that I have been constantly on the move for the past four months is the best apology I have to offer in extenuation of my fault.Let us retrospect a little. I wrote you frequently from Humboldt Bay, in answer to favors—my last letterhaving been written the day previous to my leaving that place. As I then intimated, the next day found me on my way to the mines; and the journey, rough as it was, during the most inclement season of the year, and reaching to a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, I performedon foot! You have a pretty good idea of the mountains of this country, and can realize the amount of fatigue and hardship attendant upon such a trip as mine. Scarcely twenty-four hours passed that it did not either rain, hail or snow, while we had not even a tent to shelter us. Yet, with all this, I improved daily in health and strength—weighing now ten pounds heavier than at any time previous.What is to be the result, pecuniarily, of this trip, is yet to be answered. I have a mining claim, which, with all my industry and economy, has only yielded me a living. It may improve—I may make a “strikeâ€�—but this is mere speculation. Time alone can tell. I like mining much—hard work though it be—and am resolved to follow it as a business for the remnant of my days, or until I have a competence. There is a charm—an inexpressible something, inherent in the pursuit—which carries a man through the day’s toil with unabated energy. It is a feeling akin to that which leads men to the gaming table, to wild speculations, or to hazardous undertakings; and each succeeding day finds a miner as eager as ever to continue the search after the hidden treasure. The gold has a different appearance, a greater intrinsic value in his eyes, than that which is acquired in any other way. He is thefirstto receive it from Nature’s bank of deposit, and it possesses a beauty that no coin can equal.It is away up on the head waters of Trinity river, or rather on one of its tributaries, that my cabin rears its humble proportions. With no neighbors nearer than one mile—the mountains rising high above and all around me—encompassed by a forest of pine and spruce—in the midst of wild beasts, wild cats, catamounts, grizzlies and lions—I am leading a genuine backwoods life. It is needless to say that its novelty charms me, and that I glory in the most perfect independence. Nor is this all. Flowers, beautiful, rich, rare, bedeck the mountain sides, (for this is May, the month of flowers,) and I can gather a bouquet that would shame those of civilized gardens. Nature defies art, and Nature’s gems stand proudly, unrivaled and unapproached. And yet this is not all. There is a little bird who sits and warbles, almost all day long, the sweetest melody I ever heard. Up in the foliage of a huge pine, adjacent to my cabin, dwells the pretty songster; and I speak but the truth when I say that beside him a canary would hang its head. My wild-wood warbler reigns the king of songsters.My furniture arrangements are not, as yet, finished. I have neither table nor chairs. Supported at one end by a sack of potatoes, at the other by my left hand, is the board on which this sheet is laid, while your humble friend sits on the ground,a la Turk, (or tailor,) and indites this “misselâ€� to you. I am meek and lowly in my pretensions now, Hinton, and my rough miner’s suit sits lightly on my frame. Adieu for the present. I have no envelopes, and must, therefore, close on this page. Wishing you every success and happiness,I remain your attached friend,* * *
Weaverville, Cal., May 7th, 1855.
My Dear Friend,—I owe you anamendefor the “long and silent lapseâ€� that has lately occurred in our correspondence—or rather in that part of it which emanates from me. A simple statement of the fact that I have been constantly on the move for the past four months is the best apology I have to offer in extenuation of my fault.
Let us retrospect a little. I wrote you frequently from Humboldt Bay, in answer to favors—my last letterhaving been written the day previous to my leaving that place. As I then intimated, the next day found me on my way to the mines; and the journey, rough as it was, during the most inclement season of the year, and reaching to a distance of one hundred and fifty miles, I performedon foot! You have a pretty good idea of the mountains of this country, and can realize the amount of fatigue and hardship attendant upon such a trip as mine. Scarcely twenty-four hours passed that it did not either rain, hail or snow, while we had not even a tent to shelter us. Yet, with all this, I improved daily in health and strength—weighing now ten pounds heavier than at any time previous.
What is to be the result, pecuniarily, of this trip, is yet to be answered. I have a mining claim, which, with all my industry and economy, has only yielded me a living. It may improve—I may make a “strikeâ€�—but this is mere speculation. Time alone can tell. I like mining much—hard work though it be—and am resolved to follow it as a business for the remnant of my days, or until I have a competence. There is a charm—an inexpressible something, inherent in the pursuit—which carries a man through the day’s toil with unabated energy. It is a feeling akin to that which leads men to the gaming table, to wild speculations, or to hazardous undertakings; and each succeeding day finds a miner as eager as ever to continue the search after the hidden treasure. The gold has a different appearance, a greater intrinsic value in his eyes, than that which is acquired in any other way. He is thefirstto receive it from Nature’s bank of deposit, and it possesses a beauty that no coin can equal.
It is away up on the head waters of Trinity river, or rather on one of its tributaries, that my cabin rears its humble proportions. With no neighbors nearer than one mile—the mountains rising high above and all around me—encompassed by a forest of pine and spruce—in the midst of wild beasts, wild cats, catamounts, grizzlies and lions—I am leading a genuine backwoods life. It is needless to say that its novelty charms me, and that I glory in the most perfect independence. Nor is this all. Flowers, beautiful, rich, rare, bedeck the mountain sides, (for this is May, the month of flowers,) and I can gather a bouquet that would shame those of civilized gardens. Nature defies art, and Nature’s gems stand proudly, unrivaled and unapproached. And yet this is not all. There is a little bird who sits and warbles, almost all day long, the sweetest melody I ever heard. Up in the foliage of a huge pine, adjacent to my cabin, dwells the pretty songster; and I speak but the truth when I say that beside him a canary would hang its head. My wild-wood warbler reigns the king of songsters.
My furniture arrangements are not, as yet, finished. I have neither table nor chairs. Supported at one end by a sack of potatoes, at the other by my left hand, is the board on which this sheet is laid, while your humble friend sits on the ground,a la Turk, (or tailor,) and indites this “missel� to you. I am meek and lowly in my pretensions now, Hinton, and my rough miner’s suit sits lightly on my frame. Adieu for the present. I have no envelopes, and must, therefore, close on this page. Wishing you every success and happiness,
I remain your attached friend,
* * *
And now listen to what the District Attorney for the county of San Francisco says. In a speech which he delivered some time ago in a criminal case in the city of San Francisco, he makes use of the following language:—“Twelve hundred murders have been committed in this city within the last four years, and only one of the murderers has been convicted!â€� What a striking comment is this upon California justice! Twelve hundred murders in the city of San Francisco alone, within the space of four years, and only one conviction! But it is unnecessary for me to lengthen my remarks upon these subjects. If additional evidences of the corruption and rottenness of affairs in California are required, all that is necessary is to look into the papers that come from that State, and the desired knowledge will soon be obtained. Here, however, let me simply say that it is impossible to get at the real, naked facts from the California journals. Almost every newspaper in the State is under the control of interested parties, and they will not allow the truth to be spoken when it conflicts with their schemes and projects. Nevertheless, enough may be learned from them to convince any reasonable person of the correctness of my description of California.
Thus, then, I have given a fair and truthful statement of what I saw, and those who are not yet convinced must go and test the matter forthemselves. They will find what I have told them to be true, and that there is more enormity there than I have ventured to detail.
The absence of all social feeling, of refinement, of the little elegancies of life, is painfully manifest. It would, of course, be absurd to expect in a new country all the luxuries of an old civilization, but their absence constitutes no excuse for the total want of even the decencies of life. Law is a nullity, or at best a mere nominal thing; order does not exist except where the dread of the bowie-knife or the revolver enforces it. Men of notoriously bad character are intrusted with the management of affairs, and are easily accessible to bribery. Justice is proverbially venal, legislation is utterly corrupt. Such a loose administration of public affairs would be productive of bad results any where, but its influence is especially malign in California, where so many desperate men are to be found, determined, at every hazard, to better their fortunes. Murder, robbery and swindling are the methods by which they aim to increase their income, the law being powerless to check them.
We have called attention to the general barrenness of the soil, and endeavored to impress upon the reader’s mind a conviction of the great uncertainties of mining. What then remains to attract the emigrant? The feverish excitement of speculation, which entices so many only to destroy them. In all countries, this is productive as much loss as gain, but in California, where projects are pursued with a recklessness elsewhere unknown, the losses are on a gigantic scale. Disappointments, therefore, have the keenness of those of the beaten gambler, to whom defeat is irretrievable ruin. What wonder, then, that suicides are so common in that unhappy country?
Of the condition of females in that State, it is useless for me to speak. I have already said enough on that subject, and it becomes every man who thinks of emigrating thither, to ponder well the risks to which he will subject the ladies of his family. The enormities chargeable upon California in this respect would be difficult to parallel in any age of the world. They are of so gross a nature that it is impossible even to allude to them in a book which may be seen by women.
And now, after having well considered all these things, after having become thoroughly acquainted with the facts I have been at the pains to collect and record. I would again ask my reader, Are you going to California?
THE END.