Inception of the Tramp. Stockton to Angel's Camp. Tuttletown and the
"Sage of Jackass Hill"
Following as near as might be the route of the old Argonauts, I avoided
trains, and on a warm summer night boarded the Stockton boat. In the
early morning you are aware of slowly rounding the curves of the San
Joaquin River. Careful steering was most essential, as owing to the dry
season the river was unusually low. The vivid greens afforded by the
tules and willows that fringe the river banks, and the occasional
homestead surrounded by trees, with its little landing on the edge of
the levee, should delight the eye of the artist.
I lost no time in Stockton and headed for Milton in the foot-hills,
just across the western boundary of Calaveras County. The distance
was variously estimated by the natives at from twenty to forty
miles--Californians are careless about distances, as in other matters.
Subsequently I entered it in my note book as a long twenty-eight.
Eighteen miles out from Stockton, at a place called Peters, which is
little more than a railway junction, you leave the cultivated land
and enter practically a desert country, destitute of water, trees,
undergrowth and with but a scanty growth of grass. I ate my lunch at the
little store and noted with apprehension that the thermometer registered
104 degrees in the shaded porch. I am not likely to forget that pull of
ten miles and inwardly confessed to a regret that I had not taken the
train to Milton. Accustomed on "hikes" to a thirst not surpassed by
anything "east of Suez," I never before appreciated the significance of
the word "parched"--the "tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth."
At Milton one enters the land of romance. What was even more appreciable
at the time, it marks the limit of the inhospitable country I had
traversed. Mr. Robert Donner, the proprietor of the Milton Hotel, told
me he once had "Black Bart" as his guest for over a week, being unaware
at the time of his identity. This famous bandit in the early eighties
"held up" the Yosemite stage time and again. In fact, he terrorized the
whole Sierra country from Redding to Sacramento. He was finally captured
in San Francisco through a clew obtained from a laundry mark on a pair
of white cuffs. For years, Mr. Donner cherished a boot left by the
highwayman in the hurry of departure, which, much to his annoyance, was
finally abstracted by some person unknown. To dispose of Black Bart;
he served his term and was never seen again in the Sierras. There is a
rumor that Wells Fargo & Company, the chief sufferers by his activities,
made it worth his while to behave himself in the future.
The following day I reached Copperopolis. This place very justly has the
reputation of being one of the hottest spots in the foot-hills. Owing to
resumed operations on a large scale, of the Calaveras Copper Company,
I found the little settlement crowded to its fullest capacity, and was
perforce compelled to resort to genuine "hobo" methods--in short, I
spent the night under the lee of a haystack. My original intention had
been to walk thence to Sonora, twenty-four miles; but finding the road
would take me again into the valley, I decided to make for Angel's Camp,
only thirteen miles away.
It is uphill nearly all the way from Copperopolis to Angel's Camp, but
mostly you are in the pine woods. My spirits rose with the altitude
and delight at the magnificent view when I at last reached the summit.
Toiling up the grade in the dust, I met a good old-fashioned four-horse
Concord stage, which from all appearances might have been in action ever
since the days of Bret Harte. At last I felt I was in touch with the
Sierras. The driver even honored my bow with an abrupt "Howdy!" which
from such a magnate, I took to be a good omen.
[Illustration: Utica Mine. Plate09]
In common with all the old mining towns--though I was unaware of it at
the time--Angel's, as it is usually called, is situated in the ravine
where gold was first discovered. It straggles down the gulch for a mile
and a half. There are a number of pretty cottages clinging to the steep
hillsides, surrounded with flowers and trees, the whole effect being
extremely pleasing. I registered at the Angel's Hotel, built in 1852.
Across the street is the Wells Fargo building, erected about the same
time and of solid stone, as is the hotel. Nothing on this trip surprised
me more than the solidity of the hotels and stores built in the early
fifties. Instead of the flimsy wooden structures I had imagined, I
found, for the most part, thick stone walls. It was evident the Pioneers
believed in the permanence of the gold deposits in the Mother Lode.
Possibly they were right; Angel's is anything but a dead town to-day.
The Utica, Angel's and Lightner mines give employment to hundreds of
men.
In the afternoon I visited the Bret Harte Girls' High School. It is
a very simple frame building, on the summit of a hill overlooking the
town. The man who directed me how to find it, I discovered had not the
remotest idea who Bret Harte might be; "John Brown" would have answered
the purpose equally as well. In fact, all through the seven counties I
traversed--Tuolumne, Calaveras, Amador, El Dorado, Placer, Nevada and
Yuba--I found Bret Harte had left but a hazy and nebulous impression.
Mark Twain, Prentice Mulford, Horace Greeley, Bayard Taylor, even "Dan
de Quille," seemed better known.
[Illustration: Stanislaus River. Plate10]
The next morning I started for Sonora. In seven miles I came to the
Stanislaus River, running in a deep and splendid canon. The river here
is spanned by a fine concrete bridge, built jointly by Tuolumne and
Calaveras Counties, between which the river forms the dividing line. In
the bottom of the canon is the Melones mine, with a mill operating one
hundred stamps. The main tunnel is a mile and a half in length; the
longest mining tunnel in the State, I was told.
A steep pull of two miles out of the canon brought me to Tuttletown.
Here I stayed several hours, for the interest of the whole trip, so far
as Bret Harte was concerned, centered around this once celebrated camp,
and Jackass Hill, on which, at one time, lived James W. Gillis, the
supposed prototype of "Truthful James." He died a few years ago, but
his brother, Stephen R. Gillis, is living there to-day, and after some
little difficulty I succeeded in finding his house.
[Illustration: Jackass Hill. Plate11]
Mr. Gillis scouts the idea that his brother "Jim" was the "Truthful
James" of Bret Harte. He said that in reality it was J. W. E.
Townsend, known in old times as "Alphabetical Townsend," also by the
uncomplimentary appellation of "Lying Jim." According to Mr. Gillis,
Bret Harte made but one visit to Tuttletown. He arrived there one
evening "dead broke" and James put him up for the night and lent him
money to help him on his way. Personally, Mr. Gillis never met Bret
Harte but he had seen Mark Twain on a number of Occasions. I got the
distinct impression that Stephen Gillis disliked the notoriety
his brother had gained, through the fact that his name had become
indissolubly linked with the "Truthful James" of Bret Harte's verses.
Be that as it may, I later on met several men who had known "Jim" Gillis
intimately and they all agreed that he possessed a keen sense of humor
and had at command a practically inexhaustible stock of stories, upon
which he drew at will. Whether Bret Harte derived any inspiration from
"Jim" Gillis may perhaps always remain in doubt; but that Mark Twain
did, there cannot, I think, be any question.
In a recent life of Bret Harte, by Henry Childs Merwin, it is stated
(page 21) that in 1858 Bret Harte acted as tutor in a private family at
Alamo, in the San Ramon valley, which lies at the foot of Mount Diablo.
On, page 50, however, we read: "In 1858 or thereabouts, Bret Harte was
teaching school at Tuttletown, a few miles north of Sonora." It would
seem that this statement is erroneous, apart from the fact that it
conflicts with the prior date in reference to Alamo.
[Illustration: Tuttletown. Plate12]
Mrs. Swerer, who has lived continuously at Tuttletown since 1850, coming
there at the age of ten, told me she received her education at the
Tuttletown public school, as did her children and her children's
children--she is now a great-grandmother! She said most positively that
she never saw Bret Harte in her life, but had frequently seen "Dan de
Quille" and Mark Twain. The latter, she said, made periodic visits to
Tuttletown, and always stayed with "Jim" Gillis--called by Twain, the
"Sage of Jackass Hill."
Mrs. Gross, who keeps the Tuttletown Hotel and whose husband owned
a store across the way, built of stone but now in ruins, was born
in Tuttletown. She asserted she never heard of Bret Harte being in
Tuttletown and feels it to be impossible he ever taught school there.
At this ancient hostelry, built of wood and dating back to the early
fifties, I dined in company with an old miner, who told me he came
across "Jim" Gillis in Alaska. He said: "Gillis was a great josher. For
the life of me, I could never tell from his stories whether he had been
to the Klondike or not."
[Illustration: Tuttletown Hotel. Plate02]