Prairie Du Chien, July, 1846.
The lead region of the Mississippi occupies not far from one hundred
square miles. The two principal towns are Galena and Dubuque, which are
both handsome and flourishing. The original possessors of this land were
the Sac Fox Indians, who used to sell to the white settlers on the
frontier the ore which they often found upon the surface of their soil.
The first white man who went into the mining business, (which was on a
small scale,) was Dubuque. He was supposed to possess a cure for the
bite of the rattlesnake. He became a great favorite with the Indians,
and for a long time was the only man, not of their blood, whom they
would suffer to live upon their soil. After his death, as already
mentioned, they placed him in a leaden coffin of their own manufacture,
and buried him on the picturesque bluff which bears his name; and after
this, they destroyed every vestige of his property.
In process of time, extravagant mineral stories were circulated
throughout the country, and the general government purchased the Indian
El Dorado of its possessors. The first man who went into the mining
business at Galena, after the country had become our own, was Col.
Richard M. Johnson. Since that time, thousands of people, on various
occasions, have made and lost money in this peculiar business, which,
from its very nature, is in reality a perfect lottery. Lead, lead, is
the burden of every body’s song, and the quantities weekly shipped to
St. Louis are truly immense. But a man may dig until doomsday without
finding a _lead_, and consequently die a beggar—while another, in a few
months will realize a fortune, upon which he is too apt to retire, and
then squander at the gaming table, so that you also soon find him an
idler, and in want. One individual I have myself known, who came to
Galena with $500, and having labored with unceasing industry for about
three years, and expended his little fortune, when I saw him, had not
the means of purchasing a loaf of bread, and was utterly without
employment. Notwithstanding the liberal mining regulations of the
government, the fates were against him, and he was compelled to give up
his mineral dreams in despair. Another individual, whom I saw at Galena,
was remarkably fortunate in his operations. A little more than a year
ago he commenced digging a certain hillside, and the first thing he
knew, his spade struck against a solid mass of ore. He was encouraged,
and proceeded in his excavations, and, in the course of a single year,
sold a sufficient quantity of 80 per cent. ore to amount to the sum of
$23,000. His mine is still yielding quite abundantly, and as it is
probably the best in this region, I will describe it in a few words.
After descending a shaft of some eighty feet in depth, you find yourself
in the centre of an immense cave, with chambers leading in various
directions. The walls and ceilings are mostly of pure sand, excepting
where an occasional solid mass of native lead glistens like silver or
gold, in the torch-light. Square blocks of the ore, weighing from half a
pound to one hundred, all lie as accurately dovetailed together, as if
placed there by the hands of a master-mason. While looking upon these
singular masses, I could hardly banish the thought from my mind, that we
were in view of treasures which had been hidden here in those days when
giants inhabited the world. When my curiosity was fully satisfied, I
seized the rope, and with a palpitating heart passed upward out of the
bowels of the earth into the pleasant sunshine.
Major Campton is the name of a noted character, who once resided at
Galena. He is a powerfully built man, who has spent his whole life among
the wildest of mortals, and whose various occupations have caused him to
be well known from the banks of the Ohio to the shores of Lake Superior,
where he is now figuring in the copper line, having made and lost a
fortune at Galena. A natural consequence of his peculiar experience is,
that he perfectly understands the art of fighting: though he is so much
of a gentleman, that he could not be called a bully.
It so happened that, while travelling in his own conveyance, and
accompanied by his wife, during a pleasant day last summer he came to a
halt on the margin of a certain river, and shouted for the ferryman. In
due time the indispensable gentleman was ready, and while inquiring the
news of the day, he was suddenly smitten by a new thought, and dropping
the painter of the old scow, looked inquiringly into the Major’s face,
when the following dialogue ensued:—
“Stranger, isn’t your name Major Campton?”
“Yes, sir, it is. What business have you to transact with me?”
“You are the very man I have long been wanting to see, for you must know
that I am the Bully of the north.”
“Indeed! What do I care for that?”
“I’ve hearn tell that you are a famous fighter, and I should like to
have you give me a thrashing if you can.”
“Why, man, I have nothing against you, and do not want to make a fool of
myself.”
“But you shall, though, my honey; and you don’t cross this ferry until
it is decided who is cock of the walk.”
Remonstrance on the part of the Major was all in vain, the ferryman was
determined to fight. The Major held a short consultation with his lady,
who was of course in great trouble, but taking off his coat and
unbuttoning his straps, he stept out upon a grassy spot and waited for
the ferryman’s attack. To shorten a long story, the fight was a tedious
one, and ended in the total defeat of the challenger, who presented in
himself, after the struggle, an admirable picture of a misspent life. He
had strength enough left, however, to ferry the Champion over the river;
and when the Major offered to pay the accustomed fare, the latter held
not out his hand, but making a rude bow, he exclaimed;—“_Not a dime,
sir: good afternoon._”