of a successful amputation having been performed upon the person of a
young man by the name of W. As I happen to know all the circumstances
of the case, I will relate them to you as illustrative of the frightful
accidents to which the gold-seekers are constantly liable, and I can
assure you that similar ones happen very often. W. was one of the first
who settled on this river, and suffered extremely from the scarcity of
provisions during the last winter. By steady industry in his laborious
vocation, he had accumulated about four thousand dollars. He was
thinking seriously of returning to Massachusetts with what he had
already gained, when, in the early part of last May, a stone,
unexpectedly rolling from the top of Smith's Hill, on the side of which
he was mining, crushed his leg in the most shocking manner. Naturally
enough, the poor fellow shrank with horror from the idea of an
amputation here in the mountains. It seemed absolutely worse than
death. His physician, appreciating his feelings on the subject, made
every effort to save his shattered limb, but, truly, the Fates seemed
against him. An attack of typhoid fever reduced him to a state of great
weakness, which was still further increased by erysipelas--a common
complaint in the mountains--in its most virulent form. The latter
disease, settling in the fractured leg, rendered a cure utterly
hopeless. His sufferings have been of the most intense description.
Through all the blossoming spring, and a summer as golden as its own
golden self, of our beautiful California he has languished away
existence in a miserable cabin, his only nurses men, some of them, it
is true, kind and good, others neglectful and careless. A few weeks
since, F. was called in to see him. He decided immediately that nothing
but an amputation would save him. A universal outcry against it was
raised by nearly all the other physicians on the Bar.
They agreed, _en masse_, that he could live but a few weeks unless the
leg--now a mere lump of disease--was taken off. At the same time, they
declared that he would certainly expire under the knife, and that it
was cruel to subject him to any further suffering. You can perhaps
imagine F.'s anxiety. It was a great responsibility for a young
physician to take. Should the patient die during the operation, F.'s
professional reputation would, of course, die with him; but he felt it
his duty to waive all selfish considerations, and give W. that one
chance, feeble as it seemed, for his life. Thank God, the result was
most triumphant. For several days existence hung upon a mere thread. He
was not allowed to speak or move, and was fed from a teaspoon, his only
diet being milk, which we obtained from the Spanish Rancho, sending
twice a week for it. I should have mentioned that F. decidedly refused
to risk an operation in the small and miserable tent in which W. had
languished away nearly half a year, and he was removed to the Empire
the day previous to the amputation. It is almost needless to tell you
that the little fortune, to accumulate which he suffered so much, is
now nearly exhausted. Poor fellow! the philosophy and cheerful
resignation with which he has endured his terrible martyrdom is
beautiful to behold. My heart aches as I look upon his young face and
think of "his gentle dark-eyed mother weeping lonely at the North" for
her far-away and suffering son.
As I sat by the bedside of our poor invalid, yielding myself up to a
world of dreamy visionings suggested by the musical sweep of the pine
branch which I waved above his head, and the rosy sunset flushing the
western casement with its soft glory, he suddenly opened his languid
eyes and whispered, "The Chileno procession is returning. Do you not
hear it?" I did not tell him--
That the weary sound, and the heavy breath,
And the silent motions of passing death,
And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank,
Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank,
had already informed me that a far other band than that of the noisy
South Americans was solemnly marching by. It was the funeral train of a
young man who was instantly killed, the evening before, by falling into
one of those deep pits, sunk for mining purposes, which are scattered
over the Bar in almost every direction. I rose quietly and looked from
the window. About a dozen persons were carrying an unpainted coffin,
without pall or bier (the place of the latter being supplied by ropes),
up the steep hill which rises behind the Empire, on the top of which is
situated the burial-ground of Rich Bar. The bearers were all neatly and
cleanly dressed in their miner's costume, which, consisting of a
flannel shirt (almost always of a dark-blue color), pantaloons with the
boots drawn up over them, and a low-crowned broad-brimmed black felt
hat (though the fashion of the latter is not invariable), is not,
simple as it seems, so unpicturesque as you might perhaps imagine. A
strange horror of that lonely mountain graveyard came over me as I
watched the little company wending wearily up to the solitary spot. The
"sweet habitude of being"--not that I fear _death_, but that I love
_life_ as, for instance, Charles Lamb loved it--makes me particularly
affect a cheerful burial-place. I know that it is dreadfully
unsentimental, but I should like to make my last home in the heart of a
crowded city, or, better still, in one of those social homes of the
dead, which the Turks, with a philosophy so beautiful and so poetical,
make their most cheerful resort. Singularly enough, Christians seem to
delight in rendering death particularly hideous, and graveyards
decidedly disagreeable. I, on the contrary, would "plant the latter
with laurels, and sprinkle it with lilies." I would wreathe "sleep's
pale brother" so thickly with roses that even those rabid moralists who
think that it makes us better to paint him as a dreadful fiend, instead
of a loving friend, could see nothing but their blushing radiance. I
would alter the whole paraphernalia of the coffin, the shroud, and the
bier, particularly the first, which, as Dickens says, "looks like a
high-shouldered ghost with its hands in its breeches-pockets." Why
should we endeavor to make our entrance into a glorious immortality so
unutterably ghastly? Let us glide into the "fair shadowland" through a
"gate of flowers," if we may no longer, as in the majestic olden time,
aspire heavenward on the wings of perfumed flame.
How oddly do life and death jostle each other in this strange world of
ours! How nearly allied are smiles and tears! My eyes were yet moist
from the egotistical _pitie de moi-meme_ in which I had been indulging
at the thought of sleeping forever amid these lonely hills, which in a
few years must return to their primeval solitude, perchance never again
to be awakened by the voice of humanity, when the Chileno procession,
every member of it most intensely drunk, really _did_ appear. I never
saw anything more diverting than the whole affair. Of course, _selon
les regles_, I ought to have been shocked and horrified, to have shed
salt tears, and have uttered melancholy jeremiads over their miserable
degradation; but the world is so full of platitudes, my dear, that I
think you will easily forgive me for not boring you with a temperance
lecture, and will good-naturedly let me have my laugh, and not think me
_very_ wicked, after all.
You must know that to-day is the anniversary of the independence of
Chile. The procession got up in honor of it consisted, perhaps, of
twenty men, nearly a third of whom were of that class of Yankees who
are particularly noisy and particularly conspicuous in all celebrations
where it is each man's most onerous duty to get what is technically
called "tight." The man who headed the procession was a complete comic
poem in his own individual self. He was a person of Falstaffian
proportions and coloring, and if a brandy-barrel ever _does_ "come
alive," and, donning a red shirt and buckskin trousers, betake itself
to pedestrianism, it will look more like my hero than anything else
that I can at present think of. With that affectionateness so peculiar
to people when they arrive at the sentimental stage of intoxication,
although it was with the greatest difficulty that he could sustain his
own corporosity, he was tenderly trying to direct the zigzag footsteps
of his companion, a little withered-up, weird-looking Chileno. Alas for
the wickedness of human nature! The latter, whose drunkenness had taken
a Byronic and misanthropical turn, rejected with the basest ingratitude
these delicate attentions. Do not think that my incarnated brandy-cask
was the only one of the party who did unto others as he would they
should do unto him, for the entire band were officiously tendering to
one another the same good-Samaritan-like assistance. I was not
astonished at the Virginia-fence-like style of their marching when I
heard a description of the feast of which they had partaken a few hours
before. A friend of mine, who stepped into the tent where they were
dining, said that the board--really, _board_--was arranged with a
bottle of claret at each plate, and, after the cloth (metaphorically
speaking, I mean, for table-linen is a mere myth in the mines) was
removed, a twenty-gallon keg of brandy was placed in the center, with
quart dippers gracefully encircling it, that each one might help
himself as he pleased. Can you wonder, after that, that every man vied
with his neighbor in illustrating Hogarth's line of beauty? It was
impossible to tell which nation was the more gloriously drunk; but this
I _will_ say, even at the risk of being thought partial to my own
beloved countrymen, That, though the Chilenos reeled with a better
grace, the Americans did it more _naturally_!
LETTER _the_ FIFTH
[_The_ PIONEER, _June_, 1854]
DEATH _of a_ MOTHER--LIFE _of_ PIONEER WOMEN
SYNOPSIS
Death of one of the four pioneer women of Rich Bar. The funeral from
the log-cabin residence. Sickly ten-months-old baby moans piteously for
its mother. A handsome girl of sick years, unconscious of her
bereavement, shocks the author by her actions. A monte-table cover as a
funeral pall. Painful feelings when nails are driven into coffin. The
extempore prayer. Every observance possible surrounded the funeral.
Visit to a canvas house of three "apartments". Barroom, dining-room,
kitchen with bed-closet. A sixty-eight-pound woman. "A magnificent
woman, a wife of the right sort". "Earnt her 'old man' nine hundred
dollars in nine weeks, by washing". The "manglers" and the "mangled".
Fortitude of refined California women pioneers. The orphaned girl a
"cold-blooded little wretch". Remorse of the author. "Baby decanters".
The gayety and fearlessness of the orphaned girl.
Letter _the_ Fifth
DEATH _of a_ MOTHER--LIFE _of_ PIONEER WOMEN
RICH BAR, EAST BRANCH _of the_ NORTH FORK _of_ FEATHER RIVER,
_September_ 22, 1851.
It seems indeed awful, dear M., to be compelled to announce to you the
death of one of the four women forming the female population of this
Bar. I have just returned from the funeral of poor Mrs. B., who died of
peritonitis (a common disease in this place), after an illness of four
days only. Our hostess herself heard of her sickness but two days
since. On her return from a visit which she had paid to the invalid,
she told me that although Mrs. B.'s family did not seem alarmed about
her, in her opinion she would survive but a few hours. Last night we
were startled by the frightful news of her decease. I confess that,
without being very egotistical, the death of one, out of a community of
four women, might well alarm the remainder.
Her funeral took place at ten this morning. The family reside in a log
cabin at the head of the Bar, and although it has no window, all the
light admitted entering through an aperture where there _will_ be a
door when it becomes cold enough for such a luxury, yet I am told, and
can easily believe, that it is one of the most _comfortable_ residences
in the place. I observed it particularly, for it was the first log
cabin that I had ever seen. Everything in the room, though of the
humblest description, was exceedingly clean and neat.
On a board, supported by two butter-tubs, was extended the body of the
dead woman, covered with a sheet. By its side stood the coffin, of
unstained pine, lined with white cambric. You, who have alternately
laughed and scolded at my provoking and inconvenient deficiency in the
power of observing, will perhaps wonder at the minuteness of my
descriptions; but I know how deeply you are interested in everything
relating to California, and therefore I take pains to describe things
exactly as I _see_ them, hoping that thus you will obtain an idea of
life in the mines _as it is_.
The bereaved husband held in his arms a sickly babe ten months old,
which was moaning piteously for its mother. The other child, a
handsome, bold-looking little girl six years of age, was running gayly
around the room, perfectly unconscious of her great bereavement. A
sickening horror came over me, to see her, every few moments, run up to
her dead mother and peep laughingly under the handkerchief that covered
her moveless face. Poor little thing! It was evident that her
baby-toilet had been made by men. She had on a new calico dress, which,
having no tucks in it, trailed to the floor, and gave her a most
singular and dwarf-womanly appearance.
About twenty men, with the three women of the place, had assembled at
the funeral. An extempore prayer was made, filled with all the
peculiarities usual to that style of petition. Ah, how different from
the soothing verses of the glorious burial service of the church!
As the procession started for the hillside graveyard, a dark cloth
cover, borrowed from a neighboring monte-table, was flung over the
coffin. Do not think that I mention any of these circumstances in a
spirit of mockery. Far from it. Every observance usual on such
occasions, that was _procurable_, surrounded this funeral. All the gold
on Rich Bar could do no more; and should I die to-morrow, I should be
marshaled to my mountain-grave beneath the same monte-table-cover pall
which shrouded the coffin of poor Mrs. B.
I almost forgot to tell you how painfully the feelings of the assembly
were shocked by the sound of the nails (there being no screws at any of
the shops) driven with a hammer into the coffin while closing it. It
seemed as if it _must_ disturb the pale sleeper within.
To-day I called at the residence of Mrs. R. It is a canvas house
containing a suite of three "apartments," as Dick Swiveller would say,
which, considering that they were all on the ground-floor, are kept
surprisingly neat. There is a barroom blushing all over with red
calico, a dining-room, kitchen, and a small bed-closet. The little
sixty-eight-pounder woman is queen of the establishment. By the way, a
man who walked home with us was enthusiastic in her praise.
"Magnificent woman, that, sir," he said, addressing my husband; "a wife
of the right sort, _she_ is. Why," he added, absolutely rising into
eloquence as he spoke, "she earnt her _old man_" (said individual
twenty-one years of age, perhaps) "nine hundred dollars in nine weeks,
clear of all expenses, by washing! Such women ain't common, I tell
_you_. If they were, a man might marry, and make money by the
operation." I looked at this person with somewhat the same kind of
_inverted_ admiration wherewith Leigh Hunt was wont to gaze upon that
friend of his "who used to elevate the commonplace to a pitch of the
sublime," and he looked at _me_ as if to say, that, though by no means
gloriously arrayed, I was a mere cumberer of the ground, inasmuch as I
toiled not, neither did I wash. Alas! I hung my diminished head,
particularly when I remembered the eight dollars a dozen which I had
been in the habit of paying for the washing of linen-cambric
pocket-handkerchiefs while in San Francisco. But a lucky thought came
into my mind. As all men cannot be Napoleon Bonapartes, so all women
cannot be _manglers_. The majority of the sex must be satisfied with
simply being _mangled_. Reassured by this idea, I determined to meekly
and humbly pay the amount per dozen required to enable this really
worthy and agreeable little woman "to lay up her hundred dollars a
week, clear of expenses." But is it not wonderful what femininity is
capable of? To look at the tiny hands of Mrs. R., you would not think
it possible that they could wring out anything larger than a doll's
nightcap; but, as is often said, nothing is strange in California. I
have known of sacrifices requiring, it would seem, superhuman efforts,
made by women in this country, who, at home, were nurtured in the
extreme of elegance and delicacy.
Mr. B. called on us to-day with little Mary. I tried to make her, at
least, look sad as I talked about her mother; but although she had seen
the grave closed over her coffin (for a friend of her father's had
carried her in his arms to the burial), she seemed laughingly
indifferent to her loss. Being myself an orphan, my heart contracted
painfully at her careless gayety when speaking of her dead parent, and
I said to our hostess, "What a cold-blooded little wretch it is!" But
immediately my conscience struck me with remorse. Poor orphaned one!
Poor bereaved darling! Why should I so cruelly wish to darken her young
life with that knowledge which a few years' experience will so
painfully teach her? "All _my_ mother came into my eyes" as I bent down
and kissed the white lids which shrouded her beautiful dark orbs, and,
taking her fat little hand in mine, I led her to my room, where, in the
penitence of my heart, I gave her everything that she desired. The
little chatterer was enchanted, not having had any new playthings for a
long while. It was beautiful to hear her pretty exclamations of ecstasy
at the sight of some tiny scent-bottles, about an inch in length, which
she called baby decanters.
Mr. B. intends, in a day or two, to take his children to their
grandmother, who resides somewhere near Marysville, I believe. This is
an awful place for children, and nervous mothers would "die daily" if
they could see little Mary running fearlessly to the very edge of, and
looking down into, these holes (many of them sixty feet in depth),
which have been excavated in the hope of finding gold, and of course
left open.
LETTER _the_ SIXTH
[_The_ PIONEER, _July_, 1854]
USE _of_ PROFANITY--UNCERTAINTY _of_ MINING
SYNOPSIS
Prevalence of profanity in California. Excuses for its use. A mere slip
of the tongue, etc. Grotesqueness of some blasphemous expressions.
Sleep-killing mining machinery. What a flume is. Project to flume the
river for many miles. The California mining system a gambling or
lottery transaction. Miner who works his own claim the more successful.
Dr. C. a loser in his mining ventures. Another sleep-killer.
Bowling-alleys. Bizarre cant phrases and slang used by the miners
"Honest Indian?" "Talk enough when horses fight". "Talk enough between
gentlemen". "I've got the dead-wood on him". "I'm going nary cent" (on
person mistrusted). All carry the freshness of originality to the
author's ear.
Letter _the_ Sixth
USE _of_ PROFANITY--UNCERTAINTY _of_ MINING
RICH BAR, EAST BRANCH _of the_ NORTH FORK _of_ FEATHER RIVER,
_September_ 30, 1851.
I think that I have never spoken to you of the mournful extent to which
profanity prevails in California. You know that at home it is
considered _vulgar_ for a gentleman to swear; but I am told that here
it is absolutely the fashion, and that people who never uttered an oath
in their lives while in the "States," now clothe themselves with curses
as with a garment. Some try to excuse themselves by saying that it is a
careless habit, into which they have glided imperceptibly from having
been compelled to associate so long with the vulgar and the profane;
that it is a mere slip of the tongue, which means absolutely nothing;
etc. I am willing to believe this, and to think as charitably as
possible of many persons here, who have unconsciously adopted a custom
which I know they abhor. Whether there is more profanity in the mines
than elsewhere, I know not; but, during the short time that I have been
at Rich Bar, I have _heard_ more of it than in all my life before. Of
course the most vulgar blackguard will abstain from swearing in the
_presence_ of a lady, but in this rag-and-cardboard house one is
_compelled_ to hear the most sacred of names constantly profaned by the
drinkers and gamblers, who haunt the barroom at all hours. And this is
a custom which the gentlemanly and quiet proprietor, much as he
evidently dislikes it, cannot possibly prevent. Some of these
expressions, were they not so fearfully blasphemous, would be
grotesquely sublime. For instance, not five minutes ago I heard two men
quarreling in the street, and one said to the other, "Only let me get
hold of your beggarly carcass once, and I will use you up so small that
God Almighty himself cannot see your _ghost!_"
To live thus, in constant danger of being hushed to one's rosy rest by
a ghastly lullaby of oaths, is revolting in the extreme. For that
reason, and because it is infinitely more comfortable during the winter
season than a plank house, F. has concluded to build a log cabin,
where, at least, I shall not be _obliged_ to hear the solemn names of
the Father and the dear Master so mockingly profaned.
But it is not the swearing alone which disturbs my slumber. There is a
dreadful flume, the machinery of which keeps up the most dismal moaning
and shrieking all the livelong night, painfully suggestive of a
suffering child. But, O dear! you don't know what that is, do you? Now,
if I were scientific, I should give you such a vivid description of it
that you would see a pen-and-ink flume staring at you from this very
letter. But, alas! my own ideas on the subject are in a state of
melancholy vagueness. I will do the best possible, however, in the way
of explanation. A flume, then, is an immense trough which takes up a
portion of the river, and with the aid of a dam compels it to run in
another channel, leaving the vacated bed of the stream ready for mining
purposes.
There is a gigantic project now on the tapis, of fluming the entire
river for many miles, commencing a little above Rich Bar. Sometimes
these fluming companies are eminently successful; at others, their
operations are a dead failure.
But, in truth, the whole mining system in California is one great
gambling or, better perhaps, lottery transaction. It is impossible to
tell whether a claim will prove valuable or not. F. has invariably sunk
money in every one that he has bought. Of course a man who works a
claim himself is more likely, even should it turn out poor, to get his
money back, as they say, than one who, like F., hires it done.
A few weeks since, F. paid a thousand dollars for a claim which has
proved utterly worthless. He might better have thrown his money into
the river than to have bought it, and yet some of the most experienced
miners on the Bar thought that it would pay.
But I began to tell you about the different noises which disturb my
peace of mind by day and my repose of body by night, and have gone,
instead, into a financial disquisition upon mining prospects. Pray
forgive me, even though I confess that I intend, some day, when I feel
statistically inclined, to bore you with some profound remarks upon the
claiming, drifting, sluicing, ditching, fluming, and coyoting politics
of the "diggins."
But to return to my sleep-murderers. The rolling on the bowling-alley
never leaves off for ten consecutive minutes at any time during the
entire twenty-four hours. It is a favorite amusement at the mines, and
the only difference that Sunday makes is, that then it never leaves off
for _one_ minute.
Besides the flume and the bowling-alley, there is an inconsiderate dog
which _will_ bark from starry eve till dewy morn. I fancy that he has a
wager on the subject, as all the other _puppies_ seem bitten by the
betting mania.
Apropos of dogs, I found dear old Dake, the noble Newfoundland which H.
gave us, look as intensely black and as grandly aristocratical as ever.
He is the only high-bred dog on the river. There is another animal, by
the plebeian name of John (what a name for a _dog!_), really a handsome
creature, which looks as if he might have a faint sprinkling of good
blood in his veins. Indeed, I have thought it possible that his
great-grandfather was a bulldog. But he always barks at _me_, which I
consider as proof positive that he is nothing but a low-born mongrel.
To be sure, his master says, to excuse him, that he never saw a woman
before; but a dog of any chivalry would have recognized the gentler
sex, even if it _was_ the first time that he had been blessed with the
sight.
In the first part of my letter I alluded to the swearing propensities
of the Rich Barians. Those, of course, would shock you; but, though you
hate slang, I know that you could not help smiling at some of their
bizarre cant phrases.
For instance, if you tell a Rich Barian anything which he doubts,
instead of simply asking you if it is true, he will _invariably_ cock
his head interrogatively, and almost pathetically address you with the
solemn adjuration, "Honest Indian?" Whether this phrase is a slur or a
compliment to the aborigines of this country, I do not know.
Again, they will agree to a proposal with the appropriate words, "Talk
enough when horses fight!" which sentence they will sometimes slightly
vary to "Talk enough between gentlemen."
If they wish to borrow anything of you, they will mildly inquire if you
have it "about your clothes." As an illustration: a man asked F., the
other day, if he had a spare pickax about his clothes. And F. himself
gravely inquired of me this evening, at the dinner-table, if I had a
_pickle_ about my clothes.