up what the American Fluming Company made by _their_ summer's work.
This result was by no means a singular one. Nearly every person on the
river received the same stepmother's treatment from Dame Nature in this
her mountain workshop.
Of course the whole world (_our_ world) was, to use a phrase much in
vogue here, "dead broke." The shopkeepers, restaurants, and
gambling-houses, with an amiable confidingness peculiar to such people,
had trusted the miners to that degree that they themselves were in the
same moneyless condition. Such a batch of woeful faces was never seen
before, not the least elongated of which was F.'s, to whom nearly all
the companies owed large sums.
Of course with the failure of the golden harvest Othello's occupation
was gone. The mass of the unfortunates laid down the shovel and the
hoe, and left the river in crowds. It is said that there are not twenty
men remaining on Indian Bar, although two months ago you could count
them up by hundreds.
We were to have departed on the 5th of November, and my toilet-table
and wash-hand-stand, duly packed for that occasion, their occupation
_also_ gone, have remained ever since in the humble position of mere
trunks. To be sure, the expressman called for us at the appointed time,
but, unfortunately, F. had not returned from the American Valley, where
he had gone to visit a sick friend, and Mr. Jones was not willing to
wait even one day, so much did he fear being caught in a snowstorm with
his mules. It was the general opinion, from unmistakable signs, that
the rainy season would set in a month earlier than common, and with
unusual severity. Our friends urged me to start on with Mr. Jones and
some other acquaintances, and leave F. to follow on foot, as he could
easily overtake us in a few hours. This I decidedly refused to do,
preferring to run the fearful risk of being compelled to spend the
winter in the mountains, which, as there is not enough flour to last
six weeks, and we personally have not laid in a pound of provisions, is
not so indifferent a matter as it may at first appear to you. The
traders have delayed getting in their winter stock, on account of the
high price of flour, and God only knows how fatal may be the result of
this selfish delay to the unhappy mountaineers, many of whom, having
families here, are unable to escape into the valley.
It is the twenty-first day of November, and for the last three weeks it
has rained and snowed alternately, with now and then a fair day
sandwiched between, for the express purpose, as it has seemed, of
aggravating our misery, for, after twelve hours of such sunshine as
only our own California can show, we were sure to be gratified by an
exceedingly well got up tableau of the deluge, _without_ that ark of
safety, a mule team, which, sister-Anna-like, we were ever straining
our eyes to see descending the hill. "There! I hear a mule-bell," would
be the cry at least a dozen times a day, when away we would all troop
to the door, to behold nothing but great brown raindrops rushing
merrily downward, as if in mockery of our sufferings. Five times did
the Squire, who has lived for some two or three years in the mountains,
and is quite weather-wise, solemnly affirm that the rain was over for
the present, and five times did the storm-torrent of the next morning
give our prophet the lie. In the mean while we have been expecting,
each day, the advent of a mule train. Now the rumor goes that Clark's
mules have arrived at Pleasant Valley, and now that Bob Lewis's train
has reached the Wild Yankee's, or that Jones, with any quantity of
animals and provisions, has been seen on the brow of the hill, and will
probably get in by evening. Thus constantly is alternating light and
gloom in a way that nearly drives me mad.
The few men that have remained on the Bar have amused themselves by
prosecuting one another right and left. The Squire, bless his honest,
lazy, Leigh Huntish face, comes out strong on these occasions. He has
pronounced decisions which, for legal acumen, brilliancy, and
acuteness, would make Daniel Webster, could he hear them, tear his hair
to that extent--from sheer envy--that he would be compelled to have a
wig ever after. But, jesting apart, the Squire's course has been so
fair, candid, and sensible, that he has won golden opinions from all;
and were it not for his insufferable laziness and good nature, he would
have made a most excellent justice of the peace. The prosecuting party
generally "gets judgment," which is about all he _does_ get, though
sometimes the constable is more fortunate, as happened to-day to our
friend W., who, having been detained on the Bar by the rain, got
himself sworn into the above office for the fun of the thing. He
performs his duties with great delight, and is always accompanied by a
guard of honor, consisting of the majority of the men remaining in the
place. He entered the cabin about one hour ago, when the following
spicy conversation took place between him and F., who happened to be
the prosecutor in this day's proceedings.
"Well, old fellow, did you see Big Bill?" eagerly inquired F.
"Yes," is the short and sullen reply.
"And what did you _get_?" continued his questioner.
"I got THIS!" savagely shouts the amateur constable, at the same time
pointing with a grin of rage to a huge swelling on his upper lip,
gleaming with all the colors of the rainbow.
"What did you do then?" was the next meek inquiry.
"Oh, I came away," says our brave young officer of justice. And indeed
it would have been madness to have resisted this delightful Big Bill,
who stands six feet four inches in his stockings, with a corresponding
amount of bone and muscle, and is a star of the first magnitude in
boxing circles. F. saved the creature's life last winter, having
watched with him three nights in succession. He refuses to pay his bill
"'cos he gin him _calumny_ and other pizen doctor's stuff." Of course
poor W. got dreadfully laughed at, though I looked as solemn as
possible while I stayed him with cups of coffee, comforted him with
beefsteaks and onions, and coaxed the wounded upper lip with an
infinite succession of little bits of brown paper drowned in brandy.
I wish that you could see _me_ about these times. I am generally found
seated on a cigar-box in the chimney-corner, my chin in my hand,
rocking backwards and forwards (weaving, you used to call it) in a
despairing way, and now and then casting a picturesquely hopeless
glance about our dilapidated cabin. Such a looking place as it is! Not
having been repaired, the rain, pouring down the outside of the
chimney, which is inside of the house, has liquefied the mud, which now
lies in spots all over the splendid tin mantelpiece, and festoons
itself in graceful arabesques along the sides thereof. The lining
overhead is dreadfully stained, the rose-garlanded hangings are faded
and torn, the sofa-covering displays picturesque glimpses of hay, and
the poor, old, worn-out carpet is not enough to make india-rubbers
desirable.
Sometimes I lounge forlornly to the window and try to take a bird's-eye
view of outdoors. First, now a large pile of gravel prevents my seeing
anything else, but by dint of standing on tiptoe I catch sight of a
hundred other large piles of gravel, Pelion-upon-Ossa-like heaps of
gigantic stones, excavations of fearful deepness, innumerable tents,
calico hovels, shingle palaces, ramadas (pretty arbor-like places,
composed of green boughs, and baptized with that sweet name), half a
dozen blue and red shirted miners, and one hatless hombre, in garments
of the airiest description, reclining gracefully at the entrance of the
Humboldt in that transcendental state of intoxication when a man is
compelled to hold on to the earth for fear of falling off. The whole
Bar is thickly peppered with empty bottles, oyster-cans, sardine-boxes,
and brandied-fruit jars, the harsher outlines of which are softened off
by the thinnest possible coating of radiant snow. The river, freed from
its wooden-flume prison, rolls gracefully by. The green and purple
beauty of these majestic old mountains looks lovelier than ever,
through its pearl-like network of foaming streamlets, while, like an
immense concave of pure sapphire without spot or speck, the wonderful
and never-enough-to-be-talked-about sky of California drops down upon
the whole its fathomless splendor. The day happens to be the inner fold
of one of the atmospheric sandwiches alluded to above. Had it been
otherwise, I doubt whether I should have had spirit enough to write to
you.
I have just been called from my letter to look at a wonderfully curious
gold specimen. I will try to describe it to you; and to convince you
that I do not exaggerate its rare beauty, I must inform you that two
friends of ours have each offered a hundred dollars for it, and a
blacksmith in the place--a man utterly unimaginative, who would not
throw away a red cent on a _mere_ fancy--has tried to purchase it for
fifty dollars. I wish most earnestly that you could see it. It is of
unmixed gold, weighing about two dollars and a half. Your first idea on
looking at it is of an exquisite little basket. There is the graceful
cover with its rounded nub at the top, the three finely carved sides
(it is triformed), the little stand upon which it sets, and the tiny
clasp which fastens it. In detail it is still more beautiful. On one
side you see a perfect W, each finely shaded bar of which is fashioned
with the nicest exactness. The second surface presents to view a
Grecian profile, whose delicately cut features remind you of the serene
beauty of an antique gem. It is surprising how much expression this
face contains, which is enriched by an oval setting of delicate
beading. A plain triangular space of burnished gold, surrounded with
bead-work similar to that which outlines the profile, seems left on
purpose for a name. The owner, who is a Frenchman, decidedly refuses to
sell this gem, and you will probably never have an opportunity to see
that the same Being who has commanded the violet to be beautiful can
fashion the gold, crucibled into metallic purity within the earth's
dark heart, into shapes as lovely and curious.
To my extreme vexation, Ned, that jewel of cooks and fiddlers, departed
at the first approach of rain, since when I have been obliged to take
up the former delightful employment myself. Really, everybody ought to
go to the mines, just to see how little it takes to make people
comfortable in the world. My ordinary utensils consist of,--item, one
iron dipper, which holds exactly three pints; item, one brass kettle of
the same size; and item, the gridiron, made out of an old shovel, which
I described in a former letter. With these three assistants I perform
absolute wonders in the culinary way. Unfortunately, I am generally
compelled to get three breakfasts, for sometimes the front-stick _will_
break, and then down comes the brass kettle of potatoes and the dipper
of coffee, extinguishing the fire, spilling the breakfast, wetting the
carpet, scalding the dog, waking up F. from an eleven-o'clock-in-the-day
dream, and compelling poor me to get up a second edition of my morning's
work on safer and more scientific principles.
At dinner-time some good-natured friend carves the beef at a stove
outside, on condition that he may have a plate and knife and fork at
our table. So when that meal is ready I spread on the said table, which
at other times does duty as a china-closet, a quarter of a sheet,
which, with its three companion quarters, was sanctified and set apart,
when I first arrived here, for that sacred purpose. As our guests
generally amount to six or eight, we dispense the three teaspoons at
the rate of one to every two or three persons. All sorts of outlandish
dishes serve as teacups. Among others, wine-glasses and tumblers--there
are always plenty of these in the mines--figure largely. Last night,
our company being larger than usual, one of our friends was compelled
to take his tea out of a soup-plate. The same individual, not being
able to find a seat, went outside and brought in an empty gin-cask,
upon which he sat, sipping iron tablespoonfuls of his tea, in great
apparent glory and contentment.
F. has just entered, with the joyful news that the expressman has
arrived. He says that it will be impossible for mule trains to get in
for some time to come, even if the storm is really over, which he does
not believe. In many places on the mountains the snow is already five
feet in depth, although he thinks that, so many people are constantly
leaving for the valley, the path will be kept open, so that I can make
the journey with comparative ease on his horse, which he has kindly
offered to lend me, volunteering to accompany F., and some others who
will make their exodus at the same time, on foot. Of course I shall be
obliged to leave my trunks, merely taking a change of linen in a carpet
bag. We shall leave to-morrow, whether it rain or snow, for it would be
madness to linger any longer.
My heart is heavy at the thought of departing forever from this place.
I _like_ this wild and barbarous life. I leave it with regret. The
solemn fir-trees, whose "slender tops _are_ close against the sky"
here, the watching hills, and the calmly beautiful river, seem to gaze
sorrowfully at me as I stand in the moonlighted midnight to bid them
farewell. Beloved, unconventional wood-life; divine Nature, into whose
benign eyes I never looked, whose many voices, gay and glad, I never
heard, in the artificial heart of the busy world,--I quit your serene
teachings for a restless and troubled future. Yes, Molly, smile if you
will at my folly, but I go from the mountains with a deep heart-sorrow.
I took kindly to this existence, which to you seems so sordid and mean.
Here, at least, I have been contented. The "thistle-seed," as you call
me, sent abroad its roots right lovingly into this barren soil, and
gained an unwonted strength in what seemed to you such unfavorable
surroundings. You would hardly recognize the feeble and half-dying
invalid, who drooped languidly out of sight as night shut down between
your straining gaze and the good ship Manilla as she wafted her far
away from her Atlantic home, in the person of your _now_ perfectly
healthy sister.
PRINTED BY THOMAS C. RUSSELL
AT HIS PRIVATE PRESS,
SEVENTEEN THIRTY-FOUR NINETEENTH AVENUE
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA