Three years in California [1851-54]

A few weeks before my arrival there, Downieville had been the scene of great excitement on one of those occasions when the people took on themselves the administration and execution of justice.

A Mexican woman one forenoon had, without provocation, stabbed a miner to the heart, killing him on the spot. The news of the murder spread rapidly up and down the river, and a vast concourse of miners immediately began to collect in the town.

The woman, an hour or two after she committed the murder, was formally tried by a jury of twelve, found guilty, and condemned to be hung that afternoon. The case was so clear that it admitted of no doubt, several men having been witnesses of the whole occurrence; and the woman was hung accordingly, on the bridge in front of the town, in presence of many thousand people.

For those whose ideas of the proper mode of administering criminal law are only acquired from an acquaintance with the statistics of crime and its punishment in such countries as England, where a single murder excites horror throughout the kingdom, and is for days a matter of public interest, where judicial corruption is unknown, where the instruments of the law are ubiquitous, and its action all but infallible,—for such persons it may be difficult to realise a state of things which should render it necessary, or even excusable, that any number of irresponsible individuals should exercise a power of life and death over their fellow-men.

And no doubt many sound theories may be brought forward against the propriety of administering Lynch law; but California, in the state of society which then existed, and in view of the total inefficiency, or worse than inefficiency, of the established courts of justice, was no place for theorising upon abstract principles. Society had to protect itself by the most practical and unsophisticated system of retributive justice, quick in its action, and whose operation, being totally divested of all mystery and unnecessary ceremony, was perfectly comprehensible to the meanest understanding—a system inconsistent with public safety in old countries—unnecessary, in fact, where the machinery of the law is perfect in all its parts—but at the same time one which men most naturally adopt in the absence of all other protection; and any one who lived in the mines of California at that time is bound gratefully to acknowledge that the feeling of security of life and person which he there enjoyed was due in a great measure to his knowledge of the fact that this admirable institution of Lynch law was in full and active operation.

There were in California the élite of the most desperate and consummate scoundrels from every part of the world; and the unsettled state of the country, the wandering habits of the mining population, scattered, as they were, all over the mountains, and frequently carrying an amount of gold on their persons inconvenient from its very weight, together with the isolated condition of many individuals, strangers to every one around them, and who, if put out of the way, would never have been missed—all these things tended apparently to render the country one where such ruffians would have ample room to practise their villany. But, thanks to Lynch law, murders and robberies, numerous as they were, were by no means of such frequent occurrence as might have been expected, considering the opportunities and temptations afforded to such a large proportion of the population, who were only restrained from violence by a wholesome regard for the safety of their own necks.

And after all, the fear of punishment of death is the most effectual preventive of crime. To the class of men among whom murderers are found, it is probably the only feeling which deters them, and its influence is unconsciously felt even by those whose sense of right and wrong is not yet so dead as to allow them to contemplate the possibility of their committing a murder. In old States, however, fear of the punishment of death does not act with its full force on the mind of the intending criminal, for the idea of the expiation of his crime on the scaffold has to be preceded in his imagination by all the mysterious and tedious formalities of the law, in the uncertainty of which he is apt to flatter himself that he will by some means get an acquittal; and even if convicted, the length of time which must elapse before his ultimate punishment, together with the parade and circumstance with which it is attended, divests it in a great measure of the feelings of horror which it is intended to arouse.

But when Lynch law prevails, it strikes terror to the heart of the evil-doer. He has no hazy and undefined view of his ultimate fate in the distant future, but a vivid picture is before him of the sure and speedy consequence of crime. The formalities and delays of the law, which are instituted for the protection of the people, are for the same reason abolished, and the criminal knows that, instead of being tried by the elaborate and intricate process of law, his very ignorance of which leads him to over-estimate his chance of escape, he will have to stand before a tribunal of men, who will try him, not by law, but by hard, straightforward common-sense, and from whom he can hope for no other verdict than that which his own conscience awards him; while execution follows so close upon sentence, that it forms, as it were, but part of the same ceremony: for Californians were eminently practical and earnest; what they meant to do they did “right off,” with all their might, and as if they really meant to do it; and Lynch law was administered with characteristic promptness and decision. Sufficient time, however, or at least what was considered to be sufficient time, was always granted to the criminal to prepare for death. Very frequently he was not hanged till the day after his trial.

An execution, of course, attracted an immense crowd, but it was conducted with as little parade as possible. Men were hung in the readiest way which suggested itself—on a bough of the nearest tree, or on a tree close to the spot where the murder was committed. In some instances the criminal was run up by a number of men, all equally sharing the hangman’s duty; on other occasions, one man was appointed to the office of executioner, and a drop was extemporised by placing the culprit on his feet on the top of an empty box or barrel, under the bough of a tree, and at the given signal the box was knocked away from under him.

Not an uncommon mode was, to mount the criminal on a horse or mule, when, after the rope was adjusted, a cut of a whip was administered to the back of the animal, and the man was left suspended.

Petty thefts, which were of very rare occurrence, were punished by so many lashes with a cow-hide, and the culprit was then banished the camp. A man who would commit a petty theft was generally such a poor miserable devil as to excite compassion more than any other feeling, and not unfrequently, after his chastisement, a small subscription was raised for him, to help him along till he reached some other diggings.

Theft or robbery of any considerable amount, however, was a capital crime; and horse-stealing, to which the Mexicans more particularly devoted themselves, was invariably a hanging matter.

Lynch law had hitherto prevailed only in the mines; but about this time it had been found necessary to introduce it also in San Francisco. The number of murders and robberies committed there had of late increased to an alarming extent; and from the laxity and corruption of those intrusted with the punishment and prevention of crime, the criminal part of the population carried on their operations with such a degree of audacity, and so much apparent confidence in the impunity which they enjoyed, that society, in the total inefficiency of the system which it had instituted for its defence and preservation, threatened to become a helpless prey to the well-organised gang of ruffians who were every day becoming more insolent in their career.

At last human nature could stand it no longer, and the people saw the necessity of acting together in self-defence. A Committee of Vigilance was accordingly formed, composed chiefly of the most prominent and influential citizens, and which had the cordial approval, and the active support, of nearly the entire population of the city.

The first action of the Committee was to take two men out of gaol who had already been convicted of murder and robbery, but for the execution of whose sentence the experience of the past afforded no guarantee. These two men, when taken out of the gaol, were driven in a coach and four at full gallop through the town, and in half an hour they were swinging from the beams projecting over the windows of the store which was used as the committee-rooms.

The Committee, during their reign, hanged four or five men, all of whom, by their own confessions, deserved hanging half-a-dozen times over. Their confessions disclosed a most extensive and wealthy organisation of villany, in which several men of comparatively respectable position were implicated. These were the projectors and designers of elaborate schemes of wholesale robbery, which the more practical members of the profession executed under their superintendence; and in the possession of some of these men there were found exact plans of the stores of many of the wealthiest merchants, along with programmes of robberies to come off.

The operations of the Committee were not confined to hanging alone; their object was to purge the city of the whole herd of malefactors which infested it. Most of them, however, were panic-struck at the first alarm of Lynch law, and fled to the mines; but many of those who were denounced in the confessions of their brethren were seized by the Committee, and shipped out of the country. Several of the most distinguished scoundrels were graduates from our penal colonies; and to put a stop, if possible, to the further immigration of such characters, the Committee boarded every ship from New South Wales as she arrived, and satisfied themselves of the respectability of each passenger before allowing him to land.

The authorities, of course, were greatly incensed at the action of the Vigilance Committee in taking from them the power they had so badly used, but they could do nothing against the unanimous voice of the people, and had to submit with the best grace they could.

The Committee, after a very short but very active reign, had so far accomplished their object of suppressing crime, and driving the scum of the population out of the city, that they resigned their functions in favour of the constituted authorities; at the same time, however, intimating that they remained alert, and only inactive so long as the ordinary course of law was found effectual.

From that time till the month of May 1856 the Vigilance Committee did not interfere; and to any one familiar with the history of San Francisco during this period, it will appear extraordinary that the people should have remained so long inactive under the frightful mal-administration of criminal law to which they were subjected.

The crime which at last roused the people from their apathy, but which was not more foul than hundreds which had preceded it, and only more aggravated, inasmuch as the victim was one of the most universally respected citizens of the State, was the assassination, in open day and in the public street, of Mr James King, of William, by a man named Casey.

The causes which had gradually been driving the people to assert their own power, as they did on this occasion, differed very materially from those which gave birth to the Vigilance Committee of ’51, when their object was merely to root out a gang of housebreakers.

To explain the necessity of the revolution which took place in San Francisco in May ’56 would require a dissertation on San Francisco politics, which might not be very interesting; suffice it to say, that the power of controlling the elections had gradually got into the hands of men who “stuffed” the ballot-boxes, and sold the elections to whom they pleased; and the natural consequences of such a state of things led to the revolution.

In the Alta California of San Francisco of the 1st of June is a short article, which gives such a complete idea of the state of affairs that I take the liberty to transcribe it. It is written when the Vigilance Committee, having, a day or two before, hanged two men, are still actively engaged making numerous arrests; and it is remarkable that just at this time the authorities actually hang a man too.

The Alta announces the fact in the following article:—

“A man was executed yesterday for murder, after a due compliance with all the forms of law.

“That he had been guilty of the crime for which he suffered there can be no doubt; and yet it is entirely probable that, but for the circumstances which have occurred in San Francisco within the past three weeks, he never would have paid to the offended law the penalty affixed to his crime.

“It is a very remarkable fact in the history of this execution, that the condemned man, at the time of the murder of Mr King, was living only under the respite of the Governor, and that that respite was obtained through the active interposition of Casey, who little dreamed that he would suffer the death-penalty before the man whom he had laboured to save.

“This is the third execution only, under the forms of law, which has ever been had in San Francisco since it became an American city. Murder after murder has been committed, and murderer after murderer has been arrested and tried. Those who were blessed with friends and money have usually succeeded in escaping through the forms of law before a conviction was reached. Those who failed in this respect have, with the exceptions we have stated, been saved from punishment through the unwarranted interference of the executive officer of the State. So murder has enjoyed in San Francisco almost a certain immunity from punishment; and the consequence has been, that it has stalked abroad high-handed and bold. Over a year ago, we understood the district attorney to state, in an argument before a jury in a murder case, that, since the settlement of San Francisco by the American people, there had been twelve hundred murders committed here. We thought at the time the number stated was unduly large, and think so still; but it has been large enough, beyond doubt, to give us the unenviable reputation we have obtained abroad.

“And yet, in spite of these facts, but three criminals have suffered the death-penalty awarded to the crimes of which they have been guilty. These were all friendless, moneyless men. A sad commentary this on that motto, ‘Equal and exact justice to all,’ which we delight to blazon over our constitution and laws.

“Was it not time for a change—time, if need be, for a revolution which should inaugurate a new state of things—which should give an assurance that human life should be protected from the hand of the gentlemanly and monied assassin, as well as from the miserable, the poor, and the friendless? Such a revolution has been made by the people, and it has been the inauguration of a new and bright era in our history, in which an assurance has been given, that neither the technicalities of a badly administered law, nor the interference of the Executive, can save the murderer from the punishment he justly merits. It has been brought about by the very evils it is intended to remedy. Had crime been punished here as it should have been—had the law done its duty, Casey would never have dared to shoot down the lamented King in broad daylight, with the hope that through the forms of law he would escape punishment. There would have been no necessity for a Vigilance Committee, no need of a revolution. Let us hope that in future the law will be no longer a mockery, but become, what it was intended by its founders to be, ‘a terror to evil-doers.’”

The number of murders here given is no doubt appalling, but it is apt to give an idea of an infinitely more dreadful state of society, and of much greater insecurity of life to peaceable citizens than was actually the case.

If these murders were classified, it would be found that the frequency of fatal duels had greatly swelled the list, while, in the majority of cases, the murders would turn out to be the results of rencontres between desperadoes and ruffians, who, by having their little difficulties among themselves, and shooting and stabbing each other, and thus diminishing their own numbers, were rather entitled to the thanks of the respectable portion of the community.

It is very certain that in San Francisco crime was fostered by the laxity of the law, but it is equally reasonable to believe that in the mines, where Lynch law had full swing, the amount of crime actually committed by the large criminally disposed portion of the community, consisting of lazy Mexican ladrones and cutthroats, well-trained professional burglars from populous countries, and outcast desperadoes from all the corners of the earth, was not so great as would have resulted from the presence of the same men in any old country, where the law, clothed in all its majesty, is more mysterious and slow, however irresistible, in its action.

CHAPTER XV.

The men who settled the country imparted to it a good deal of their own nature, which knows no period of boyhood. The Americans spring at once from childhood, or almost from infancy, to manhood; and California, no less rapid in its growth, became a full-grown State, while one-half the world still doubted its existence.

The amount of labour which had already been performed in the mines was almost incredible. Every river and creek from one end to the other presented a busy scene; on the “bars,” of course, the miners were congregated in the greatest numbers; but there was scarcely any part of their course where some work was not going on, and the flumes were so numerous, that for about one-third of their length the rivers were carried past in those wooden aqueducts.

The most populous part of the mines, however, was in the high mountain-land between the rivers, and here the whole country had been ransacked, every flat and ravine had been prospected; and wherever extensive diggings had been found, towns and villages had sprung up.

Young as California was, it was in one respect older than its parent country, for life was so fast that already it could show ruins and deserted villages. In out-of-the-way places one met with cabins fallen into disrepair, which the proprietors had abandoned to locate themselves elsewhere; and even villages of thirty or forty shanties were to be seen deserted and desolate, where the diggings had not proved so productive as the original founders had anticipated.

Labour, however, was not exclusively devoted to mining operations. Roads had in many parts been cut in the sides of the mountains, bridges had been built, and innumerable saw-mills, most of them driven by steam power, were in full operation, many of them having been erected in anticipation of a demand for lumber, and before any population existed around them. Every little valley in the mountains where the soil was at all fit for cultivation, was already fenced in, and producing crops of barley or oats; and canals, in some cases forty or fifty miles long, were in course of construction, to bring the waters of the rivers to the mountain-tops, to diggings which were otherwise unavailable.

Life for the most part was hard enough certainly, but every village was a little city of itself, where one could live in comparative luxury. Even Downieville had its theatre and concerts, its billiard-rooms and saloons of all sorts, a daily paper, warm baths, and restaurants where men in red flannel shirts, with bare arms, spread a napkin over their muddy knees, and studied the bill of fare for half an hour before they could make up their minds what to order for dinner.

I was sitting on a rock by the side of the river one day sketching, when I became aware that a most ragamuffinish individual was looking over my shoulder. He was certainly, without exception, the most tattered and torn man I ever saw in my life; even his hair and beard gave the idea of rags, which was fully realised by his costume. He was a complete caricature of an old miner, and quite a picture of himself, seen from any point of view.

The rim of his old brown hat seemed ready to drop down on his shoulders at a moment’s notice, and the sides, having dissolved all connection with the crown, presented at the top a jagged circumference, festooned here and there with locks of light brown hair, while, to keep the whole fabric from falling to pieces of its own weight, it was bound round with a piece of string in lieu of a hat-band. His hair hung all over his shoulders in large straight flat locks, just as if a handkerchief had been nailed to the top of his head and then torn into shreds, and a long beard of the same pattern fringed a face as brown as a mahogany table. His shirt had once been red flannel—of course it was flannel yet, what remained of it—but it was in a most dilapidated condition. Half-way down to his elbows hung some shreds, which led to the belief that at one time he had possessed a pair of sleeves; but they seemed to have been removed by the action of time and the elements, which had also been busy with other parts of the garment, and had, moreover, changed its original scarlet to different shades of crimson and purple. There was enough of his shirt left almost to meet a pair of—not trousers, but still less mentionable articles, of the same material as the shirt, and in the same stage of decomposition. He must have had trousers once on a time, but I suppose he had worn them out; and I could not help thinking what extraordinary things they must have been on the morning when he came to the conclusion that they were not good enough to wear. I daresay he would have put them on if he could, but perhaps they were so full of holes that he did not know which to get into. His boots at least had reached this point, and to acknowledge that they had been boots was as much as a conscientious man could say for them. They were more holes than leather, and had no longer any title to the name of boots.

He was a man between thirty and forty, and, notwithstanding his rags, there was nothing in his appearance at all dirty or repulsive; on the contrary, he had a very handsome, prepossessing face, with an air about him which at once gave the idea that he had been used to polite society. I was, consequently, not surprised at the style of his address. He talked with me for some time, and I found him a most amusing and gentlemanly fellow. He was a German doctor, but it was hard to detect any foreign accent in his pronunciation.

The claim he was working was a mile or two up the river, and his company, he told me, was one of the greatest curiosities in the country. It consisted of two Americans, two Frenchmen, two Italians, two Mexicans, and my ragged friend, who was the only man in the company who spoke any language but his mother tongue. He was captain of the company, and interpreter-general for the crowd. I quite believed him when he said it was hard work to keep them all in order, and that when he was away no work could be done at all, and for that reason he was now hurrying back to his claim. But before leaving me he said, “I saw you sketching from the trail, and I came down to ask a favour of you.”

There is as much vanity sometimes in rags as in gorgeous apparel; and what he wanted of me was to make a sketch of him, rags and all, just as he was. To study such a splendid figure was exactly what I wanted to do myself, so I made an appointment with him for the next day, and begged of him in the meantime not to think of combing his hair, which, indeed, to judge from its appearance, he had not done for some time.

I found afterwards that he was a well-known character, and went by the name of the Flying Dutchman.

I passed by his claim one day, and such a scene it was! The Tower of Babel was not a circumstance to it. The whole of the party were up to their waists in water, in the middle of the river, trying to build a wing-dam. The Americans, the Frenchmen, the Italians, and the Mexicans, were all pulling in different directions at an immense unwieldy log, and bestowing on each other most frightful oaths, though happily in unknown tongues; while the directing genius, the Flying Dutchman, was rushing about among them, and gesticulating wildly in his endeavours to pacify them, and to explain what was to be done. He spoke all the modern languages at once, occasionally talking Spanish to a Frenchman, and English to the Italians, then cursing his own stupidity in German, and blowing them all up collectively in a promiscuous jumble of national oaths, when they all came to a stand-still, the Flying Dutchman even seeming to give it up in despair. But after addressing a few explanatory remarks to each nation separately, in their respective languages, he persuaded them to try once more, when they got along well enough for a few minutes, till something went wrong, and then the Tower-of-Babel scene was enacted over again.

What induced the Flying Dutchman to form a company of such incongruous materials, and to take so much trouble in trying to work it, I can’t say, unless it was a little of the same innocent vanity which was apparent in his exaggerated style of dress.

There was a considerable number of Frenchmen in the neighbourhood of Downieville, but they kept very much to themselves. So very few of them, even of the better class, could speak English, and so few American miners knew anything of French, that scarcely ever were they found working together.

In common intercourse of buying and selling, or asking and giving any requisite information, neither party were ever very much at a loss; a few words of broken English, a word or two of French, and a large share of pantomime, carried them through any conference.

When any one capable of acting as interpreter happened to be present, the Frenchman, in his impatience, was constantly asking him “Qu’est ce qu’il dit?” “Qu’est ce qu’il dit?” This caught the ear of the Americans more than anything else, and a “Keskydee” came at last to be a synonyme for a “Parleyvoo.”

The “Dutchmen” in the mines, under which denomination are included all manner of Germans, showed much greater aptitude to amalgamate with the people around them. Frenchmen were always found in gangs, but “Dutchmen” were usually met with as individuals, and more frequently associated with Americans than with their own countrymen. For the most part they spoke English very well, and there were none who could not make themselves perfectly intelligible.

But in making such a comparison between the Germans and the French, it would not be fair to leave unmentioned the fact, that the great majority of the former were men who had the advantage of having lived for a greater or less time in the United States, while the Frenchmen had nearly all immigrated in ship-loads direct from their native country.

About thirty miles above Downieville is one of the highest mountains in the mines. The view from the summit, which is composed of several rocky peaks in line with each other, like the teeth of a saw, was said to be one of the finest in California, and I was desirous of seeing it; but the mountain was on the verge of settlement, and there was no camp or house of accommodation nearer to it than Downieville. However, the Frenchman in whose house I was staying told me that a friend of his, who was mining there, would be down in a day or two, and that he would introduce me to him. He came down the next day for a supply of provisions, and I gladly took the opportunity of returning with him.

The trail followed the river all the way, and was very rough, many parts of it being nearly as bad as “Cape Horn.” The Frenchman had a pack-mule loaded with his stock of provisions, which gave him an infinity of trouble. He was such a bad packer that the cargo was constantly shifting, and requiring to be repacked and secured. At one spot, where there was a steep descent from the trail to the river of about a hundred feet, the whole cargo broke loose, and fell to the ground. The only article, however, which rolled off the narrow trail was a keg of butter, which went bounding down the hill till it reached the bottom, where at one smash it buttered the whole surface of a large flat rock in the middle of the river. The Frenchman climbed down by a circuitous route to recover what he could of it, while I remained to repack the cargo. Without further accident we arrived about dark at my companion’s cabin, where we found his partners just preparing supper;—and a very good supper it was; for, with only the ordinary materials of flour, ham, and beef, it was astonishing what a very superior mess a Frenchman could get up.

After smoking an infinite number of pipes, I stretched out on the floor, with my feet to the fire, and slept like a top till morning, when, having got directions from the Frenchman as to my route, I set out to climb the mountain. The cabin was situated at the base of one of the spurs into which the mountain branched off, and was about eight miles distant from the summit.

When I had got about half-way up, I came in sight of a quartz-grinding establishment, situated on an exceedingly steep place, where a small stream of water came dashing over the rocks. In the face of the hill a step had been cut out, on which a cabin was built, and immediately below it were two “rasters” in full operation.

These are the most primitive kind of contrivances for grinding quartz. They are circular places, ten or twelve feet in diameter, flagged with flat stones, and in these the quartz is crushed by two large heavy stones dragged round and round by a mule harnessed to a horizontal beam, to which they are also attached.

The quartz is already broken up into small pieces before being put into the raster, and a constant supply of water is necessary to facilitate the operation, the stuff, while being ground, having the appearance of a rich white mud. The Mexicans, who use this machine a great deal, have a way of ascertaining when the quartz is sufficiently ground, by feeling it between the finger and thumb of one hand, while with the other they feel the lower part of their ear; and when the quartz has the same soft velvety feel, it is considered fine enough, and the gold is then extracted by amalgamation with quicksilver.

A considerable amount of work had been done at this place. The quartz vein was several hundred yards above the rasters, and from it there was laid a double line of railway on the face of the mountain, for the purpose of bringing down the quartz. The loaded car was intended to bring up the empty one; but the railway was so steep that it looked as if a car, once started, would never stop till it reached the river, two or three miles below.

The vein was not being worked just now; and I only found one man at the place, who was employed in keeping the two mules at work in the “rasters.” He told me that the ascent from that point was so difficult that it would be dark before I could return, and persuaded me to pass the night with him, and start early the next morning.

The nights had been getting pretty chilly lately, and up here it was particularly so; but with the aid of a blazing fire we managed to make ourselves comfortable. I lay down before the fire, with the prospect of having a good sleep, but woke in the middle of the night, feeling it most bitterly cold. The fact is, the log-cabin was merely a log-cage, the chinks between the logs having never been filled up, and it had come on to blow a perfect hurricane. The spot where the cabin stood was very much exposed, and the gusts of wind blew against it and through it as if it would carry us all away.

This pleasant state of things lasted two days, during which time I remained a prisoner in the cabin, as the force of the wind was so great that one could scarcely stand outside, and the cold was so intense that the pools in the stream which ran past were covered with ice. The cabin was but poor protection, the wind having full play through it, even blowing the tin plates off the table while we were at dinner; and heavy gusts coming down the chimney filled the cabin with smoke, ashes, and burning wood. Two days of this was rather miserable work, but with the aid of my pencil and two or three old novels I managed to weather it out.

The third day the gale was over, and though still cold, the weather was beautifully bright and clear. On setting out on my expedition to the summit of the mountain, I had first to climb up the railway, which went as far as the top of the ridge, where the quartz cropped out in large masses. From this there was a gradual ascent to the summit, about four miles distant, over ground which was stony, like a newly macadamised road, and covered with wiry brushwood waist-high. This was rendered a still more pleasant place to travel over by being infested by grizzly bears, whose tracks I could see on every spot of ground capable of receiving the impression of their feet. At last I arrived at the foot of the immense masses of rock which formed the summit of the mountain, and the only means of continuing the ascent was by climbing up long slides of loose sharp-cornered stones of all sizes. Every step I took forward, I went about half a step backward, the stones giving way under my feet, and causing a general commotion from top to bottom. On reaching the top of this place, after suffering a good deal in my shins and shoe-leather, I found myself on a ledge of rock, with a similar one forty or fifty feet above me, to be gained by climbing another slide of loose stones; and having spent about an hour in working my passage up a succession of places of this sort, I arrived at the foot of the immense wall of solid rock which crowned the summit of the mountain. To reach the lowest point of the top of the perpendicular wall above me, I had some fifteen or twenty feet to climb the best way I could, and the prospect of any failure in the attempt was by no means encouraging, as, had I happened to fall, I should have been carried down to the regions below with an avalanche of loose rocks and stones. Even as I stood studying how I should make the ascent by means of the projecting ledges, and tracking out my course before I made the attempt, I felt the stones beginning to give way under my feet; and seeing there was no time to lose, I went at it, and after a pretty hard struggle I reached the top. This, however, was not the summit—I was only between the teeth of the saw; but I was enabled to gain the top of one of the peaks by means of a ledge, about a foot and a half wide, which slanted up the face of the rock. Here I sat down to enjoy the view, and certainly I felt amply repaid for all the labour of the ascent, by the vastness and grandeur of the panorama around me. I looked back for more than a hundred miles over the mountainous pine-clad region of the “Mines,” where, from the shapes of some of the mountains, I could distinguish many of the places which I had visited. Beyond this lay the wide plains of the Sacramento Valley, in which the course of the rivers could be traced by the trees which grew along their banks; and beyond the plains the coast range was distinctly seen.

On the other side, from which I had made the ascent, there was a sheer precipice of about two hundred feet, at the foot of which, in eternal shade, lay heaps of snow. The mountains in this direction were more rugged and barren, and beyond them appeared the white peaks of the Sierra Nevada. The atmosphere was intensely clear; it was as if there were no atmosphere at all, and the view of the most remote objects was so vivid and distinct that any one not used to such a clime would have been slow to believe that their distance was so great as it actually was. Monte Diablo, a peculiarly shaped mountain within a few miles of San Francisco, and upwards of three hundred miles from where I stood, was plainly discernible, and with as much distinctness as on a clear day in England a mountain is seen at a distance of fifty or sixty miles.

The beauty of the view, which consisted chiefly in its vastness, was greatly enhanced by being seen from such a lofty pinnacle. It gave one the idea of being suspended in the air, and cut off from all communication with the world below. The perfect solitude of the place was quite oppressive, and was rendered still more awful by the occasional loud report of some piece of rock, which, becoming detached from the mass, went bounding down to seek a more humble resting-place. The gradual disruption seemed to be incessant, for no sooner had one fragment got out of hearing down below, than another started after it. There was a keen wind blowing, and it was so miserably cold, that when I had been up here for about an hour, I became quite benumbed and chilled. It was rather ticklish work coming down from my exalted position, and more perilous a good deal than it had been to climb up to it; but I managed it without accident, and reached the cabin of my quartz-grinding friend before dark.

Here I found there had arrived in the mean time three men from a ranch which they had taken up in a small valley, about thirty miles farther up in the mountains. There were no other white men in that direction, and this cabin was the nearest habitation to them. They had come in with six or seven muleloads of hay for the use of the unfortunate animals who were kept in a state of constant revolution in the “rasters.”

CHAPTER XVI.

When trains of pack-mules met at this place, they had the greatest difficulty in passing. The “down train,” being of course unloaded, had to give way to the other. The mules understood their own rights perfectly well. Those loaded with cargo kept sturdily to the trail, while the empty mules scrambled up the bank, where they stood still till the others had passed. It not unfrequently happened, however, that a loaded mule got crowded off the trail, and rolled down the hill. This was always the last journey the poor mule ever performed. The cargo was recovered more or less damaged, but the remnants of deceased mules on the rocks down below remained as a warning to all future travellers. It was only a few days before that a man was riding along here, when, from some cause, his mule stumbled and fell off the trail. The mule, of course, went as a small contribution to the collection of skeletons of mules which had gone before him; and his rider would have shared the same fate, had he not fortunately been arrested in his progress by a bush, the only object in his course which could possibly have saved him.

The trail, after passing this spot, kept more among the rocks on the river-side; and though it was rough travelling, the difficulties of the way were beguiled by the numbers of miners’ camps through which one passed, and in observing the different varieties of mining operations being carried on. For miles the river was borne along in a succession of flumes, in which were set innumerable water-wheels, for working all sorts of pumps, and other contrivances for economising labour. The bed of the river was alive with miners; and here and there, in the steep banks, were rows of twenty or thirty tunnels, out of which came constant streams of men, wheeling the dirt down to the river-side, to be washed in their long-toms.

At Goodyear’s Bar, which is a place of some size, the trail leaves the river, and ascends a mountain which is said to be the worst in that part of the country, and for my part I was quite willing to believe it was. I met several men coming down, who were all anxious to know if they were near the bottom. I was equally desirous to know if I was near the top, for the forest of pines was so thick, that, looking up, one could only get a glimpse between the trees of the zigzag trail far above.

About half-way up the mountain, at a break in the ascent, I found a very new log-cabin by the side of a little stream of water. It bore a sign about as large as itself, on which was painted the “Florida House;” and as it was getting dark, and the next house was five miles farther on, I thought I would take up my quarters here for the night. The house was kept by an Italian, or an “Eyetalian,” as he is called across the Atlantic. He had a Yankee wife, with a lot of children, and the style of accommodation was as good as one usually found in such places.

I was the only guest that night; and as we sat by the fire, smoking our pipes after supper, my host, who was a cheerful sort of fellow, became very communicative. He gave me an interesting account of his California experiences, and also of his farming operations in the States, where he had spent the last few years of his life. Then, going backwards in his career, he told me that he had lived for some years in England and Scotland, and spoke of many places there as if he knew them well. I was rather curious to know in what capacity such an exceedingly dingy-looking individual had visited all the cities of the kingdom, but he seemed to wish to avoid cross examination on the subject, so I did not press him. He became intimately connected in my mind, however, with sundry plaster-of-Paris busts of Napoleon, the Duke of Wellington, Sir Walter Scott, and other distinguished characters. I could fancy I saw the whole collection of statuary on the top of his head, and felt very much inclined to shout out “Images!” to see what effect it would have upon him.

In the course of the evening he asked me if I would like to hear some music, saying that he played a little on the Italian fiddle. I said I would be delighted, particularly as I did not know the instrument. The only national fiddle I had ever heard of was the Caledonian, and I trusted this instrument of his was a different sort of thing; but I was very much amused when it turned out to be nothing more or less than a genuine orthodox hurdy-gurdy. It put me more in mind of home than anything I had heard for a long time. At the first note, of course, the statuary vanished, and was replaced by a vision of an unfortunate monkey in a red coat, while my friend’s extensive travels in the United Kingdom became very satisfactorily accounted for, and I thought it by no means unlikely that this was not the first time I had heard the sweet strains of his Italian fiddle. He played several of the standard old tunes; but hurdy-gurdy music is of such a character that a little of it goes a great way; and I was not sorry when a couple of strings snapped—to the great disgust, however, of my friend, for he had no more with which to replace them.

Hurdy-gurdy player or not, he was a very entertaining agreeable fellow. I only hope all the fraternity are like him (perhaps they are, if one only knew them), and attain ultimately to such a respectable position in life, dignifying their instruments with the name of Italian fiddles, and reserving them for the entertainment of their particular friends.

I was on my way to Slate Range, a place some distance down the river, but the next day I only went as far as Oak Valley, travelling the last few miles with a young fellow from one of the Southern States, whom I overtook on the way. He had been mining, he told me, at Downieville, and was now going to join some friends of his at a place some thirty miles off.

At supper he did not make his appearance, which I did not observe, as there were a number of men at table, till the landlord asked me if that young fellow who arrived with me was not going to have any supper, and suggested that perhaps he was “strapped,” “dead-broke”—Anglicé, without a cent in his pocket. I had not inferred anything of the sort from his conversation, but on going out and asking him why he did not come to supper, he reluctantly admitted that the state of his finances would not admit of it. I told him, in the language of Mr Toots, that it was of no consequence, and made him come in, when he was most unceremoniously lectured by the rest of the party, and by the landlord particularly, on the absurdity of his intention of going supperless to bed merely because he happened to be “dead-broke,” getting at the same time some useful hints how to act under such circumstances in future from several of the men present, who related how, when they had found themselves in such a predicament, they had, on frankly stating the fact, been made welcome to everything.

To be “dead-broke” was really, as far as a man’s immediate comfort was concerned, a matter of less importance in the mines than in almost any other place. There was no such thing as being out of employment, where every man employed himself, and could always be sure of ample remuneration for his day’s work. But notwithstanding the want of excuse for being “strapped,” it was very common to find men in that condition. There were everywhere numbers of lazy idle men, who were always without a dollar; and others reduced themselves to that state by spending their time and money on claims which, after all, yielded them no return, or else gradually exhausted their funds in travelling about the country, and prospecting, never satisfied with fair average diggings, but always having the idea that better were to be found elsewhere. Few miners located themselves permanently in any place, and there was a large proportion of the population continually on the move. In almost every place I visited in the mines, I met men whom I had seen in other diggings. Some men I came across frequently, who seemed to do nothing but wander about the country, satisfied with asking the miners in the different diggings how they were “making out,” but without ever taking the trouble to prospect for themselves.

Coin was very scarce, what there was being nearly all absorbed by the gamblers, who required it for convenience in carrying on their business. Ordinary payments were made in gold dust, every store being provided with a pair of gold scales, in which the miner weighed out sufficient dust from his buckskin purse to pay for his purchases.

In general trading, gold dust was taken at sixteen dollars the ounce; but in the towns and villages, at the agencies of the various San Francisco bankers and Express Companies, it was bought at a higher price, according to the quality of the dust, and as it was more or less in demand for remittance to New York.

The “Express” business of the United States is one which has not been many years established, and which was originally limited to the transmission of small parcels of value. On the discovery of gold in California, the Express houses of New York immediately established agencies in San Francisco, and at once became largely engaged in transmitting gold dust to the mint in Philadelphia, and to various parts of the United States, on account of the owners in California. As a natural result of doing such a business, they very soon began to sell their own drafts on New York, and to purchase and remit gold dust on their own account.

They had agencies also in every little town in the mines, where they enjoyed the utmost confidence of the community, receiving deposits from miners and others, and selling drafts on the Atlantic States. In fact, besides carrying on the original Express business of forwarding goods and parcels, and keeping up an independent post-office of their own, they became also, to all intents and purposes, bankers, and did as large an exchange business as any legitimate banking firm in the country.

The want of coin was equally felt in San Francisco, and coins of all countries were taken into circulation to make up the deficiency. As yet a mint had not been granted to California, but there was a Government Assay Office, which issued a large octagonal gold piece of the value of fifty dollars—a roughly executed coin, about twice the bulk of a crown-piece; while the greater part of the five, ten, and twenty dollar pieces were not from the United States Mint, but were coined and issued by private firms in San Francisco.

Silver was still more scarce, and many pieces were consequently current at much more than their value. A quarter of a dollar was the lowest appreciable sum represented by coin, and any piece approaching it in size was equally current at the same rate. A franc passed for a quarter of a dollar, while a five-franc piece only passed for a dollar, which is about its actual worth. As a natural consequence of francs being thus taken at 25 per cent more than their real value, large quantities of them were imported and put into circulation. In 1854, however, the bankers refused to receive them, and they gradually disappeared.

There was wonderfully little precaution taken in conveying the gold down from the mountains, and yet, although nothing deserving the name of an escort ever accompanied it, I never knew an instance of an attack upon it being attempted. On several occasions I saw the Express messenger taking down a quantity of gold from Downieville. He and another man, both well mounted, were driving a mule loaded with leathern sacks, containing probably two or three hundred pounds’ weight of gold. They were well armed, of course; but a couple of robbers, had they felt so inclined, might easily have knocked them both over with their rifles in the solitude of the forest, without much fear of detection. Bad as California was, it appeared a proof that it was not altogether such a country as was generally supposed, when large quantities of gold were thus regularly brought over the lonely mountain-trails, with even less protection than would have been thought necessary in many parts of the Old World.

From Oak Valley I went down to Slate Range with an American who was anxious I should visit his camp there. After climbing down the mountain-side, we at last reached the river, which here was confined between huge masses of slate rock, turning in its course, and disappearing behind bold rocky points so abruptly, that seldom could more of the length than the breadth of the river be seen at a time.

An hour’s scrambling over the sharp-edged slate rocks on the side of the river brought us to his camp, or at least the place where he and his partners camped out, which was on the bare rocks, in a corner so overshadowed by the steep mountain that the sun never shone upon it. It was certainly the least luxurious habitation, and in the most wild and rugged locality, I had yet seen in the mines. On a rough board which rested on two stones were a number of tin plates, pannikins, and such articles of table furniture, while a few flat stones alongside answered the purpose of chairs. Scattered about, as was usual in all miners’ camps, were quantities of empty tins of preserved meats, sardines, and oysters, empty bottles of all shapes and sizes, innumerable ham-bones, old clothes, and other rubbish. Round the blackened spot which was evidently the kitchen were pots and frying-pans, sacks of flour and beans, and other provisions, together with a variety of cans and bottles, of which no one could tell the contents without inspection; for in the mines everything is perverted from its original purpose, butter being perhaps stowed away in a tin labelled “fresh lobsters,” tea in a powder canister, and salt in a sardine-box.

There was nothing in the shape of a tent or shanty of any sort; it was not required as a shelter from the heat of the sun, as the place was in the perpetual shade of the mountain, and at night each man rolled himself up in his blankets, and made a bed of the smoothest and softest piece of rock he could find.

This part of the river was very rich, the gold being found in the soft slate rock between the layers and in the crevices.

My friend and his partners were working in a “wing dam” in front of their camp, and the river, being pushed back off one half of its bed, rushed past in a roaring torrent, white with foam. A large water-wheel was set in it, which worked several pumps, and a couple of feet above it lay a pine-tree, which had been felled there so as to serve as a bridge. The river was above thirty feet wide, and the tree, not more than a foot and a half in diameter, was in its original condition, perfectly round and smooth, and was, moreover, kept constantly wet with the spray from the wheel, which was so close that one could almost touch it in passing. If one had happened to slip and fall into the water, he would have had about as much chance of coming out alive as if he had fallen before the paddles of a steamer; and any gentleman with shaky legs and unsteady nerves, had he been compelled to pass such a bridge, would most probably have got astride of it, and so worked his passage across. In the mines, however, these “pine-log crossings” were such a very common style of bridge, that every one was used to them, and walked them like a rope-dancer: in fact, there was a degree of pleasant excitement in passing a very slippery and difficult one such as this.

CHAPTER XVII.