Shirley Letters from California Mines in 1851-52 — Letter 10

_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR, _November_ 25, 1851. Nothing of importance has happened since I last wrote you, except that I have become a _mineress_, that is, if the having washed a pan of dirt with my own hands, and procured therefrom three dollars and twenty-five cents in gold-dust, which I shall inclose in this letter, will entitle me to the name.

I can truly say, with the blacksmith's apprentice at the close of his first day's work at the anvil, that I am sorry I learned the trade, for I wet my feet, tore my dress, spoilt a pair of new gloves, nearly froze my fingers, got an awful headache, took cold, and lost a valuable breastpin, in this my labor of love.

After such melancholy self-sacrifice on my part, I trust you will duly prize my gift.

I can assure you that it is the last golden handiwork you will ever receive from Dame Shirley.

Apropos of lady gold-washers in general, it is a common habit with people residing in towns in the vicinity of the diggings to make up pleasure-parties to those places.

Each woman of the company will exhibit, on her return, at least twenty dollars of the oro, which she will gravely inform you she has just panned out from a single basinful of the soil.

This, of course, gives strangers a very erroneous idea of the average richness of auriferous dirt.

I myself thought (now, don't laugh) that one had but to saunter gracefully along romantic streamlets on sunny afternoons, with a parasol and white kid gloves perhaps, and to stop now and then to admire the scenery, and carelessly rinse out a small panful of yellow sand (without detriment to the white kids, however, so easy did I fancy the whole process to be), in order to fill one's work-bag with the most beautiful and rare specimens of the precious mineral.

Since I have been here I have discovered my mistake, and also the secret of the brilliant success of former gold-washeresses.

The miners are in the habit of flattering the vanity of their fair visitors by scattering a handful of "salt" (which, strange to say, is _exactly_ the color of gold-dust, and has the remarkable property of often bringing to light very curious lumps of the ore) through the dirt before the dainty fingers touch it, and the dear creatures go home with their treasures, firmly believing that mining is the prettiest pastime in the world.

I had no idea of permitting such a costly joke to be played upon me; so I said but little of my desire to "go through the motions" of gold-washing, until one day, when, as I passed a deep hole in which several men were at work, my companion requested the owner to fill a small pan, which I had in my hand, with dirt from the bed-rock.

This request was, of course, granted, and the treasure having been conveyed to the edge of the river, I succeeded, after much awkward maneuvering on my own part, and considerable assistance from friend H. , an experienced miner, in gathering together the above-specified sum.

All the diggers of our acquaintance say that it is an excellent "prospect," even to come from the bed-rock, where, naturally, the richest dirt is found.

To be sure, there are, now and then, "lucky strikes," such, for instance, as that mentioned in a former letter, where a person took out of a single basinful of soil two hundred and fifty-six dollars.

But such luck is as rare as the winning of a hundred-thousand-dollar prize in a lottery.

We are acquainted with many here whose gains have _never_ amounted to much more than wages, that is, from six to eight dollars a day.

And a claim which yields a man a steady income of ten dollars _per diem_ is considered as very valuable.

I received an immense fright the other morning.

I was sitting by the fire, quietly reading "Lewis Arundel," which had just fallen into my hands, when a great shout and trampling of feet outside attracted my attention.

Naturally enough, my first impulse was to run to the door, but scarcely had I risen to my feet for that purpose, when a mighty crash against the side of the cabin, shaking it to the foundation, threw me suddenly upon my knees.

So violent was the shock that for a moment I thought the staunch old logs, mossed with the pale verdure of ages, were falling in confusion around me.

As soon as I could collect my scattered senses, I looked about to see what had happened.

Several stones had fallen from the back of the chimney, mortar from the latter covered the hearth, the cloth over-head was twisted into the funniest possible wrinkles, the couch had jumped two feet from the side of the house, the little table lay on its back, holding up _four_ legs instead of _one_, the chessmen were rolling merrily about in every direction, the dishes had all left their usual places, the door, which, ever since, has obstinately refused to let itself be shut, was thrown violently open, while an odd-looking pile of articles lay in the middle of the room, which, upon investigation, was found to consist of a pail, a broom, a bell, some candlesticks, a pack of cards, a loaf of bread, a pair of boots, a bunch of cigars, and some clay pipes (the only things, by the way, rendered utterly _hors de combat_ in the assault).

But one piece of furniture retained its attitude, and that was the elephantine bedstead, which nothing short of an earthquake could move.

Almost at the same moment several acquaintances rushed in, begging me not to be alarmed, as the danger was past.

"But what has happened?"

I eagerly inquired.

"O, a large tree, which was felled this morning, has rolled down from the brow of the hill."

And its having struck a rock a few feet from the house, losing thereby the most of its force, had alone saved us from utter destruction.

I grew sick with terror when I understood the awful fate from which Providence had preserved me, and even now my heart leaps painfully with mingled fear and gratitude when I think how closely that pale death-shadow glided by me, and of the loving care which forbade it to linger upon our threshold.

Every one who saw the forest giant descending the hill with the force of a mighty torrent expected to see the cabin instantly prostrated to the earth.

As it was, they all say that it swayed from the perpendicular more than six inches.

Poor W. , whom you may remember my having mentioned in a former letter as having had a leg amputated a few weeks ago, and who was visiting us at the time, (he had been brought from the Empire in a rocking-chair,) looked like a marble statue of resignation.

He possesses a face of uncommon beauty, and his large, dark eyes have always, I fancy, a sorrowful expression.

Although he knew from the first shout what was about to happen, and was sitting on the couch which stood at that side of the cabin where the log must necessarily strike, and in his mutilated condition had, as he has since said, not the faintest hope of escape, yet the rich color for which he is remarkable paled not a shade during the whole affair.

The woodman who came so near causing a catastrophe was, I believe, infinitely more frightened than his might-have-been victims.

He is a good-natured, stupid creature, and did not dare to descend the hill until some time after the excitement had subsided.

The ludicrous expression of terror which his countenance wore when he came in to see what damage had been done, and to ask pardon for his carelessness, made us all laugh heartily.

W.

related the almost miraculous escape of two persons from a similar danger last winter.

The cabin, which was on Smith's Bar, was crushed into a mass of ruins almost in an instant, while an old man and his daughter, who were at dinner within its walls, remained sitting in the midst of the fallen logs, entirely unhurt.

The father immediately seized a gun and ran after the careless woodman, swearing that he would shoot him.

Fortunately for the latter (for there is no doubt that in the first moments of his rage the old man would have slain him), his younger legs enabled him to make his escape, and he did not dare to return to the settlement for some days.

It has heretofore been a source of great interest to me to listen to the ringing sound of the ax, and the solemn crash of those majestic sentinels of the hills as they bow their green foreheads to the dust, but now I fear that I shall always hear them with a feeling of apprehension mingling with my former awe, although every one tells us that there is no danger of a repetition of the accident.

Last week there was a post-mortem examination of two men who died very suddenly in the neighborhood.

Perhaps it will sound rather barbarous when I tell you that as there was no building upon the Bar which admitted light enough for the purpose, it was found necessary to conduct the examination in the open air, to the intense interest of the Kanakas, Indians, French, Spanish, English, Irish, and Yankees, who had gathered eagerly about the spot.

Paganini Ned, with an anxious desire that Mrs. ---- should be _amused_ as much as possible in her mountain-home, rushed up from the kitchen, his dusky face radiant with excitement, to inform me that I could see both the bodies by just looking out of the window!

I really frightened the poor fellow by the abrupt and vehement manner in which I declined taking advantage of his kindly hint.

One of the deceased was the husband of an American lady lecturess of the most intense description; and a strong-minded bloomer on the broadest principles.

Apropos, how _can_ women, many of whom, I am told, are _really_ interesting and intelligent,--how _can_ they spoil their pretty mouths and ruin their beautiful complexions by demanding with Xanthippian _fervor_, in the presence, often, of a vulgar, irreverent mob, what the gentle creatures are pleased to call their "rights"?

How _can_ they wish to soil the delicate texture of their airy fancies by pondering over the wearying stupidities of Presidential elections, or the bewildering mystifications of rabid metaphysicians?

And, above all, how _can_ they so far forget the sweet, shy coquetries of shrinking womanhood as to don those horrid bloomers?

As for me, although a _wife_, I never wear the--well, you know what they call them when they wish to quiz henpecked husbands--even in the strictest privacy of life.

I confess to an almost religious veneration for trailing drapery, and I pin my vestural faith with unflinching obstinacy to sweeping petticoats.

I knew a strong-minded bloomer at home, of some talent, and who was possessed, in a certain sense, of an excellent education.

One day, after having flatteringly informed me that I really _had_ a "soul above buttons" and the nursery, she gravely proposed that I should improve my _mind_ by poring six hours a day over the metaphysical subtleties of Kant, Cousin, etc. , and I remember that she called me a "piece of fashionable insipidity," and taunted me with not daring to go out of the beaten track, because I _truly_ thought (for in those days I was an humble little thing enough, and sincerely desirous of walking in the right path as straitly as my feeble judgment would permit) that there were other authors more congenial to the flowerlike delicacy of the feminine intellect than her pet writers.

When will our sex appreciate the exquisite philosophy and truth of Lowell's remark upon the habits of Lady Redbreast and her esposo Robin, as illustrating the beautifully varied spheres of man and woman?

-- He sings to the wide world, she to her nest;

In the nice ear of Nature, which song is the best?

Speaking of birds reminds me of a misfortune that I have lately experienced, which, in a life where there is so little to amuse and interest one, has been to me a subject of real grief.

About three weeks ago, F. saw on the hill a California pheasant, which he chased into a coyote-hole and captured.

Knowing how fond I am of pets, he brought it home and proposed that I should try to tame it.

Now, from earliest childhood I have resolutely refused to keep _wild_ birds, and when I have had them given to me (which has happened several times in this country,--young bluebirds, etc. ), I have invariably set them free, and I proposed doing the same with the pretty pheasant, but as they are the most delicately exquisite in flavor of all game, F. said that if I did not wish to keep it he would wring its neck and have it served up for dinner.

With the cruelty of kindness--often more disastrous than that of real malice--I shrank from having it killed, and consented to let it run about the cabin.

It was a beautiful bird, a little larger than the domestic hen.

Its slender neck, which it curved with haughty elegance, was tinted with various shades of a shining steel color.

The large, bright eye glanced with the prettiest shyness at its captors, and the cluster of feathers forming its tail drooped with the rare grace of an ostrich-plume.

The colors of the body were of a subdued brilliancy, reminding one of a rich but somber mosaic.

As it seemed very quiet, I really believed that in time we should be able to tame it.

Still, it _would_ remain constantly under the sofa or bedstead.

So F. concluded to place it in a cage for a few hours of each day, in order that it might become gradually accustomed to our presence.

This was done, the bird appearing as well as ever, and after closing the door of its temporary prison one day I left it and returned to my seat by the fire.

In less than two minutes afterwards, a slight struggle in the cage attracted my attention.

I ran hastily back, and you may imagine my distress when I found the beautiful pheasant lying lifeless upon the ground.

It never breathed or showed the faintest sign of life afterwards.

You may laugh at me if you please, but I firmly believe that it died of homesickness.

What wonder that the free, beautiful, happy creature of God, torn from the sight of the broad blue sky, the smiling river, and the fresh, fragrant fir-trees of its mountain-home, and shut up in a dark, gloomy cabin, should have broken in twain its haughty little heart?

Yes, you may laugh, call me sentimental, etc. , but I shall never forgive myself for having killed, by inches, in my selfish and cruel kindness, that pretty creature.

Many people here call this bird a grouse, and those who have crossed the plains say that it is very much like the prairie-hen.

The Spanish name is gallina del campo, literally, hen of the field.

Since the death of my poor little victim, I have been told that it is utterly impossible to tame one of these birds, and it is said that if you put their eggs under a domestic fowl, the young, almost as soon as hatched, will instinctively run away to the beloved solitudes of their congenial homes, so passionately beats for liberty each pulse of their free and wild natures.

Among the noteworthy events which have occurred since my last, I don't know how I came to forget until the close of my letter two smart shocks of an earthquake to which we were treated a week ago.

They were awe-inspiring, but, after all, were nothing in comparison to the timber-quake, an account of which I have given you above.

But as F. is about to leave for the top of the Butte Mountains with a party of Rich Barians, and as I have much to do to prepare him for the journey, I must close.

LETTER _the_ ELEVENTH [_The_ PIONEER, _December_, 1854] ROBBERY, TRIAL, EXECUTION--MORE TRAGEDY

SYNOPSIS

Theft of gold-dust.

Arrest of two suspected miners.

Trial and acquittal at miners' meeting.

Robbed persons still believe accused guilty.

Suspects leave mountains.

One returns, and plan for his detection is successful.

Confronted with evidence of guilt, discloses, on promise of immunity from prosecution, hiding-place of gold-dust.

Miners, however, try him, and on conviction he is sentenced to be hanged one hour thereafter.

Miners' mode of trial.

Respite of three hours.

Bungling execution.

Drunken miner's proposal for sign of guilt or innocence.

Corpse "enwrapped in white shroud of feathery snowflakes".

Execution the work of the more reckless.

Not generally approved.

The Squire, disregarded, protested.

Miners' procedure compared with the moderation of the first Vigilance Committee of San Francisco.

Singular disappearance of body of miner.

Returning to the States with his savings, his two companions report their leaving him in dying condition.

Arrest and fruitless investigation.

An unlikely bequest of money.

Trial and acquittal of the miner's companions.

Their story improbable, their actions like actual murder.

Letter _the_ Eleventh