Shirley Letters from California Mines in 1851-52 — Letter 13
SOCIABILITY _and_ EXCITEMENTS _of_ MINING-LIFE _From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR, _February_ 27, 1852. You will find this missive, dear M. , a journal, rather than a letter;
for the few insignificant events which have taken place since I last wrote to you will require but three lines apiece for their recital.
But stop; when I say "insignificant" I forget one all-important misfortune which, for our sins I suppose, has befallen us, in the sudden departure of our sable Paganini.
Yes; Vattal Ned to the valley hath gone, In a Marysville kitchen you'll find him;
Two rusty pistols he girded on, And his violin hung behind him.
His fiddle is heard no more on all the Bar, and silence reigns through the calico halls of the Humboldt.
His bland smile and his dainty plats, his inimitably choice language and his pet tambourine, his woolly corkscrew and his really beautiful music, have, I fear, vanished forever from the mountains.
Just before he left he found a birthday which belonged to himself, and was observed all the morning thereof standing about in spots, a perfect picture of perplexity painted in burnt umber.
Inquiry being made by sympathizing friends as to the cause of his distress, he answered, that, having no fresh meat, he could not prepare a dinner for the log cabin, worthy of the occasion!
But no circumstance can put a man of genius entirely _hors de combat_.
Confine him in a dungeon, banish him to an uninhabited island, place him, solitary and alone, in a boundless desert, deprive him of all but life, and he will still achieve wonders.
With the iron hams, the piscatory phenomenon referred to in my last, and a can of really excellent oysters, Ned's birthday dinner was a _chef-d'oeuvre_.
He accompanied it with a present of a bottle of very good champagne, requesting us to drink it (which we _did_, not having the fear of temperance societies or Maine-law liquor bills before our eyes) in honor of his having dropped another year into the returnless past.
There has been a great excitement here on account of the fancied discovery of valuable quartz-mines in the vicinity of the American Rancho, which is situated about twenty miles from this place.
Half the people upon the river went out there for the purpose of prospecting and staking claims.
The quartz apparently paid admirably.
Several companies were speedily formed, and men sent to Hamilton, the county seat, to record the various claims.
F.
himself went out there, and remained several days.
Now, however, the whole excitement has turned out to be a complete humbug.
The quicksilver which was procured at the rancho for the testing of the quartz, the victims declare, was salted, and they accuse the rancheros of conniving at the fraud for the purpose of making money out of those who were compelled to lodge and board with them while prospecting.
The accused affirm that if there was any deception (which, however, is beyond the shadow of a doubt), they also were deceived; and as they appear like honest men enough, I am inclined to believe them.
Just now there is a new quartz-mine excitement.
A man has engaged to lead a company to the golden and crystallized spot.
Probably this also will prove, like the other, a mere yellow bubble.
But, even if as rich as he says, it will be of little value at present, on account of the want of suitable machinery, that now in use being so expensive and wasting so much of the precious metal that it leaves the miner but little profit.
It is thought, however, by men of judgment that in a few years, when the proper way of working them to advantage has been discovered, the quartz-mines will be more profitable than any others in California.
A few days ago we had another specimen of illegal, but in this case at least extremely equitable, justice.
Five men left the river without paying their debts.
A meeting of the miners was convened, and "Yank," who possesses an iron frame, the perseverance of a bulldog, and a constitution which never knew fatigue, was appointed, with another person, to go in search of the culprits and bring them back to Indian Bar.
He found them a few miles from this place, and returned with them in triumph, and alone, his friend having been compelled to remain behind on account of excessive fatigue.
The self-constituted court, after a fair trial, obliged the five men to settle all liabilities before they again left the river.
Last week the Frenchmen on the river celebrated the Revolution of February, 1848. What kind of a time they had during the day, I know not, but in the evening (apropos, part of them reside at Missouri Bar) they formed a torchlight procession and marched to Rich Bar, which, by the way, takes airs upon itself, and considers itself a _town_.
They made quite a picturesque appearance as they wound up the hill, each one carrying a tiny pine-tree, the top of which was encircled with a diadem of flame, beautifully lighting up the darker verdure beneath, and gleaming like a spectral crown through the moonless, misty evening.
We could not help laughing at their watchwords.
They ran in this wise: Shorge Washingtone, James K. Polk, Napoleon Bonaparte!
Liberte, egalite, fraternite!
Andrew Jacksone, President Fillmore, and Lafayette!
I give them to you word for word, as I took them down at the time.
Since the bridges have been swept away, I have been to Rich Bar but once.
It is necessary to go over the hill now, and the walk is a very wearisome one.
It is much more pleasant to live on the hills than on the Bar, and during our walk we passed two or three cozy little cabins, nestling in broad patches of sunlight, and surrounded with ample space for a promenade, which made me quite envious.
Unfortunately, F.' s profession renders it desirable that he should reside where the largest number of people congregate, and then the ascent to the habitable portion of the hill is as steep as any part of that leading into Rich Bar, and it would be impossible for him to walk up and down it several times a day,--a task which he would be compelled to perform if we resided there.
For that reason I make myself as happy as possible where I am.
I have been invited to dine at the best-built log cabin on the river.
It is situated on the hill of which I have just been writing, and is owned by five or six intelligent, hard-working, sturdy young men.
Of course it has no floor, but it boasts a perfect marvel of a fireplace.
They never pretend to split the wood for it, but merely fall a giant fir-tree, strip it of its branches, and cut it into pieces the length of the aforesaid wonder.
This cabin is lighted in a manner truly ingenious.
Three feet in length of a log on one side of the room is removed and glass jars inserted in its place, the space around the necks of said jars being filled in with clay.
This novel idea is really an excellent substitute for window-glass.
You will perhaps wonder where they procure enough of the material for such a purpose.
They are brought here in enormous quantities, containing brandied fruits, for there is no possible luxury connected with drinking, which is procurable in California, that cannot be found in the mines, and the very men who fancy it a piece of wicked extravagance to _buy_ bread, because they can save a few dimes by _making_ it themselves, are often those who think nothing of spending from fifteen to twenty dollars a night in the bar-rooms.
There is at this moment a perfect Pelion-upon-Ossa-like pile of beautiful glass jars, porter, ale, champagne, and claret bottles, lying in front of my window.
The latter are a very convenient article for the manufacture of the most enchantingly primitive lanterns.
Any one in want of a utensil of this kind has but to step to his cabin-door, take up a claret or champagne bottle, knock off the bottom, and dropping into the neck thereof, through the opening thus made, a candle, to have a most excellent lantern.
And the beauty of it is, that, every time you wish to use such a thing, you can have a _new_ one.
But to return to my description of the cabin.
It consists of one very large room, in the back part of which are neatly stored several hundred sacks of flour, a large quantity of potatoes, sundry kegs of butter, and plenty of hams and mackerel.
The furniture consists of substantial wooden stools, and in these I observed that our friends followed the fashion, no two of them being made alike.
Some stood proudly forth in all the grandeur of four legs, others affected the classic grace of the ancient tripod, while a few shrank bashfully into corners on one stubbed stump.
Some round, some square, and some triangular in form.
Several were so high that, when enthroned upon them, the ends of my toes just touched the ground, and others were so low that, on rising, I carried away a large portion of the soil upon my unfortunate skirts.
Their bunks, as they call them, were arranged in two rows along one side of the cabin, each neatly covered with a dark-blue or red blanket.
A handsome oilcloth was spread upon the table, and the service consisted of tin plates, a pretty set of stone-china cups and saucers, and some good knives and forks, which looked almost as bright as if they had just come from the cutler's. For dinner we had boiled beef and ham, broiled mackerel, potatoes, splendid new bread made by one of the gentlemen of the house, coffee, milk (Mr. B.
has bought a cow, and now and then we get a wee drop of milk), and the most delicious Indian meal, parched, that I ever tasted.
I have been very particular in describing this cabin, for it is the best-built and by far the best-appointed one upon the river.
I have said nothing about candlesticks as yet.
I must confess that in _them_ the spice of life is carried almost too far.
One gets satiated with their wonderful variety.
I will mention but two or three of these makeshifts.
Bottles, _without_ the bottoms knocked off, are general favorites.
Many, however, exhibit an insane admiration for match-boxes, which, considering that they _will_ keep falling _all_ the time, and leaving the entire house in darkness, and scattering spermaceti in every direction, is rather an inconvenient taste.
Some fancy blocks of wood with an ornamental balustrade of three nails, and I _have_ seen praiseworthy candles making desperate efforts to stand straight in tumblers!
Many of our friends, with a beautiful and sublime faith in spermaceti and good luck, eschew everything of the kind, and you will often find their tables picturesquely covered with splashes of the former article, elegantly ornamented with little strips of black wick.
The sad forebodings mentioned in a former letter have come to pass.
For some weeks, with the exception of two or three families, every one upon the river has been out of butter, onions, and potatoes.
Our kind friends upon the hill, who have a little remaining, sent me a few pounds of the former the other day.
Ham, mackerel, and bread, with occasionally a treat of the precious butter, have been literally our only food for a long time.
The rancheros have not driven in any beef for several weeks, and although it is so pleasant on the bars, the cold on the mountains still continues so intense that the trail remained impassable to mules.
The weather here for the past five weeks has been like the Indian summer at home.
Nearly every day I take a walk up onto the hill back of our cabin.
Nobody lives there, it is so very steep.
I have a cozy little seat in the fragrant bosom of some evergreen shrubs, where often I remain for hours.
It is almost like death to mount to my favorite spot, the path is so steep and stony; but it is new life, when I arrive there, to sit in the shadow of the pines and listen to the plaintive wail of the wind as it surges through their musical leaves, and to gaze down upon the tented Bar lying in somber gloom (for as yet the sun does not shine upon it) and the foam-flaked river, and around at the awful mountain splashed here and there with broad patches of snow, or reverently upward into the stainless blue of our unmatchable sky.
This letter is much longer than I thought it would be when I commenced it, and I believe that I have been as minutely particular as even you can desire.
I have mentioned everything that has happened since I last wrote.
Oh!
I was very near forgetting a present of two ring-doves (alas!
they had been shot) and a blue jay which I received yesterday.
We had them roasted for dinner last evening.
The former were very beautiful, approaching in hue more nearly to a French gray than what is generally called a dun color, with a perfect ring of ivory encircling each pretty neck.
The blue jay was exactly like its namesake in the States.
Good by, my dear M. , and remember that the _same_ sky, though not quite so beautiful a portion of it, which smiles upon _me_ in sunny California bends lovingly over _you_ in cold, dreary, but, in spite of its harsh airs, beloved New England.
LETTER _the_ FOURTEENTH [_The_ PIONEER, _April_, 1855] SPRINGTIDE--LINGUISTICS--STORMS--ACCIDENTS
SYNOPSIS
The splendor of a March morning in the mountains of California.
First bird of the season.
Blue and red shirted miners a feature of the landscape.
"Wanderers from the whole broad earth".
The languages of many nations heard.
How the Americans attempt to converse with the Spanish-speaking population.
"Sabe," "vamos," "poco tiempo," "si," and "bueno," a complete lexicon of la lengua castellana, in mind of Americans.
An "ugly disposition" manifested when the speaker is not understood.
Spaniards "ain't kinder like our folks," nor "folksy".
Mistakes not all on one side.
Spanish proverb regarding certain languages.
Not complimentary to English.
Stormy weather.
Storm king a perfect Proteus.
River on a rampage.
Sawmill carried away.
Pastimes of the miners during the storm.
MS.
account of storm sent in keg via river to Marysville newspaper.
Silversmith makes gold rings during storm.
Raffling and reraffling of same as pastime.
Some natural gold rings.
Nugget in shape of eagle's head presented to author.
Miners buried up to neck in cave-in.
Escape with but slight injury.
Miner stabbed without provocation in drunken frolic.
Life despaired of at first.
No notice taken of affair.
Letter _the_ Fourteenth SPRINGTIDE--LINGUISTICS--STORMS--ACCIDENTS
_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR,
