Shirley Letters from California Mines in 1851-52 — Letter 14

_March_ 15, 1852. This fifteenth day of March has risen upon us with all the primeval splendor of the birth-morn of creation.

The lovely river, having resumed its crimson border (the so long idle miners being again busily at work), glides by, laughing gayly, leaping and clapping its glad waves joyfully in the golden sunlight.

The feathery fringe of the fir-trees glitters like emerald in the luster-bathing air.

A hundred tiny rivulets flash down from the brow of the mountains, as if some mighty Titan, standing on the other side, had flung athwart their greenness a chaplet of radiant pearls.

Of the large quantities of snow which have fallen within the past fortnight, a few patches of shining whiteness, high up among the hills, alone remain, while, to finish the picture, the lustrous heaven of California, looking farther off than ever through the wonderfully transparent atmosphere, and for that very reason infinitely more beautiful, bends over all the matchless blue of its resplendent arch.

Ah, the heaven of the Golden Land!

To you, living beneath the murky skies of New England, how unimaginably lovely it is.

A small poetess has said that _she_ could not love a scene where the blue sky was _always_ blue.

I think it is not so with me.

I am sure I never weary of the succession of rainless months, nor of the azure dome, day after day so mistless, which bends above this favored country.

Between each stroke of the pen I stop to glance at that splendor, whose sameness never fails, but now a flock of ring-doves break for a moment with dots of purple its monotonous beauty, and the carol of a tiny bird (the first of the season), though I cannot see the darling, fills the joyful air with its matin song.

All along the side of the hill behind the Bar, and on the latter also, glance spots of azure and crimson, in the forms of blue and red shirted miners bending steadily over pickax and shovel, reminding one involuntarily of the muck-gatherer in The Pilgrim's Progress.

But no;

that is an unjust association of ideas, for many of these men are toiling thus wearily for laughing-lipped children, calm-browed wives, or saintly mothers, gathering around the household hearth in some far-away country.

Even among the few now remaining on the river there are wanderers from the whole broad earth, and, oh, what a world of poetic recollection is suggested by their living presence!

From happiest homes and such luxuriant lands has the golden magnet drawn its victims.

From those palm-girdled isles of the Pacific, which Melville's gifted pen has consecrated to such beautiful romance; from Indies, blazing through the dim past with funeral pyres, upon whose perfumed flame ascended to God the chaste souls of her devoted wives; from the grand old woods of classic Greece, haunted by nymph and satyr, Naiad and Grace, grape-crowned Bacchus and beauty-zoned Venus; from the polished heart of artificial Europe; from the breezy backwoods of young America; from the tropical languor of Asian savannah; from _every_ spot shining through the rosy light of beloved old fables, or consecrated by lofty deeds of heroism or devotion, or shrined in our heart of hearts as the sacred home of some great or gifted one,--they gather to the golden harvest.

You will hear in the same day, almost at the same time, the lofty melody of the Spanish language, the piquant polish of the French (which, though not a _musical_ tongue, is the most _useful_ of them all), the silver, changing clearness of the Italian, the harsh gangle of the German, the hissing precision of the English, the liquid sweetness of the Kanaka, and the sleep-inspiring languor of the East Indian.

To complete the catalogue, there is the _native_ Indian, with his guttural vocabulary of twenty words!

When I hear these sounds, so strangely different, and look at the speakers, I fancy them a living polyglot of the languages, a perambulating picture-gallery illustrative of national variety in form and feature.

By the way, speaking of languages, nothing is more amusing than to observe the different styles in which the generality of Americans talk _at_ the unfortunate Spaniard.

In the first place, many of them really believe that when they have learned _sabe_ and _vamos_ (two words which they seldom use in the right place), _poco tiempo_, _si_, and _bueno_ (the last they _will_ persist in pronouncing _whayno_), they have the whole of the glorious Castilian at their tongue's end.

Some, however, eschew the above words entirely, and innocently fancy that by splitting the tympanum of an unhappy foreigner in screaming forth their sentences in good solid English they can be surely understood; others, at the imminent risk of dislocating their own limbs, and the jaws of their listeners by the laughs which their efforts elicit, make the most excruciatingly grotesque gestures, and think that _that_ is speaking Spanish.

The majority, however, place a most beautiful and touching faith in _broken English_, and when they murder it with the few words of Castilian quoted above, are firmly convinced that it is nothing but their "ugly dispositions" which make the Spaniards pretend not to understand them.

One of those dear, stupid Yankees who _will_ now and then venture out of sight of the smoke of their own chimneys as far as California, was relating _his_ experience in this particular the other day.

It seems he had lost a horse somewhere among the hills, and during his search for it met a gentlemanly Chileno, who with national suavity made the most desperate efforts to understand the questions put to him.

Of course Chileno was so stupid that he did not succeed, for it is not possible one of the Great American People could fail to express himself clearly even in Hebrew if he takes it into his cute head to speak that ancient but highly respectable language.

Our Yankee friend, however, would not allow the poor fellow even the excuse of stupidity, but declared that he only "played possum from sheer _ugliness_."

"Why," he added, in relating the circumstance, "the cross old rascal pretended not to understand his own language, though I said as plainly as possible, 'Senor, sabe mi horso vamos poco tiempo?'

which, perhaps you don't know," he proceeded to say, in a benevolent desire to enlighten our ignorance and teach us a little Castilian, "means, 'Sir, I have lost my horse; have you seen it?'

" I am ashamed to acknowledge that we did _not_ know the above-written Anglo-Spanish meant _that_!

The honest fellow concluded his story by declaring (and it is a common remark with uneducated Americans) with a most self-glorifying air of _pity_ for the poor Spaniards, "They ain't kinder like _eour_ folks," or, as that universal Aunt Somebody used so expressively to observe, "Somehow, they ain't _folksy_!"

The mistakes made on the other side are often quite as amusing.

Dr. Canas related to us a laughable anecdote of a countryman of his, with whom he happened to camp on his first arrival in San Francisco.

None of the party could speak a word of English, and the person referred to, as ignorant as the rest, went out to purchase bread, which he procured by laying down some money and pointing to a loaf of that necessary edible.

He probably heard a person use the words "some bread," for he rushed home, Canas said, in a perfect burst of newly acquired wisdom, and informed his friends that he had found out the English for "pan," and that when they wished any of that article they need but enter a bakeshop and utter the word "sombrero" in order to obtain it!

His hearers were delighted to know _that_ much of the _infernal lengua_, greatly marveling, however, that the same word which meant "hat" in Castilian should mean "bread" in English.

The Spaniards have a saying to the following effect: "Children speak in Italian, ladies speak in French, God speaks in Spanish, and the Devil speaks in English."

I commenced this letter with the intention of telling you about the weary, weary storm, which has not only thrown a damp over our spirits, but has saturated them, as it has everything else, with a deluge of moisture.

The storm king commenced his reign (or rain) on the 28th of February, and proved himself a perfect Proteus during his residence with us.

For one entire week he descended daily and nightly, without an hour's cessation, in a forty Niagara-power of water, and just as we were getting reconciled to this wet state of affairs, and were thinking seriously of learning to swim, one gloomy evening, when we least expected such a change, he stole softly down and garlanded us in a wreath of shiny snowflakes, and lo!

the next morning you would have thought that some great white bird had shed its glittering feathers all over rock, tree, hill, and bar.

He finished his vagaries by loosening, rattling, and crashing upon this devoted spot a small skyful of hailstones, which, aided by a terrific wind, waged terrible warfare against the frail tents and the calico-shirt huts, and made even the shingles on the roofs of the log cabins tremble amid their nails.

The river, usually so bland and smiling, looked really terrific.

It rose to an unexampled height, and tore along its way, a perfect mass of dark-foamed turbid waves.

At one time we had serious fears that the water would cover the whole Bar, for it approached within two or three feet of the Humboldt.

A sawmill, which had been built at a great expense by two gentlemen of Rich Bar in order to be ready for the sawing of lumber for the extensive fluming operations which are in contemplation this season, was entirely swept away, nearly ruining, it is said, the owners.

I heard a great shout early one morning, and, running to the window, had the sorrow to see wheels, planks, etc. , sailing merrily down the river.

All along the banks of the stream, men were trying to save the more valuable portions of the mill, but the torrent was so furious that it was utterly impossible to rescue a plank.

How the haughty river seemed to laugh to scorn the feeble efforts of man!

How its mad waves tossed in wild derision the costly workmanship of his skillful hands!

But know, proud Rio de las Plumas, that these very men whose futile efforts you fancy that you have for once so gloriously defeated will gather from beneath your lowest depths the beautiful ore which you thought you had hidden forever and forever beneath your azure beauty!

It is certainly most amusing to hear of the different plans which the poor miners invented to pass the time during the trying season of rains.

Of course, poker and euchre, whist and ninepins, to say nothing of monte and faro, are now in constant requisition.

But as a person would starve to death on _toujours des perdrix_, so a man cannot _always_ be playing cards.

Some _literary_ bipeds, I have been told, reduced to the last degree of intellectual destitution, in a beautiful spirit of self-martyrdom betook themselves to blue blankets, bunks, and Ned Buntline's novels.

And one day an unhappy youth went pen-mad, and in a melancholy fit of authorship wrote a thrilling account of our dreadful situation, which, directed to the editor of a Marysville paper, was sealed up in a keg and set adrift, and is at this moment, no doubt, stranded, high and dry, in the streets of Sacramento, for it is generally believed that the cities of the plain have been under water during the storm.

The chief amusement, however, has been the raffling of gold rings.

There is a silversmith here, who, like the rest of the miserable inhabitants, having nothing to do, discovered that he could make gold rings.

Of course every person must have a specimen of his workmanship, and the next thing was to raffle it off, the winner generally repeating the operation.

Nothing was done or talked of for some days but this important business.

I have one of these rings, which is really very beautifully finished, and although perhaps at home it would look vulgar, there is a sort of massive and barbaric grandeur about it which seems well suited to our wild life of the hills.

I shall send you one of these, which will be to you a curiosity, and will doubtless look strangely enough amid the graceful and airy politeness of French jewelry.

But I think that it will be interesting to you, as having been manufactured in the mines by an inexperienced workman, and without the necessary tools.

If it is too hideous to be worn upon your slender little finger, you can have it engraved for a seal, and attach it as a charm to your watch-chain.

Last evening Mr. C.

showed us a specimen ring which he had just finished.

It is the handsomest _natural_ specimen that I ever saw.

Pure gold is generally dull in hue, but this is of a most beautiful shade of yellow, and extremely brilliant.

It is, in shape and size, exactly like the flower of the jonquil.

In the center is inserted, with all the nice finish of art (or rather of nature, for it is her work), a polished piece of quartz, of the purest shade of pink, and between each radiant petal is set a tiny crystal of colorless quartz, every one of which flashes like a real diamond.

It is known beyond doubt to be a real live specimen, as many saw it when it was first taken from the earth, and the owner has carried it carelessly in his pocket for months.

We would gladly have given fifty dollars for it, though its nominal value is only about an ounce, but it is already promised as a present to a gentleman in Marysville.

Although rather a clumsy ring, it would make a most unique brooch, and indeed is almost the _only_ piece of unmanufactured ore which I have ever seen that I would be willing to wear.

I have a piece of gold which, without any alteration, except, of course, engraving, will make a beautiful seal.

It is in the shape of an eagle's head, and is wonderfully perfect.

It was picked up from the surface of the ground by a gentleman on his first arrival here, and he said that he would give it to the next lady to whom he should be introduced.

He carried it in his purse for more than a year, when, in obedience to the promise made when he found it, it became the property of your humble servant, Shirley.

The other day a hole caved in, burying up to the neck two unfortunates who were in it at the time.

Luckily, they were but slightly injured.

F.

is at present attending a man at The Junction, who was stabbed very severely in the back during a drunken frolic.

The people have not taken the slightest notice of this affair, although for some days the life of the wounded man was despaired of.

The perpetrator of the deed had not the slightest provocation from his unfortunate victim.

LETTER _the_ FIFTEENTH [_The_ PIONEER, _May_, 1855] MINING METHODS--MINERS, GAMBLERS, ETC.

SYNOPSIS

Difficulty experienced in writing amid the charms of California mountain scenery.

Science the blindest guide on a gold-hunting expedition.

Irreverent contempt of the beautiful mineral to the dictates of science.

Nothing better to be expected from the root of all evil.

Foreigners more successful than Americans in its pursuit.

Americans always longing for big strikes.

Success lies in staying and persevering.

How a camp springs into existence.

Prospecting, panning out, and discovery that it pays.

The claim.

Building the shanty.

Spreading of news of new diggings.

Arrival of the monte-dealers.

Industrious begin digging for gold.

The claiming system.

How claims worked.

Working difficult amidst huge mountain rocks.

Partnerships then compulsory.

Naming the mine or company.

The long-tom.

Panning out the gold.

Sinking shaft to reach bed-rock.

Drifting coyote-holes in search of crevices.

Water-ditches and water companies.

Washing out in long-tom.

Waste-ditches.

Tailings.

Fluming companies.

Rockers.

Gold-mining is nature's great lottery scheme.

Thousands taken out in a few hours.

Six ounces in six months.

"Almost all seem to have lost".

Jumped claims.

Caving in of excavations.

Abandonment of expensive paying shafts.

Miner making "big strike" almost sure prey of professional gamblers.

As spring opens, gamblers flock in like birds of prey.

After stay of only four days, gambler leaves Bar with over a thousand dollars of miners' gold.

As many foreigners as Americans on the river.

Foreigners generally extremely ignorant and degraded.

Some Spaniards of the highest eduction and accomplishment.

Majority of Americans mechanics of better class.

Sailors and farmers next in number.

A few merchants and steamboat-clerks.

A few physicians.

One lawyer.

Ranchero of distinguished appearance an accomplished monte-dealer and horse-jockey.

Said to have been a preacher in the States.

Such not uncommon for California.