A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country

ByThomas Dykes Beasley

Author of "The Coming of Portola"

With A Foreward byCharles A. Murdock

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below;The dim Sierras, far beyond, upliftingTheir minarets of snow. - Dickens in Camp. 

The Chapters

Foreword

Preface

Reminiscences of Bret Harte. "Plain Language From Truthful James. " TheGlamour of the Old Mining Towns

Inception of the Tramp. Stockton to Angel's Camp. Tuttletown and the"Sage of Jackass Hill"

Tuolumne to Placerville. Charm of Sonora and Fascination of San Andreasand Mokelumne Hill

J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall andHis Pathetic End

Auburn to Nevada City Via Colfax and Grass Valley. Ben Taylor and HisHome

E. W. Maslin and His Recollections of Pioneer Days in Grass Valley. Origin of Our Mining Laws

Grass Valley to Smartsville. Sucker Flat and Its Personal Appeal

Smartsville to Marysville. Some Reflections on Automobiles and "Hoboes"

Bayard Taylor and the California of Forty-nine. Bret Harte and HisLiterary Pioneer Contemporaries

The Illustrations

Ruins of Coloma, a Name "Forever Associated With the Wildest Scramblefor Gold the World Has Ever Been"

Map of the "Bret Harte Country, " Showing the Route Taken by the Writer, With the Towns, Important Rivers, and County Boundaries of the CountryTraversed

The Tuttletown Hotel, Tuttletown; a Wooden Building Erected in the EarlyFifties

Mokelumne River; "Whatever the Meaning of the Indian Name, One May RestAssured It Stands for Some Form of Beauty"

"A Mining Convention at Placerville"

South Fork of the American River, Coloma. The Bend in the River Is thePrecise Spot Where Gold Was First Discovered in California

Ben Taylor and His Home, Grass Valley, Showing the Spruce He PlantedNearly Half a Century Ago

E. W. Maslin in the Garden of His Alameda Home

Angel's Hotel, Angel's Camp, Erected in 1852, as was the Wells FargoBuilding Which Faces it Across the Street

Main Hoist of the Utica Mine, Angel's Camp, Situated on the Summit of aHill Overlooking the Town

The Stanislaus River, Near Tuttletown, "Running in a Deep and SplendidCanon"

Jackass Hill, Tuttletown. The Road to the Left Leads to the Former Homeof "Jim" Gillis

Home of Mrs. Swerer, Tuttletown. The Hotel and This Dwelling CompriseAll That Is Habitable of the Tuttletown of Bret Harte

Main Street, Sonora, "So Shaded by Trees That Buildings Are Half-hidden"

Sonora, Looking Southeast. "No Matter From What Direction You ApproachIt, Sonora Seems to Lie Basking in the Sun"

Main Street, San Andreas, "During the Mid-day Heat, Almost Deserted"

Metropolitan Hotel, San Andreas; in the Bar-room of Which Occurred the"Jumping Frog" Incident

Mokelumne Hotel, on the Summit of Mokelumne Hill, and at the Head of theFamous Chili Gulch

Placerville, the County Seat of El Dorado County, From the Road toDiamond Springs

The Cary House, Placerville. "It Was Here That Horace Greeley TerminatedHis Celebrated Stage Ride With Hank Monk"

Middle Fork of the American River, Near Auburn, and Half a Mile AboveIts Junction With the North Fork

An Apple Orchard, Grass Valley, "The Trees Growing in the Grass, as inEngland and the Atlantic States"

The Western Hotel, Grass Valley. "The Well and Pump Add a Quaint andCharacteristic Touch"

A Bit of Picturesque Nevada City, Embracing the Homes of Its LeadingCitizens

Foreword

In California's imaginary Hall of Fame, Bret Harte must be accorded aprominent, if not first place. His short stories and dialect poemspublished fifty years ago made California well known the world over andgave it a romantic interest conceded no other community. He saw thepicturesque and he made the world see it. His power is unaccountable ifwe deny him genius. He was essentially an artist. His imagination gavehim vision, a new life in beautiful setting supplied colors and rareliterary skill painted the picture. 

His capacity for absorption was marvelous. At the age of about twenty hespent less than a year in the foot-hills of the Sierras, among pioneerminers, and forty-five years of literary output did not exhaust hisimpressions. He somewhere refers to an "eager absorption of the strangelife around me, and a photographic sensitiveness, " to certain scenes andincidents. " "Eager absorption, " "photographic sensitiveness, " a richimagination and a fine literary style, largely due to his mother, enabled him to win at his death this acknowledgment from the "LondonSpectator:" "No writer of the present day has struck so powerful andoriginal a note as he has sounded. "

Francis Bret Harte was born in Albany, New York, August 25, 1836. Hisfather was a teacher and translator; his mother a woman of highcharacter and cultivated tastes. His father having died, he, when nine, became an office boy and later a clerk. In 1854 he came to California tojoin his mother who had married again, arriving in Oakland in March ofthat year. His employment for two years was desultory. He worked in adrug store and also wrote for Eastern magazines. Then he went to Alamoin the San Ramon Valley as tutor - a valued experience. Later in 1856 hewent to Tuolumne County where, among other things, he taught school, andmay have been an express messenger. At any rate, he stored his memorywith material that ten years later made him and the whole region famous. 

In 1857 he went to Humboldt County where his sister was living. He wasan interesting figure, gentlemanly, fastidious, reserved, sensitive, with a good fund of humor, a pleasant voice and a modest manner. Heseemed poorly fitted for anything that needed doing. He was willing, forI saw him digging post holes and building a fence with results somewhatunsatisfactory. He was more successful as tutor for two of my boyfriends. He finally became printers' devil in the office of the"Northern Californian, " where he learned the case, and incidentallycontributed graceful verse and clever prose. 

He returned to San Francisco early in 1860 and found work on the "GoldenEra, " at first as compositor and soon as writer. In May, 1864, he leftthe "Golden Era" and joined others in starting "The Californian. " Twomonths later he was made editor of the new "Overland Monthly. " Thesecond number contained "The Luck of Roaring Camp. " It attracted wideattention as a new note. Other stories and poems of merit followed. Harte's growing reputation burst in full bloom when in 1870 he filled ablank space in the "Overland" make-up with "The Heathen Chinee. " It wasquoted on the floor of the Senate and gained world-wide fame. Hereceived flattering offers and felt constrained to accept the best. InFebruary, 1871, he left California. A Boston publisher had offered him$10, 000 for whatever he might write in the following year. Harteaccepted, but the output was small. 

For seven years he wrote spasmodically, eking out his income bylecturing and newspaper work. Life was hard. In 1878 he sailed forEurope, having been appointed consular agent at Crefeld, Prussia, aboutforty miles north of Cologne. In 1880 he was made Consul at Glasgow, where he remained five years. His home thereafter was London, where hecontinued his literary work until his death in March, 1902. 

His complete works comprise nineteen volumes. His patriotic verse isfervid, his idyls are graceful and his humorous verse delightful. Theshort story he made anew. 

Harte's instincts and habits were good. He had the artistic temperamentand some of its incidental weaknesses. He acknowledged himself"constitutionally improvident, " and a debt-burdened life is not easy. His later years were pathetic. Those who knew and appreciated himremember him fondly. California failing to know him, wrongs herself. 

Charles A. Murdock. 

Preface

A desire to obtain, at first hand, any possible information in regard toreminiscences of Bret Harte, Mark Twain and others of the little coterieof writers, who in the early fifties visited the mining camps ofCalifornia and through stories that have become classics, played aprominent part in making "California" a synonym for romance, led toundertaking the tramp of which this brief narrative is a record. Thewriter met with unexpected success, having the good fortune to meet men, all over eighty years of age, who had known - in some cases intimatelyBret Harte, Mark Twain, "Dan de Quille, " Prentice Mulford, Bayard Taylorand Horace Greeley. 

It seems imperative that a relation of individual experiences - howeverdevoid of stirring incident and adventure - should be written in thefirst person. At the same time, the writer of this unpretentious storyof a summer's tramp cannot but feel that he owes his readers - should hehave any an apology for any avoidable egotism. His excuse is that, notwit notwithstanding ding the glamour attaching to the old mining towns, it is almost incredible how little is known of them by the averageCalifornian; for the Eastern tourist there is more excuse, since thefoot-hills of the Sierras lie outside the beaten tracks of travel. Hehas, therefore, assumed that "a plain unvarnished tale" of actualexperiences might not be without interest to the casual reader; andpossibly might incite in him a desire to see for himself a country notonly possessed of rare beauty, but absolutely unique in itsassociations. 

But the point to be emphasized is that the glamour is not a thing of thepast: it is there now. Nay, to a person possessed of any imagination, the ruins - say, of Coloma - appeal in all probability far stronger thanwould the actual town itself in the days when it seethed with bustle andexcitement. Not to have visited the old mining towns is not to have seenthe "heart" of California, or felt its pulsations. It is not tounderstand why the very name "California" still stirs the blood andexcites the imagination throughout the civilized world. 

If this brief narrative should induce anyone to "gird up his loins, "shoulder his pack and essay a similar pilgrimage, the author will feelthat he has not been unrewarded. And if a man over threescore years ofage can tramp through seven counties and return, in spite of intenseheat, feeling better and stronger than when he started, a young fellowin the hey-day of life and sound of wind and limb surely ought not to bediscouraged. 

Thomas Dykes Beasley. 

A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country

Chapter I

Reminiscences of Bret Harte. "Plain Language From Truthfulful James. "The Glamour of the Old Mining Towns

It is forty-four years since the writer met the author of "The Luck ofRoaring Camp" - that wonderful blending within the limits of a shortstory of humor, pathos and tragedy - which, incredible as it may seem, met with but a cold reception from the local press, and was even brandedas "indecent" and "immodest!"

On the occasion referred to, I was strolling on Rincon Hill - at thattime the fashionable residence quarter of San Francisco - in companywith Mr. J. H. Wildes, whose cousin, the late Admiral Frank Wildes, achieved fame in the battle of Manila Bay. Mr. Wildes called myattention to an approaching figure and said: "Here comes Bret Harte, aman of unusual literary ability. He is having a hard struggle now, butonly needs the opportunity, to make a name for himself. "

That opportunity arrived almost immediately. In the September number ofthe Overland Monthly, 1870, of which magazine Mr. Harte was then editor, appeared "Plain Language from Truthful James, " or "The Heathen Chinee, "as the poem was afterwards called. A few weeks later, to my amazement, while turning the pages of Punch in the Mercantile Library, I cameacross "The Heathen Chinee;" an unique compliment so far as myrecollection of Punch serves. To this generous and instantaneousrecognition of genius may be attributed in no small measure the rapiddistinction won by Bret Harte in the world of letters. 

Mr. Harte read his "Heathen Chinee" to Mrs. Wildes, some time before itwas published. This lady, a woman of brilliant attainments and one whohad a host of friends in old San Francisco, possessed the keenest senseof humor. Mr. Harte greatly valued her critical judgment. He was in thehabit of reading his stories and poems to her for her opinion anddecision, before publication, and it may well be that her heartylaughter and warm approval helped to strengthen his wavering opinion ofthe lines which convulsed Anglo-Saxondom; for no one was more surprisedthan he at the sensation they created. He had even offered the poem forpublication to Mr. Ambrose Bierce, then editing the San Francisco NewsLetter; but Mr. Bierce, recognizing its merit, returned it to Mr. Harteand prevailed upon him to publish it in his own magazine. 

Had one at that time encountered Mr. Harte in Piccadilly or FifthAvenue, he would simply have been aware of a man dressed in perfecttaste, but in the height of the prevailing fashion. On the streets ofSan Francisco, however, Bret Harte was always a notable figure, from thefact that the average man wore "slops, " devoid alike of style or cut, and usually of shiny broadcloth. Broad-brimmed black felt hats were thecustomary headgear, completing a most funereal costume. 

Mr. Harte impressed me as being singularly modest and utterly devoid ofany form of affectation. To be well dressed in a period when littleattention was paid clothes by the San Franciscan, might, it is true, insome men have suggested assumption of an air of superiority; but withMr. Harte, to dress well was simply a natural instinct. His long, drooping moustache and the side-whiskers of the time - incongruous asthe comparison may seem - called to mind the elder Sothern as "LordDundreary. " His natural expression was pensive, even sad. When oneconsiders that pathos and tragedy, perhaps even more than humor, pervadehis stories, that was not surprising. 

I had but recently arrived from England - a mere lad. California wasstill the land of gold and romance; the glamour with which Bret Hartesurrounded both, that bids fair to be immortal, held me enthralled. Angel's, Rough and Ready, Sandy Bar, Poker Flat, Placerville, Tuolumneand old Sonora represented to me enchanted ground. Fate and life'svicissitudes prevented, except in imagination, a knowledge of the Sierrafoot-hill counties; but in the back of my head all these years hadpersisted a determination to, at some time, visit a region close to theheart of every old Californian, and what better way than on foot?

In spite of Pullman cars and automobiles - or, rather, perhaps onaccount of them - the only way to see a country, to get into touch withNature and meet the inhabitants on the dead level of equality and humansympathy, is to use Nature's method of locomotion. Equipped with a stoutstick - with a view to dogs - a folding kodak camera, and your "goodsand chattels" slung in a haversack across your shoulders, you feelindependent of timecards and "routes;" and sally forth into the worldwith the philosophical determination to take things as they come; keyedto a pleasurable pitch of excitement by the knowledge that "Adventure"walks with you hand-in-hand, and that the "humors of the road" are yoursfor the seeing and understanding. 

Chapter II

Inception of the Tramp. Stockton to Angel's Camp. Tuttletown and the"Sage of Jackass Hill"

Following as near as might be the route of the old Argonauts, I avoidedtrains, and on a warm summer night boarded the Stockton boat. In theearly morning you are aware of slowly rounding the curves of the SanJoaquin River. Careful steering was most essential, as owing to the dryseason the river was unusually low. The vivid greens afforded by thetules and willows that fringe the river banks, and the occasionalhomestead surrounded by trees, with its little landing on the edge ofthe levee, should delight the eye of the artist. 

I lost no time in Stockton and headed for Milton in the foot-hills, justacross the western boundary of Calaveras County. The distance wasvariously estimated by the natives at from twenty to forty miles -Californians are careless about distances, as in other matters. Subsequently I entered it in my note book as a long twenty-eight. Eighteen miles out from Stockton, at a place called Peters, which islittle more than a railway junction, you leave the cultivated land andenter practically a desert country, destitute of water, trees, undergrowth and with but a scanty growth of grass. I ate my lunch at thelittle store and noted with apprehension that the thermometer registered104 degrees in the shaded porch. I am not likely to forget that pull often miles and inwardly confessed to a regret that I had not taken thetrain to Milton. Accustomed on "hikes" to a thirst not surpassed byanything "east of Suez, " I never before appreciated the significance ofthe word "parched" - the "tongue cleaving to the roof of the mouth. "

At Milton one enters the land of romance. What was even more appreciableat the time, it marks the limit of the inhospitable country I hadtraversed. Mr. Robert Donner, the proprietor of the Milton Hotel, toldme he once had "Black Bart" as his guest for over a week, being unawareat the time of his identity. This famous bandit in the early eighties"held up" the Yosemite stage time and again. In fact, he terrorized thewhole Sierra country from Redding to Sacramento. He was finally capturedin San Francisco through a clew obtained from a laundry mark on a pairof white cuffs. For years, Mr. Donner cherished a boot left by thehighwayman in the hurry of departure, which, much to his annoyance, wasfinally abstracted by some person unknown. To dispose of Black Bart; heserved his term and was never seen again in the Sierras. There is arumor that Wells Fargo & Company, the chief sufferers by his activities, made it worth his while to behave himself in the future. 

The following day I reached Copperopolis. This place very justly has thereputation of being one of the hottest spots in the foot-hills. Owing toresumed operations on a large scale, of the Calaveras Copper Company, Ifound the little settlement crowded to its fullest capacity, and wasperforce compelled to resort to genuine "hobo" methods - in short, Ispent the night under the lee of a haystack. My original intention hadbeen to walk thence to Sonora, twenty-four miles; but finding the roadwould take me again into the valley, I decided to make for Angel's Camp, only thirteen miles away. 

It is uphill nearly all the way from Copperopolis to Angel's Camp, butmostly you are in the pine woods. My spirits rose with the altitude anddelight at the magnificent view when I at last reached the summit. Toiling up the grade in the dust, I met a good old-fashioned four-horseConcord stage, which from all appearances might have been in action eversince the days of Bret Harte. At last I felt I was in touch with theSierras. The driver even honored my bow with an abrupt "Howdy!" whichfrom such a magnate, I took to be a good omen. 

In common with all the old mining towns - though I was unaware of it atthe time - Angel's, as it is usually called, is situated in the ravinewhere gold was first discovered. It straggles down the gulch for a mileand a half. There are a number of pretty cottages clinging to the steephillsides, surrounded with flowers and trees, the whole effect beingextremely pleasing. I registered at the Angel's Hotel, built in 1852. Across the street is the Wells Fargo building, erected about the sametime and of solid stone, as is the hotel. Nothing on this trip surprisedme more than the solidity of the hotels and stores built in the earlyfifties. Instead of the flimsy wooden structures I had imagined, Ifound, for the most part, thick stone walls. It was evident the Pioneersbelieved in the permanence of the gold deposits in the Mother Lode. Possibly they were right; Angel's is anything but a dead town to-day. The Utica, Angel's and Lightner mines give employment to hundreds ofmen. 

In the afternoon I visited the Bret Harte Girls' High School. It is avery simple frame building, on the summit of a hill overlooking thetown. The man who directed me how to find it, I discovered had not theremotest idea who Bret Harte might be; "John Brown" would have answeredthe purpose equally as well. In fact, all through the seven counties Itraversed - Tuolumne, Calaveras, Amador, El Dorado, Placer, Nevada andYuba - I found Bret Harte had left but a hazy and nebulous impression. Mark Twain, Prentice Mulford, Horace Greeley, Bayard Taylor, even "Dande Quille, " seemed better known. 

The next morning I started for Sonora. In seven miles I came to theStanislaus River, running in a deep and splendid canon. The river hereis spanned by a fine concrete bridge, built jointly by Tuolumne andCalaveras Counties, between which the river forms the dividing line. Inthe bottom of the canon is the Melones mine, with a mill operating onehundred stamps. The main tunnel is a mile and a half in length; thelongest mining tunnel in the State, I was told. 

A steep pull of two miles out of the canon brought me to Tuttletown. Here I stayed several hours, for the interest of the whole trip, so faras Bret Harte was concerned, centered around this once celebrated camp, and Jackass Hill, on which, at one time, lived James W. Gillis, thesupposed prototype of "Truthful James. " He died a few years ago, but hisbrother, Stephen R. Gillis, is living there to-day, and after somelittle difficulty I succeeded in finding his house. 

Mr. Gillis scouts the idea that his brother "Jim" was the "TruthfulJames" of Bret Harte. He said that in reality it was J. W. E. Townsend, known in old times as "Alphabetical Townsend, " also by theuncomplimentary appellation of "Lying Jim. " According to Mr. Gillis, Bret Harte made but one visit to Tuttletown. He arrived there oneevening "dead broke" and James put him up for the night and lent himmoney to help him on his way. Personally, Mr. Gillis never met BretHarte but he had seen Mark Twain on a number of Occasions. I got thedistinct impression that Stephen Gillis disliked the notoriety hisbrother had gained, through the fact that his name had becomeindissolubly linked with the "Truthful James" of Bret Harte's verses. Bethat as it may, I later on met several men who had known "Jim" Gillisintimately and they all agreed that he possessed a keen sense of humorand had at command a practically inexhaustible stock of stories, uponwhich he drew at will. Whether Bret Harte derived any inspiration from"Jim" Gillis may perhaps always remain in doubt; but that Mark Twaindid, there cannot, I think, be any question. 

In a recent life of Bret Harte, by Henry Childs Merwin, it is stated(page 21) that in 1858 Bret Harte acted as tutor in a private family atAlamo, in the San Ramon valley, which lies at the foot of Mount Diablo. On, page 50, however, we read: "In 1858 or thereabouts, Bret Harte wasteaching school at Tuttletown, a few miles north of Sonora. " It wouldseem that this statement is erroneous, apart from the fact that itconflicts with the prior date in reference to Alamo. 

Mrs. Swerer, who has lived continuously at Tuttletown since 1850, comingthere at the age of ten, told me she received her education at theTuttletown public school, as did her children and her children'schildren - she is now a great-grandmother! She said most positively thatshe never saw Bret Harte in her life, but had frequently seen "Dan deQuille" and Mark Twain. The latter, she said, made periodic visits toTuttletown, and always stayed with "Jim" Gillis - called by Twain, the"Sage of Jackass Hill. "

Mrs. Gross, who keeps the Tuttletown Hotel and whose husband owned astore across the way, built of stone but now in ruins, was born inTuttletown. She asserted she never heard of Bret Harte being inTuttletown and feels it to be impossible he ever taught school there. Atthis ancient hostelry, built of wood and dating back to the earlyfifties, I dined in company with an old miner, who told me he cameacross "Jim" Gillis in Alaska. He said: "Gillis was a great josher. Forthe life of me, I could never tell from his stories whether he had beento the Klondike or not. "

Chapter III

Tuolumne to Placerville. Charm of Sonora and Fascination of San Andreasand Mokelumne Hill

Sonora is nine miles distant from Tuttletown, and I reached it in theearly afternoon. Perhaps of all the old mining towns, Sonora is the mostfascinating, on account of the exceeding beauty of the surroundingcountry. No matter from what direction you approach it, Sonora seems tolie basking in the sun, buried in a wealth of greenery, through whichgleam white walls and roofs of houses. Even its winding streets are soshaded by graceful old trees that buildings are half hidden. The bustleand excitement of the mining days are passed forever, in allprobability, for old Sonora; but in their place have come the peace andquiet that accompany the tillage of the soil; for Sonora is now thecenter of a prosperous agricultural district and the town maintains asteady and continuous growth. 

Here I had the pleasure of an interview with Mr. John Neal, a prominentand respected citizen of Tuolumne County, who as Commissionerrepresented his county at the San Francisco Midwinter Fair. Mr. Neal isover eighty, but still hale and hearty. He was the first person I hadthus far encountered who had known Bret Harte in the flesh. He had alsoknown and frequently met Mark Twain, "Dan de Quille" and PrenticeMulford. Of the four, it was evident that Mulford had left by far themost lasting as well as favorable impression on his mind. Of him hespoke in terms of real affection. "Prentice Mulford, " he said, "was abrilliant, very handsome and most lovable young man. " I asked him howthese young men were regarded by the miners. He said: "In all the campsthey were held to be in a class by themselves, on account of theireducation and literary ability. Although they wore the rough costume ofthe miners, it was realized that none of them took mining seriously ormade any pretense of real work with pick and shovel. " Mr. Neal knewJames Gillis intimately and admitted he was a great story-teller. Infact, at the bare mention of his name he broke into a hearty laugh. "Oh, Jim Gillis, he was a great fellow!" he exclaimed. He said unquestionablyMark Twain got a good deal of material from him, and feels certain thatBret Harte must have met him at least on several occasions. Mr. Nealstated that up to the time of the Midwinter Fair, the output of goldfrom Tuolumne county reached the astonishing figures of $250, 000, 000!What it has amounted to since that time, I had no means of ascertaining. 

It is only twelve miles from Sonora to Tuolumne. From the top of thedivide which separates the valleys there is a beautiful view of thesurrounding country, the dim blue peaks of the Sierra Nevada forming theeastern sky-line. One of the chief charms of an excursion through thesefoothill counties is the certainty that directly you reach anyconsiderable elevation there will be revealed a magnificent panorama, bounded only by the limit of vision, range after range of mountainsrunning up in varying shades of blue and purple, to the far distantsummits that indicate the backbone of California. 

Tuolumne is situated in a circular basin rather than in a valley, andthus being protected from the wind, in hot weather the heat is intense. If there are any mining operations in the immediate vicinity, they arenot in evidence to the casual observer. It is, however, one of thebiggest timber camps in the State. In the yards of the West Side LumberCompany, covering several hundred acres, are stacked something like30, 000, 000 feet of sugar pine. The logs are brought from the mountainstwenty to twenty-five miles by rail, and sawn into lumber at Tuolumne. Iwas told that the bulk of the lumber manufactured here was shippedabroad, a great deal going to Australia. 

Tuolumne, in Bret Harte's time, was called Summersville. It wasdestroyed by fire about fourteen years ago, but the new town has alreadyso assimilated itself to the atmosphere of its surroundings, that itscomparative youth might easily escape detection. Altogether, I wasdisappointed with Tuolumne, having expected to find a second Angel's, owing to its prominence in Bret Harte's stories. A lumber camp, while anexcellent thing in its way, is neither picturesque nor inspiring. Ispent the night at the "Turnback Inn, " a large frame building, handsomely finished interiorly and built since the fire. It is, Ibelieve, quite a summer resort, as Tuolumne is the terminus of theSierra Railway, and one can go by way of Stockton direct to Oakland andSan Francisco. 

Returning to Angel's the next day, I lingered again at Tuttletown. Thereis a strange attraction about the place - it would hold you apart fromits associations, The old hotel, fast going to decay, surrounded bysplendid trees whose shade is so dense as to be impenetrable to thenoon-day sun, is a study for an artist. And as I gazed in a sort ofday-dream at the ruins of what once was one of the liveliest camps inthe Sierras - with four faro tables running day and night - the pinesseemed to whisper a sigh of regret over its departed glories. JackassHill is fairly honeycombed with prospect holes, shafts and tunnels. Iwas surprised to see that even now there is a certain amount of prospectwork going forward, for I noticed several shafts with windlasses towhich ropes were attached; and, in fact, was told that the old campshowed signs of a new lease of life. 

Musing on Tuttletown and its environment later on got me into seriousdifficulty. Having crossed the Stanislaus River and cleared the canon, Iabandoned the main road for an alleged "cut-off. " This I was followingwith the utmost confidence, when, to my surprise, it came to an abruptend at the foot of a steep hill. In the ravine below was a house, andthere fortunately I found a man of whom I inquired if I was in "CarsonFlat. " "Carson Flat? Well, I should say not! You're 'way off!" "Howmuch?" I asked feebly. "Oh, several miles. " This in a tone that impliedthat though I was in a bad fix, it might possibly be worse. However, with the invariable kindness of these people, he put me on a trailwhich, winding up to the summit of a ridge, struck down into Carson Flatand joined the main road. And there I registered a vow: "The hardhighway for me!" As a consequence of this deviation, I materiallylengthened the distance to Angel's. It is thirty miles from Tuolumne bythe road, to which, by taking the "cut-off, " I probably added anotherthree!

It is surprising how these towns grow upon one. Already the Angel'sHotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined theloungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairstilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel. And there Idozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening whenthe electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth andbeauty of the town, up and down the winding street. 

On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierraatmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to becontent with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County, fifteen miles north of Angel's. 

Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggestsMexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of theAmerican occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during themidday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be, for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own; butthere seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever thenecessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, thatperhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California miningtowns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seemssufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are. Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of lifemore placidly flows. 

On the main street - and the principal street of all these towns is"Main Street" - I had the good fortune to be introduced to Judge Ira H. Reed, who came to Calaveras County in 1854, and has lived there eversince. He told me that Judge Gottschalk, who died a few years ago at anadvanced age, was authority for the statement that Mark Twain got his"Jumping Frog" story from the then proprietor of the Metropolitan Hotel, San Andreas, who asserted that the incident actually occurred in hisbar-room. Twain, it is true, places the scene in a bar-room at Angel's, but that is doubtless the author's license. Bret Harte calls Tuttletown, "Tuttleville, " and there never was a "Wingdam" stage. 

That evening as I lay awake in my bedroom at the Metropolitan Hotel, wondering by what person of note it had been occupied in the "good olddays, " my attention was attracted to the musical tinkle of a cow-bell. Looking out of the window, I beheld the strange spectacle of a cowwalking sedately down the middle of the street. No one was driving her, no one paid her any attention beyond a casual glance, as she passed. Thecow, in fact, had simply come home, after a day in the open country; andit became plain to me that this was a nightly occurrence and thereforecaused no comment. Unmolested, she passed the hotel and on down thestreet to the foot of the hill, where she evidently spent the night; forthe tinkle of the bell became permanent and blended with and became apart of the subtle, mysterious sounds that constitute Nature's sleepingbreath. 

This little incident in the county seat of Calaveras County impressed meas an epitome of the changes wrought by time, since the days when insong and story Bret Harte made the name "Calaveras" a synonym forromance wherever the English language is spoken. 

From San Andreas my objective point was Placerville, distant aboutforty-five miles. The heat still being excessive, I made the town byeasy stages, arriving at noon on the third day. Mokelumne Hill, tenmiles beyond San Andreas, also lends its name to the little town whichclusters around its apex and is at the head of Chili Gulch, a oncefamous bonanza for the placer miners. For miles the road winds up thegulch, which is almost devoid of timber, amid piled-up rocks and debris, bleached and blistered by the sun's fierce rays; the gulch itself beingliterally stripped to "bedrock. " I had already witnessed many evidencesof man's eager pursuit of the precious metal, but nothing that soconveyed the idea of the feverish, persistent energy with which thoseadventurers in the new El Dorado had struggled day and night withNature's obstacles, spurred on by the auri sacra fames. 

A little incident served to relieve the monotony of the climb up ChiliGulch. A miner, who might have sat for a study of "Tennessee's Partner, "came down the hillside with a pan of "dirt, " which he carefully washedin a muddy pool in the bed of the gulch. He showed me the result, a few"colors" and sulphurets. He said it would "go about five dollars to theton, " and seemed well satisfied with the result. I shall always hold himin grateful memory, for he took me to an old tunnel, and disappearingfor a few moments, returned with a large dipper of ice-cold water. Notthe Children of Israel, when Aaron smote the rock in the desert andproduced a living stream, could have lapped that water with keenerenjoyment. 

The terrific heat in Chili Gulch made the shade from the trees whichsurround Mekolumne Hotel doubly grateful. Mokelumne Hill is, in fact, amountain, and commands a view of rare beauty. At its base winds thewooded canon of the Mokelumne River, on the farther side of which risesthe Jackson Butte, an isolated peak with an elevation of over threethousand feet, while in the background loom the omnipresent peaks of thefar Sierra. 

The Mokelumne Hotel is regarded as modern, dating back merely to 1868, at which time the original building was destroyed by fire. The presentstructure of solid blocks of stone, should resist the elements forcenturies to come. I was surprised at the excellent accommodations ofthis hotel. In what seemed such an out-of-the-way and inaccessiblelocality, I was served with one of the best meals on the whole journey, including claret with crushed ice in a champagne glass! What that meantto a tramp who had struggled for miles through quartz rock andimpalpable dust, up a heavy grade, without shade and the thermometerwell past the hundred mark, only a tramp can appreciate. I fell in lovewith Mokelumne Hill and, after due consultation of my map, resolved topass the night in this picturesque and delightful spot. I was alsoinfluenced by its associations, as it figures prominently in BretHarte's stories. 

Of the four famous rivers - the Stanislaus, Mokelumne, American andCosumnes - which I crossed on this trip, the Mokelumne appealed to methe most. Whatever the meaning of the Indian name, one may rest assuredit stands for some form of beauty. Jackson, the county seat of AmadorCounty, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of considerableimportance, being the terminus of a branch line of the Southern PacificRailway. It is situated in an open country where the hills are at somedistance, and presents a certain up-to-date appearance. About a milefrom Jackson the Kennedy mine, running a hundred stamps, is one of thegreatest gold producers in the State. 

Sutter Creek, erroneously supposed by many to be the spot where gold wasfirst discovered in California, four miles north of Jackson, ispicturesque and rendered attractive by reason of the vivid green of thelawns surrounding the little cottages on its outskirts. This town, too, has a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the SouthEureka and Central Eureka mines. A gentleman whom I met on the streetimparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain'sdefinition of a gold mine. I had to confess I did not. "Well, " said he, "Mark Twain defined a gold mine as 'a hole in the ground at one end, anda d - d fool at the other!'" The appreciative twinkle in his eyesuggested the possibility that this definition met with his approval. 

Amador, two miles beyond Sutter Creek, did not appeal to me. "Stagnation" would probably come nearer than any other term to conveyingto the mind of a person unfamiliar with Amador its present condition. One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these places, aftera few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive individuality. Inspite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer, gloom seemed topervade the streets and to be characteristic of its inhabitants. Withthe exception of an attempt to get into telephonic communication with afriend at Placerville, I lost not a moment in the town. 

On reaching Drytown, three miles north of Amador, I noted thethermometer stood at 110 degrees in the shade on the watered porch ofthe hotel, and deciding there was a certain risk attendant on walking insuch heat, determined to make the best of what was anything but apleasant situation, and go no farther. Drytown, in the modernapplication of the first syllable, is a misnomer, the "town" consistingchiefly of the hotel with accompanying bar, and a saloon across the way!

Drytown was in existence as early as 1849, and was visited in October ofthat year by Bayard Taylor. He says: "I found a population of from twoto three hundred, established for the winter. The village was laid outwith some regularity and had taverns, stores, butchers' shops and montetables. " One cannot but smile at the idea of "monte tables" inconnection with the Drytown of to-day; pitiful as is the reflection thatmen had braved the hardships of the desert and toiled to the waist inwater for gold, only to throw it recklessly in the laps of professionalgamblers. 

The Exchange Hotel, a wooden building dating back to 1858, stands on thesite of the original hotel, built in 1851 and burned in 1857. Upon thefront porch is a well furnishing cold, pure water. I found this to bethe most acceptable feature of several of the old hostelries. The welland the swinging sign over the entrance suggested the wayside inn ofrural England; more especially as the surrounding country carries outthe idea, being gently undulating and well timbered. 

The following evening I put up at Nashville, on the North Fork of theCosumnes River and well over the borders of El Dorado county, passingPlymouth en route. Plymouth, on the map, appeared to be a place of someimportance, but a closer inspection proved that - in spite of its breezyname - it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand itsdiscouraging surroundings. Plymouth is "living in hopes, " an Englishsyndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;but Nashville is frankly "out of business. "

At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed andlodging. " There appeared to be only three families in this onceflourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no objectto people in these sequestered places. You have "to make good, " and inthis instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy. 

I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road notshown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours wasimmersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on allhands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation oftwo thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers thelittle town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractivedesignation "Mud Springs. " This title, though lacking in euphony, wasmore in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted forits springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summerresort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere inthe immediate vicinity. 

In Placerville - known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days - Iregistered at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertainingno less a personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated hiscelebrated stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend HaroldEdward Smith had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, andhad left a note saying he would wait for me there the following morning. 

Chapter IV

J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall andHis Pathetic End. 

More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the oldentimes. "John Oakhurst" and "Jack Hamlin" would still be in theirelement, as witness the following scene:

In the card room back of the bar, in a certain hotel, a "little game"was in progress. A big, blond giant, with curly hair and clean-cutfeatures - indeed he could have posed as a model for Praxiteles - arosenonchalantly from the table as I entered, and swept the stakes into acapacious pocket. An angry murmur of disapproval came from the sitters, and one man muttered something about "quitting the game a winner. " Witha hand on each hip, the giant swept the disgruntled upturned faces witha comprehensive glance, and drawled: "I'll admit there's something wrongin mine, gentlemen, or I wouldn't be here, see?" He waited a moment andamid silence passed slowly through the barroom to the sidewalk, seatedhimself, stretched his long legs and placidly gazed across the street. 

In the morning I had a long talk with Mr. J. H. Bradley, perhaps thebest known man in El Dorado County. Though in his eighty-fourth year, his keen brown eyes still retain the fire and light of youth. Thevitality of these old pioneers is something marvelous. Mr. Bradley wasborn in Kentucky, but, as a boy, moved to Hannibal, Missouri, where heplayed marbles with Mark Twain, or Clemens, as he prefers to call him. In '49, he came across the plains to California. He was on the mostfriendly terms with Twain and said he assisted him to learn piloting onthe Mississippi; and when Twain came to California, helped him to get aposition as compositor with U. E. Hicks, who founded the SacramentoUnion. He also knew Horace Greeley intimately, and has a portfolio thatonce was his property. Five years after Greeley's arrival inPlacerville, which was in 1859, Mr. Bradley married Caroline Hicks, whowith Phoebe and Rose Carey had acted as secretary to Mr. Greeley. Mr. Bradley takes no stock in the "keep your seat, Horace!" story. Heconsiders it a fabrication. In his opinion, the romancers - Bret Harte, Mark Twain, et al. - have done California more harm than good. He alsohas a thinly disguised contempt for "newspaper fellows and magazinewriters. " Nor does he believe in the "Mother Lode" - that is, in itscontinuity - in spite of the geologists. He prefers to speak of the"mineral zone. " In fine, Mr. Bradley is a man of definite and pronouncedopinions on any subject you may broach. For that reason, his views, whether you agree with them or not, are always of interest. 

Hanging in the office of the Cary House is a clever cartoon, by WilliamCooper, of Portland, Oregon, entitled "A mining convention inPlacerville;" in which Mr. Bradley is depicted in earnest conversationwith a second Mr. Bradley, a third and evidently remonstrant Mr. Bradleyintervening, while a fourth and fifth Mr. Bradley, decidedly bored, arehurriedly departing. 

Indeed, one glance at Mr. Bradley is enough to convince you that he is aman of unusual force of character. No one introduced me to him. I wasmerely informed at the Cary House that he was the person to whom Ishould apply for information concerning the old times. I accordinglystarted out to look for him and had not proceeded fifty yards when aman, approaching at a distance, arrested my attention. As he drewnearer, I felt positive there could be only one such personage inPlacerville, and when he was opposite me, I stopped and said, "How areyou, Mr. Bradley?" "That's my name, sir; what do you want?" he replied. 

They take life easily in the old mining towns. No wonder the spectacleof a man with a pack on his back caused comment, in that heat, trampingtwo or three hundred miles for pleasure! Beyond the trivial necessitiesthat bare existence makes imperative, I was not conscious of seeinganyone do anything on the whole trip. Old miners not unnaturally took mefor a prospector, and I think I never quite succeeded in convincing themto the contrary. 

In Placerville as in Angel's Camp, the evening promenade seems the mostimportant event of the day. Young men and maidens pass and repass in anapparently endless chain. The same faces recur so frequently that onebegins to take an interest in the little comedy and speculate on therival attractions of blonde and brunette, and wonder which of the youngbloods is the local Beau Brummel. The audience - so to speak - sit on, chairs backed against the walls of the hotels and stores, while manyprefer the street itself, and with feet on curb or other coign ofvantage, tilt their chairs at most alarming angles. A sort of animatedlovers' lane is thus formed, through which the promenaders have to runthe gauntlet, and are subjected to a certain amount of criticism. Everyone knows everyone. Good natured badinage plays like wild-fire, upand down and across the street. Later on, the tinkle of mandolin andguitar is heard far into the night watches. 

Having determined to reach Auburn - thirty miles away - the next day, Imade an early start. Coloma lies at the bottom of the great canon of theSouth Fork of the American River. Hastening down the grade, in a bend ofthe road I almost ran into my friend. It seemed a strange meeting this, in the heart of the old mining country, and I think we both gave aperceptible start. 

It was at Coloma that gold was first discovered in California, by JamesW. Marshall, January 19, 1848. My companion had been so fortunate on theprevious day as to meet Mr. W. H. Hooper, who arrived in Coloma August8, 1850, and who has lived there practically ever since. Thougheighty-three, he is still strong and vigorous. From him my friendelicited some very interesting information in regard to Marshallespecially, the substance of which I append from his notes. Mr. Hooperhad known Marshall for many years, and his reminiscences of thediscoverer have a touch of pathos bordering on the tragic. 

Marshall, a trapper by trade and frontiersman by inclination, accompanied General Sutter to California, assisted in the building ofSutter Fort and, on account of his mechanical ability, was sent toColoma to superintend the erection of a sawmill. It was in the mill-racethat he picked up the nugget which made the name "California" the magnetfor the world's adventurers. Unaware of the nature of his "find, " hetook it to Sacramento, where it was declared to be gold. He was imploredby General Sutter to keep the mill operatives in ignorance of hisdiscovery, for fear they should desert their work. But how could such asecret be kept, especially by a man of generous and impulsive instincts?At any rate the news leaked out and the stampede followed. 

From Mr. Hooper's account, Marshall was a very human character. Late inlife the state legislature granted him a pension of two hundred dollarsper month. This sum being far in excess of his actual needs, it followedas a matter of course that his cronies assisted him in disposing of it. In fact, "Marshall's pension day" became a local attraction, and theColoma saloon - still in existence - the rendezvous. These reunions werevaried by glorious excursions to Sacramento, his friends in thelegislature imploring him to keep away. After two years the pension wascut down to one hundred dollars per mouth and finally was discontinuedin toto - a shabby and most undignified procedure. Opposite the saloon, at some little distance, is a conical hill. For many years Marshall, seated on the steps of the porch, had gazed dreamily at its summit. Shortly before his death, addressing a remnant of the "old guard, " heexclaimed: "Boys, when I go, I want you to plant me on the top of thathill. " And "planted" he was, with a ten-thousand-dollar monument on topof him!

The poor old fellow died in poverty at Kelsey, near Coloma, August 10, 1885, at the age of seventy-five. It is a sad reflection that a tithe ofthe money spent on the monument would have comforted him in his latterdays; for the blow to his pride by the withdrawal of his pension, stillmore than the actual lack of funds, hastened the end. 

Mr. Hooper intimated that the population of Coloma diminishedperceptibly after the termination of Marshall's pension. To common withthe majority of the old miners, be saved nothing and never profited toany extent by the discovery that will keep his memory alive forcenturies to come. 

Coloma in its palmy days had a population variously estimated at fromfive to ten thousand souls, with the usual accompaniment of saloons, dance halls and faro banks. There was a vigorous expulsion of gamblersin the early fifties and an incident occurred which quite possiblysupplied the inspiration for Bret Harte's "Outcasts of Poker Flat. " Anotorious gambler and desperado, and his accomplice, demurred. Whereuponthe irate miners placed them on a burro, and with vigorous threatspunctuated by a salvo of revolver shots fired over their heads, drovethem out of camp. They disappeared over the hill upon which the monumentnow stands, and were seen no more. 

Coloma suffered severely from fires. Little of the old town remains butruins of stone walls, and here and there an isolated wooden building. The ruins, however, are not only exceedingly picturesque, being halfburied in foilage of beautiful trees, but hold the imagination with agrip that is indescribable. I could willingly have tarried here fordays. 

But while old Coloma is dead, there is a new Coloma that furnishes anextraordinary contrast. It is a sweet and peaceful little hamlet, situated on the lower benches of the canon, well up out of the riverbottom, and is entirely devoted to horticulture. One has read of birdsbuilding their nests in the muzzles of old and disused cannon; even thatdoes not suggest a more anomalous association of ideas than thespectacle of a vine-clad cottage shaded by fig trees, basking peacefullyin the sun, so close to what was at one time a veritable maelstrom ofhuman passions. So far as the new Coloma is concerned, Marshall'sdiscovery might never have been made. Nowhere else will you find a spotwhere gold and what it stands for would seem to mean so little, Coloma!It is passing strange that a name so sweet and restful should forever belinked with the wildest scramble for gold the world has ever seen!

Chapter V

Auburn to Nevada City Via Colfax and Grass Valley. Ben Taylor and HisHome

After surmounting the canon of the South Fork of the American River, yougradually enter a open country, the outskirts of the great deciduousfruit belt in Placer County, which supplies New York and Chicago withchoice plums, peaches and pears. About three miles from Auburn, the roadplunges into one of the deepest canons of the Sierras, at the bottom ofwhich the Middle and North Forks of the American River unite. Just belowthe junction, the river is spanned by a long suspension bridge. Auburnis remarkably situated in that one sees nothing of it until the rim ofthe canon is reached, at least a thousand feet above the river. Thusthere are no outskirts and you plunge at once into the business streets, passing the station of the Central Pacific Railway, which line skirtsthe edge of the canon on a heavy grade. 

I had accomplished a good thirty miles but that did not prevent me fromaccompanying my friend on a long and protracted hunt for comfortablequarters in which to eat and spend the night. There was quite anattractive hotel near the railroad, but actuated by a desire to seesomething of the town, which we found to be more than usually drawn out, we passed it with lingering regret. Whether by chance or instinct, wedrifted to the ruins of the old hotel, now in process of reconstruction, and were comfortably housed in a wooden annex. 

Auburn marks the western verge of the mineral zone, but in the fiftiesthere were, rich placer diggings in the immediate vicinity. There aresome remarkably solid buildings of that period, in the old portion ofthe town, which, as customary, is situated in the bottom of the windingvalley or ravine. Practically a new town, called "East Auburn, " has beenstarted on higher ground, and a fight is on to move the post office; butthe people in the hollow having the voting strength, hang on to it likegrim death. Along the edge of the American River canon and commanding amagnificent view, are the homes of the local aristocracy. In christeningAuburn, it is scarcely credible that the pioneers had in mindGoldsmith's "loveliest village of the Plain;" nor, keeping the old townin view, is the title remarkably applicable today. 

Our next objective point being Colfax, distant in a north-easterlydirection only fifteen miles, we made a leisurely inspection of the townand vicinity in the morning. The old town proved of absorbing interestto my friend, and we became separated while be was hunting up subjectsfor the camera. Having a free and easy working scheme in such matters, after a few minutes' search, I gave up the quest and started alone onthe road to Colfax. 

A few miles out, I met a man with a rifle on his shoulder, leading aburro bearing a pack-saddle laden in the most scientific manner withprobably all his worldly possessions, the pick and shovel plainlydenoting a prospector. A water bucket on one side of the animal was soadjusted that the bottom was uppermost; on the top of the bucket sat alittle fox-terrier, his eyes fixed steadfastly on his master. I paused amoment, possessed with a strong desire to take a snap shot of thisremarkable equipment, but the man with the gun gave me a glance thatsettled the matter. His was not a bad face - far from it - but thefeatures were stern and set, the cheeks furrowed with deep lines thatbespoke hardship and fatigue in the struggle with Nature and theelements. That glance out of the tail of his eye meant: "Let me aloneand I will let you alone, but let me alone!"

Taciturnity becomes habitual to men accustomed to vast solitudes. Evenon such a tramp as I had undertaken, in which I frequently walked formiles without sight or sound of a human being, I began to realize howbanal and aimless is conventional conversation. Under such conditionsyou feel yourself in sympathy with the man who says nothing unless hehas something to say, and who, in turn, expects the same restriction ofspeech from you. 

I was seated on the porch of the store at Applegate, disposing of afrugal lunch consisting of raisins and crackers, when my friend hove insight. After a private inspection of the store's possibilities, with alittle smile, the meaning of which I well understood from many similarexperiences, he sat down beside me and without a word tackled thesomewhat uninviting repast, to which with a wave of the hand I invitedhim. I may say here that Mr. Smith is a veteran and inveterate "hiker. "I doubt very much whether any man in California has seen as much of thismagnificent State as he, certainly not on foot; as a consequence he isaccustomed to a ready acceptance of things as they are. Applegate, aboutmidway between Auburn and Colfax, is an alleged "summer resort. " It didnot appeal to us as especially attractive, the view, at any rate fromthe road, being extremely limited and lacking any distinctive features. Without unnecessary delay, therefore, we resumed the march. 

It is practically up-hill - "on the collar" - all the way to Colfax, asis plainly evidenced by the heavy railroad grade. About a mile short ofthe town, we made a digression to an Italian vineyard of note. There, ata long table under a vine-covered trellis that connected the stonecellar with the dwelling-house, we were served with wine by a youngwoman having the true Madonna features of Sunny Italy, her mother, acomely matron, in the meantime preparing the evening meal, while on thehard ground encumbered with no superfluous clothing, disported theyounger members of the family. And as I sat and smoked the pipe ofpeace, I reflected upon how much better they do these things in Italy -for to all intents and Purposes, I was in Italy. 

Colfax - before the advent of the C. P. R. R. Called "Illinois Town" -is an odd blending of past and present; the solid structures of themining days contrasting strangely with the flimsy wooden buildings thatseem to mark a railroad town. We were amazed at the amount of trafficthat occurs in the night. Three big overland trains passed through ineither direction, the interim being filled in with the switching ofcars, accompanied apparently with a most unnecessary ringing of bellsand piercing shrieks from whistles. Since our hotel was not more than ahundred and fifty feet from the main line, with no intervening buildingsto temper the noises, sleep of any consequence was an utterimpossibility. 

Few Californians are aware, probably, that a considerable amount oftobacco is raised in the foothills of the Sierras. At Colfax, I smoked avery fair cigar made from tobacco grown in the vicinity, andmanufactured in the town. 

I think we were both glad to leave Colfax. Apart from a nerve-rackingnight, the mere proximity of the railroad with its accompanyingassociations served constantly to bring to mind all that I had fled tothe mountains to escape. Yet I cannot bring myself to agree with thosewho profess to brand a railroad "a blot on the landscape. " The enormousengines which pull the overland trains up the heavy grades of the SierraNevada impress one by their size, strength and suggestion of reservepower, as not being out of harmony with the forces of Nature they areconstructed to contend with and overcome. 

This thought occurred to us as we watched a passenger train slowlywinding its way around the famous Cape Horn, some four miles fromColfax. Although several miles in an air line intervened, one seemed tofeel the vibrations in the air caused by the panting monster, whilegreat jets of steam shot up above the pine trees. I confess to a senseof elation at the spectacle. Nature in some of her moods seems somalignant, that I felt proud of this magnificent exhibition of man'svictory over the obstacles she so well knows how to interpose. 

The road between Colfax and Grass Valley - the next stopping place onour itinerary - lay through so lovely a country that we passed throughit as in a dream. Descending into the valley we were joined by severalsmall boys, attracted, I suppose, by our - to them - unusual costume andequipment, who plied us with questions. They asked if "we carried amessage for the mayor, " and were visibly disappointed when we regrettedwe had overlooked that formality. For several minutes they kept us busytrying to give truthful answers to most unexpected questions. They hadnever heard of Tuolumne and wanted to know if it was in California. Their world, in fact, was bounded by Colfax on the south and Nevada Cityon the north. 

Grass Valley received its name from the meadow in which the town, forthe most part, is situated. The ground is so moist that, notwithstandingthe heat, the grass was a vivid green. Apple trees growing in the grass, as in the orchards of England and in the Atlantic States, and perfectlyhealthy, conveyed that suggestion of the Old World which lends apeculiar charm to these towns. And Grass Valley really is a town, havingseven thousand inhabitants; and is, withal, clean, picturesque andaltogether delightful. One understood why "Tuolumne" sounded meaninglessto those small boys. Thus early in life they were under influences whichwill probably keep them in after years - as they kept their fathers -permanent citizens of the town of Grass Valley. 

Grass Valley was one of the richest of the old mining camps. There wasliterally gold everywhere, even in the very roots of the grass. Themining is now all underground and drifts from the North Star and Ophirmines underlie a part of the town. 

After a methodical search, we discovered an excellent restaurant andmade a note of it as a recurrent possibility. A judicious choice of asuitable place in which to eat and eke, to pass the night, is to thetramp a matter of vital interest. Robert Louis Stevenson, in thoseentertaining narratives "An Inland Voyage" and "Travels with a Donkey, "lays heartfelt stress on these particulars; when things were not to hisliking, roundly denouncing them, but if agreeably surprised, lifting uphis voice in song and praise. 

Though tempted to pass the night in Grass Valley, impelled by curiosity, we pushed on four miles farther, to Nevada City. It is useless toattempt to convey in words the fascination of Nevada City. My friend, who is familiar with the country, said it reminded him of Italy. Housesrise one above the other on the hillside; while down below, the windingstreets with their quaint old-time stores and balconied windows, areequally attractive. The horrors of the previous night at Colfax made thequiet peacefulness of Nevada City the more refreshing. At the NationalHotel I enjoyed the soundest sleep since leaving home. 

In the morning there was a delicious breeze from the mountains, whichrendered strolling about the town a pleasure. According to custom, wewent our several ways, each drawn by what appealed to him the most atthe moment. When ready to depart, finding no trace of my companion atthe hotel, I left word that I had returned to Grass Valley; where anhour or two later, he rejoined me. 

More fortunate than I, my friend by chance encountered Mr. Morrison M. Green, on the street in front of his home upon the hill which looks downupon the town. This gentleman, who is in his eighty-third year, relatedan almost incredible incident in connection with the fire in 1857, whichwiped out the town, with the exception of one house. Three prominentcitizens who chanced to have met in a saloon when the fire broke out, having the utmost confidence in the safety of a certain building, onaccount of its massive walls and iron door, made a vow to lockthemselves in it, and actually did so. They might perhaps have withstoodthe ordeal, had not the roof been broken in by the fall of the walls ofthe adjoining building. The iron door having been warped with the heat, it was impossible to open it; when last seen, they were standing withtheir arms around one another in the center of the store. 

At Grass Valley, my friend - greatly to my regret and I think also tohis own - received word which rendered his return to San Franciscoimperative. After a farewell dinner at the restaurant before mentioned, I accompanied him to the railway station, and in the words of Christianin "The Pilgrim's Progress, " "I saw him no more in my dream. " I confessto a feeling of depression after his departure, for however enjoyablethe experiences of the road, they are rendered doubly so by thesympathetic companionship of a man endowed not only with a keen sense ofhumor but also with an unusual perception of human nature. 

After registering at the Holbrooke - a substantial survival of the oldtimes - I called by appointment on Mr. Ben Taylor, a much respectedcitizen of Grass Valley and probably the oldest inhabitant of NevadaCounty, having reached the patriarchal age of eighty-six. 

Mr. Taylor has a charming home with extensive grounds overlooking thetown and surrounding country. In his garden is a spruce he plantedhimself forty-five years ago, and apple trees of the same age. Thespruce now has the appearance of a forest tree and shades the wholefront of the house. His present home was built in 1864 and from allappearances should last the century out. He said the lumber wascarefully selected, the boards being heavier than usual, and all theimportant timbers, instead of being nailed, were morticed anddove-tailed. This thoroughness of workmanship accounts for the excellentcondition of the wooden buildings in these towns, many of which wereconstructed over fifty years ago. 

Mr. Taylor came to Grass Valley September 22, 1849, and has lived therealmost continuously ever since. He crossed the plains one of twenty-fivemen, the last of his companions dying in 1905. The little band sufferedmany hardships, having to be constantly on watch for Indians, though hesaid they were more fearful of the Mormons. They came over the oldemigrant trail across the Sierra Nevada. When they reached Grass Valley, their Captain, a man named Broughton, exclaimed: "Boys! here's the gold;this is good enough for us!" And there they stayed, the twenty-five ofthem!

Mr. Taylor had frequently met Mark Twain, but never to his knowledge, Bret Harte. In common with other men who had known the Great AmericanHumorist, Mr. Taylor smiled at the bare mention of his name. Twain'sbreezy, hail-fellow-well-met manner, combined with his dry humor, insured him a welcome at all the camps; he was a man who would "pass thetime of day" and take a friendly drink with any man upon the road. Twain, he told me, and a man with whom he was traveling on one occasion, lost their mules. They tracked them to a creek and concluding the muleshad crossed it, Twain said to his companion: "What's the use of both ofus getting wet? I'll carry you!" The other complying, Twain reached insafety the deepest part of the creek and, purposely or not, dropped him. A man, to play such pranks as this, must be sure of his standing in aprimitive community. 

Mr. Taylor is known to everyone in Nevada County as "Ben. " His genialmanner and kindly nature are apparent at a glance. But while Ben Taylorwas on friendly terms with Mark Twain, he was never so intimate with himas with Bayard Taylor, whom, it seems, he much resembled. Thisaccidental likeness, combined with the similarity of names, caused manymore or less amusing but embarrassing complications, since they werefrequently taken for each other and received each other'scorrespondence. 

I asked Ben Taylor - he rightly dislikes "Mister, " perhaps the ugliestand most inappropriate word in the English language - if the shootingsand hangings which figure so prominently in the stories of the romancerswere not exaggerations. He said he certainly was of that opinion. Isaid: "As a matter of fact, did you ever see a man either shot or hungfor a crime?" "I never did, " he replied with emphasis. "But I once cameacross the bodies of several men who had been strung up forhorse-stealing; that, however, was not in Grass Valley. "

Ben Taylor was present when Lola Montez horsewhipped Henry Shibley, editor of the Grass Valley National, for what she considered derogatoryreflections on herself, published in his paper. It can readily beunderstood that Grass Valley was at that time a place of importance, when Lola Montez considered it worth while to stay there several yearsand sing and dance for the miners. 

In parting, Ben Taylor told me pathetically that his wife had died a fewyears before and he had never recovered from the blow; "I am merelymarking time until the end comes, " he added. Since his married daughterand family live with him, he is assured in his latter days of lovingcare and attention. 

Chapter VI

E. W. Maslin and His Recollections of Pioneer Days In Grass Valley. Origin of Our Mining Laws

To Mr. E. W. Maslin, of Alameda, of whom Ben Taylor said: "He is like abrother to me, " I am indebted for information of much interest, bearingon the olden days and Grass Valley in particular. Mr. Maslin came aroundthe "Horn" to California, in the ship Herman, on May 7, 1853. He arrivedin Grass Valley and went to work as a miner the following morning. Henow holds, and has for years, the responsible position in the UnitedStates Custom House, San Francisco, of Deputy Naval Officer of the Port. The clearing papers of every vessel that leaves San Francisco bear hissignature. Although in his eightieth year, his memory is as clear andhis sense of humor as vivid as when, a youth of nineteen, he left forgood, Maryland, his native state. Few men in the San Francisco bayregion are more widely known than he. His ready wit, cheery laugh andfund of information - for he is extremely well-read - always insure forhim an attentive and appreciative audience. 

Speaking of Ben Taylor, he told me a characteristic incident, whichbeing also typical of the men of '49, I give, with his consent, asrelated. When the White Pine excitement in 1869 started a rush ofprospectors to Nevada, Mr. Maslin caught the fever with the rest. In common with all who dug for gold, he had his ups and downs, the fatyears and the lean ones; at the time, his fortunes being at a lew ebb, he joined the stampede. Several years previous to his departure, withoutinforming his wife, he had borrowed of Ben Taylor, three hundreddollars, secured by mortgage on his house in Grass Valley. At White Pinehe met with considerable success, and in a short time sent his wife fivehundred dollars, telling her for the first time of the mortgage on theirhome and requesting her to go to Ben Taylor at once and pay him in full. It so happened that Taylor had called on Mrs. Maslin for news of herhusband, as she was reading this letter. She immediately tendered himthe check with the request that he would inform her to what the interestamounted. "Why, Molly, " said Ben Taylor, "you surely ought to know mewell enough to know I would never take any interest on that money!" Whenit is remembered that the legal rate of interest at that time was tenper cent, and that double that amount was not infrequently paid - Mr. Maslin, in fact, expecting to pay Taylor something like five hundreddollars - the attitude of the latter will be the better appreciated. 

This seems a fitting place to pay a humble personal tribute of respectto the memory of the men of "the fall of '49 and the spring of '50. " Notsince the Crusades, when the best blood of Europe was spilt in defenseof the Holy Sepulchre, has the world seen a finer body of men than theArgonauts of California. True, the quest of the "Golden Fleece" was theprime motive, but sheer love of adventure for adventure's sake played amost important part. Later on, the turbulent element arrived. It was dueto the rectitude, inherent sense of justice and courage of the pioneersthat they were held in check and, by force of arms when necessary, madeto understand the white man's code of honor. 

So much in song and story has been said of the scramble for gold inthe early days after the discovery, and so little attention given to theartistic and aesthetic sense of the pioneers, that the generalimpression made by the famous old mining towns of California, when seenfor the first time, may be worth recording. In the massive stone hotelsand stores of that period, as well as in the careful construction ofdwelling houses, they exhibited a true perception of "the eternalfitness of things. " The buildings of the fifties, in their extremesimplicity, are far more imposing than the nondescript, pretentiousstructures of today, and will, beyond doubt, in usefulness outlast them. 

As a result of ignoring the checker-board plan, and permitting thestreets to follow the natural contour of the hills and ravines, thesemountain towns seem to have become blended and to be in harmony with thewonderful setting Nature has provided. All buildings, residential orotherwise, are protected from the summer heat by umbrageous trees. Lawnsof richest green delight the eye, and vines and flowers surroundcottages perched on steep hillsides, or half-hidden in deep ravines. Thefirst glimpse from a distant eminence of any of the old mining townsconveys the suggestion of peaceful homes buried in greenery, baskingcontentedly in the brilliant sunshine, surrounded by the whisperingpines, with the snow-clad peaks of the Sierra Nevada for a background. 

You also receive the impression of cleanliness. If there were any oldcans, scraps of paper and miscellaneous rubbish lying about in any townthrough which I passed, I did not notice them. One is struck, too, bythe absence of the "vacant lot" - that unsightly blot of such frequentoccurrence in all towns in the process of building, especially whenforced by "booms" beyond their normal growth. Fortunately the very word"boom, " in its significance as applied to inflated real estate values, has no meaning in these towns, with the result that they are compact. One may search in vain for the "house to let" sign. When no more houseswere needed, no more houses were built. This compactness of form, cleanliness, and the elimination to a great extent of the rectangularblock, contribute in no small measure to that indefinable suggestion ofthe Old World - a charm that haunts the memory and finally becomespermanent acquisition. 

However clever the stories of the romancers - of whom Bret Hartepreeminently stands first - after all, their characters wereintrinsically but creatures of the imagination; the pioneers were thereal thing! Yet such is the nature of this topsy-turvy world, the copieswill remain, whilst the originals will fade away and be forgotten! Thewriter will always hold it a privilege that he had the pleasure ofmeeting in the flesh a remnant of the men who laid the foundation of theinstitutions by means of which this great Commonwealth has grown andprospered; big, broad-minded, strong men who, whatever their failings -for they were very human - were generous to a fault, ever ready tolisten to the cry of distress or help a fallen brother to his feet, scornful of pettiness, ignorant of snobbery, fair and square in theirdealings with their fellows. Alas, that it should have come to "Hail andFarewell" to such a type of manhood!

At my request, Mr. Maslin, at one time a practicing attorney, dictatedthe following succinct account of the origin of the mining laws ofCalifornia. The discovery at Gold Hill, now within the corporate limitsof Grass Valley, of a gold-bearing quartz ledge, subsequently theproperty of Englishmen who formed an organization known as "The GoldHill Quartz Mining Company, " led to the founding of the mining laws ofCalifornia. On December 30, 1850, the miners passed regulations whichhad with them the force of laws, defining the location and ownership ofmines. It was provided that claims should be forty feet by thirty feet;a recorder was to be elected by the miners and all difficulties arisingout of trespass on claims were to be tried before the recorder and twominers, an appeal to be taken to the justice of the peace. 

When quartz lodes began to be discovered and worked, it was found thatthe location of claims by square feet did not protect the miner orafford sufficient territory upon which to expend his labor. Accordinglya miners' meeting was held in Nevada City on December 20, 1852, and abody of laws prescribed, governing all quartz mines within the county ofNevada. The following were the salient features: "Each proprietor of aquartz claim shall be entitled to one hundred feet on a quartz ledge orvein; the discoverer shall be allowed one hundred feet additional. Eachclaim shall include all the dips, angles, and variations of the same. "The remaining articles related to the working, holding and recording ofclaims. This law was incorporated in the raining legislation of theState of Nevada and has formed the basis of the mining laws of eachterritory of the United States. Thus we have a proof not only of theintelligence of the early miner, but also of his capacity forself-government. It must be remembered that the miners came from allover the United States, but principally from the West and the South. Probably none had seen a quartz ledge before coming to California, yetthe necessity for extending a claim as far as the ledge dipped was soonperceived, as also the taking into consideration a change in thedirection or course of the lode. Commenting on these laws and the causesleading to their adoption, Mr. Muslin became emphatic. He said:

"No body of rough, uncouth, pistolled ruffians, such as Bret Hartedepicts the miners, would have formed such a group of benevolent, far-reaching and comprehensive laws. The early miner represented thebest type of American character. He was brave, undeterred by obstacles, enduring with patient fortitude the perils and privations of the longjourney of half a year by land, or a tempestuous voyage by sea;undaunted alike by the terrors of Cape Horn or the insidious diseases ofthe Isthmus of Panama. He met the, to him, hitherto unknown problem ofthe extraction of gold and solved it with the wisdom and vigor whichdistinguish the American. Observe that the provision against throwingdirt on another man's claim anticipated by many years the famoushydraulic decision of Judge Sawyer. It is another way of stating themaxim of law and equity: 'so use your own property, as not to injurethat of another. '"

Mr. Maslin agrees with Ben Taylor that the hangings and shootings of theperiod following the discovery of gold have been grossly exaggerated. Onthis point he said: "I will venture to assert that in certain of theMississippi Valley States, in their early settlement, more men werekilled in one year than in ten of the early mining years in California. "Of lynching, he said: "There were few lynchings in California, and thosemostly in the southern tier of counties, of persons convicted ofcattle-stealing. " In connection with lynching he related a serio-comicincident that occurred in Grass Valley in the early days. 

Several fires had taken place in the town and the inhabitants were inconsequence much excited. A watchman on his rounds espied a light in avacant log cabin, and entering, caught a man in the act of striking amatch. He arrested him and the populace were for taking summaryvengeance. A man known as "Blue Coat Osborne" cried out, "Let's hanghim! Nevada City once hanged a man and Grass Valley never did!" This wasan effective appeal, for the rivalry that has lasted ever since alreadyexisted. Fortunately, wiser counsels prevailed; the man was subsequentlytried and acquitted, it appearing that he was a traveling prospector whohad merely entered the cabin in order to light his pipe! In thisconnection, I may state that Mr. Maslin confirmed the story of the threefriends in Nevada City, who attempted to withstand "the ordeal by fire. "

Mr. Maslin is justly jealous for the reputation of the Argonauts. Perhaps Bret Harte's miner, with his ready pistol, was as far from themark as Rudyard Kipling's picture of Tommy Atkins as "an absentmindedbeggar" - an imputation the real "Tommy" hotly resented. At the sametime, such stories as "The Luck of Roaring Camp" and "Tennessee'sPartner, " not to quote others, prove Bret Harte conceded to the miner, courage, patience, gentleness, generosity and steadfastness infriendship. If Bret Harte really "hurt" California, it was because, leaving the State for good in February, 1871, he carried with him theatmosphere of the early mining days and never got out of it. He neverrealized the transition from mining to agriculture and horticulture, asthe leading industries of the State. Thus his later stories which dealtwith California, written long after the subsidence of the miningexcitement, continued to convey to the Eastern or English reader animpression of the Californian as a bearded individual, his trouserstucked into long boots and the same old "red shirt" with the sleevesrolled back to the shoulders! As lately - comparatively speaking - asthe Chicago Columbian Exposition, a lady told me she met at the Fair awoman who said she wanted to visit California, and asked if it would besafe to do so "on account of the Indians!" While Indians do not appearin Bret Harte's pages, it is a safe conjecture that, through associationof ideas, this lady conjured up a vague vision of a "prairie schooner"crossing the plains, harassed by the Indian of the colored prints!

The following picture of the trying of a civil suit under difficulties, though in all probability causing little comment at the time, wouldundoubtedly do so at the present day, were the conditions possible. In1853 Mr. Maslin owned, with his brother, a one-fifth interest in tengravel claims at Pike Flat near Grass Valley. On the ground of allegedimperfection of location of a portion of these claims, they were"jumped, " and litigation followed. 

The case was called before "Si" Brown, a justice of the peace, at Roughand Ready, in a building (of which I obtained a photograph) used as ahotel and for other purposes. In the long room, now occupied as a store, Judge Brown held his court. On the right was a door leading to the bar. Extending the whole length of the room were four faro tables. At therear the judge, jury, attorneys and the principals in the lawsuit madethe best of the accommodations. 

After stating the case, Judge Brown thus addressed the gamblers at thefaro tables: "Boys, the court is now opened, call your games low!" Inaccordance with this request, though still audible, came in a monotonousundertone, the faro, dealers' oft-repeated call: "Gents, make your game- make your game!" The bets were put down and the cards called, in thesame subdued voice. At intervals, an attorney on one side or the otherwould arise and say: "I move you, your Honor, that the court do now takea recess of ten minutes. " The court: "The motion is sustained; but gosoftly, gentlemen, go softly!" It is probably needless to add thatjudge, jury, principals, attorneys and witnesses filed out of the doorleading to the right; returning in ten minutes to resume the trial tothe not altogether inappropriate accompaniment from the faro dealers, "Make your game, gents, make your game!"

The spirit of rivalry between Grass Valley and Nevada City has beenaccentuated, of late, by the efforts of the former town to secure thehonor of being the county seat, on the claim that it possesses nearlydouble the population of Nevada City. Politics serve to intensify thefeeling; Grass Valley, which contains many people of Southern birth, being largely Democratic in its affiliations, whilst Nevada City is asstrongly, and, one may add, as conservatively, Republican. 

Possibly the oldest building in Grass Valley is the Western Hotel. It isso hidden in the surrounding trees that it was with difficulty I took aphotograph in which any portion of the hotel itself appeared. In thegarden stands a splendid English walnut over forty years old; and on theporch, the well and pump to which I have before alluded as adistinguishing feature of the old-time hostelry, add a quaint andcharacteristic touch. 

Grass Valley and Nevada City are nearly three thousand feet above sealevel. The air, in consequence, is light and pure and the heat seldomexcessive. It would be difficult, the world over, to find a moreagreeable or salubrious climate. 

It was with genuine regret that I left Grass Valley the followingmorning; not even Sonora possessed for me a stronger attraction. As Ipaused on the summit of the hill, for a farewell view of the town, Imentally resolved - the Fates permitting - I would pay another and moreprotracted visit to this land of enchantment. 

Chapter VII

Grass Valley to Smartsville. Sucker Flat and its Personal Appeal. 

I was heading due west for Smartsville, just across the line in YubaCounty. In four miles, I came to Rough and Ready, once a famous camp. Save for the inevitable hotel, now used in part as a store, there wasnothing to suggest the cause of its pristine glory or the origin of itsemphatic designation; today it is simply a picturesque, rural hamlet. InPenn Valley, a mile or two farther on, I passed a smashed and abandonedautomobile, the second wreck I had encountered. I thanked my star Itraveled afoot; heavy going, it is true, in places, but safe and sure. 

Notwithstanding the ubiquity of the autocar, it is still a fact thatbetween the man in the car and the man on foot is set an impassablegulf. You are walking through a mountainous country, where every bend ofthe road reveals some new charm; absorbed in silent enjoyment of thescene, you have forgotten the very existence of the machine, when araucous "honk" jolts you out of your daydream and causes you to jump foryour life. In a swirl of dust the monster engulfs you, leaving you thedust and the stench of gasoline as souvenirs, but followed by youranathemas! This doubtless is where the man in the car thinks he hasscored. Perhaps he has. When the dust on the road has settled and youhave rubbed it out of your eyes, once more you forget his existence. 

But the very speed with which he travels is the reason why the man inthe car misses nearly all the charm of the country through which he ispassing. On this tramp I took forty-odd photographs, all more or less ofhistorical interest. Riding in an automobile, many of the subjects Iwould not have noticed or, if I had, I would not have been able to bringmy camera into play. On several occasions I retraced my steps a goodquarter of a mile, feeling I had lost a landscape, or street scene Imight never again have the opportunity to behold. 

What is of far greater consequence, the man on the road comes into touchnot only with Nature, but the Children of Nature! In these days, automobiles are as thick as summer flies; you cannot escape them even inthe Sierra foot-hills. No attention is paid them by the country people, unless they are in trouble or have caused trouble, which is mostly thecase. But the man who "hikes" for pleasure is a source of perennialinterest not unmixed with admiration, especially when walking with thethermometer indicating three figures in the shade. To him the small boyopens his heart; the "hobo" passes the time of day with a merry jestthrown in; the good housewife brings a glass of cold water or milk, adding womanlike, a little motherly advice; the passing teamster, oreven stage-driver - that autocrat of the "ribbons" - shouts a cheery"How many miles today, Captain?" or, "Where did yon start from thismorning, Colonel?" - these titles perhaps due to the battered old coatof khaki. 

All the humors of the road are yours. In fact, you yourself contributeto them, by your unexpected appearance on the scene and the novelty ofyour "make-up, " if I may be pardoned the expression. At the hotel bar, you drink a glass of beer with the local celebrity and thus come intoimmediate touch with, the oldest inhabitant. " After dinner, seated on abench on the sidewalk, you smoke a pipe and discuss the affairs of thenation or of the town - usually the latter - with the man who in themorning offered to give you a lift and never will understand why youdeclined. Invariably you receive courteous replies and in kindlyinterest are met more than half way. 

The early romances, the prototypes of the modern novel, from "DonQuixote" to "Tom Jones" and "Joseph Andrews, " were little more thannarratives of adventures on the road. "Joseph Andrews" in particular -perhaps Fielding's masterpiece - is simply the story of a journey fromLondon to a place in the country some hundred and fifty miles distant. In these books all the adventures are associated with inns and thevarious characters, thrown together by chance, there assembled. Dickensunquestionably derived inspiration from Smollett and Fielding; nor isthere any doubt but that Harte made a close study of Dickens. 

From which preamble we come to the statement; if you would study humannature on the road, you must simply go where men congregate and exchangeideas. The plots of nearly all Bret Harte's mining stories are thusclosely associated with the bar-rooms and taverns of the mining towns ofhis day. What would remain of any of Phillpott's charming stories ofrural England, if you eliminated the bar-room of the village inn? Inhospitality and generous living, the inns of the mining towns still keepup the old traditions. The card room and bar-room are places where menmeet; to altogether avoid them from any pharisaical assumption of moralsuperiority is to lose the chance of coming in contact with the leadingcitizen, philanthropist, or eccentric character. 

In the old romances it must be admitted there is much brawling and heavydrinking, as well as unseemliness of conduct. Yet in spite of the factthat hotel bars and saloons abound in all the old mining towns, thewriter throughout his travels and notwithstanding the intense heat, notonly saw no person under the influence of liquor, but also never heard avoice raised in angry dispute. Moderation, decency and a kindlyconsideration for the rights of others seem habitual with these people. 

It is fifteen miles from Grass Valley to Smartsville, and I arrived atthe SmartsviIle Hotel in time for the midday meal. Smartsville has "seenbetter days, " but still maintains a cheerful outlook on life. Thepopulation has dwindled from several thousand to about three hundred. Itis, however, the central point for quite an extensive agricultural andpastoral country surrounding it. 

The swinging sign over the hotel bears the legend, "Smartsville Hotel, John Peardon, Propr. " The present proprietor is named "Peardon, " buteveryone addressed him as "Jim. " Having established a friendly footing, I said: "Mr. Peardon, I notice the sign over the door reads JohnPeardon. How is it that they all call you 'Jim?'" "Oh, " he replied, "John Peardon was my father, I was born in this hotel;" - another of thenumerous instances that came under my observation of the way thesepeople "stay where they are put. "

John Peardon was an Englishman. The British Isles furnished a veryconsiderable percentage of the pioneers, the evidences whereof remainunto this day. The swinging signs over the hotels for one; another, theprevalence in all the mining towns of Bass's pale ale. You will find itin the most unpretentious hotels and restaurants. An Englishman expectshis ale or beer, as a matter of course, whether at the Equator or at theArctic Circle. When I first arrived in California in 1868, I drifteddown into the then sheep and cattle country in the lower end of MontereyCounty. An English family living on an isolated ranch sent home for agirl who had worked for them in the old country. Upon her arrival, thefirst question she asked was: "How far is it to the church?" The second:"Where can I get my beer?" When informed there was no church within ahundred miles and that it was at least fifteen miles to the nearestsaloon, the poor woman felt that she was indeed all abroad! Bereft, atone blow of the Established Church and English Ale, the solid groundseemed to have given way from under her feet. For her, these twoparticulars comprised the whole of the British Constitution. 

Smartsville possessed a sentimental interest for me, for the reason thatin the sixties my father mined and taught a private school in anadjoining camp bearing the derogatory appellation "Sucker Flat. " Whatmischance prompted this title will never now be known. In my father'stime, it contained a population of nearly a thousand persons; andjudging from the manner in which the gulch and the contiguous flat havebeen torn, scarred, burrowed into and tunneled under, if gold there was, most strenuous efforts had been made to bring it to light. 

I asked if there was anyone in Smartsville who would be likely toremember my father, and was referred by Mr. Peardon to "Bob" Beatty, who, he said, had, lived in Smartsville all his life and knew everybody. As Mr. Beatty was within a stone's throw, at the Excelsior Store, I hadno difficulty in finding him. Introducing myself, I asked Mr. Beatty ifhe remembered my father. "To be sure I do, " he exclaimed, "I went to hisschool, and, " laughing heartily, "well I remember a licking he gave me!"He said that among the boys who attended that school, several in afteryears, as men, had become prominent in the history of the State. 

Mr. Beatty - now a pleasant, genial gentleman of fifty-two - very kindlywalked with me to the brow of the hill commanding a view of Sucker Flat, and pointed out the exact spot where the school had stood, for not astick or a stone remains to mark the locus of the town - it is simply aname upon the map. 

I mention this incident as being another proof of the extraordinary holdthe Sierra foot-hill country has upon the people who were born there, aswell as upon those who have drifted there by force of circumstances. Itis forty-six or forty-seven years since my father conducted that school, yet I felt so sure from previous experiences there would be inSmartsville someone who remembered him, that I determined to include itin my itinerary. 

Chapter VIII

Smartsville to Marysville. Some Reflections on Automobiles and "Hoboes"

Early the next morning I started for Marysville, the last leg in myjourney, and a long twenty miles distant. I had been dreading the pullthrough the Sacramento Valley, having a lively recollection of myexperience in the San Joaquin, on leaving Stockton. The day was sultry, making the heat still more oppressive. After leaving the foot-hills forgood, I walked ten miles before reaching a tree, or anything that cast ashadow, if you except the telephone poles. For the first time I realizedthere was danger in walking in such heat, and even contemplated theshade of the telephone poles as a possibility! Fortunately a lightbreeze sprang up - the fag end of the trade wind - and, though hot, itserved to dispel that stagnation of the atmosphere which in sultryweather is so trying to the nervous system. Marysville is nearly onehundred miles due north of Stockton - of course, much farther by rail -and the same arid, treeless, inhospitable belt of country between thecultivated area and the foot-hills apparently extends the wholedistance. It is a country to avoid. 

About two miles short of Marysville, while enjoying the shade cast bythe trees that border the levee of the Feather River, which skirtsMarysville to the south, a man in an auto stopped and very kindlyoffered to give me a lift. I thanked him politely but declined. Heseemed amazed. "Why don't you ride when you can?" he asked. "Because Iprefer to walk, " I answered. This fairly staggered him. The idea of aman preferring to walk, and in such heat, was probably a novelexperience, and served to deprive him of further speech. He simply satand stared and I had passed him some twenty yards before he started hismachine. 

A sturdy tramp walking in the middle of the road, who had witnessed thescene, shouted as he passed: "Why didn't yer ride wid de guy?" I repliedas before, "Because I prefer to walk;" adding for his benefit, "I've nouse for autos. " Whereupon he threw back his head and burst into pealafter peal of such hearty laughter that, from pure contagion, I perforcejoined in the chorus. In the days of Fielding and Sam Johnson, thisfellow would have been dubbed "a lusty vagabond;" in the slangy parlanceof today, he was a "husky hobo, " equipped as such, even to the tin canof the comic journals. To him, the humor of a brother tramp refusing aride - in an autocar, at that - appealed with irresistible force. 

To walk in the middle of the road is characteristic of the genuinetramp. There must be some occult reason for this peculiarity, since in ageneral way, it is far easier going on the margin. Perhaps it is becausehe commands a better view of either side, with a regard to the possibleonslaught of dogs. There is something about a man with a pack on hisback that infuriates the average dog, as I have on several occasionsfound to my annoyance. Robert Louis Stevenson, in his whimsical andaltogether delightful "Travels with a Donkey, " thus vents his opinionanent the dog question:

"I was much disturbed by the barking of a dog, an animal that I fearmore than any wolf. A dog is vastly braver and is, besides, supported bya sense of duty. If you kill a wolf you meet with encouragement andpraise, but if you kill a dog, the sacred rights of property and thedomestic affections come clamoring around you for redress. At the end ofa fagging day, the sharp, cruel note of a dog's bark is in itself a keenannoyance; and to a tramp like myself, he represents the sedentary andrespectable world in its most hostile form. There is something of theclergyman or the lawyer about this engaging animal; and if he were notamenable to stones, the boldest man would shrink from traveling a-foot. I respect dogs much in the domestic circle; but on the highway orsleeping afield, I both detest and fear them. "

I confess to a feeling of sympathy with the men we so indiscriminatelybrand with the contemptuous epithet, "hobo. " In the first place, theroad itself, with its accompanying humors and adventures, forms a mutualand efficacious bond. How little we know of the "Knights of the Road, "or the compelling circumstances that turned them adrift upon the world!"All sorts and conditions of men" are represented, from the collegeprofessor to the ex-pugilist. I have "hit the ties" in company with aso-called "hobo" who quoted Milton and Shakespeare by the yard, interspersed with exclamations appreciative of his enjoyment of thecountry through which we were passing. And once when on a tramp alongthe coast from San Francisco to Monterey, I fell in at Point San Pedrowith a professional, who bitterly regretted the coming of the OceanShore Railway, then in process of construction. "For years, " said he, "Ihave been in the habit of making this trip at regular intervals, on myway south. I had the road to myself and thoroughly enjoyed the peacefulbeauty of the scene; but now this railroad has come with its mushroomtowns, and all the charm has gone. Never again for me! This is my lasttrip!"

I have not the slightest doubt that sheer love of the road - and only atramp knows what those words mean - is the controlling influence whichkeeps fifty per cent of the fraternity its willing slaves. What wasSenhouse - that most fascinating of Maurice Hewlett's creations - but atramp? A gentleman tramp, if you please, but still a tramp. What is thereason that Senhouse appeals so strongly to the imagination? Simplybecause he loved Nature. And in this matter-of-fact period when poetryis dead and even a by-word, the man who loves Nature, if not a poet, atleast has poetry in his soul. In a decadent age symbolized by the tangoand the problem play, it is at least an encouraging sign for the futurethat such a character as Senhouse came to the jaded reader of the eroticfiction of the day, as a whiff of sea breeze on a parched plain, and washailed with corresponding delight. 

Of course there are "hoboes" and "hoboes, " as in any other profession, but so far as my experience goes, the "hobo" is an idealist. Of the manyreasons he has taken to the road, not the least is the freedom from theshackles of convention and the "Gradgrind" methods of an utilitarian andmaterialistic age. Nor is he a pessimist. Whatever his trouble, the roadhas eased him of his burden and made him a philosopher. 

Thoreau, writing in the middle of the last century, deplores the factthat in his day, as now, but few of his countrymen took any pleasure inwalking, and that very rarely one encountered a person with any realappreciation of the beauty of Nature, which if he could but see it, layat his very door. Speaking for himself and companion in his rambles, hesays: "We have felt that we almost alone hereabouts (Concord, Massachusetts) practiced this noble art; though, to tell the truth, atleast if their own assertions are to be received, most of my townsmenwould fain walk sometimes, as I do, but they cannot. No wealth can buythe requisite leisure, freedom and independence which are the capital inthis profession. It comes only by the grace of God. It requires a directdispensation from Heaven to become a Walker. Ambulator nascitur non fit. Some of my townsmen, it is true, can remember and have described to me, walks which they took ten years ago, in which they were so blessed as tolose themselves for half an hour in the woods. "

Who is there who walks habitually, who does not know the man who tellsyou of the walks he "used to take?" You have known him, say a dozenyears. During all that time, to your knowledge, his walks havepractically been limited by the distance to his office and back from theferry boat. When you urge him for perhaps the twentieth time, to essay atramp with you, he will say he would like to very much, butunfortunately so-and-so renders it impossible. And then looking you inthe eye, he will tell you how much he enjoyed tramps he took, of twentyor thirty miles - but that was before you knew him! As if a Walker witha big "W, " as Thoreau writes the word, would remain satisfied with thememory of walks of twenty years ago!

I had heard of the "Marysville Buttes, " as one has heard of Madagascar, but their actual appearance on the landscape came as the greatestsurprise of the trip. As I first caught sight of them when within a fewmiles of Marysville, they gave me a distinct thrill. I could hardlybelieve my eyes and thought of mirages; for those pointed, isolatedpeaks rise precipitously from the floor of the Sacramento valley; infact, their bases are only a mile or two from the river. They have everyindication, even to the unscientific eye, of having been upheaved byvolcanic action. Perhaps that accounts for the uncanny impression theyimpart. 

A walk of twenty-one or two miles without food, in any kind of weather, is apt to produce an aching void. My first efforts on reachingMarysville were therefore directed to finding the sort of place where Icould eat in comfort. The emphasis which Robert Louis Stevenson employswhen upon this most important quest would be amusing were it not also avital problem in your own case. There is nothing humorous per se inhunger or thirst; at any rate, not until both are appeased. With theblack coffee and cigar, you can tip your chair at a comfortable angleagainst the wall, and watching the delicate wreaths of smoke in theirspiral upward course, previous to final disintegration, smile at thepersistent energy with which an hour ago you systematically worked thetown from end to end, anxiously peering in the windows of uninvitingrestaurants until you finally found that little "hole in the wall" forwhich you were looking, with the bottle of Tipo Chianti, the succulentchops and the big red tomatoes, in the window. It is always to be foundif you have the necessary perseverance. The genial Italian proprietor, with the innate politeness of his countrymen, will not bore you withquestions as to where you have come from, whither you are going, or whatyou are walking for, anyway, etc. , etc. He accepts you just as you are -haversack, camera, big stick and all, hanging them without comment onthe hook behind your head; while you simply tell him you want a gooddinner, the best he can give you, but to include the chops, tomatoes andTipo Chianti. With a smile and that artistic flip of the napkin underhis arm, which only he can achieve, he sets about giving his orders. Later on, after a hot bath, a shave and the luxury of a clean shirt, feeling at peace with the world and refreshed in body and soul, you setout to examine the town in comfort and at your leisure. 

In the mining days, Marysville ranked next to San Francisco, Sacramentoand possibly Stockton, not only in interest but in actual volume ofbusiness transacted. It was the natural outlet for all the foot-hillcountry tributary to Grass Valley, Nevada City, and Smartsville. Therethe miners outfitted and there, when they had "made their pile, " theybegan the process - subsequently completed in Sacramento and SanFrancisco - of reducing it to a negligible quantity. That, of course, ismerely a reminiscence, but as the center of one of the most prosperousgrain and fruit-raising sections of the Sacramento Valley, Marysville isstill a place of considerable importance. The old town is very much inevidence; so much so that, in spite of the numerous modern buildings, the general effect produced is of age, as age is understood inCalifornia. I doubt if San Francisco before the fire, or Sacramentotoday, could show as many substantial, solid buildings dating back tothe fifties. 

Chapter IX

Bayard Taylor and the California of Forty-Nine. Bret Harte and HisLiterary Pioneer Contemporaries. 

And here in old Marysville, the county seat of Yuba County and situatedon its extreme western boundary, I ended my tramp, having covered adistance of approximately two hundred and fifty miles, exclusive ofretracements. The ideal time to visit the Sierra foot-hills would be inthe late Spring or early Autumn. I was compelled to grasp theopportunity when it offered or forego the pleasure altogether. Nor is itnecessary, of course, to walk; the roads, whilst generally speaking notclassed as good going for automobiles, are at least passable. I wassurprised at the number of high grade machines in evidence, in all thetowns of importance mentioned in this narrative. There remains also thealternative of a good saddle horse, or, better still, a light wagon withcamping outfit, thus rendering hotels unnecessary, the elimination ofwhich would probably pay the hire of horse and wagon. 

Half a century is a long period. You could probably count on the fingersof one hand persons now living in the Sierra foot-hills who have anyrecollection of ever having seen Bret Harte. It must also be rememberedthat in the fifties his reputation as an author had not beenestablished. Of all that group of brilliant young men who visited themines in early days, which included for a brief space "Orpheus C. Kerr"and "Artemus Ward, " I can well imagine that Bret Harte attracted theleast attention. It is extremely doubtful to "my mind if he ever hadmuch actual experience of the mining camps. To a man of his vividimagination, a mere suggestion afforded a plot for a story; even theLaird's Toreadors, it will be recalled, were commercially successfulwhen purely imaginary; he only failed when he subsequently studied thereal thing in Spain. 

Bret Harte was a man who in a primitive community might well escapenotice. In appearance, manner and training, he was the exact antithesisof Mark Twain. He was a student before he was a writer and possessed thestudent's shy reserve. I can well imagine him, a slight boyish figure, flitting from camp to camp, wrapped in his own thoughts, keeping his owncounsel. Yet he alone of that little band, unless you except Mark Twain, possessed the divine spark we call "genius. " Centuries after the namesof all the rest are buried in oblivion, Bret Harte's stories of theArgonauts in the mining towns of California will remain the classicsthey have already become. 

Yet as before stated, when once I got fairly started on the road, thepioneers themselves and their worthy descendants absorbed my interestand assumed the center of the stage to the exclusion, for the timebeing, of the romancers; who, after all, each in his own fashion, depicted only what most appealed to him in the characters of these samemen and their contemporaries. Bayard Taylor in his interesting work "ElDorado, " the first edition of which appeared in 1850, thus states hisopinion of the men of '49:

"Abundance of gold does not always beget, as moralists tell us, agrasping and avaricious spirit. The principles of hospitality were asfaithfully observed in the rude tents of the diggers, as they could beby the thrifty farmers of the North and West. The cosmopolitan cast ofcharacter in California, resulting in the commingling of so many races, and the primitive mode of life, gave a character of good-fellowship toall its members; and in no part of the world have I ever seen help morefreely given to the needy, or more ready co-operation in any humanproposition. Personally, I can safely say that I never met with suchunvarying kindness from comparative strangers. "

That last sentence also spelt the literal truth in my experience. Eventhe dogs were kindly disposed and though I carried, a "big stick, "except by way of companionship and as an aid in climbing, I might safelyhave left it at home. And while at times I walked through a wild, mountainous and almost deserted country, the idea of possible dangernever occurred to me. When finally one encountered a human being, heinvariably proved a courteous, obliging and companionable personage tomeet. 

Bayard Taylor attended in September and the beginning of October, 1849, the convention at Monterey, which gave to California its first, and inthe opinion of many, its best constitution. He closes his review of theproceedings with these forceful and prophetic words:

"Thus we have another splendid example of the ease and security withwhich people can be educated to govern themselves. From that chaoswhence under, a despotism like the Austrian, would spring the mostfrightful excesses of anarchy and crime, a population of freemenpeacefully and quietly develops the highest form of civil order - thebroadest extent of liberty and security. Governments, bad and corruptas many of them are, and imperfect as they all must necessarily be, nevertheless at times exhibit scenes of true moral sublimity. What Ihave today witnessed has so, impressed me; and were I a believer inomens, I would augur from the tranquil beauty of the evening - from theclear sky and the lovely sunset hues on the waters of the bay - morethan all, from the joyous expression of every face I see, a glorious andprosperous career for the State of California. "

Southern California, by which is understood all of the State south ofthe Tehachapi Mountains, was mostly settled by and is still to a greatextent the objective point of people from the East and Middle West. Mostof them came in search of health and brought a competency sufficient fortheir needs. When President Wilson, then Governor of New Jersey, visitedCalifornia in 1911, he came over the southern route to Los Angeles. Addressing a Pasadena audience he said: "I am much disappointed when Isee you. I expected to find a highly individualized people, charactersdeveloped by struggle and mutual effort; but I find you the same peoplewe have at home, " and more, to the same effect. Subsequently, GovernorWilson delivered an address at the Greek Theater, Berkeley, before thestudents of the University of California. At its close, Mr. Maslinmounted the stage, a copy of the paper containing the account of thePasadena speech in his hands, and asked the Governor if he was correctlyreported; to which he replied in the affirmative. "Governor, " said Mr. Maslin, you came into the State at the wrong gate!" "Gate? gate? - whatgate?" inquired the Governor. "You should have come through EmigrantGap, through which most of the emigrants from '49 and on entered theState. Now, Governor, the people you saw at Pasadena never suffered thetrials of a pioneer's lite, they are not knit together by the memory ofmutual struggles and privations. When you come to the State again, comethrough Emigrant Gap. Let me know when you come, and I will introduceyou to a breed of men the world has never excelled. " With the smile withwhich millions have since become familiar, Governor Wilson grasped thehand of the pioneer and said: "When I come again, as I feel sure Ishall, I shall let you know. "

The following morning I took the train for my home in Alameda. As I satand meditated on the scenes I had witnessed and the character of thepeople I had met, it was borne in upon me that this had been the mostinteresting as well as enjoyable experience of my life. Already thetemporary discomforts produced by heat and soiled garments had fadedinto insignificance, and assumed a most trivial aspect when I reviewedthe journey as a whole. They were part of the game. To again quote"Trilby, " tramping "is not all beer and skittles. " Your true tramplearns to take things as he finds them and never to expect or ask or theimpossible. He will drink the wine of the country, even when sour, without a grimace; pass without grumbling a sleepless night; plodthrough dust ankle deep, without a murmur; there is but one vulnerablefeature in his armor, and with Achilles, it is his heel! And it isliterally the heel that, is the sensitive spot. I will venture theassertion that the long-distance tramper - not even excepting BrotherWeston - who has not at some time or another suffered from sore heels, does not exist. The tramp's feet are his means of locomotion; on theircondition he bestows an anxiety and care which far surpass that of theman in the automobile, with all his complicated machinery to inspect. 

Remains then, the memory of the delicious, faint, cool, morning breeze, gently stirring the pine needles; the aromatic odor of forestundergrowth; the murmur of the stream hurrying down the mountain gorgeto mingle its pure waters with those of the muddy Sacramento, far awayin the great valley below; the deep awe-inspiring canons of theAmerican, Stanislaus and Mokelumne Rivers; and back of all, the azuresummits of the Sierra Nevada. 

Remains also, the memory of the kindly-disposed, courteous andopen-hearted inhabitants of the old mining towns. But more forcibly thanall else combined - for it seems to epitomize the whole - the glamour ofthe towns themselves appeals with an irresistible fascination, that nopoor words of mine can adequately express. 

Appendix

Views of the Bret Harte Country

Here ends A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country by Thomas DykesBeasley. Published by Paul Elder and Company and printed for them attheir Tomoye Press in the city of San Francisco, under the direction ofJohn Swart, in the year Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen