Chapter XIII: Stockton and Sonora

I have perambulated the streets of San Francisco, Sacramento, Marysville and Stockton; but of all the California cities, after San Francisco, Stockton is my choice. It is named in honor of Commodore R. F. Stockton, and is situated on a tributary of the San Joaquin river, which empties into the Suisun Bay, opening into the Bay of San Francisco. Being but a little over one hundred miles to the east of San Francisco, it enjoys the advantages of daily steamboat communication with that place; but owing to the narrow banks of the stream and the shallowness of the water, the vessels are much smaller than those employed upon the Sacramento. It contains from six to seven thousand inhabitants. Though only the fourth city in the State in population, it is the third in business. All the residents of the southern mines draw their supplies from it; and as it is blessed with a mild climate, it is frequently resorted to by those who seek pastime or recreation.

The San Joaquin valley, in the midst of which this city is situated, would probably be the best agricultural land in the State, if the water could be drained from it; but in its present low and boggy condition, it is utterly unfit for cultivation. It takes its name from the low-banked river which meanders through it, and is as level as a garden. No vegetable production is found upon it, except the tule, a tall, pithy species of rush or calamus, which bears a more striking resemblance to the flag than to any thing else of Atlantic growth. This tule, which grows as thick as it can stand, and from six to eight foot in height, is an annual plant; and in the fall of the year, if fire be communicated to it during the night, when there is a light breeze stirring, it burns with an indescribable splendor. I have said that this aquatic weed is the only natural product of the valley; this is true, as regards all that part which is perfectly level, and which presents the appearance of a vast meadow; but as we approach the Coast Range on the south-west, or the Sierra Nevadas on the north-east, we come to slightly elevated knolls, upon which we find clumps of gnarled oaks. These trees all lean towards the east, as if bowing their heads in adoration, having grown in this reverential posture while under the influence of the winds from the west.

This valley affords another evidence of the unfavorable condition of the country. It shows conclusively that even the most valuable parts of the State are encumbered with insurmountable impediments. The bottom lands, which are mainly relied upon for agricultural purposes, are too wet to till, and too low to drain; while the uplands are so dry and sterile that neither grains, plants nor fruits can be raised upon them. There is either too much moisture or none at all. It is a land of mountains and mud-holes. Still, there are some extensive plains and valleys which might be successfully cultivated, if the seasons were adapted to them; but the absence of rain during the summer renders them of little or no value to the farmer. It is very probable, however, that in the progress of time, as the other members of the confederacy become burdened with population, the more eligible parts of this State will be settled and, by means of irrigation, made tolerably productive; but when California is thus peopled and converted into a place of permanent habitation, it will be by the force of destiny, rather than by any attractions it can offer to immigrants. They may make it their home as a dernier resort, but they will not do it as a matter of choice. So long as there is any unappropriated territory in other parts of the Union, California will not be in demand.

We shall find but few things deserving attention in the city of Stockton, having already examined its archetypes, San Francisco and Sacramento. It is due to this place to remark that, notwithstanding all its Peter Funk and Cheap John establishments, it sustains a better character than any other city in the State. Though it has its share of groggeries and gambling-houses, and is, in most respects, fitted out in true California style, it is not infested with so many drones and desperadoes as are usually met with in neighboring towns. I am well acquainted with many of its citizens and know them to be estimable men--not too lazy to work, nor too sour to laugh at a merry thing.

Sonora is an inland town, situated in the midst of one of the richest mineral regions in the southern part of the State. A stage-coach affords the most convenient and expeditious means of reaching this place, which lies about fifty miles to the south-east. Starting early in the morning, we travel as last as a dare-devil driver can make four horses convey us--frequently meeting and overtaking numerous pack trains, pedestrians and ox-teams, passing to and fro between the mines and Stockton. A part of the country over which our road leads us, is a somewhat elevated plain, which, being entirely destitute of trees and other vegetable products, presents a most dreary and uninviting prospect. We see nothing around us but the naked earth. There is no accommodation for either bird or beast--no resting-place for the one, nor food for the other. The pack-trains, pedestrians and ox-teams, constitute the only animal life in view; and as we see them plodding along over this barren waste, our memories are refreshed with vivid recollections of those stories, which we read in former days, of caravans crossing the great desert of Sahara.

It is a fact worthy of being here recorded, as illustrative of the success of the miners, that we shall observe a larger number returning on foot than we find going. I was amused one day, while on my way to the regions of hidden treasure, when meeting a ragged, hairy, Esau-looking pedestrian, he hailed me with “Hallo.” “How are you?” answered I. “Which way?” asked he. “To the mines,” replied I. “Well, my friend,” said he, “you will excuse me for speaking plainly; this is a free country and I presume you are at liberty to go to the mines or to the d--l, just as you please; but, mark my words, if you are going to the mines to dig, I’ll be d--d if you don’t rue the act.” “May-be not,” remarked I. “Very well,” he added, “you’ll see. By the time you delve and toil two long years, under the broiling sun as I have done, and have seen others do, without making a decent living, you’ll perceive the truth of what I tell you.”

Steadily pursuing our course, about twelve o’clock we came to the Stanislaus River, a small tributary stream of the San Joaquin. Here we stop to change horses and get dinner, there being a sort of bastard hotel near the brink of the river. Numerous Indians, naked and hungry, could be seen prowling about this place, or seated in squads, partaking of a mess of worms, young wasps, grasshoppers, or any other similar dainty to which their good stars may lead them. It was a long time before the savage creatures would tolerate the presence of the white man amongst them; but they have been so repeatedly routed in battle, that they have now given up open hostility and are comparatively peaceable; still they secretly cherish the most implacable enmity to our race, and improve every opportunity to dispatch us when they can do so without being detected. They gain nothing, however, by these covert misdeeds; for our people, understanding their insidious conduct, retaliate by deliberately shooting them down whenever they come in their way. What the white man’s life is valued at by the Indian, is probably not known; but the white man hurls the Indian into eternity with as much nonchalance as though he were a squirrel.

Having appeased our appetites and secured the services of a fresh team, we cross the river and resume our journey. As we advance towards the place of our destination, the face of the country changes, from level plains to rugged slopes and woodlands. In the forenoon our road, though disagreeably dusty, was both smooth and straight, but now it winds over rocky glades, hills and gullies; and as the wheels of our vehicle mount and descend the rough impediments, we are jarred and shaken without mercy. Approaching still nearer the end of our journey, we have to contend with a more difficult and uneven surface; but being in charge of a very skillful driver, we are drawn safely over every rock and crag.

Arriving in Sonora between sundown and dark, we repair to a public house, and bespeak supper and lodgings for the night. The best hotel in the place is a one-story structure, built of unhewn saplings, covered with canvas and floored with dirt. It consists of one undivided room, in which the tables, berths and benches are all arranged. Here we sleep, eat and drink. Four or five tiers of berths or bunks, one directly above another, are built against the walls of the cabin, by means of upright posts and cross-pieces, fastened with thongs of raw-hide. The bedding is composed of a small straw mattress about two feet wide, an uncased pillow stuffed with the same material, and a single blanket. When we creep into one of these nests, it is optional with us whether we unboot or uncoat ourselves; but it would be looked upon as an act of ill-breeding, even in California, to go to bed with one’s hat on. Having once resigned ourselves into the arms of Morpheus, we are not likely to be disturbed by the drunken yells and vociferations of night-brawlers, now that we have become accustomed to such things. The noisy curses of the rabble will have no more effect upon us than the roaring water-fall or the mill-wheel has upon the miller. Night glides away, morning dawns, and we rise from our bunks to battle with another day. On the outside of the tavern, whither we betake ourselves to wash, are a tub of water, a basin and a towel, for all the guests; but as only one person can perform his ablutions at a time, it will be necessary for us to form ourselves in a line, and take our turn--the first comers being entitled to the front places. We are now ready to replenish the inner man. The bar is convenient for those who wish to imbibe. Breakfast is announced. We seat ourselves at the table. Before us is a reasonable quantity of beans, pork and flapjacks, served up in tin plates. Pea tea, which the landlord calls coffee with a bold emphasis, is handed to us, and we help ourselves to such other things as may be within reach.

No matter what kinds or qualities of viands are set before us, so that there be sufficient, for our stomachs have become so well tempered by this time that we feast upon them with as much gusto as if we were dining in a French restaurant. Neither spices, sauces nor seasonings are necessary to accommodate them to the palate. Our appetites need no nursing. Honest hunger disdains such dyspeptic accompaniments as the contents of cruets and casters. The richest condiments are the poorest provisions.

Our fast is broken--we are satisfied. The proprietor of the hotel, with his two male assistants, begins to clear off the table. Women have no hand in these domestic affairs. There is not a female about the establishment. All the guests, owners and employees are men. The dishes are washed, the blankets straightened in the berths; and while the cook is preparing dinner, some of the tavern-loungers seat themselves around the table, to take a friendly game of euchre, whist, seven-up, laugh-and-lay-down, old-maid, commerce or matrimony, while others saunter off to the gambling houses, of which there are about half a dozen in the place, to play at roulette, monte, faro, poker, twenty-one, all-fours or lansquenet. Such is hotel life in California, especially in the country towns and throughout the mining region.

Frequently several of the guests are fuddled, and as there are no partitions or apartments in the building, by which one person or set of persons may be separated from another, they are a most prolific source of annoyance to their sober neighbors. I recollect one occasion particularly, when, fatigued by a long day’s journey, I stopped at one of these mountain taverns in the hope of enjoying a comfortable night’s rest. Soon after eating my supper, which consisted of the standard dish, pork and beans, I crept into one of the farthest bunks, annoyed by the blackguardism and segar fumes of a group of drunken card-players, who occupied a table near the centre of the room. These swaggering inebriates, noisy as they were, did not prevent me from sleeping, as I had become habituated to witnessing such nocturnal carousals; but towards midnight, in came a wild, blustering lunatic, who had lost his reason about a week before, yelling and screaming as if a legion of fiends were after him. He was bare-footed, bare-headed and bare-legged, having no clothing upon his person, except a shirt; and I understood afterwards that he had been roaming about the place four or five days and nights in this condition. Making some inquiry concerning his history, I learned that he was a lawyer by profession, that he had formerly figured as an able and influential member of the Maine Legislature, and that, becoming embarrassed in his financial affairs, he left his family and emigrated hither in the hope of retrieving his fortune. Shortly after his arrival, not finding employment for his talent as a counselor, he determined to seek the favor of the mines; but his efforts in that quarter proved unavailing. For nearly a year he had toiled vigorously and incessantly, but to no purpose. He could not discover the hidden treasure which he sought. Disappointed and chagrined at the result, he resigned himself to the bottle. The remembrance of his dependent and far distant family, coupled with the mischievous influence of ardent spirits, increased and sharpened his mental suffering; his mind began to vacillate--his reason lost its equilibrium, and we now find him a raving maniac. More than half naked, friendless and forlorn, he wanders about the streets and through the woods, day and night--a poor, miserable, crazy vagabond. Why, it may be asked, was there not some public provision made for the removal and security of this pitiable nuisance? Simply because it was in California. Here, where there is nothing as it should be, this unhappy man was allowed to run at large. No one cared for him. He was supposed to be harmless, and was, therefore, permitted to live. If he had inflicted any bodily injury upon any one, he would probably have been shot or stabbed, and that would have been the end of the drama. Cases of this or a similar character are to be met with almost every day. I only mention this as a single instance.

To give a faint idea of the precocity and waywardness of youth in this country, I will relate a bloody incident which occurred at another hotel, where I had put up for a night’s lodging. In this case the landlord, a short, lean Massachusetts Yankee, was married and had his family with him. His eldest son, Ned, had not seen his ninth year. Nevertheless, this boy had learned to gamble. Whether his father or mother had instructed him in the art, or whether he had been tutored by the blacklegs frequenting the hotel, I am unable to say; but it was very evident that his parents cared very little about the matter, for they permitted him to play cards in their own house, and seemed to pride themselves upon his proficiency. Indeed, he was so dexterous in his manner of shuffling and dealing, and so quick to perceive the course and probable result of the game, that he was known throughout the neighborhood as the gambling prodigy. It may be questioned whether Hoyle himself was so conversant with diamonds, hearts, clubs and spades at so early an age.

Supper was now over, and the tables were surrounded with players. Little Ned had his place amongst them. I watched him more than an hour. He handled the cards with so much grace, skill and agility, and seemed to be so perfectly familiar with every branch of the game, that I could not withhold my admiration. As the night advanced, the parties became involved in a quarrel. Some one accused Ned of unfairness in changing the position of certain cards. Violent oaths and maledictions followed this accusation. Inflamed with anger, and assuming a menacing attitude, Ned denounced his accuser (a full grown man, three times as large and four times as old as himself,) as “a pusillanimous liar and scoundrel,” and added, “G-d d--n you, I’ll shoot you!” By this time the excitement had reached a high pitch. Things began to wear an alarming aspect. Several persons took sides in the matter, some for Ned and some against him. A general row seemed to be inevitable. Ned had the largest number of friends; but his enemies were clamorous and obstinate in their assertions that he had departed from the rules of the game, and declared in positive terms that he was a disciplined cheat.

Finally, however, Ned’s friends took upon themselves all the responsibility of his behaviour, and the war of loud invectives and imprecations was now waged more by the adherents of the original disputants than by those disputants themselves. The bandying of gross epithets attracted the attention of a large crowd. Serious consequences were apprehended. The occasion was pregnant with mischief. One of the desperadoes jerked a bowie-knife from his pocket, and was about to plunge it into the body of his antagonist, when another drew a revolver and shot him. A few struggles--a few groans, and the fallen man had ceased to live. But the injury was not confined to him alone. As the ball passed through the breast of the man at whom it was aimed, it lodged in the shoulder of an innocent spectator, inflicting a severe but not mortal wound. And now was enacted one of those awful scenes of retribution for which California is so notorious. The man who had just committed the homicide was seized by the mob, and, amid loud cries of “hang him! hang him!” led out to a tree and there summarily executed according to the prompt sentence of the excited multitude. It was a season of dreadful uproar and commotion. The man who was shot had not been dead half an hour before his murderer was suspended by the neck between heaven and earth. Thus we have seen the blood of two men shed in the quarrel of a stripling, who had not attained half the age of manhood, but who already was a reckless and abandoned little gambler. If we deemed it necessary, we might cite other instances of a similar character. Suffice it to say that this boy, Ned, may be taken as a fair sample of the rising generation in California. Of course, they are not all exactly like him, any more than two persons are exactly alike any where else; but the same unlimited freedom is extended to them all: they are allowed to do just as they please. What else can be expected? Is it to be supposed that parents who put no restraint upon themselves will govern their children with propriety? If the father is an habitual gambler, drunkard and desperado, will not the son be so too?

The truth is, there is no attention paid to the moral, mental or physical discipline of youth in this country. They are left to their own will and inclination, to grow up, like the plants and weeds in a neglected garden, without culture or training. Surrounded as they are with so many examples of depravity, what sort of men and women are they likely to he? It is probable that the world has never reared such a horde of accomplished scamps and vagabonds, male and female, as will soon emerge from the adolescent population of the Eureka State. The signs of the times warrant this conclusion. How can it be otherwise when they are familiar with every vice, and strangers to every virtue? It matters not how strict or careful the parents themselves may be, it is impossible for them to shield their children from the baneful influences of the neighborhood; and a man might as well think of raising a healthy and stalwart family in the midst of a malarious swamp, as to think of rearing decent sons and daughters in California. The boys persuade themselves that they are men before they are half matured; and their superiors are either too little concerned about it, or too deeply engrossed in business to teach them better. As a consequence of this precocious manliness, they give themselves up to all the pernicious habits and indulgences of older reprobates.

A few words now in regard to this town of Sonora. It is built upon the slope of a long hill, and contains about four thousand inhabitants. Only one street traverses it. Unlike most other towns, its length is very much disproportioned to its breadth. As well as I remember, it is something over a mile long, and only about one hundred yards wide; so that the single street which passes through it affords an ample avenue for the intercourse and business operations of the people. The houses, or, more properly speaking, the shanties, are built close together, and open on the street, in city style. Indeed, it is here called a city, and is governed by a mayor and common council. In fact, every collection of houses in this country, every hamlet, every village, every town, is called a city. No matter if there be only half a dozen houses in a place, it is termed a city, always taking the name of the locality upon which it is built, as Collusi city, Stanislaus city, Marin city. I have visited two or three of these California “cities” that contained but a couple of frail tenements each, and four or five old bachelor inhabitants.

Before it was ascertained which were the natural or most suitable and convenient parts of the State for city sites and trading posts, there was a wonderful deal of finesse practiced by a set of land-speculators. Scattering themselves over the country, they laid claim to certain eligible plats, which, according to their stories, Nature had formed expressly for capitals and queen cities. Large maps, margined with laudatory remarks, setting forth the peerless advantages of this place and that, were committed to oily-tongued agents for general circulation. The people were informed that such a place was destined to become a metropolis, that all the surrounding mountains, hills, valleys and plains were bound to become tributary to it, that the great system and machinery of the world could not move on harmoniously without it, and that those who secured the first choice of lots would at once be in possession of a lordly fortune. This, as a matter of course, was all sheer humbug; nevertheless, in California, where humbug mingles with every transaction of life, and where people are ever ready to lay hold of any scheme that promises money, it had the desired effect.

Many persons had confidence in these projects, and made investments in them. Besides several individual cases of which I might speak, I am acquainted with a company of men who laid out more than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in this questionable species of property;--to-day their investment is not worth two cents on the dollar. It was perfectly amusing sometimes to witness the working of these bastard enterprises. The authors and agents of the plan, having their topographic charts and every thing in readiness, would bustle about among the people, pointing out and explaining the favorable and commanding situation of the place, assuring them that the attention of the whole country was now directed to it, and giving the most exasperated accounts of the demand for lots. In this way they would soon get up a great excitement, (it requires but a small matter to excite the people in California.) In a few instances, as many as seventy or eighty persons have been known to purchase interests in one of these bubble cities, and, laying aside all other business, flock to it without delay. Three weeks afterwards, there would probably be only one or two men on the ground, and no marks or vestiges of a city, except, perhaps, a few deserted cloth tents. It must be admitted that the projectors of these ephemeral cities made money at the expense of their victims.

The Americans were the principal operators in these speculative movements; but I know several Germans, who, though proverbially cautious in the matter of dollars and cents, were likewise drawn into them. In one particular case, two worthy representatives of the _Faderland_ bought four lots, each forty-five by one hundred and thirty-seven feet, for thirteen thousand dollars, which they afterwards offered to me at ninety-five per cent. discount! I would not have taken the whole or any part of the plot at the rate of six dollars an acre.

I have alluded, parenthetically, to the excitability of the Californians. This is a remarkable trait in their character. The least thing of unusual occurrence fires their fancy and sets them in motion. If a terrier catches a rat, or if a big turnip is brought to market, the people cluster together and scramble for a sight with as much eagerness and impetuosity as a party of children would scramble after a handful of sweetmeats. If, in these hasty gatherings, one man happens to tread on the toes of another, it only requires one minute for the injured party to shoot the offender, two minutes for some body else to stab the shooter, and three minutes for the whole crowd to hang the stabber.

While in and about Sonora, we may have an opportunity of inspecting all the various systems of mining that are carried on in California. The whole earth, for some distance around, is literally turned upside down, or inside out. On the left, they are using the common single-hand rocker; on the right, sluicing; and in another place, sinking deep shafts. We shall here find a great many Mexican miners, who make deep pits and excavations in the hills, and who are generally very successful in their operations. These delving countrymen of Santa Anna seem to have a peculiar tact for discovering the veins of gold. But they do not confine themselves much to surface diggings. They have a greater propensity for holes. Sometimes they will go forty or fifty feet into the earth without finding an atom of the precious metal; but it is very seldom that they mistake their ground; they keep going, either in a perpendicular, horizontal or meandering direction, until they strike the ore. Except in working quartz veins, machinery has been but little employed, as yet, in developing the mineral resources of the State; but I am inclined to the opinion that it might be advantageously applied in gathering the gold in whatever form it may exist.

A part of the preceding chapter was devoted to observations upon the habits of life and personal appearance of the miner; but I neglected to mention his peculiar characteristic or appendage: this is the long hair upon his head and face. He neither shaves nor shears; he has no use for either razors or scissors. The tonsorial art is, in his estimation, a most reprehensible and unmanly innovation. Looking upon it as one of the fashionable foibles of society, he disavows all connection with it. He believes that Nature is not apt to make mistakes, that all things were created about right, that hair was placed upon man’s head and face to harmonize with the other organs of his body, that it has its distinct and peculiar offices to perform, and that if it is cut, the whole animal economy will be more or less enervated. Such is something of the faith of the miner upon this interesting subject, which has of late been such a theme of discussion among the mustachioed and non-mustachioed world.

I confess myself, in fact, a convert to his notions. To say that the whiskers or the hair should never be trimmed, would be as much as to say that the finger-nails should never be pared; while to say that the beard or the hair should be cut close to the skin, would be the same as saying that the finger-nails should be pulled out by the roots. If we shave the chin and the cheeks, why not the head, the hands and the arms? How comes it that hair is less tolerable on the side of the face than on the back of the hand? The Chinaman shaves his head all over, except a small spot on the crown, about twice the size of a dollar, and we laugh at him for doing so; but may it not be questioned which is the greater object of derision, a bald head or a beardless face? We are also in the habit of ridiculing young ladies because they lace or compress their waists, but would it not be equally becoming in them to sneer at us for disfiguring our faces? What would we think of the belles, if they were to get in the habit of wearing false whiskers? Would we not characterize the introduction of such a fashion as a silly and whimsical innovation? But is it any more ridiculous or censurable in a woman to make her face masculine, than it is in a man to make his feminine?

That the beard is a protection against sore throats, coughs, colds, asthma, and other ailments, every California miner will be willing to testify. It is said that the English colliers, who have long suffered from hemorrhage of the lungs, have evaded the disease altogether by discontinuing the use of the razor. Yet the newspapers inform us that the clerks in the Bank of England are not allowed to wear mustachios, under penalty of dismission.

As I have heretofore remarked, mining in California is one of the most precarious of all occupations. Yet it is the country’s only source of wealth, and if the laborer fails in it, he cannot betake himself to other pursuits. If he cannot make money by digging, shoveling and rocking, he cannot make it at all. Now and then, it is true, the miner meets with unanticipated good luck; but when such a thing occurs it is blazoned from Dan to Beersheba, whereas no mention is ever made of the thousands of unfortunate, poverty-stricken dupes, who, though equally industrious and deserving, scarcely defray their expenses.

I may refer to the case of an old man, who, for some time, was engaged in mining operations at this place, and with whom I became acquainted soon after my arrival here. Sixty years had left their traces upon his face, and his snowy beard and silver locks increased his venerable air. For a man of his age, he was remarkably vigorous; and as he was somewhat above the usual height, and well proportioned, with a kind heart that beamed through his intelligent features, he must have been, in his younger days, a noble specimen of a man. Even at the time of which we speak, he was a fine looking man, old in years but young in spirit, whole-souled, free from every species of hypocrisy, plain-spoken, full of courage and resolution, yet sincere and guileless as a child. Though I never saw him have on a clean shirt, though his whole garb was besmeared with mud and soiled with perspiration; though his hoary locks hung about his breast and shoulders in unrestrained length and unlimited profusion; and though he was nothing now but a poor, penniless old miner--yet, convinced that he had those excellent qualities within, which constitute the great and good man, I should have felt proud to call him father.

We will let this venerable sexagenarian tell his own story. I indite his own words, as nearly as I recollect them. Said he, during conversation one evening, after we had both quit work, “Some men would esteem themselves wealthy, if they were worth as much money as I was deprived of by bad legislation in Congress, a while previous to my departure for this country. Soon after the enactment of the tariff law of 1842, one of my neighbors and myself invested eighty thousand dollars in the manufacture of iron, in the State of Pennsylvania. Our business succeeded beyond our expectations; and in order to supply the increasing demands for our products, we found it necessary to employ additional force and capital, build new forges, and otherwise enlarge the sphere of our operations. Every examination of our affairs developed new evidences of prosperity, and our hearts glowed with gratitude to those sterling patriots and sagacious statesmen, Clay, Webster and others, through whose eloquent influence we were then harvesting the fruits of a protective tariff. But this thriving state of things was not of long continuance. In 1846 the tariff act of ’42 was repealed; and that repeal was the death-blow to our manufacturing interests. The duty on iron was reduced so low that it was impossible for us to compete with the importations from Europe. We became embarrassed, made an assignment, and finally, by sacrificing every thing we had in the shape of property, extricated ourselves from all liabilities. After this stroke of misfortune, having a wife and three daughters, who were partly dependent upon me for support, I concluded to come to California, believing, from the flattering accounts which I had seen published, that money was more easily accumulated here than in the Atlantic States. It is now almost two years since I arrived in San Francisco. Going to the northern mines first, I worked there something over twelve months; but finding it a difficult matter to pay expenses, I came south, and settled at this place. I fear I have not bettered my condition. During the last seven or eight months I have labored faithfully upon this bar, but have not been in possession of as much as twenty-five dollars clear money at any one time. I confess I am utterly disappointed in California. It has been grossly, shamefully misrepresented. I have tried it to my satisfaction. Now I would be glad to return to my home in Pennsylvania, but I have no means to convey me. And there is my poor family, my beloved wife and daughters--what will become of them? May heaven provide for them, for I am unable.”

As the good old man uttered these last words, the tears trickled down his cheeks, and he could say no more. Had it not been that I disdained to moisten California soil with such precious drops, I believe my eyes would have rained too; for the clouds began to gather about them, and I had to use no little precaution to keep them dry. It was certainly no sign of a white-livered man, to shed tears in a case of this kind; on the contrary, it was, at least in my opinion, a mark of goodness; and my estimation of the old gentleman was heightened, on account of the tender regard he manifested towards his family. He had lately received a most soothing and affectionate letter from one of his daughters, urging him by all means to return home on the first opportunity, and promising to exert herself to the utmost to make him happy. Handing the letter to me, he remarked that I might read it if I felt so disposed. A peculiar thrill electrified my whole system as I laid hold of the delicately penned missive. I was but little acquainted with that kind of literature, yet there was a charm about it, and I devoured its contents with avidity. It was a rare souvenir--beautifully written, well worded, and faultless in orthography.