A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
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Thomas Dykes Beasley >> A Tramp Through the Bret Harte Country
Coloma suffered severely from fires. Little of the old town remains but
ruins of stone walls, and here and there an isolated wooden building.
The ruins, however, are not only exceedingly picturesque, being half
buried in foilage of beautiful trees, but hold the imagination with a
grip that is indescribable. I could willingly have tarried here for
days.
But while old Coloma is dead, there is a new Coloma that furnishes an
extraordinary contrast. It is a sweet and peaceful little hamlet,
situated on the lower benches of the canon, well up out of the river
bottom, and is entirely devoted to horticulture. One has read of birds
building their nests in the muzzles of old and disused cannon; even that
does not suggest a more anomalous association of ideas than the
spectacle of a vine-clad cottage shaded by fig trees, basking peacefully
in the sun, so close to what was at one time a veritable maelstrom of
human passions. So far as the new Coloma is concerned, Marshall's
discovery might never have been made. Nowhere else will you find a spot
where 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 be
linked 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 His
Home
After surmounting the canon of the South Fork of the American River, you
gradually enter a open country, the outskirts of the great deciduous
fruit belt in Placer County, which supplies New York and Chicago with
choice plums, peaches and pears. About three miles from Auburn, the road
plunges into one of the deepest canons of the Sierras, at the bottom of
which the Middle and North Forks of the American River unite. Just below
the junction, the river is spanned by a long suspension bridge. Auburn
is remarkably situated in that one sees nothing of it until the rim of
the canon is reached, at least a thousand feet above the river. Thus
there are no outskirts and you plunge at once into the business streets,
passing the station of the Central Pacific Railway, which line skirts
the edge of the canon on a heavy grade.
I had accomplished a good thirty miles but that did not prevent me from
accompanying my friend on a long and protracted hunt for comfortable
quarters in which to eat and spend the night. There was quite an
attractive hotel near the railroad, but actuated by a desire to see
something of the town, which we found to be more than usually drawn out,
we passed it with lingering regret. Whether by chance or instinct, we
drifted 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 fifties
there were, rich placer diggings in the immediate vicinity. There are
some remarkably solid buildings of that period, in the old portion of
the town, which, as customary, is situated in the bottom of the winding
valley or ravine. Practically a new town, called "East Auburn," has been
started on higher ground, and a fight is on to move the post office; but
the people in the hollow having the voting strength, hang on to it like
grim death. Along the edge of the American River canon and commanding a
magnificent view, are the homes of the local aristocracy. In christening
Auburn, it is scarcely credible that the pioneers had in mind
Goldsmith's "loveliest village of the Plain;" nor, keeping the old town
in view, is the title remarkably applicable today.
Our next objective point being Colfax, distant in a north-easterly
direction only fifteen miles, we made a leisurely inspection of the town
and vicinity in the morning. The old town proved of absorbing interest
to my friend, and we became separated while be was hunting up subjects
for 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 on
the road to Colfax.
A few miles out, I met a man with a rifle on his shoulder, leading a
burro bearing a pack-saddle laden in the most scientific manner with
probably all his worldly possessions, the pick and shovel plainly
denoting a prospector. A water bucket on one side of the animal was so
adjusted that the bottom was uppermost; on the top of the bucket sat a
little fox-terrier, his eyes fixed steadfastly on his master. I paused a
moment, possessed with a strong desire to take a snap shot of this
remarkable equipment, but the man with the gun gave me a glance that
settled the matter. His was not a bad face - far from it - but the
features were stern and set, the cheeks furrowed with deep lines that
bespoke hardship and fatigue in the struggle with Nature and the
elements. That glance out of the tail of his eye meant: "Let me alone
and I will let you alone, but let me alone!"
Taciturnity becomes habitual to men accustomed to vast solitudes. Even
on such a tramp as I had undertaken, in which I frequently walked for
miles without sight or sound of a human being, I began to realize how
banal and aimless is conventional conversation. Under such conditions
you feel yourself in sympathy with the man who says nothing unless he
has something to say, and who, in turn, expects the same restriction of
speech from you.
I was seated on the porch of the store at Applegate, disposing of a
frugal lunch consisting of raisins and crackers, when my friend hove in
sight. After a private inspection of the store's possibilities, with a
little smile, the meaning of which I well understood from many similar
experiences, he sat down beside me and without a word tackled the
somewhat uninviting repast, to which with a wave of the hand I invited
him. 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 this
magnificent State as he, certainly not on foot; as a consequence he is
accustomed to a ready acceptance of things as they are. Applegate, about
midway between Auburn and Colfax, is an alleged "summer resort." It did
not appeal to us as especially attractive, the view, at any rate from
the 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, as
is plainly evidenced by the heavy railroad grade. About a mile short of
the town, we made a digression to an Italian vineyard of note. There, at
a long table under a vine-covered trellis that connected the stone
cellar with the dwelling-house, we were served with wine by a young
woman having the true Madonna features of Sunny Italy, her mother, a
comely matron, in the meantime preparing the evening meal, while on the
hard ground encumbered with no superfluous clothing, disported the
younger members of the family. And as I sat and smoked the pipe of
peace, 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 the
mining days contrasting strangely with the flimsy wooden buildings that
seem to mark a railroad town. We were amazed at the amount of traffic
that occurs in the night. Three big overland trains passed through in
either direction, the interim being filled in with the switching of
cars, accompanied apparently with a most unnecessary ringing of bells
and piercing shrieks from whistles. Since our hotel was not more than a
hundred and fifty feet from the main line, with no intervening buildings
to temper the noises, sleep of any consequence was an utter
impossibility.
Few Californians are aware, probably, that a considerable amount of
tobacco is raised in the foothills of the Sierras. At Colfax, I smoked a
very fair cigar made from tobacco grown in the vicinity, and
manufactured in the town.
I think we were both glad to leave Colfax. Apart from a nerve-racking
night, the mere proximity of the railroad with its accompanying
associations served constantly to bring to mind all that I had fled to
the mountains to escape. Yet I cannot bring myself to agree with those
who profess to brand a railroad "a blot on the landscape." The enormous
engines which pull the overland trains up the heavy grades of the Sierra
Nevada impress one by their size, strength and suggestion of reserve
power, as not being out of harmony with the forces of Nature they are
constructed to contend with and overcome.
This thought occurred to us as we watched a passenger train slowly
winding its way around the famous Cape Horn, some four miles from
Colfax. Although several miles in an air line intervened, one seemed to
feel the vibrations in the air caused by the panting monster, while
great jets of steam shot up above the pine trees. I confess to a sense
of elation at the spectacle. Nature in some of her moods seems so
malignant, that I felt proud of this magnificent exhibition of man's
victory over the obstacles she so well knows how to interpose.
The road between Colfax and Grass Valley - the next stopping place on
our itinerary - lay through so lovely a country that we passed through
it as in a dream. Descending into the valley we were joined by several
small boys, attracted, I suppose, by our - to them - unusual costume and
equipment, who plied us with questions. They asked if "we carried a
message for the mayor," and were visibly disappointed when we regretted
we had overlooked that formality. For several minutes they kept us busy
trying to give truthful answers to most unexpected questions. They had
never 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 City
on the north.
Grass Valley received its name from the meadow in which the town, for
the most part, is situated. The ground is so moist that, notwithstanding
the 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 perfectly
healthy, conveyed that suggestion of the Old World which lends a
peculiar charm to these towns. And Grass Valley really is a town, having
seven thousand inhabitants; and is, withal, clean, picturesque and
altogether delightful. One understood why "Tuolumne" sounded meaningless
to those small boys. Thus early in life they were under influences which
will 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 was
literally gold everywhere, even in the very roots of the grass. The
mining is now all underground and drifts from the North Star and Ophir
mines underlie a part of the town.
After a methodical search, we discovered an excellent restaurant and
made a note of it as a recurrent possibility. A judicious choice of a
suitable place in which to eat and eke, to pass the night, is to the
tramp a matter of vital interest. Robert Louis Stevenson, in those
entertaining narratives "An Inland Voyage" and "Travels with a Donkey,"
lays heartfelt stress on these particulars; when things were not to his
liking, roundly denouncing them, but if agreeably surprised, lifting up
his 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 to
attempt to convey in words the fascination of Nevada City. My friend,
who is familiar with the country, said it reminded him of Italy. Houses
rise one above the other on the hillside; while down below, the winding
streets with their quaint old-time stores and balconied windows, are
equally attractive. The horrors of the previous night at Colfax made the
quiet peacefulness of Nevada City the more refreshing. At the National
Hotel I enjoyed the soundest sleep since leaving home.
In the morning there was a delicious breeze from the mountains, which
rendered strolling about the town a pleasure. According to custom, we
went our several ways, each drawn by what appealed to him the most at
the moment. When ready to depart, finding no trace of my companion at
the hotel, I left word that I had returned to Grass Valley; where an
hour 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 down
upon the town. This gentleman, who is in his eighty-third year, related
an almost incredible incident in connection with the fire in 1857, which
wiped out the town, with the exception of one house. Three prominent
citizens who chanced to have met in a saloon when the fire broke out,
having the utmost confidence in the safety of a certain building, on
account of its massive walls and iron door, made a vow to lock
themselves in it, and actually did so. They might perhaps have withstood
the ordeal, had not the roof been broken in by the fall of the walls of
the adjoining building. The iron door having been warped with the heat,
it was impossible to open it; when last seen, they were standing with
their arms around one another in the center of the store.
At Grass Valley, my friend - greatly to my regret and I think also to
his own - received word which rendered his return to San Francisco
imperative. After a farewell dinner at the restaurant before mentioned,
I accompanied him to the railway station, and in the words of Christian
in "The Pilgrim's Progress," "I saw him no more in my dream." I confess
to a feeling of depression after his departure, for however enjoyable
the experiences of the road, they are rendered doubly so by the
sympathetic companionship of a man endowed not only with a keen sense of
humor but also with an unusual perception of human nature.
After registering at the Holbrooke - a substantial survival of the old
times - I called by appointment on Mr. Ben Taylor, a much respected
citizen of Grass Valley and probably the oldest inhabitant of Nevada
County, having reached the patriarchal age of eighty-six.
Mr. Taylor has a charming home with extensive grounds overlooking the
town and surrounding country. In his garden is a spruce he planted
himself forty-five years ago, and apple trees of the same age. The
spruce now has the appearance of a forest tree and shades the whole
front of the house. His present home was built in 1864 and from all
appearances should last the century out. He said the lumber was
carefully selected, the boards being heavier than usual, and all the
important timbers, instead of being nailed, were morticed and
dove-tailed. This thoroughness of workmanship accounts for the excellent
condition of the wooden buildings in these towns, many of which were
constructed over fifty years ago.
Mr. Taylor came to Grass Valley September 22, 1849, and has lived there
almost continuously ever since. He crossed the plains one of twenty-five
men, the last of his companions dying in 1905. The little band suffered
many hardships, having to be constantly on watch for Indians, though he
said they were more fearful of the Mormons. They came over the old
emigrant 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 of
them!
Mr. Taylor had frequently met Mark Twain, but never to his knowledge,
Bret Harte. In common with other men who had known the Great American
Humorist, Mr. Taylor smiled at the bare mention of his name. Twain's
breezy, 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 the
time 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 mules
had crossed it, Twain said to his companion: "What's the use of both of
us getting wet? I'll carry you!" The other complying, Twain reached in
safety 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 a
primitive community.
Mr. Taylor is known to everyone in Nevada County as "Ben." His genial
manner and kindly nature are apparent at a glance. But while Ben Taylor
was on friendly terms with Mark Twain, he was never so intimate with him
as with Bayard Taylor, whom, it seems, he much resembled. This
accidental likeness, combined with the similarity of names, caused many
more or less amusing but embarrassing complications, since they were
frequently taken for each other and received each other's
correspondence.
I asked Ben Taylor - he rightly dislikes "Mister," perhaps the ugliest
and most inappropriate word in the English language - if the shootings
and hangings which figure so prominently in the stories of the romancers
were not exaggerations. He said he certainly was of that opinion. I
said: "As a matter of fact, did you ever see a man either shot or hung
for a crime?" "I never did," he replied with emphasis. "But I once came
across the bodies of several men who had been strung up for
horse-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 derogatory
reflections on herself, published in his paper. It can readily be
understood that Grass Valley was at that time a place of importance,
when Lola Montez considered it worth while to stay there several years
and sing and dance for the miners.
In parting, Ben Taylor told me pathetically that his wife had died a few
years before and he had never recovered from the blow; "I am merely
marking time until the end comes," he added. Since his married daughter
and family live with him, he is assured in his latter days of loving
care 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 a
brother to me," I am indebted for information of much interest, bearing
on the olden days and Grass Valley in particular. Mr. Maslin came around
the "Horn" to California, in the ship Herman, on May 7, 1853. He arrived
in Grass Valley and went to work as a miner the following morning. He
now holds, and has for years, the responsible position in the United
States Custom House, San Francisco, of Deputy Naval Officer of the Port.
The clearing papers of every vessel that leaves San Francisco bear his
signature. Although in his eightieth year, his memory is as clear and
his sense of humor as vivid as when, a youth of nineteen, he left for
good, Maryland, his native state. Few men in the San Francisco bay
region are more widely known than he. His ready wit, cheery laugh and
fund of information - for he is extremely well-read - always insure for
him an attentive and appreciative audience.
Speaking of Ben Taylor, he told me a characteristic incident, which
being also typical of the men of '49, I give, with his consent, as
related. When the White Pine excitement in 1869 started a rush of
prospectors 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 fat
years and the lean ones; at the time, his fortunes being at a lew ebb,
he joined the stampede. Several years previous to his departure, without
informing his wife, he had borrowed of Ben Taylor, three hundred
dollars, secured by mortgage on his house in Grass Valley. At White Pine
he met with considerable success, and in a short time sent his wife five
hundred dollars, telling her for the first time of the mortgage on their
home 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 her
husband, as she was reading this letter. She immediately tendered him
the check with the request that he would inform her to what the interest
amounted. "Why, Molly," said Ben Taylor, "you surely ought to know me
well enough to know I would never take any interest on that money!" When
it is remembered that the legal rate of interest at that time was ten
per cent, and that double that amount was not infrequently paid - Mr.
Maslin, in fact, expecting to pay Taylor something like five hundred
dollars - the attitude of the latter will be the better appreciated.
This seems a fitting place to pay a humble personal tribute of respect
to the memory of the men of "the fall of '49 and the spring of '50." Not
since the Crusades, when the best blood of Europe was spilt in defense
of the Holy Sepulchre, has the world seen a finer body of men than the
Argonauts of California. True, the quest of the "Golden Fleece" was the
prime motive, but sheer love of adventure for adventure's sake played a
most important part. Later on, the turbulent element arrived. It was due
to the rectitude, inherent sense of justice and courage of the pioneers
that they were held in check and, by force of arms when necessary, made
to understand the white man's code of honor.
So much in song and story has been said of the scramble for gold in
the early days after the discovery, and so little attention given to the
artistic and aesthetic sense of the pioneers, that the general
impression made by the famous old mining towns of California, when seen
for the first time, may be worth recording. In the massive stone hotels
and stores of that period, as well as in the careful construction of
dwelling houses, they exhibited a true perception of "the eternal
fitness of things." The buildings of the fifties, in their extreme
simplicity, are far more imposing than the nondescript, pretentious
structures of today, and will, beyond doubt, in usefulness outlast them.
As a result of ignoring the checker-board plan, and permitting the
streets to follow the natural contour of the hills and ravines, these
mountain towns seem to have become blended and to be in harmony with the
wonderful setting Nature has provided. All buildings, residential or
otherwise, are protected from the summer heat by umbrageous trees. Lawns
of richest green delight the eye, and vines and flowers surround
cottages perched on steep hillsides, or half-hidden in deep ravines. The
first glimpse from a distant eminence of any of the old mining towns
conveys the suggestion of peaceful homes buried in greenery, basking
contentedly in the brilliant sunshine, surrounded by the whispering
pines, with the snow-clad peaks of the Sierra Nevada for a background.
You also receive the impression of cleanliness. If there were any old
cans, scraps of paper and miscellaneous rubbish lying about in any town
through which I passed, I did not notice them. One is struck, too, by
the absence of the "vacant lot" - that unsightly blot of such frequent
occurrence in all towns in the process of building, especially when
forced 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 houses
were needed, no more houses were built. This compactness of form,
cleanliness, and the elimination to a great extent of the rectangular
block, contribute in no small measure to that indefinable suggestion of
the Old World - a charm that haunts the memory and finally becomes
permanent acquisition.
However clever the stories of the romancers - of whom Bret Harte
preeminently stands first - after all, their characters were
intrinsically but creatures of the imagination; the pioneers were the
real thing! Yet such is the nature of this topsy-turvy world, the copies
will remain, whilst the originals will fade away and be forgotten! The
writer will always hold it a privilege that he had the pleasure of
meeting in the flesh a remnant of the men who laid the foundation of the
institutions by means of which this great Commonwealth has grown and
prospered; big, broad-minded, strong men who, whatever their failings -
for they were very human - were generous to a fault, ever ready to
listen to the cry of distress or help a fallen brother to his feet,
scornful of pettiness, ignorant of snobbery, fair and square in their
dealings with their fellows. Alas, that it should have come to "Hail and
Farewell" to such a type of manhood!
At my request, Mr. Maslin, at one time a practicing attorney, dictated
the following succinct account of the origin of the mining laws of
California. The discovery at Gold Hill, now within the corporate limits
of Grass Valley, of a gold-bearing quartz ledge, subsequently the
property of Englishmen who formed an organization known as "The Gold
Hill Quartz Mining Company," led to the founding of the mining laws of
California. On December 30, 1850, the miners passed regulations which
had with them the force of laws, defining the location and ownership of
mines. It was provided that claims should be forty feet by thirty feet;
a recorder was to be elected by the miners and all difficulties arising
out of trespass on claims were to be tried before the recorder and two
miners, an appeal to be taken to the justice of the peace.