The paradise of the roving class of miners for many years was the gold-fields of California. There was his “happy home,” the place where he roamed and howled—when he felt inclined to howl. Put him in a gulch where there was free water, water for the use of which in his mining operations he was obliged to pay no man a cent, and he asked nothing more—except that the distance to the nearest place where grub and grog could be obtained should not exceed six or eight miles; just a nice Sabbath day’s journey for him.
The real simon-pure, “honest miner” was pretty apt to “peter” (fail to pay, become unproductive) a short time before his mine had “petered,” as he laid by treasure with which to tramp away in search of fresh fields. In case of his becoming “dead broke,” he often had a hard time of it with the dealers in grub and “tarantula juice,” for if he had not “played them a string” some of his friends of a feather had, and in order to get trusted it was necessary for him to do big talking and show big prospects. It was not so in the “days of ’49,” for then all had money, or if they had not, no man was refused credit for provisions, as those who had no gold to-day were liable to have thousands to-morrow. In the days of the roving class to which the “honest miner” belongs, however, many of the diggings were of the kind spoken of by the Chinaman, who said that in his claim you “wash um one pan, catch um one color.”
When silver was discovered in Nevada, there was a grand rush of the roving miners of California to the Comstock range, but they did not like the hard work requisite to insure success in quartz-mining, and it was not long before the majority of them made their way back to their old haunts in the foothills of California, where they could find patches of ground in which to use their rockers and sluices. While they remained in Nevada, these were the fellows who carried memorandum books and talked of wonders in distant wilds, big things they had found, but had not yet fully appropriated.
I shall conclude my account of the honest miner by giving “A Tribute to the Goddess of Poverty,” by George Sand, and a parody on the “good goddess,” in which I shall try to do justice to the “honest miner.” The tribute to the “Goddess of poverty” runs as follows:
Paths sanded with gold, verdant heaths, ravens loved by the wild goats, great mountains crowned with stars, wandering torrents, impenetrable forests, let the good Goddess pass through—the Goddess of Poverty! Since the world existed, since men have been, she travels the world, she dwells among men; she travels singing, and she sings working—the Goddess, good Goddess of Poverty! Some men assembled to curse her. They found her too beautiful, too gay, too nimble, and too strong. ‘Pluck out her wings,’ said they; ‘chain her, bruise her with blows, that she may perish—the Goddess of Poverty!’
They have chained the good Goddess; they have beaten and persecuted her; but they cannot disgrace her. She has taken refuge in the soul of poets, in the soul of peasants, in the soul of martyrs, in the soul of saints—the good Goddess, the Goddess of Poverty! She has walked more than the Wandering Jew; she has travelled more than the swallows; she is older than[than] the egg of the wren: she has multiplied more upon the earth than strawberries in Bohemian forests—the Goddess, the good Goddess of Poverty! She always makes the grandest and most beautiful things that we see upon earth; it is she who has cultivated the fields, and pruned the trees; it is she who tends the fields, singing the most beautiful airs; it is she who sees the first peep of dawn, and receives the last smile of evening—the good Goddess of Poverty! It is she who carries the sabre and gun; who makes war and conquest; it is she who collects the dead, tends the wounded, and hides the conquered—the Goddess, the good Goddess of Poverty!
Thy children will cease, one day, to carry the world on their shoulders; they will be recompensed for their labor and toil. The time approaches when there will be neither rich nor poor; when all men shall consume the fruits of the earth, and equally enjoy the gifts of God. But thou wilt not be forgotten in their hymns—oh, good Goddess of Poverty!
TRIBUTE TO THE “HONEST MINER:”
Two-bits to the pan on the bed-rock, bed-rock pitching, nuggets loved by the dead-broke, great chunks of gold in the ground-sluice, fine dust in the boxes, oceans of free water, hardest granite rim-rock, let the Honest Miner pass through—the bully Honest Miner!
Since “indications” have existed, since miners have been, he tramps the mountains, he dwells in brush-shanties, he packs his blankets, he whistles as he works his rocker—the Honest Miner, the bully Honest Miner[Miner]! The grub dealers assembled to curse him. They found him on his muscle, too strong, too much sinew, too handy with his six-shooter.