This vein was called the “Englishmen’s mine,� and it had not only the merit of being sufficiently rich to all appearance to justify the erection of machinery, but it was about the only lode that had been scientifically opened by miners, and which was ready without further expense to supply any amount of ore. But up to the time of my leaving the country, the owners of this vein, although Englishmen, had not been able to exert sufficient interest to get it “looked at,� and if this incident should be read by any victim who has had two and twopence returned to him in exchange for the sovereign he invested in California Mining Companies, let him not as he contemplates his “small returns� lay the blame on the quartz rock of the country, for I assure him that the cause of failure is much nearer home; but of this I shall speak in its proper place.
Sonora is dependent for existence on the surrounding mining population; it is a town with a resident population of about three thousand souls, but with accommodation on the corral principle for about ten thousand more. Sonora is advantageously situated in one respect, inasmuch as it is irresponsible for the morals and conduct of its floating population; if Sunday is desecrated in Sonora by five thousand pleasure-seeking miners, Sonora washes its hands of that.
Sonora is one large house of entertainment for bonâ-fide travellers; and although nearly every one makes a point of travelling thither on a Saturday, to have a “burstâ€� on Sunday, and return in penitence on Monday, Sonora washes its hands of that,—otherwise I should say that Sonora in 1851 was as loose a community as was that of San Francisco in 1849.
No church bells here usher in the Sabbath; but auction bells arouse the inhabitants equally to a full sense of the duties before them,—the sun shines for Sonora on this day alone, and in accordance with wise maxims, the population commences early to make hay.
The miners prefer buying everything at auction, and although I imagine the purchasers suffer in the long run by this principle, the “loafersâ€� gain by it; for (supposing you are a loafer) you have only to mix with the crowd of bidders, and take out your clasp-knife; you can then make an excellent meal from the samples exposed to view, presuming always that your constitution will stand a mixture of salt butter, Chinese sugar, pickles, and bad brandy. Joe Bellow was an auctioneer, and certainly he understood his business. Long before his sale commenced he would place a keg of butter, or a bag of dried apples, outside his store, and the miners would surround these luxuries like flies. Joe Bellow’s object was to get a “crowdâ€� and this accomplished, the auction would commence in this style:—
Joe Bellow takes his stand on a cask in the midst of his samples, and startles you suddenly with “And I’m only bid one dollar for a dozen of mixed pickles; one dollar, one dollar, one doll—try them, gentlemen.â€� In the meantime Joe nods to an imaginary bidder in the distance, and rattles on, “One and a half, one and a half, one and h—â€� “Doo,â€� says a Dutchman, with his mouth full of pickled gherkin. “Two dollars I’m offered for a dozen of mixed pickles.â€� “Dos y medio,â€� says a Spaniard, under the influence of a green bean. “Ah! Senor Don Pacheco,â€� says Joe, “son los escabéches d’Inghelterra, muy buenos, muy finos!â€�
“Have I any advance on two dollars and a half?â€� “Trois piastres,â€� says a French restaurateur. “Three dollars I am bid for a dozen of pickles that cost five dollars in the States, Tenez! Monsieur Leon voici des cornichons comme il faut. Three dollars, three doll’s, three doll’sâ€�—“Dree-and-a-half,â€� says the Dutchman, to whom they are finally knocked down, just as an old miner observes that “darn him if his knife aint turned blue with the darned vitrol juice.â€� No description, however, can do justice to the rapidity with which Joe Bellow knocks down his lots, or to the easy impudence with which he meets all disparaging remarks from his tasters; and such is human nature, that even in the mines, where few simpletons are to be found, there was no butter so rancid but Joe Bellow could dispose of it on a Sunday by means of his volubility and soft-sawder! I heard a Dutchman enquiring very anxiously one day for some one in Sonora whose name he did not know;—“What is he like?â€� said one, but the Dutchman was apparently not apt at description, and no clue could be gained; at last he spluttered out, “Tyfel! I mean dat man dat cries always ‘bickel, bickel, bickel,’â€� and everybody knew at once that Joe Bellow was the individual required, and directed the Dutchman accordingly.
The auction extending as it does across the street will be interrupted most probably by a Mexican funeral procession, headed by a brass band, playing dolefully; scarcely has this filed by when the same
HORSE MARKET—SONORA.