By no means the least attractive feature of Jacksonville was the rugged self-confidence and honesty of the majority of its people. Even the Chinese, who composed a large part of the population, seemed to be a better variety of the almond-eyed heathen than I had supposed could possibly exist. The hair-triggered sensibility and powder-and-ball ethics of the dominant race seemed to be most effective civilizers.
I am far from claiming that Jacksonville presented an ideal state of civilization, but this I do say, in justice to my old town; life and property were safer there than they are to-day in many more pretentious communities, that claim to rank as centers from which civilization radiates like the rays of a star. A sense of personal responsibility made the French the politest nation on the face of the earth; it was the foundation upon which the spirit of the “Old South” was builded firmer than a rock; it was the soul that beat back the furious waves of shot and shell that so often hailed upon the southern chivalry on many a hard fought field. A similar spirit of self-assertion and personal responsibility pervaded the Tuolumne valley, and raised its average moral standard to a height far beyond that of many a metropolis of a more vicious and effete civilization.
Warm-hearted, impulsive, honest, courageous, fiery-tempered, quick-triggered Argonauts of the Tuolumne valley—a health to those of you who still live, and peace to those who have laid down the pick and pan forever and have inspected their sluice-boxes for the last time! When the final “clean-up” comes, may the “find” be full of nuggets—“sixteen dollars to the ounce.”
There was no better opportunity of becoming intimately acquainted with the town of Jacksonville, its people and its customs, than was afforded by the Tuolumne House, where I made my headquarters. There may be better hotels in the world than that primitive one, but it had outgrown its canvas period and had become a pretentious frame structure, and this fact alone made it famous. It had no rival, for the old “Empire,” so long presided over by that honest, sturdy old Scot, Rob McCoun, had long since been converted into a Chinese grocery, while its erstwhile owner had been dead for several years. As for the only other hotel, McGinnis, its proprietor, had never been in the race since his cook, one unlucky day, brewed the coffee and tea simultaneously in the same pot. The hundred and seventy-odd boarders who fed at McGinnis’ “festive” rack were not to be consoled—they “quit him cold” and went over to the enemy. Tradition says that “Mac.” half killed the luckless cook, one Mike Corcoran, “Fer puttin’ coffee in the tay pot, ther d—d scoundrel!” but the boarders were not to be placated.[A] My fellow citizens of Jacksonville were very particular, and quite sensitive, with respect to the quality and quantity of liquids that entered their stomachs.
[A] Axin’ Mr. McGinnis’ pardon—if he be still living.—Author.
The material comforts of the Tuolumne House aside, there was never a cheerier, heartier, pluckier boniface than George Keyse. He was to the manner born, and could take a gun or a knife away from an excited boarder quite as gracefully and quickly as he could, if necessary, turn his own flapjacks.
Mr. Keyse had an invaluable assistant in one Dave Smuggins, who officiated alternately as barkeeper, porter and hotel clerk. Smuggins was a well-bred man, and, it was said, was originally educated for the ministry. The only evidence at hand, however, was certain oratorical propensities that overcame him and made him forget his real position when he awakened the boarders early o’ mornings. I can hear him now, as he stood at the top of the stairway, yelling in stentorian tones—“Arouse all ye sleepers, an’ listen to the purty little airly birds singin’ praises tew the Lord! D—n yer bloody eyes! Git up!” saying which the modern psalmist discreetly went below and took his position behind the bar, ready to dispense “eye-openers” to the early caller.
Jacksonville proved to be not only a pleasant place of residence but an excellent field for my professional work. The climate was almost germ-proof, and it was a real pleasure to practice the semi-military surgery characteristic of my field of labor. Primary union was my speciality in those days, and I used to get results the memory of which sometimes makes me blush for those I occasionally get with our modern aseptic and antiseptic methods. No matter how much my patients might shoot or carve each other, any fellow who had life enough left in him to crawl or be carried off the field of battle, usually got well.
Beyond accompanying an occasional prospecting party, largely for recreation but partly in my professional capacity, I did but little in the way of mining. My practice gave me plenty to do, and was lucrative enough as practices go, so I soon settled down to as routine a life as my curious and lively surroundings would permit.
I was sitting in that portion of the Tuolumne House yclept by courtesy “the office,” quite late one evening, listening to the quaint talk of my miner friends and marvelling on the quantity of fluid the human body could lose by way of expectoration and still live, when I was recalled to a realization of the fact that I was a practitioner of medicine, by a voice at the hotel door.