Golden Dreams and Leaden Realities

by George Payson

"Children, to be sure, God bless 'em! but who'd have thought of ever seeing a swing in California?"

We met several little troops of dusty miners going up into the country to take possession, with their everlasting frying-pans, shovels, and tin kettles. On such occasions, not to lose entirely the pleasurable emotions of being an object of envy, we would assume a lofty and swelling demeanour, and stalked by them with a conscious air, all which, I noticed, had a great effect.

We got a lift on a wagon the last five or six miles, and arrived at Sacramento about four o'clock. On entering this famous city, I could hardly credit my senses at sight of the changes effected in a single year. We rode for a mile through Jay street; and every where there was the same crush of carts and wagons, the same endless variety of goods, and the same emulous activity. A tall Chinese, mounted on a high wagon, gaped upon us as we approached, as if he thought all who were moving in an opposite direction must needs pass down his throat. He was the first Celestial I had seen, and his portentous ugliness was altogether beyond any thing indigenous to the western hemisphere.

We took supper at one of the eating-houses, that, next to the gambling saloons, were the most striking feature in Sacramento, and slept on the counter of a store kept by one of our acquaintance by day, and an innumerable host of rats by night. These animals are not—so I was told—native to the country, but have, in a few years, increased so rapidly, that probably no place in the world except the slaughter-houses of Paris could send forth an equal army. I was actually afraid to walk after dark along the sidewalk, where there were piles of flour and similar articles—the whole space being apparently alive with rats, and the pattering of their feet sounding like a gentle shower. The great freshet at Sacramento drove them back into the country; and it was said that they then, for the first time, made their appearance in the mines.

The gambling-houses at Sacramento were on the same magnificent scale as those already described at San Francisco, but a new and important attraction had been added. Bands of skilful musicians were employed to play at intervals during the evening, the expense being defrayed by the keepers of the bar and of the different tables. Gaming, however, seemed to have lost much of its reckless character, and thousands were now seldom lost and gained by the turn of a single card.

We obtained only one letter, but were gratified by meeting some old acquaintances, one of whom gave us several papers published in our native city, which we read through, word by word, and with peculiar relish. The second day we set out on our return to Natoma, where we arrived, long after dark, and in a very exhausted condition.

All the month of October, we waited diligently for rain, as we had before waited for spring, and then for summer. November having arrived, and the rainy season being, as we supposed, near at hand, we thought it time to commence operations on our canal. By means of a straight-edged board and a plumb-line, we found that the deepest cut would have to be about four feet; the extreme length was five hundred feet; and nearly the whole was dug through the stiffest and most impracticable rubble. The dam was forty feet long, ten feet high in the middle, and built precisely on the same plan as a beaver's, with one addition, suggested by the purpose for which the dam was intended, a sluice or gateway at bottom, that we could open and shut at pleasure.

Our task was lightened by the delightfulness of the season, and by the pleasing hope that we had at last hit upon a plan that would render us superior to fortune. When, after a day's toil, we returned to our tent, in which, from its protected situation, we could hear the wind without feeling its effects—when the candle was lighted, the coffee-pot simmered on the stove, and we had exchanged our heavy boots for comfortable slippers,—we gratefully acknowledged that even this life had its peculiar charms. An interesting book would sometimes keep us up till nine, but seven was our usual hour—long practice and attention having bestowed an extraordinary facility in sleeping. Our conversation had now become astonishingly sententious and idiomatic. It was condensed into a kind of shorthand or phonography. We had become so familiar with each other's modes of thought—like those unfortunates confined for years in the same dungeon—that a single word was often enough to fire the whole train. Certain sentences were now so oppressed and pregnant with meaning, that they seemed fairly to stagger under the weight. In five years, I am persuaded that we should have refined away all articulate language, and nothing more would have been required for the most abstract conversation than the vowels' sounds, accompanied by almost imperceptible shrugs and winks.

I had once the pleasure of listening to a very interesting dialogue between two savans, with whom I was but slightly acquainted, but whose proficiency in this difficult art excited my unqualified admiration. The accent is here all-important.