That the beard is a protection against sore throats, coughs, colds, asthma, and other ailments, every California miner will be willing to testify. It is said that the English colliers, who have long suffered from hemorrhage of the lungs, have evaded the disease altogether by discontinuing the use of the razor. Yet the newspapers inform us that the clerks in the Bank of England are not allowed to wear mustachios, under penalty of dismission.
As I have heretofore remarked, mining in California is one of the most precarious of all occupations. Yet it is the country’s only source of wealth, and if the laborer fails in it, he cannot betake himself to other pursuits. If he cannot make money by digging, shoveling and rocking, he cannot make it at all. Now and then, it is true, the miner meets with unanticipated good luck; but when such a thing occurs it is blazoned from Dan to Beersheba, whereas no mention is ever made of the thousands of unfortunate, poverty-stricken dupes, who, though equally industrious and deserving, scarcely defray their expenses.
I may refer to the case of an old man, who, for some time, was engaged in mining operations at this place, and with whom I became acquainted soon after my arrival here. Sixty years had left their traces upon his face, and his snowy beard and silver locks increased his venerable air. For a man of his age, he was remarkably vigorous; and as he was somewhat above the usual height, and well proportioned, with a kind heart that beamed through his intelligent features, he must have been, in his younger days, a noble specimen of a man. Even at the time of which we speak, he was a fine looking man, old in years but young in spirit, whole-souled, free from every species of hypocrisy, plain-spoken, full of courage and resolution, yet sincere and guileless as a child. Though I never saw him have on a clean shirt, though his whole garb was besmeared with mud and soiled with perspiration; though his hoary locks hung about his breast and shoulders in unrestrained length and unlimited profusion; and though he was nothing now but a poor, penniless old miner—yet, convinced that he had those excellent qualities within, which constitute the great and good man, I should have felt proud to call him father.
We will let this venerable sexagenarian tell his own story. I indite his own words, as nearly as I recollect them. Said he, during conversation one evening, after we had both quit work, “Some men would esteem themselves wealthy, if they were worth as much money as I was deprived of by bad legislation in Congress, a while previous to my departure for this country. Soon after the enactment of the tariff law of 1842, one of my neighbors and myself invested eighty thousand dollars in the manufacture of iron, in the State of Pennsylvania. Our business succeeded beyond our expectations; and in order to supply the increasing demands for our products, we found it necessary to employ additional force and capital, build new forges, and otherwise enlarge the sphere of our operations. Every examination of our affairs developed new evidences of prosperity, and our hearts glowed with gratitude to those sterling patriots and sagacious statesmen, Clay, Webster and others, through whose eloquent influence we were then harvesting the fruits of a protective tariff. But this thriving state of things was not of long continuance. In 1846 the tariff act of ’42 was repealed; and that repeal was the death-blow to our manufacturing interests. The duty on iron was reduced so low that it was impossible for us to compete with the importations from Europe. We became embarrassed, made an assignment, and finally, by sacrificing every thing we had in the shape of property, extricated ourselves from all liabilities. After this stroke of misfortune, having a wife and three daughters, who were partly dependent upon me for support, I concluded to come to California, believing, from the flattering accounts which I had seen published, that money was more easily accumulated here than in the Atlantic States. It is now almost two years since I arrived in San Francisco. Going to the northern mines first, I worked there something over twelve months; but finding it a difficult matter to pay expenses, I came south, and settled at this place. I fear I have not bettered my condition. During the last seven or eight months I have labored faithfully upon this bar, but have not been in possession of as much as twenty-five dollars clear money at any one time. I confess I am utterly disappointed in California. It has been grossly, shamefully misrepresented. I have tried it to my satisfaction. Now I would be glad to return to my home in Pennsylvania, but I have no means to convey me. And there is my poor family, my beloved wife and daughters—what will become of them? May heaven provide for them, for I am unable.â€�
As the good old man uttered these last words, the tears trickled down his cheeks, and he could say no more. Had it not been that I disdained to moisten California soil with such precious drops, I believe my eyes would have rained too; for the clouds began to gather about them, and I had to use no little precaution to keep them dry. It was certainly no sign of a white-livered man, to shed tears in a case of this kind; on the contrary, it was, at least in my opinion, a mark of goodness; and my estimation of the old gentleman was heightened, on account of the tender regard he manifested towards his family. He had lately received a most soothing and affectionate letter from one of his daughters, urging him by all means to return home on the first opportunity, and promising to exert herself to the utmost to make him happy. Handing the letter to me, he remarked that I might read it if I felt so disposed. A peculiar thrill electrified my whole system as I laid hold of the delicately penned missive. I was but little acquainted with that kind of literature, yet there was a charm about it, and I devoured its contents with avidity. It was a rare souvenir—beautifully written, well worded, and faultless in orthography.
CHAPTER XIV.
VOYAGE TO CALIFORNIA VIA CAPE HORN.
Among our readers there may be some who are contemplating a trip to California, and may be hesitating between the two routes commonly traveled. For their sakes, I have violated the chronological order of my adventures, that I might introduce a description of the outward and return trip, in immediate juxtaposition for the greater convenience of comparison.
From the pier of Wall street, New York, on Friday, January 31st, seven passengers, myself amongst the number, embarked for San Francisco, on board the clipper ship Stag-Hound, under command of Capt. Josiah Richardson. The wind blowing from the north-east afforded us a favorable opportunity for standing out from land; of this, however, we did not avail ourselves until about 4 o’clock in the afternoon; for, although our vessel was towed out early in the morning, and every thing seemed to be in readiness for our final departure, yet, through some unavoidably delay, we were obliged to cast anchor off Staten Island, where it became necessary for us to remain until the time above mentioned. We then weighed anchor, set sail, and in a few minutes our noble ship was gliding over the blue waves with swan-like grace.
It was truly a magnificent sight, as we headed off so smoothly and so majestically from the shore, and made our way out farther and farther upon the dark blue deep; we spent the greater part of the evening promenading the quarter-deck, and admiring the enchanting scene. But our reverie and conversation were not altogether undisturbed by melancholy thought. We had just started upon a long, uncertain and monotonous voyage. Old associations had been broken up. We had bid adieu to our native homes, our nearest relations and dearest friends, probably for three or four years—possibly for ever. All before us then was an unknown world—an untrodden path, and phantom-faces of doubt and fear would loom up from the obscurity of the future.
The next morning I began to feel symptoms of that most intolerable of all sensations, seasickness. Of this malady I had some little experience once before, while on my way from Philadelphia to New York via Cape May; but I never entertained the least idea that it was half so depressing as I now found it. For three weeks and more I could scarcely eat a mouthful. It really seemed to me at times that eating was the most abominable occupation men could engage in; and when I looked upon dishes of which I had often freely partaken before coming on board the vessel, I either found it difficult to reconcile myself to the opinion that I was not dreaming, or came well nigh detesting myself for having ever been addicted to so gross a habit.