Plymouth is "living in hopes," an English
syndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;
but Nashville is frankly "out of business."
At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed and
lodging." There appeared to be only three families in this once
flourishing camp. Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object
to people in these sequestered places. You have "to make good," and in
this instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy.
I arrived at Placerville the following day. Due to taking a road not
shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was
immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all
hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of
two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers the
little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive
designation "Mud Springs." This title, though lacking in euphony, was
more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for
its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer
resort. Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
In Placerville - known as "Hangtown" in the Bret Harte days - I
registered at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining
no less a personage than Horace Greeley. It was here he terminated his
celebrated stage ride with Hank Monk. I found that my friend Harold
Edward Smith had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and
had left a note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.
Chapter IV
J. H. Bradley and the Cary House. Ruins of Coloma. James W. Marshall and
His Pathetic End.
More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the olden
times. "John Oakhurst" and "Jack Hamlin" would still be in their
element, as witness the following scene:
In the card room back of the bar, in a certain hotel, a "little game"
was in progress. A big, blond giant, with curly hair and clean-cut
features - indeed he could have posed as a model for Praxiteles - arose
nonchalantly from the table as I entered, and swept the stakes into a
capacious pocket. An angry murmur of disapproval came from the sitters,
and one man muttered something about "quitting the game a winner." With
a hand on each hip, the giant swept the disgruntled upturned faces with
a comprehensive glance, and drawled: "I'll admit there's something wrong
in mine, gentlemen, or I wouldn't be here, see?" He waited a moment and
amid silence passed slowly through the barroom to the sidewalk, seated
himself, stretched his long legs and placidly gazed across the street.
In the morning I had a long talk with Mr. J. H. Bradley, perhaps the
best known man in El Dorado County. Though in his eighty-fourth year,
his keen brown eyes still retain the fire and light of youth. The
vitality of these old pioneers is something marvelous. Mr. Bradley was
born in Kentucky, but, as a boy, moved to Hannibal, Missouri, where he
played marbles with Mark Twain, or Clemens, as he prefers to call him.
In '49, he came across the plains to California. He was on the most
friendly terms with Twain and said he assisted him to learn piloting on
the Mississippi; and when Twain came to California, helped him to get a
position as compositor with U. E. Hicks, who founded the Sacramento
Union. He also knew Horace Greeley intimately, and has a portfolio that
once was his property. Five years after Greeley's arrival in
Placerville, which was in 1859, Mr. Bradley married Caroline Hicks, who
with Phoebe and Rose Carey had acted as secretary to Mr. Greeley. Mr.
Bradley takes no stock in the "keep your seat, Horace!" story. He
considers it a fabrication. In his opinion, the romancers - Bret Harte,
Mark Twain, et al. - have done California more harm than good. He also
has a thinly disguised contempt for "newspaper fellows and magazine
writers." Nor does he believe in the "Mother Lode" - that is, in its
continuity - in spite of the geologists. He prefers to speak of the
"mineral zone." In fine, Mr. Bradley is a man of definite and pronounced
opinions on any subject you may broach. For that reason, his views,
whether you agree with them or not, are always of interest.
Hanging in the office of the Cary House is a clever cartoon, by William
Cooper, of Portland, Oregon, entitled "A mining convention in
Placerville;" in which Mr. Bradley is depicted in earnest conversation
with a second Mr. Bradley, a third and evidently remonstrant Mr. Bradley
intervening, while a fourth and fifth Mr. Bradley, decidedly bored, are
hurriedly departing.
Indeed, one glance at Mr. Bradley is enough to convince you that he is a
man of unusual force of character. No one introduced me to him. I was
merely informed at the Cary House that he was the person to whom I
should apply for information concerning the old times. I accordingly
started out to look for him and had not proceeded fifty yards when a
man, approaching at a distance, arrested my attention. As he drew
nearer, I felt positive there could be only one such personage in
Placerville, and when he was opposite me, I stopped and said, "How are
you, Mr. Bradley?" "That's my name, sir; what do you want?" he replied.
They take life easily in the old mining towns. No wonder the spectacle
of a man with a pack on his back caused comment, in that heat, tramping
two or three hundred miles for pleasure!
