The pioneer West : $b Narratives of the westward march of empire
History
The pioneer West : $b Narratives of the westward march of empire
Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.)
I was desirous of seeing as much of the mining region as possible, and
with this view took the stage for Virginia City. The most remarkable
peculiarity on the road was the driver, whose likeness I struck in a
happy moment of inspiration. At Silver City, eight miles from Carson,
I dismounted, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot. The road
here becomes rough and hilly, and but little is to be seen of the
city except a few tents and board shanties. Half a mile beyond is
a remarkable gap cut by Nature through the mountain, as if for the
express purpose of giving the road an opportunity to visit Virginia
City.
As I passed through the Devil’s Gate it struck no indecorous sense. I
was simply about to ask where he lived, when, looking up the road, I
saw amidst the smoke and din of shivered rocks, where grimy imps were
at work blasting for ore, a string of adventurers laden with picks,
shovels, and crowbars; kegs of powder, frying-pans, pitch-forks,
and other instruments of torture--all wearily toiling in the same
direction; decrepit old men, with avarice imprinted upon their furrowed
brows; Jews and Gentiles, foot-weary and haggard; the young and the
old, the strong and the weak, all alike burning with an unhallowed
lust for lucre; and then I shuddered as the truth flashed upon me that
they were going straight to--Virginia City.
Every foot of the cañon was claimed, and gangs of miners were at work
all along the road, digging and delving into the earth like so many
infatuated gophers. Many of these unfortunate creatures lived in holes
dug into the side of the hill, and here and there a blanket thrown over
a few stakes served as a domicile to shield them from the weather.
At Gold Hill, two miles beyond the Gate, the excitement was quite
pitiable to behold. Those who were not at work, burrowing holes into
the mountain, were gathered in gangs around the whisky saloons, pouring
liquid fire down their throats and swearing all the time in a manner so
utterly reckless as to satisfy me they had long since bid farewell to
hope.
This district is said to be exceedingly rich in gold, and I fancy
it may well be so, for it is certainly rich in nothing else. A more
barren-looking and forbidding spot could scarcely be found elsewhere on
the face of the earth. The whole aspect of the country indicates that
it must have been burned up in hot fires many years ago and reduced
to a mass of cinders; or scraped up from all the desolate spots in
the known world, and thrown over the Sierra Nevada Mountains in a
confused mass to be out of the way. I do not wish to be understood as
speaking disrespectfully of any of the works of creation; but it is
inconceivable that this region should ever have been designed as an
abode for man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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