goldfields

Horace Snow spent most of his almost two years in the California goldfields in Agua Frio, a little mining camp in Mariposa County. On October 9th, 1854 he wrote to Charlie Fitz to “tell you of one day in our lives.”

Vignette from The Pioneer Ten Commandments, Courtesy of UC Berkeley, Bancroft Library

[This] morning I awoke very early and was thinking about — well, I have forgotten what — when all at once a big rat who was running along the logs missed his calculations and fell smack into my stationary box. This aroused me from my calm content and in less than one minute I was up, had a candle lit and after him with a sharp stick — for I always keep one beside me expressly for this purpose. I hunted him around the flour barrel, the dutch oven, the pile of wood, but at last he got away from me, “knowing better the ropes” and made good his escape.

Not having violated the 13th Commandment [does anybody know what that was? –ed.], I now built a fire and began to prepare breakfast. I first put some water on to heat to wash the dishes with, for just as we were done with supper last night, our nearest neighbor made us a a call and so we deferred until morning, though this was against one of our regulations. As soon as the water was hot, I put the chocolate on and washed the dishes.

I had not need to cook this morning as we had beans yesterday and they were not all gone. Bread we always bake night beforehand. Therefore, before the first rays of sun peeped over the hills, I had breakfast all ready, which frugal meal consisted as follows: beans, boiled ham, bread, butter, cheese, chocolate, cold water, boiled rice, sugar, with pepper, vinegar and salt. And true to say, I was the only person up to enjoy the warm breakfast and morning air. However, by relieving them of a few blankets, I soon had them before the fire!

Breakfast being over, we put the unconsumed food in the cupboard, which, by the way, is a Natick shoe box,* turned our plates the other side up, changed out woolen shirts and went to work, which time was about sun half hour high. We picked and shovelled until noon — our guide being the shade of a tree — when my brother brought a pail of water. I built a fire and Spear set the table. Dinner the same as breakfast, tea substituting for chocolate.

Afternoon the same as forenoon and when night came my brother made the bread, Spear washed the dishes, and I boiled the rice. We had rice and molasses for supper, with a sprinkling of biscuit and butter. As we have no milk, we use molasses in its stead. The day passes this way and all for a little Money!

They were industrious and sober Yankees, and they were doing quite well at finding gold and saving money.

*Natick, Massachusetts was a center of shoe-making, especially the heavy boots and brogans worn by miners and other laborers.

Gold miners were no more eager to serve on a jury in 1854 than most citizens are today, although they rarely had to show up for more than one day. Horace Snow writes:

April 4th: Tomorrow I am obliged to go to Mariposa, having been summoned as a juror. I endeavored to avoid being called upon but the sheriff caught me and there is no doing otherwise. The miners are determined not to go if they can possibly help it, as they get nothing for pay. As soon as they see an officers coming, the shovels drop very quick and such running and skulking would beat the Indians.

“The man with a red shirt,” a colored photograph of a forty-niner

You see there were four of us in a store when the Sheriff rode up and we all made for the back door but he was right after us. I got within about four feet of a large hole when he saw me and screams, “Your name, Sir, the man with a red shirt,” and kept right on after the others, but he only caught two of us, two running around one side of the store and two the other.

He got caught again later that year.

December 4th:  Yesterday, while picking away in my claim, a gentleman appeared before me and says, “Your name, Sir?” “What?” says I. “Please give me your name?” By this time I knew what was up and says my name is Snow.

“Your first name, if you please,” says he, “and be quick, for the other boys are all running and I want to catch them.” “Horace C. Snow, sir” says I. Then says he, “Mr. Snow, I warn you to appear at Mariposa tomorrow morning at ten o’clock to serve as a Grand Jurorman, whereof fail not, or suffer the penalty of the law.” –and away he ran to catch some of the other boys who had, unintentionally, of course, gone in search of something. The boys were too sharp for him and he only got two of seven.

Miners, as a general thing, are much averse to sitting upon a jury. They get no pay, (not enough to bear expenses), besides losing their time and disarranging their work. You would laugh to see the miners take to the bushes when the Sheriff makes his appearance on the creek.

Young men of the 19th century  were not accustomed to doing their own cooking. They had mothers, wives, or boarding house landladies to take care of that. But in the goldfields and mining camps, men had to fend for themselves. Horace Snow took delight in describing his prowess at the cookstove.

He especially took pride in his baked beans, a New England staple:

By the way, when I commenced this epistle, I commenced cooking some beans and now I have them parboiled and pork in, all ready for baking; therefore, I shall not be disturbed for a short time. You see, I am learning several lessons that you will not get at the Traveller Office [where Charlie worked]. Only think of working all day, going home at night, rolling up your sleeves, making biscuits, doughnuts, flap jacks, frying pork or ham, washing dishes, and all such things as pertain to domestic duties!  . . . What an accomplished young man I shall be when I return.

Horace is learning what life was like for a working woman!

The next day he writes:

My bake beans are splendid. Would that you were here to eat some. Eat some out of a tin plate, with an iron spoon. How much better they would relish then eaten from nice china ware and from a table loaded down with the edibles, the fragrance, all of which rush upon the olfactory nerves, thus destroying the flavor of “my good bake bread!” Think of me when you eat bake beans.