The Underground World: A mirror of life below the surface (part 3 of 5)

The Underground World: A mirror of life below the surface (part 3 of 5)

XXII.

PETROLEUM.

OIL SPRINGS.—THE FIRE FIELD OF THE CASPIAN.—THE FIRE WORSHIPPERS.—THE RANGOON DISTRICT.—FIRE WELLS OF THE EAST.—PETROLEUM IN AMERICA.—ITS DISCOVERY AND HISTORY.—OIL FEVER.—ANECDOTES OF SPECULATION.—FORTUNES WON AND LOST.—EXTRAVAGANCES OF THE NOUVEAU RICHE.—THE STORY OF JOHN.—HOW TO GET UP A PARTY.

In various parts of the world there are springs, or natural sources, of inflammable oil. Some of these have been known for thousands of years, but most of them are of recent discovery. The oil which flows from these springs is generally known as “petroleum,” the word being of Latin origin, and signifying rock oil. The most productive oil springs are of artificial origin, and are made by boring into the earth, or rock, in certain localities. The most famous natural deposit of this substance, or anything akin to it, on the surface of the earth, is in the Island of Trinidad, in the West Indies, where it forms a lake of asphaltum and petroleum, which is called Tar Lake. This material is a very good substitute for pitch, and is extensively used for coating vessels, and preserving their timber.

A gentleman who has visited this lake says that it is about a mile from the sea-shore, and the distance around it is about a mile and a half. Near the shore the tar is solid, and appears as if it had cooled, when the liquid was boiling, in large bubbles. As one goes from the shore to the middle of the lake, the temperature increases, the matter becomes softer, and in the centre it boils steadily. At a distance, when first seen, it resembles a lake of water; but when one approaches it, it appears like glass. A strong odor of sulphur arises from it, and can be detected at a distance of eight or ten miles. There is a bed of coal under the lake. It is of bituminous character, and makes a thick smoke when burning.

[Sidenote: THE SACRED FIRE WELLS.]

The largest supplies of petroleum are obtained in America. Throughout Europe and Asia there are many petroleum wells. One of the most celebrated localities where they are found is the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea. At Baku, on the shores of the Caspian, there are many springs of naphtha and petroleum, and a great many streams of inflammable gases. The abundance of these wells caused the region to be called The Field of Fire; and in the ancient times Baku was known as the Sacred City of the Fire Worshippers. The annual value of this production is about half a million of dollars. About fifteen miles from Baku there is a jet of inflammable gas rising from the rock, and known as the Perpetual Fire. A temple has been built over it, and the fire has been burning for hundreds of years. Pilgrims come from all parts of Asia to visit this sacred well. The place is in charge of a large priesthood, who are supported by the gifts of the devotees.

Another region, quite as wonderful as that of Baku, is the Rangoon district, in India; and a considerable portion of India has been, for thousands of years, supplied by it with rock oil. One authority says, that the number of wells in that district is nearly six hundred, yielding half a million hogsheads of oil annually. Most of the Rangoon wells are artificial, and are sunk in beds of sandy clay, resting on the sandstone, but the wells rarely exceed a hundred feet in depth.

Some parts of Africa are known to contain petroleum springs, and there are many of these springs throughout China and various other regions of the East; Australia and New Zealand claim their share, and it is probable that every country on the globe could, by means of proper borings, be made to yield petroleum.

[Sidenote: SENECA OIL AS A MEDICINE.]

As before stated, America is the great petroleum-producing country of the world. Rock oil is found in various parts of the American continent, from Hudson’s Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. The most prolific oil region in America is in Western Pennsylvania, and millions of dollars’ worth of petroleum have been obtained there. Thousands of men have made fortunes in petroleum, and a great many have made fortunes in it the wrong way. The early settlers of that region were well aware of the existence of petroleum, having obtained their knowledge of it from the Indians. The Indians used to collect the oil on the shore of Seneca Lake, and it was sold as a medicine, in small quantities, under the name of Seneca Oil. A stream in Alleghany County, New York, was named Oil Creek, on account of the petroleum floating on its surface, and the same name was given to another stream in Venango County, Pennsylvania. On the old maps of that region several localities were marked as affording oil, but it is only within the past thirty years that the oil product has been of any importance.

The substance, as before stated, was used as a medicine, and the inhabitants collected it by spreading blankets on the surface of the stream, and then wringing out the oil which they absorbed. There are indications that the oils were collected long ago, as several deep and very old pits have been discovered. Some people attribute the construction of these pits to the early French settlers, some to the Indians, and some to the predecessors of the Indians. A history of Pennsylvania, published thirty years ago, says that the Indians used the oil to mix with paint in dressing themselves, and refers to an old letter, written by the commander of Fort Duquesne to General Montcalm, describing an assembly of Indians at night on the banks of the creek; and in the midst of their ceremonies they set fire to the oil on the surface of the water. As the flames burst out, the Indians gave wild shouts, which recalled to the writer many of the ceremonies of the ancient fire worshippers at Baku.

[Sidenote: BORING FOR SALT WATER.]

The early settlers did not collect great quantities of oil, probably not more than twenty-five or thirty barrels a year. In 1845 operations were being conducted for obtaining salt at a place above Pittsburg, on the Alleghany River. Several springs of petroleum were struck, but the value of the material was not known. In Ohio, over fifty years ago, borings were made for salt water. An account, descriptive of the work, said, “They have sunk two wells, which are now more than four hundred feet deep. One of them affords very strong and pure water, but not in great quantity. The other discharges such vast quantities of petroleum, or, as it is vulgarly called, Seneca oil, and besides is subject to such tremendous explosions of gas, as to force out all the water, and afford nothing but gas for several days. We make but little or no salt.”

This story of the ignorance of the value of petroleum and the disappointment of the salt-makers at finding springs of petroleum instead of salt water, reminds one of the account of the Irishman who complained of his trouble in shooting ducks: “I was not able to fire a shot,” said he. “Every time I got sight of a duck another one swam in between him and me, and I could not kill anything.”

The first movement for utilizing this vast oil product was made, in 1854, by two New Yorkers, who organized a company, and secured the right to a certain spring on Oil Creek; but they made no progress until three years later, when Messrs. Bowditch and Drake, of New Haven, undertook to search for oil. In the winter of 1858 and ‘9, Colonel E. S. Drake completed arrangements for boring into the rock below the bed of the creek. On the 26th of August, 1859, oil was found at a depth of seventy-one feet. The drills sank into a cavity in the rock, and the oil rose to the surface. By means of a pump, four hundred gallons were obtained per day, and a larger pump being introduced, the supply reached one thousand gallons daily. This was the beginning of the borings for oil in that region. Every spot where oil was found, or was likely to be found, was carefully examined, and a great many wells were put down. Up and down the banks of Oil Creek derricks were erected and wells were sunk, and in a year or two the banks of the stream looked as if their natural product had been derricks rather than trees. The ground was perforated like a sieve, and if the holes had been a few feet, instead of a few inches, in diameter, it would have been dangerous walking round there for fear of tumbling through. The original depth of seventy-one feet was found insufficient, and the borings were frequently conducted to a depth of several hundred feet. I believe one well was sunk over two thousand feet, and a great many wells exceeded a thousand. Many of them never produced oil, and the man who had risked his money to bore these wells saw it vanish without affording anything in return.

[Sidenote: FORTUNES WON AND LOST.]

A great many stories are told of fortunes made and lost in boring for oil. In some cases men just narrowly missed success, and in others they obtained their success by accident. A story is told of some men who had secured a locality and sunk their drills to a depth of nearly a thousand feet. All their money was gone, and they knew not where to obtain more. There were no indications of oil, their machinery was mortgaged, and the sheriff stood by to secure it. They were about to abandon work; it was near the close of the day, and they had no credit and no means to continue work on the following morning. One of the men proposed to quit about four o’clock in the afternoon. “No,” said the other; “let us die game, and put the machine through till sunset.”

He tore away a piece of the timber supporting the derrick, and threw it into the furnace to give additional speed to the engine. Just as the sun was beginning to dip behind the western hills, the drill suddenly sunk several feet. It was withdrawn from the rock, and a column of oil mixed with salt water followed it. They had “struck oil,” and were saved.

In another instance a company was formed, and had drilled a dozen wells, but without success. Their capital was nearly gone, and they were working on a well which, if unsuccessful, would prove their ruin. Just as they had expended almost their last dollar, and were within twenty-four hours of suspending, they found oil in abundant quantities, and were saved from ruin.

There are many instances of men searching for oil, boring their wells to a considerable depth, and abandoning them in consequence of the exhaustion of their money, and the discouraging prospects. After abandoning their work, others took possession of the places, and in a few days, sometimes in a few hours, opened wells of great value.

In the oil regions I was once told a story of two men who had been at work a long time, but could get no oil. Their money was exhausted, and they became discouraged. When they had expended their last dollar, and mortgaged everything, they stepped aside and made way for their creditors. As they surrendered their machinery, one of them said,—

“Let us clear out of this place, and go to work by the day until we can get enough to try it again.”

“Hold on,” said the other; “let us sit down and see these fellows work. We will stay a little while, and see if they get along as fast as we did.”

So the two men remained, mainly for the reason they did not know what else to do.

[Sidenote: A LUCKY STROKE.]

The new comers drilled away at the well, which was already several hundred feet deep, and in half an hour after they began working they found oil. When the tools were withdrawn, the well began flowing a hundred or more barrels per day. Imagine the disgust of the former owners!

It was the same in the oil regions with regard to disappointments that it has been in California and other countries containing mineral treasures. A case like the one just described is almost an exact parallel of a case in California, where two men, working a week or more on a claim where they hardly made money enough to pay their expenses, abandoned it in disgust. Two others stepped in, and on the very day they took possession, found a lump of gold worth several thousands of dollars. In another instance some Americans abandoned a claim, which was immediately occupied by half a dozen Chinese. The Chinese found a rich deposit of gold within six inches of where one of the Americans had abandoned the use of his pick and shovel.

[Sidenote: SALTING A WELL.]

Petroleum wells can be “salted” or “baited,” just as gold or other mines can be salted, and in the early days of the oil fever, the baiting of petroleum wells was by no means an uncommon thing. Sometimes it would be done by one of the owners of a well in order to defraud other owners. For instance, Smith and Brown have entered into partnership to put down a well. They join their money together, buy the necessary drills and machinery, and go to work. The well is down one or two hundred feet. Smith gets tired of it. He knows that Brown has more money, and so thinks that he will sell out. While Brown is asleep, Smith gets a barrel or so of petroleum, and pours it into the well. Next morning, when they go to work, the condition of the hole is tested as usual, and of course there are indications of petroleum. If a barrel has been poured into the hole it is filled for quite a long distance. Smith has taken care to be away at the time, and appears in perfect ignorance. If Brown is honest he will tell Smith, on his reappearance, of the rich supply they have found; but the chances are two to one that Brown will say nothing, except to suggest carelessly that the well is not very promising, and ask Smith what he will give for his share. Smith says, with equal carelessness, “I don’t want to buy, but I will sell my interest for three thousand dollars.”

Perhaps he puts it at a higher figure. He knows the length of Brown’s purse, and goes for its contents. The result is, that Brown secretly chuckles over his speculation, and buys the well.

Smith goes on his way rejoicing, and Brown, still more rejoicing, stays where he is. He knows that a few inches more of depth to the well will yield abundant oil, and he works away very earnestly; but somehow he keeps on drilling for a long time, and at last awakens to the consciousness that he has been sold.

A great many petroleum wells have been salted and sold in this way, but it sometimes happens that the would-be swindler gets the worst of his bargain. I knew one case, in 1863, where a man baited a well in the above way, and sold it. He laughed that evening over his sharp trick; but he laughed less the next morning, when he passed the well and saw that the tools had been withdrawn, and the well was flowing at the rate of three hundred barrels a day. A few hours after the purchasers entered upon their work, they struck oil and were happy.

[Sidenote: A NEAT SWINDLE.]

A trick that has been practised in the oil regions to some extent is to convert a well which has no oil in it into a genuine flowing well. I have known this to be done by conducting a pipe underground from a tank at a genuine well a few hundred yards away. The pipe opens into the baited well, and it can readily be seen that with a good “head” on the pipe the well will be a perfect flowing well, to all intents and purposes. Men are engaged in barrelling the substance, and a visitor can see with his own eyes the amount of the yield. If he wants to buy a well, nobody has any great desire to sell, and he may have difficulty in buying the whole thing outright; but he can get an interest in it for a comparatively low figure. Sometimes he may buy one man’s interest, and then another man’s, and he thinks he has struck a very fine bargain. But during the night, after his purchase, the oil ceases flowing, and he finds that his property is worthless.

Another swindle of the same sort is to have a tank filled with oil, and a pipe run through one of its supporting posts, and under ground into the well. The pumping machinery is kept at work, and it may be pumping, say, at the rate of one hundred barrels a day. But all the time that the pump is working, the oil is running into the well, and it may run in and be pumped out again and again. The operation is a simple one, and well calculated to deceive.

[Sidenote: FRAUDULENT OIL COMPANIES.]

A great many petroleum companies were organized at one time, which had no existence beyond the paper one that they had in New York and other cities. Some of these companies gave most brilliant promises. I remember one which printed a flaming prospectus, and announced that there was room on its territory for three thousand first-class wells. No one could doubt the truth of this assertion, but its territory happened to be on the top of a mountain, where three hundred thousand wells might have been sunk without finding a drop of oil. The projectors of this concern sold a great deal of stock, but I believe they never declared a dividend of a single dollar, or even took the trouble to sink a well. Their money was made by defrauding their patrons rather than by doing any work in an honest way. Millions of dollars were sunk in oil speculations whose investors never obtained any return whatever. The public heard of the wells that yielded enormously, but they never heard of the thousands of wells that never amounted to anything.

So great was the rage for oil speculation during the height of the fever, that a well would be sunk where there was the least chance or prospect of obtaining oil. Suppose a man found a spring of pure water; he might pour a gallon or so of oil on the surface, and then carelessly, and with apparent innocence, lead a stranger to the vicinity. The stranger soon smells the oil, examines the water, and buys the spring at a high price.

One day a farmer broke a kerosene lamp in his cellar. A few hours later he admitted a stranger who wanted to buy some potatoes. The stranger discovered the oil, forgot about the potatoes, and immediately opened negotiations for buying the house and the land on which it stood. He paid about three times as much as they were worth, and the farmer went away happy.

A man, who thought crude petroleum a good remedy for freckles, one day bathed his face in that article, and lay down to sleep. As he tells the story, he was waked in half an hour by a New York speculator who was trying to sink a shaft into his ear.

[Sidenote: THE SPRING THAT FLOWED WHISKEY.]

A story is told in California of a man owning a farm which he wanted to sell. He had heard of the petroleum dodge, and thought he would try the same plan in another way. So one day, when a lot of speculators from San Francisco were at his house, he poured a gallon of whiskey into a small spring, and then led the speculators in that direction. The farmer spoke of the spring, said that he made no use of it, as he had an abundance of water near his house. He had never observed the spring except to remark its peculiar color. He roused the curiosity of the strangers so that one of them tasted the water, winked at his neighbor, and stepped aside. Before night the farmer had sold his place at a high price, and the speculators had organized a company for supplying the California market with an excellent article of whiskey cocktail. But somehow their enterprise never succeeded.

The immense fortunes made from petroleum speculations were almost marvellous; a man might be poor to-day and worth a million dollars to-morrow. In the morning he could not raise enough money to buy a breakfast, and at noon his credit would be good for the purchase of a first-class steamship. A man might be working as a day laborer this week, and his wife would be taking in washing at a dollar a dozen. Six days later he would be a millionnaire clad in broadcloth and fine linen, and wearing a diamond like a calcium light, while his wife would be arrayed in silks of the most costly character, and wearing them as uneasily as a bull-dog wears a pair of trousers tied around his neck.

A good story is told of a woman one day selecting some diamonds in a jewelry store on Broadway. Two other women were standing near and observing her motions. One of them suggested to her friend, “Evidently shoddy.”

The diamond purchaser raised her eyes for a minute, and said, “No, madam; petroleum.”

A great many stories are told of a youth in the oil regions who was brought up on a farm, and who, for a year or more, after the outbreak of the oil fever, was driving a team at fifteen dollars a month. He had a grandmother, as most young men have, but she was unlike a great many grandmothers, as she was enormously rich. She owned a large farm, and leased it to speculators who wished to search for oil. She always stipulated for half the oil, and her farm was so productive that she had a magnificent income, and accumulated money at a very rapid rate. A common report was, that she had eleven barrels and four trunks full of greenbacks.

[Sidenote: THE MILLIONNAIRE YOUTH.]

One day she did as all good grandmothers do,—she died. The youth, whom I will call John, as that was half his name, became heir to her vast estate. He dropped into two millions of cash, and into the farm, which yielded about two thousand dollars a day. He had never had so much money before in all his life. Ox-driving at the compensation he received would require a long time for the accumulation of such a fortune.

He thought the matter over, and determined to have a good time. He engaged several youths of his acquaintance to assist him in wasting his substance in riotous living. The party went first to Cleveland. At the railway station they had some dispute about a carriage, and so John bought a carriage to take them to their hotel. When he reached the hotel he concluded that that was not the kind of carriage he wanted, and so gave it away. He secured all the best rooms in the house, ordered the best supper the proprietor could furnish, and the party went to bed on the floor as drunk as a quartette of badgers. They rose the next morning with very large heads on their shoulders, and were occupied during the forenoon in removing their Mansard roofs by means of soda water and cocktails.

John sent for the best team in Cleveland, and obtained a four-horse one, with a carriage gorgeous enough for a third-rate emperor. He picked out one of the drivers round the front of the hotel, told him they were going to stay in Cleveland a few days, and if this driver would take the team and drive them round during their stay, he should have the whole concern, at their departure, for his trouble.

John next proposed to charter a grog-shop, and another institution which shall be nameless, for the exclusive use of himself and friends during their stay. They made things lively for a few days, and then left for Philadelphia by way of Buffalo.

They stopped at Niagara Falls, and proposed hiring a boat-load of people to be sent over the falls for their amusement; but, somehow, they could not find anybody willing to make the jump. John wanted to buy the Falls and run them as a private show, but he changed his mind and continued his journey.

[Sidenote: WASTING HIS SUBSTANCE.]

In Philadelphia, and subsequently in New York, the party was guilty of various extravagances, and sometimes displayed absolute ingenuity in getting rid of their money. On one occasion they treated a party of fifty or more street laborers to champagne, filling each of them up to his chin, and sending them home blind drunk. They bought horses and carriages to give away next day. They chartered hotels and other public resorts for their exclusive occupation. They used to give away ten-dollar bills, and sometimes hundred-dollar bills, as gratuities to servants.

John seemed to be troubled to know what to do with his money, and it gave him more anxiety than he was ever blessed with during the days of his ox-driving experience. I believe he died after a year or so of this new life. It was too much for him; he could endure poverty, but he could not enjoy or endure such an accumulation of wealth.

There was a case similar to his of a young man growing suddenly rich through petroleum, who started on a riotous career, and managed to get heavily in debt. The wells gave out, and left him without money, and no prospect of obtaining any. In a year from the time of his becoming so suddenly wealthy, he was at work again as a day laborer, and meditating upon the uncertainties of life in the oil regions.

On one occasion an oil speculator came to New York with fifty thousand dollars or more in cash, and claiming that he had a flowing well yielding two hundred barrels a day. In less than a fortnight he had gambled away his money, sold his wells, and the last I saw of him he was on his way to the station-house for default of paying the amount of his hotel bill. He was kept there a short time, and then released. I believe the hotel never received anything from him.

A great many extravagances have been committed by the petroleum aristocracy. Persons suddenly raised from poverty to affluence are nearly always anxious to effect an entrance into society. They take fine houses, and sometimes they manage to get people of repute to visit them, though not often.

[Sidenote: GETTING UP A PARTY.]

Three or four years ago a family that had suddenly grown rich determined to give a party that should introduce them to society. They made preparations, and sent out a great many cards of invitation. They ignored their former acquaintances altogether. They selected the names of their guests from the City Directory, taking those that were prominent in the social world. They even pretended to an aristocratic descent, and I believe their card of invitation bore a crest of some sort or other.

The evening of the entertainment came. Madame, almost smothered in silks, with a large amount of store hair, and decked with diamonds enough to set up a jewelry store, was all ready to receive her guests. The daughters were in their best, and expected to make a dozen conquests apiece in the course of the evening. A magnificent supper had been prepared, and a troupe of servants were awaiting the commencement of their duties. Eight o’clock was the hour fixed for the party.

At eight o’clock there was not a guest in the house. “Surely,” said Madame, “they will be here very soon.” Half past eight o’clock came. Nobody. Nine o’clock. Nobody. Half past nine. Nobody; and then ten o’clock, and still Nobody. It was then the great truth stood revealed that the party was a failure.

The servants, who had been standing about with their tongues in their cheeks, were commissioned to eat what they could of the gorgeous banquet, and the aspirants to social honors smothered their sorrow, and made no more attempts, for that season at least, to get into society.

XXIII.

WINE AND BEER CELLARS.

WINE CELLARS.—HOW THEY ARE MADE.—PLACES FOR STORING BEER.—THEIR EXTENT.—THE GREATEST WINE CASK IN THE WORLD.—ITS CAPACITY.—PECULIARITIES OF WINE AND BEER VAULTS.—VISITING A CELLAR IN POLAND.—CURIOUS SIGHTS.—THE ANTIQUITY OF THE BOTTLES.—WHAT A VISITOR DID.—THE RESULT OF TOO MUCH WINE.—A DANGEROUS BRIDGE.

A German resident of New York, engaged in the manufacture of beer, visited the excavations at Hallett’s Point, near the upper end of Manhattan Island, and, on viewing the large space which had been dug out of the solid rock, exclaimed, “What a capital place for storing lager beer.” Many a wine and beer manufacturer has made the same remark on visiting the Mammoth Cave, or other huge caverns. The best places for storing malt or vinous liquors are under ground, for the reason that an equal temperature can be maintained at all times; summer’s heat and winter’s cold make but very little change of the thermometer in the depths of the earth.

[Sidenote: PLACES FOR WINE UNDER GROUND.]

In various parts of the world, particularly in Europe, there are vast underground spaces specially designed for the storage of wine, beer, and similar beverages. Nearly all these articles require to be kept some time before they are fit for use; especially is this the case with wines, some of which improve steadily during a year, or for ten, or twenty, fifty, or it may be for a hundred, or five hundred years. Some of the wine cellars of Europe have been hewn out of the solid rock, or dug out of the solid earth, at vast expense, for the simple purpose of storage. Other wine cellars were, originally, quarries, or mines; and after they had been abandoned by the miners, they were taken up by the wine and beer manufacturers, and adapted to their present uses. The same is the case in America. Reference is made elsewhere to the cellars of Dubuque, Iowa, which are nothing more nor less than exhausted lead mines. At several places on the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers there are cellars which originally were quarries or mines. Their natural treasures were taken from them, and they are now filled with artificial ones.

In California, particularly in the Sonoma Valley, are some wine cellars which have been dug out of the rock for no other purpose than for that of storage. Some years ago I visited one of these establishments with a small party, and the proprietor, in order to give us an idea of the temperature, shut us up a little while, and left us to ourselves. The place was not cold, but it was cool compared with the outer atmosphere, and we very soon began to sneeze. Had we been kept there for any length of time, I suspect that we would have had sore throats and all that sort of thing; but they were prevented by the select assortment of liquids which the wine manufacturer supplied to us with such liberality that some of his visitors’ legs became very much entangled, and refused to perform the duty usually required of them.

All through Europe, and particularly in France and Germany, there are cellars of great extent. The wine makers of France and Germany are able to store away thousands of casks, and other thousands of bottles, every year without any difficulty. The same is the case with the beer makers of North and South Germany, particularly in the vicinity of Munich and Vienna. There is one wine cellar on the Moselle, which is said to be capable of containing a million bottles and twenty or thirty thousand casks of wine at one time, and I have heard of one wine cellar even larger than this. The capacity of the beer vaults of Munich is, I think, greater than that of the German and French wine vaults. It is certain that a storage capacity sufficient to supply the annual consumption of beer in Munich, Vienna, or Berlin, must approach the dimensions of a small city. It is well known that the average German can get outside of a great quantity of beer in the course of twelve months. As an illustration, I may mention that the day before writing this paragraph I was told of a strike among some German laborers in an establishment near New York. Their strike was not for wages, but for beer. They were satisfied with the pay they received, but not with the quantity of beer furnished to them. Their employer allowed them two five-gallon kegs daily for every three men, and in their strike they demanded a daily keg of beer per man. They said that two thirds of a five-gallon keg were not sufficient, but they would manage to get along with five gallons each per day. The employer agreed with them, and they resumed work as soon as he consented to their demand.

[Sidenote: FAMOUS BEER DRINKERS.]

It is on record that one individual German drank one hundred and fifty glasses of beer per day, and I believe there was an instance in Cincinnati, a few years ago, where a German consumed, on a wager, one hundred and eighty-eight glasses between sunrise and sunset of a summer’s day. It is not fair to take these ambulatory beer casks as an indication of the drinking abilities of the Teutons, but it may safely be assumed that an ordinary community of Germans can get outside of an average of twenty glasses a day per man without feeling it.

[Sidenote: THE GREATEST WINE CASK.]

It is not my province to describe the process of making beer or wine, as the work is mainly performed above ground, but simply to allude to the space where these beverages are stored. I have visited a fair proportion of them in various parts of the world, and they are all pretty much alike. They are simply large vaults or caves, sometimes arched over to prevent the falling in of the earth, while in other cases they are cut out of the solid rock, and require no arching. Sometimes a wine cellar will consist of a single vault, with regular pillars or arches sustaining its roof, while in other cases there will be a great many galleries, or tunnels, running off in different directions. Sometimes the casks containing the wine or beer will be of a size that will permit of their being rolled about, while in other cases the casks or tuns will be so large that they always remain stationary, and are filled and emptied without being moved from their places. An example of this is the celebrated tun of Heidelberg, constructed in 1751, and capable of containing forty-nine thousand gallons. It has been filled but two or three times since its construction, and the process of filling occupied on each occasion two or three weeks. It is sufficiently large to allow the erection of a ball-room upon it, and several festivals and dances have been held there. It is the largest cask which has ever been made, or probably ever will be made.

The preparation and preservation of wine require great care, and, above all things, an even temperature. Many a cask of wine has been spoiled by being kept too hot or too cold; and this is one reason why the preference is shown by wine makers for underground places of storage. Apart from this fact is the saving that can be made by utilizing the space under the earth where the surface is of great value.

As before stated, a visit to one wine cellar is very much like a visit to another. The stranger is led or guided among rows of casks and bottles, and sometimes his underground journey will amount to a mile, or two or three miles, of linear distance. He wonders how the demand can be so great for this material, just as a countryman wonders, as he walks through the market of a large city, how all the beef, pork, and mutton can find purchasers. He may go through a market and think the supply exceeds the demand, just as when he walks the streets for an hour or two, and sees the crowds of people, he will wonder where all this mass of humanity can find sufficient food. In the same way a person unfamiliar with the business may have alternate surprises about the supply and consumption of wine.

[Sidenote: A WINE CELLAR IN WARSAW.]

One of the first wine cellars which I visited in Europe was in the famous city of Warsaw, Poland. I had entered Europe by the back door, as it were, coming from Asia over the Ural Mountains; and consequently the first ancient city I found where there was any wine trade of significance was Warsaw. A travelling friend and myself were under the guidance of an officer serving on the staff of the governor of Poland, and while pointing out the curiosities of the city, he suggested taking us to one of the oldest wine cellars in Europe. I think he said there were a few, but only a few, which had greater antiquity.

Our party was small,—only three of us altogether,—and we drove in a single carriage to a very unattractive place in the Jews’ quarter of Warsaw. We entered a narrow and rickety-looking building, which gave no promise of the wealth stored away beneath it. The officer was acquainted with the proprietor of the place, so that we easily obtained permission and escort for our underground journey. The proprietor himself took charge of us, and was accompanied by a servant to assist in showing us round, and possibly to see that we did not stow away in our pockets any of the valuable bottles in the cellar.

We descended a narrow stairway, so narrow, in fact, that we went singly, and so low that we were obliged to stoop to avoid hitting our heads. The place was hewn out of the rock on which Warsaw is built, and it was arched over to sustain the weight resting upon it. Reaching the floor of the cellar, we were first led between rows of casks, and the ages of the casks were stated as we walked among them. One was pointed out that had been in the cellar thirty years, and another that had been there two or three times as long. They were covered with dust and cobwebs, and looked as if good for a much longer stay. Over our heads we could hear the rumbling of carriages in the streets, just as one can hear the carriages in exploring the ruins of Herculaneum.

Cask after cask was pointed out, until our eyes were wearied, and we were then taken to the old cellar where the bottles were stored.

Our guide explained that the cellar we had just visited was a modern one, only two hundred and sixty years old. The old cellar, he said, was made in the days when Poland was a kingdom, and more powerful by far than the now great Muscovite empire. I do not remember positively the age he gave it, but I think it was some nine hundred or a thousand years old. I was too busy looking among the bottles to take particular notice of what he said, and am not willing to trust too much to my memory, especially on the occasion of visiting a cellar like this. The real interest of the place began when we entered the locality where the bottles were stored. Here were little shelves—I say little, though many of them were three or four feet wide—covered with bottles, some standing upright, while others were carefully packed away. There was one shelf where the bottles had been lying undisturbed for twenty years; another where they had not been touched for thirty, another for forty, and another for fifty years. Above most of the shelves a date was chiselled into the rock, and the date, as I was told, indicated the time when the wine was bottled and placed there. These chiselled places were, however, comparatively few, as the most common designation was that of a date cut in a small piece of board which rested above the bottles.

[Sidenote: OLD BOTTLES OF WINE.]

In some places the dust of ages had almost obliterated the dates, but our guide seemed to know them all from recollection. I remember one date of 1750, another of 1634, and I believe there was one board dated somewhere about 1590. Shelves were pointed out which were said to contain wine that had not been moved or disturbed in any way for three hundred years. I do not vouch for the truth of the statement, but merely give it as I heard it.

It was interesting to observe how the dust and cobwebs had gathered about the bottles, and also to observe the shapes of the bottles. The more recent shapes were those familiar to all drinkers and friends of drinkers of the present day. Then there were short, thick-set bottles, while others were dumpy and very long in the neck, reminding one of an overfed goose or a camel suffering with the dropsy. Some of the earlier bottles indicated that the art of blowing glass was not well known at the time of their construction, as they were badly shaped, and frequently had deep indentations in their sides. Some of them could be called flasks, rather than bottles, as they had no necks at all, and were round at both ends. All the bottles that I examined were carefully sealed, and I was shown several bottles with long, tapering necks, that had been tightly closed by melting their ends in a flame after the wine had been placed inside, just as the tube of a thermometer is closed after it has been filled with quicksilver or alcohol. In order to get at the wine enclosed in this way, it is necessary to break away the top of the neck.

[Sidenote: ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS A BOTTLE.]

The cellar was perfectly dry, so that no moisture collected anywhere. I may remark, by the way, that a dry cellar is always desirable. There was no moisture, but there was a liberal supply of dust and cobwebs. On bottles that had been in their places only a few years, there would be a slight film or covering of dust. Those that could boast of twenty years, and those that had remained undisturbed a hundred or two hundred years, were covered so thickly that it was almost impossible to distinguish the bottles from the mass which covered them. I saw one shelf—I forget its age—where not a bottle was visible; it seemed to be a mass of cobwebs, and nothing more. To judge from its appearance, I would not have given twenty-five cents for the contents of that shelf; but if I had offered twenty-five hundred dollars, my offer would have been spurned with disdain. I asked the value of the wine on this shelf, and was told that it was twenty guineas a bottle. I did not want any of it at that price, but I presume that there are plenty of men in the world who are ready to pay it.

After we had seen the curiosities of the place, the proprietor insisted that we should make a practical test of his wine. He did not open any of the twenty-guinea stuff, and we could not expect him to, though I secretly hoped he would consider himself sufficiently honored by our presence to do the handsome thing, and break a bottle or two of it just to give us a taste. The best he would do was to open a ten-guinea bottle from another shelf. It is not every day you can smack your lips over wine worth fifty dollars in gold a bottle, and we sipped it very carefully, and allowed it to trickle not too rapidly down our throats. I found it a very agreeable wine; it had a rich and fruity, though rather sweetish taste. I know nothing to which it can be compared, and therefore I will not make any comparison.

[Sidenote: WINE TASTING AND ITS EFFECT.]

The proprietor treated us on the descending scale, for the next bottle he brought us was a five-guinea one. It was only forty or fifty years old, a very juvenile stuff, but we were unable to discover any great difference between it and the other. Two or three kinds of this wine were shown us, and then he brought all sorts of new wines just in the cellar, that is to say, they had only been there some five or ten, or it may be twenty years. Other wines were brought forward for our deglutition; and after a time the thing became a little monotonous, and I suspected that we might get our heads and feet a little tangled. I suggested that we had other business to attend to, and had better not indulge in the wine business any longer; but the proprietor was polite, and was constantly offering us just one more sample.

“Have the gentlemen taste this one,” he would say to the officer who accompanied us, and at the urgent request of the officer we would indulge the proprietor.

The officer repeatedly stated, on presenting the wine, that that would be the last; but somehow there was always something new to be tasted, and something that we could not decline without giving offence. Before we got through, we tasted nearly every wine in the cellar, and finally asked to be let off.

When we reached the foot of the stairway, we found it had shrunken greatly in size. We had descended without difficulty, but now it was necessary to move up edgewise, and I firmly believe, that if we had remained below much longer, the shrinking process would have made the staircase so narrow, and the roof above so low, that we should have been unable to get out, and might have staid there forever. Think of one’s terrible fate in being shut up in a wine cellar to die.

[Sidenote: TURNING AN AMERICAN HEAD.]

My companion wanted to sit down on the foot of the stairs and go to sleep, but I told him it was not a custom in Poland on visiting wine cellars, or, so far as I knew, in any other country. He then asked me to write to his friends, if I succeeded in getting out, and tell them to send money enough to buy out the concern to take it home to America. He would take cellar and all if he had to carry the whole city of Warsaw and the Ex-King of Poland in his trunk. He had a friend at New York who would just like this sort of thing. He would be willing to sell all his interest in the United States if he could only assemble his friends in that cellar, and get them as blind drunk as he was. I saw that he was wandering mentally, although unable to wander much physically, owing to the extreme suppleness of his legs. He began to chide me for taking so much wine, and said I ought to have followed his example, and drank nothing.

The situation became alarming. There was the staircase growing narrower until it resembled a loophole in the wall of a fortress. I was very much inclined to sit down with my friend, and wait until the place grew larger. While thinking what to do, we were roused by the appeal of our officer comrade to taste of another wine, a very superior article from Hungary. We told him politely that we must refuse, intimated that we should feel much better without it, and if he could only plan some way by which we could get out of that cellar and reach our hotel, we should be very much obliged.

He led the way up stairs. We observed that luckily they were large enough for him to ascend without difficulty, and finally we reached the space above. Once there we breathed more easily. We thanked our host for the attention he had shown us; we thanked him by shaking his hand, and keeping our mouths closed. To thank him in English would do no good, as he did not understand our language, and we were a little doubtful of our ability to pronounce our words correctly. I am sorry that my friend made so free with this ancient wine, as it totally incapacitated him from saying a word in Polish or any other language with which he was not familiar.

When we reached the open air we found that our heads became level again, and in a little while the effect of our wine-sampling excursion had passed away. Assuming the dignity of a couple of emperors, we rode to our hotel, took a lunch, and felt better.

All over the world it is a trick of the proprietors of wine cellars to put their visitors through the system of sampling, so that, drink as sparingly as they may,—a teaspoonful at a time only,—they will be very much confused in body and mind before they emerge from the clutches of their entertainers.

[Sidenote: A DANGEROUS BRIDGE.]

In one of the Western States I am acquainted with a wine dealer whose cellar is entered by crossing a narrow bridge over a brook. The bridge is ten or twelve feet long, about three feet wide, and has no railing. I have heard him say that no visitor to his wine vaults ever yet walked that plank on his return from the cellar without tumbling into the brook. From what I have heard of his establishment, I think he is not very far from the truth. Many a visitor to that cellar has received an involuntary plunge bath as he came out into the open air.

XXIV.

THE BASTILLE.

ITS HISTORY AND CONSTRUCTION.—THREE AMERICANS SEARCHING FOR IT.—A FRENCH JOKE AT THEIR EXPENSE.—HOW PRISONERS WERE RECEIVED AND TREATED.—HORRIBLE DUNGEONS.—THE OUBLIETTES.—CRUELTIES OF THE BASTILLE.—THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK.—HIS ROMANTIC STORY.—DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILLE.

One of the most famous dungeons or prisons in the world was the Bastille of Paris.

It was a state prison and citadel of the city, was built in the year 1369, and destroyed by the mob in the beginning of the revolution of 1789, or more than four centuries after its construction.

It is a curious fact that no plan of the Bastille as originally constructed is in existence, neither is there any plan extant of the Bastille as it appeared at the time of its destruction. Somehow the kings of France were averse to giving the public much information about this famous prison of state. They appear to have been satisfied with the knowledge that the place existed, and that those who displeased them could be shut up there, and they never troubled themselves to know the exact plan or model of the concern.

There has been a great deal of exaggeration concerning the Bastille, and many stories have been told about it which had little or no foundation. After all, there was really no need of exaggeration, for the atrocities committed within the walls of the Bastille are quite horrible enough for all practical purposes.

In ordinary life the French are a quiet, harmless people, and they are the last in the world whom you would suspect of atrocities; but every revolution in France has been full of horror, whether in past times or in the present. It has been said that you may take the mildest Frenchman in the world, give him a place of authority where his acts will not be called into question, and the chances are great that he will conduct himself in a very savage manner. I do not assert this of my own knowledge, but leave the reader to judge whether the history of the French prisons and French tyranny does not, in some degree at least, corroborate the statement.

The day after my arrival in Paris, a friend proposed that we should visit the Bastille. We were talking upon some topic, and I had actually stepped inside the carriage with him and given the order to the driver before it occurred to me that the Bastille did not exist, and had not existed for several scores of years. When I remembered this, and told my companion, he said,—

“I came very near selling you. I want to get even on selling myself.”

[Sidenote: SEARCHING FOR THE BASTILLE.]

Then he told me a story of his experience in searching for the Bastille. Bear in mind that he was an editor, familiar with history (editors of course know everything), and if he had given the subject a moment’s thought it would have occurred to him that there was no Bastille in Paris worth mentioning. Let me tell his story as he told it.

“There were three of us who came over in the steamer, landed at Brest, and came to Paris. We arrived here in the evening. We put up at the Grand Hotel, and the next morning started out to ‘do’ the city. The first thing we saw as we stepped out of the hotel door to the Boulevard was an omnibus, on which was the sign ‘Place de la Bastille.’ We mounted to the top of this omnibus, and away we rode down the Boulevard.

[Sidenote: VERDANT AMERICANS.]

“By and by we stopped near a large, open square, with a monument in the centre. The conductor motioned us to get off, and said something which we did not understand, but took to mean that this was the end of his route. Moreover, the omnibus turned round, and we understood pretty well that we must get ashore. I was the only one who could speak French, and I couldn’t speak much of it. As we left the omnibus, I said to the conductor, ‘Monsieur, où est la Bastille?’

“The conductor stared at us, smiled, and turned away. Then we stepped on the sidewalk and looked around. Close by us was a ‘Restaurant de la Bastille,’ and on the corner we could see the sign of ‘Place de la Bastille.’ There was a cake shop close by, and that had a sign which indicated that it was the cake shop ‘de la Bastille.’

“Then we stopped a well-dressed Frenchman, and said to him, ‘Monsieur, où est la Bastille?’ The fellow was too polite to laugh in our faces, as the conductor did, but he said not a word, and walked off. I saw, though, when his back was turned towards us, that he was shaking his sides, and evidently grinning.

“Then we stepped into the restaurant, and I said to a waiter, ‘Garçon, où est la Bastille?’ and that infernal waiter laughed in my face. I said to the other boys, ‘These confounded Frenchmen round the Bastille are all fools. I thought Frenchmen were polite, but these fellows have no politeness at all.’ We climbed out of that restaurant, and went out on the square on a Bastille hunt.

“There was no more sign of a prison than there is inside your boot. We walked round that square about ten minutes, when it got into one of our heads,—not into mine though,—that the Bastille had been destroyed in 1789. I had nothing more to say, except that we were the three biggest fools in all Paris. Here we had been hunting round, boring everybody, and asking them to show us a prison which was destroyed eighty years before, as we perfectly well knew, only we did not happen to recollect it. We went back to the Grand Hotel, and the next time we went out sight-seeing we made sure that the thing we inquired for was in existence.”

[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THE BASTILLE.]

The Bastille was an irregular building in shape, as the original construction, in the time of Charles V. had been added to by each successive monarch. It had as its principal feature eight round towers, connected by curtains of masonry, and was encircled by a ditch a hundred and twenty-five feet wide. This ditch was generally dry, and was surrounded on its outside by a wall sixty feet high, to which was attached a wooden gallery running round the whole inner circumference of the ditch opposite the castle. This gallery was called the “Rounds.” Sentinels were stationed on these Rounds, and it was their duty to be perpetually in motion, in order to discover any movement of the prisoners for escaping. The Bastille had a governor and a staff of assistants, and it had a garrison of one hundred men, with their proper officers.

Whenever a prisoner was brought to the Bastille, his trunks and clothing were carefully examined, in order to discover whether he had any concealed papers or weapons. The advocate Linguet, who had been detained there for three years, says,—

“The new comer is as much surprised as alarmed to find himself subjected to a personal examination by four men, whose appearance seems to belie their functions; men clad in uniforms, which leads one to look for a regard to decencies, and wearing decorations which presuppose a service which endures no stain. This man takes from him his money, that he may have no means of corrupting any one of their number, his jewelry on the same consideration, his papers for fear he should find any resource against the tedium to which he is henceforth devoted, and his knives and scissors are taken from him for fear he should commit suicide or assassinate his jailers.”

After this examination he was led to the cell intended for him to occupy. These cells were situated in all the towers. The walls were at least twelve feet in thickness at the top, and at the base they were thirty or forty feet. Each cell had a small window defended by three iron gratings, one within, the second without, and the third in the middle thickness of the masonry.

The bars of this grating were an inch thick. No fire was allowed, and there was no glass in the windows, so that in winter these cells were like ice-houses, and in summer they were hot and damp.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF THE DUNGEONS.]

The dungeons were nineteen feet below the level of the court-yard, and five below that of the ditch. They had no openings but a narrow loophole communicating with the ditch. The inhabitant of these dungeons was deprived of air and daylight, and lived in a damp and infected atmosphere. Oftentimes the floor of his cell was covered with mud, and he found himself surrounded by reptiles, rats, and other disagreeable creeping or walking things.

The written history of the Bastille shows that these horrible cells were frequently used for the confinement of prisoners in order to make their existence as terrible as possible. There is a tradition that iron cages were used for the confinement of prisoners, but writers who have given their attention to this subject say that nothing of the sort was discovered at the time the Bastille was destroyed. There is also a tradition in regard to the Oubliettes, which are described as holes into which condemned prisoners were lowered, where they should languish and die forgotten. There is also a tradition in regard to a Question Chamber, in which suspected prisoners were tortured to make them confess their guilt, or to reveal the names of their accomplices.

The Bastille could contain fifty state prisoners in solitary cells, and by putting two persons in one cell the number could be raised to a hundred. Sometimes as many as three hundred persons were in the Bastille at once, and in that case they were densely crowded. According to history the prisoners were wretchedly fed, but it should be said, in justice to the government, that this state of affairs was probably due to the frauds of the subordinates rather than to any intended cruelty on the part of the government, as the latter generally made liberal allowances for the support of the prisoners of state. One writer asserts that in his time the governor of the Bastille had a great number of prisoners, many of whom were paid for at twenty-five francs a day, and that their subsistence did not cost as many sous. There was a regular tariff for expenses for the table, lights, and washing of all prisoners, according to their rank. A prince was allowed fifty francs a day, a marshal of France thirty-six francs, a lieutenant general thirty-four francs, and so on down to the inferior prisoners, who were allowed two francs and a half.

[Sidenote: TREATMENT OF PRISONERS.]

A prisoner might be examined at the moment of his arrest, or not until weeks, months, or years afterwards. He had no mode of offering any defence, or of telling his friends where he was, or why he was detained; and sometimes he did not himself know these facts. He was allowed no books or papers; he could not communicate with anybody except by special permission. He could not be visited except on an order from the lieutenant of police, and at such visits all the conversation must be in the presence of an officer of the prison, and no allusion could be made to the cause of detention, the term of imprisonment, or any topic of that sort.

The treatment of prisoners varied greatly. Some, whom it was desired to kill by slow torture, without trial, or even without a hearing, were shut up in the horrible dungeons already described, where they were fed on the worst possible food until death relieved them from their suffering. Others, whom it was not designed to punish or destroy, but simply to detain, enjoyed every comfort, and a great deal of luxury. They had large rooms, fine furniture, excellent and abundant food, plenty of wine, books, and papers, could have their own servants, could be visited by their friends or families; in fact, could do pretty nearly as they pleased, except to go out of the Bastille.

Sometimes the Bastille was under governors who had a good deal of the milk of human kindness in their composition, and sometimes it was under the control of men who had as little feeling and sympathy as a stone. Prisoners were well or badly treated according as the governor was good or bad in character, and also according to the instructions which had been received concerning their treatment. The most horrible feature about the Bastille was the mode of sending persons to it. No man could be safe from imprisonment there, and he was subject to the whims and caprices of the minister of state, whom no appeals could reach, and by whom no call for justice would be heard or heeded. If any man incurred the displeasure of the minister, or of any one who had sufficient influence to secure an order for his arrest under the royal seal, he might be taken to the Bastille at any moment. If his accuser desired that he should never more go out into the world, and never hold communication with any one, the accuser’s will became law. Hundreds of men were sent to the Bastille without knowing the cause of their arrest or the names of their accusers, and without being allowed to communicate with family or friend. It was this uncertainty, this ever-present fear of injustice and cruelty, that made the name of the Bastille appalling, and led every Frenchman to regard it as a place full of horrors.

[Sidenote: HORRORS OF THE BASTILLE.]

It is said that some of the most barbarous cruelties ever inflicted within the walls of the Bastille were during the reign of Louis XI. Louis himself was the author and inventor of some of the worst barbarities. It is recorded in history, that he caused dungeons to be made in the Bastille surrounded with smooth and polished masonry, where the prisoners, who were lowered into them, were obliged to remain in an unnatural position, which they could not change. According to history, the princes of the house of Armagnac were shut up in these horrible pits, and were drawn out twice a week to be scourged in the presence of the governor, and once in every three months to have two of their teeth torn from their jaws. Sometimes split sticks of dry wood were placed on their fingers, and then the sticks would be set on fire and allowed to consume. Richelieu sent many of his enemies to the Bastille, some of whom were treated with extreme consideration, while others endured great severity. One of these men, the notorious Bassompierre, was immured there twelve years by the order of Richelieu.

[Sidenote: MAN IN THE IRON MASK.]

One of the greatest mysteries attending the Bastille is that of the Man in the Iron Mask. A great deal has been said and written about him, some of it being fact, and some of it fiction. Who he was is not positively known. It is very certain that he was a personage of great importance, whom it was desirable to keep out of the way, and at the same time very desirable not to kill. He was always treated with the utmost consideration. Every one of his attendants uncovered his head when in presence of the mysterious personage. His clothing was of the finest character, his food was of the best quality, and served on the choicest table-ware. He was rarely left alone, and then only in a place whence he could not escape; his face was always covered with a mask of black velvet, fastened behind his head with steel bands. His private governor was De Saint Mars, and it is supposed that he was answerable with his own life for the safety of the Man in the Iron Mask, and for the preservation of his incognito. When first heard of he was confined in the Marguerite Islands, in the Mediterranean. One day a fisherman, passing near the place of his confinement, saw a hand wave towards him from a window, and a moment after, a silver plate was thrown out. The fisherman picked up the plate and looked at it; saw that some words were engraved upon it, and immediately took it to the governor of the prison. The governor looked at it carelessly, and then asked the fisherman if he had shown it to any one, or had read it. The fisherman answered, “No, your excellency, I have shown it to no one, and as for myself I cannot read.”

“That is fortunate,” said the governor; and giving the fisherman a gold piece, he dismissed him.

The gold piece, however, did the fisherman very little good, as he was assassinated that night by some unknown person.

Every piece of linen, every scrap of paper, everything which in any way would convey information, was scrupulously examined. One day the mysterious man made some writing on one of his shirts which was going out to the wash. By some means this escaped the notice of the jailers, and was found by the washerwoman. She could not read, and when she returned the linen, she called the attention of the governor to the writing. She was rewarded for her fidelity with a gold piece, and she, like the fisherman, was assassinated on the night after she had obtained her reward. After this, the Man in the Iron Mask was always furnished with new linen every day, and that which he had worn was immediately destroyed.

[Sidenote: AN ILLUSTRIOUS PRISONER.]

From the Marguerite Islands, he was moved to the Bastille, where he died on the 19th of November, 1703. He was buried the next day in the cemetery of St. Paul, under the name of Marchiatti.

In the Bastille he was waited upon at the table and at his toilet by the governor, and no one else. He was allowed to go to mass, and a file of soldiers always accompanied him. Their muskets were loaded, and their matches were lighted; they were ordered to kill him instantly in case he spoke to any one, or attempted to tear off his mask. Who he was, and what he was, will probably never be known. No person of sufficient note to justify such precautions as were taken in his case was absent from the stage of history at that time. The general impression is, that he was an elder brother of Louis XIV., the fruit of an adulterous intrigue between Anne of Austria and the Duke of Buckingham, or some other of those lovers for which Anne was famous. As he was born in wedlock, he could not have been dispossessed of his claim to the throne, if his existence had been admitted. Louis XIV. may have had some absurd prejudice against murdering his brother, though it was not the fashion of those days to be so very fastidious. A story was written by Dumas under the title of the Man in the Iron Mask, and it has been dramatized and given on the stage in Europe and America. The mystery which envelops the wearer of the mask gives an additional interest to all stories concerning him.

[Sidenote: DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILLE.]

In talking about this historic individual, we have almost forgotten the Bastille. After the time of Louis XIV. the Bastille became a place of imprisonment, not alone of persons of honorable birth, but of common malefactors, and of persons of very low repute. The imprisonment of Beuzot, the king’s librarian, for obeying the king’s own directions, by the minister De Breteuil, brought to light the whole system of iniquity in which the prison was managed. On the 14th of July, 1789, the people arose in their fury, captured the Bastille, and ransacked and destroyed it. At the time of its capture only seven persons were found in its cells and dungeons, one of them having been there since his eleventh year. There was another who had been ten years in the Marguerite Islands, and thirty years in the Bastille; he appeared, on his liberation, bewildered and half idiotic, like a man waking from a sleep of forty years, and looking out upon a new world. The records of the prison reveal many cases as bad as this, and any lover of liberty, even to the smallest degree, cannot regret that the Bastille has passed away forever.

XXV.

DIAMONDS AND DIAMOND MINES.

HOW DIAMONDS ARE OBTAINED.—THE COUNTRIES THAT PRODUCE THEM.—MODES OF SEEKING THEM IN BRAZIL.—CURIOUS PRECAUTIONS AGAINST THEFT.—HOW A SLAVE IN BORNEO ROBBED HIS EMPLOYER.—FAMOUS DIAMONDS AND THEIR HISTORY.—THE REGENT, THE ORLOFF, AND THE KOHINOOR.—FIDELITY OF A SERVANT.—THE STAR OF THE SOUTH.—A SHARP TRICK OF AN AMATEUR GAMBLER.

The hardest known mineral in the world, and at the same time the most valuable, is the diamond. It cannot be cut or scratched by any other substance. In cutting the diamond, another diamond, or the dust of one, must be used. The process of polishing these stones by rubbing two of them together was probably known in Asia a great many years ago; but it was not introduced into Europe until the middle of the fifteenth century. The diamond-cutters of Asia preserved the secret of their work very carefully long after these valuable stones were brought to Europe. About the middle of the fifteenth century, Louis Berquen, of Bruges, accidentally discovered that by rubbing two diamonds together, their surfaces might be cut. The powder obtained in this way is used for polishing the stone.

The diamond must first be dug from the earth, and if we only knew where to find them we could doubtless discover richer gems than any of those now known. The earth which contains the diamond is worked in the same way as the auriferous gravels, both having been produced by the same causes. Gold occurs in the beds or streams, by the disintegration of the rocks, in which it was originally contained, and their gradual wearing and washing away. Diamonds were originally contained in the rocks in the same way that gold was held there, and the process of disintegration has been pretty much the same. Many of the places where gold is found contained diamonds; and in some localities in California the sands are now being reworked to obtain any small particles of gold that may have been left, and also to obtain diamonds. The original gold-seeker looked only for the yellow metal. The gold-seeker of to-day searches not only for gold, but for hard pebbles, which may prove rough diamonds.

[Sidenote: WHERE DIAMONDS ARE FOUND.]

Diamonds are found in various parts of the globe. The most celebrated diamond regions are those of India, South Africa, and Brazil. The Indian diamond mines are in various localities, the most famous being in the vicinity of Golconda. They have been exploited for thousands of years, and some of the stones now in existence have a history dating back two thousand years before the Christian era. The diamond mines of Brazil have latterly yielded more extensively than have the Golconda mines. At one time, a slave at work in a Brazilian mine struck with his pick a bed of diamonds which were valued at nearly two millions of dollars. They were carried to England, and caused a panic in the diamond market. The supply was the largest ever known to come forward at one time, and greatly frightened the holders of precious stones, not only in England, but all over the continent of Europe. If any individual could be so fortunate as to find a few million dollars’ worth of diamonds at one time, he could create an alarm among the dealers in precious stones from one end of the world to the other.

The work of obtaining diamonds is not by any means the easiest in which a man can engage. About the hardest way in the world to obtain gold is to dig for it, and the same may be said of diamonds. In the Brazilian mines the earth consists of sand and gravel in the beds of the streams. It is taken out in the dry season, and piled away where it can be conveniently washed. Then in the rainy season the washing begins. Sometimes the men work by hand, as it were; that is, by taking a quantity of earth in a bowl, or pan, and then, standing in the middle of the stream, under the eye of a vigilant overseer, they slowly wash away the sand and dirt, until nothing but pebbles remains.

[Sidenote: DIGGERS AT WORK.]

The pick and shovel are used for breaking up the diamond-bearing gravels, just as they are used for breaking up earth which contains gold. The water carries away the clay, and sand, and fine dirt. The large stones are thrown out, and the finer gravel that remains is carefully picked over. It is examined in the sunshine, where the light plays upon the gems, and leads to their detection. The search for the diamond is always conducted under the eye of a superintendent, so as to guard against theft. Each diamond-seeker has a little case, made of reed, and generally ornamented on the outside. The small diamonds are placed in this case, and every negro who possesses a case which has once held diamonds is very unwilling to part with it. He regards it with a superstitious reverence, believing that when it once contains precious stones it will lead to the discovery of more.

The earth which has been gathered up for washing, if it is not worked immediately, is placed under a long shed, and when the rainy season begins, and water becomes abundant, the slaves are assembled for their duty. In the diamond district of Brazil the sheds are generally about thirty yards long, and half as wide. They consist simply of upright posts, and a thatched roof, erected over the spot where the heaps of gravel are placed. A stream of water is conducted through this shed. There is a range of sloping troughs, each about three feet wide, connecting with the streams at the upper end. Opposite the troughs there are high chairs, where the overseers are stationed.

A slave at each trough takes about a bushel or so of the gravel, and lets the water in slowly, in order to wash away the gravel and earthy particles. Then he throws out the largest stones, and examines the rest, with great care, for diamonds. Whenever he finds one, he stands upright, clasps his hands, holding the stone between his thumb and finger, and shows it to the overseer, who receives it.

When a slave finds a stone exceeding seventeen and a half carats in weight, he is immediately set at liberty. Free papers are given him, and he cannot again be enslaved. Generally, on such occasions, a holiday or half-holiday is granted to the negroes about the establishment. The lucky finder is carried on the shoulders of his comrades, and when the day ends most of them are in a condition the reverse of sober.

[Sidenote: DISCOVERY IN BRAZIL.]

In the diamond district of Brazil the diamonds were first discovered by gold miners, about the year 1730. At first they were ignorant of the value of the gems, and threw them away as useless. Some of the stones were sent to the governor of Brazil as curiosities. He supposed that they were crystals, and by accident a few were carried to Lisbon, where they happened to be shown to the Dutch consul. The consul was a diamond sharp, and recognized the true character of the stones. He immediately caused them to be sent to Holland, where they were cut, and found to be of great value.

As soon as the character of the stone became generally known, large quantities of them were gathered and sent from Brazil, and at one time it seemed as if the diamond market would be ruined. The Portuguese government took means to secure a monopoly of the trade. The diamond district was surrounded by well-defined boundaries, which were guarded with the greatest care. No one was permitted to cross them without a permit from the superintendent of the mine, and whenever a traveller who had visited the diamond ground was leaving it, he was obliged to submit to a thorough examination of himself and baggage. So great was the vigilance, that, it is said, at one time every traveller leaving the district was detained three days at the boundary, and was compelled to swallow medicines whose effect was to prevent his absconding with any precious stones concealed in his stomach.

A peculiar system was established for the regulation of this district. Stringent laws were passed to provide for the registering of the inhabitants, the admission of settlers, and the punishment of infringements of every kind upon the government monopoly. At first the diamond mines were rented to private individuals; but so many frauds were practised, that the government took the matter into its own hands, and worked the mines under officers of its own appointment. At present the mines are open to anybody who chooses to work them, on payment of a tax, which is placed not on the amount of diamonds obtained, but on the number of men employed. This method of collecting the tax is much more successful than the old one of levying a royalty upon the diamonds. The number of men employed can be readily counted, while, the diamonds being small, they could easily be secreted, and the payment of the proper tax evaded.

[Sidenote: THE GOLCONDA MINES.]

In Asia the most noted localities for obtaining diamonds are in various parts of India and the Island of Borneo. Two thousand years ago the mines of Golconda were the richest on the globe; but for some time they have been comparatively unproductive.

The working of these mines is carried on very nearly in the same way as the working of the mines of Brazil. In the Brazilian mines the slaves and overseers are permitted to wear clothing, though the slaves are allowed but a very small quantity. Formerly they were compelled to work naked, to prevent their secreting diamonds. At the present time the garments they wear are subjected to the most careful examination. In the mines of India the laborers work entirely nude; but the temperature is such that they do not suffer on account of the absence of clothing. In spite of every precaution they manage to steal diamonds. They secrete them in the hair, unless their hair is cut very short. They push them into their noses, and hide them in various parts of their bodies, and in other ways.

In one of the mines of Borneo there was once a laborer who managed to steal several valuable diamonds. As he wore no clothing when at work, and underwent the usual examination, he was considered entirely safe. He escaped with his prizes, became a rich man, lived contented, and died happy. In his old age he revealed the secret of his diamond thefts.

[Sidenote: INGENIOUS MODE OF STEALING.]

He had prepared himself for the work with the assistance of a surgeon, who shared with him the proceeds of the enterprise. The surgeon placed a ball, somewhat larger than a pea, in the fleshy part of the man’s thigh; kept down the irritation as much as possible, and allowed the flesh to grow over the wound, or nearly so. The ball was then taken out, leaving a comfortable cavity a quarter of an inch below the skin. A small opening was made, and the skin at the opening was allowed to grow around a steel rod about half as large as the diameter of the cavity. In this way a very fine receptacle was formed for the deposit of the diamond.

It took some time to get it up, but when finished it was entirely satisfactory, and the man was sure of having his pocket always about him. When he found a diamond that could be crowded into this cavity, he would manage to stow it away; and then, at the earliest opportunity, he repaired to the office of the surgeon, where the diamond was removed with the aid of a pair of forceps. They did not strike for the largest diamonds, and were doubtless more successful in this mode of working than if they had planned their enterprise on a grander scale.

It is a general principle in chemistry, that when the component parts of an article are well known, a counterfeit can be produced, provided the component parts are attainable. But it is not so with the diamond.

For hundreds of years chemists have labored to produce this stone. They know perfectly well of what it is composed, but they cannot repeat it. The diamond is nothing more than pure crystallized carbon, and placed under a great heat it boils and disappears. It is not acted upon by acids or alkalies, and when kept in the open air, it may be heated to a high degree without damage. Exposed to the intense heat produced by a Bunsen burner, it is converted into coke; and if it is heated in the open air, it boils at the temperature of melting silver, and disappears in the form of carbonic acid gas. If the sun’s rays are converged to a focus by means of a lens, and directed upon a diamond under a bell-glass filled with oxygen gas, the diamond will burn; and when it is consumed, carbonic acid will be found beneath the glass. Thus the most precious substance in the known world can be made to disappear.

[Sidenote: HOW TO KNOW THE VALUE OF DIAMONDS.]

The diamond is sold by its weight, estimated in carats,—a carat being equal to three and one fourth grains Troy, and subdivided into half, quarter, eighth, and so on. It is difficult to say what a rough diamond is worth, since a great many reasons may occur to cause its fluctuation in value. The ordinary estimate for a cut diamond is sixty dollars a carat, that is to say, when the stone weighs a single carat. The price of the diamond exceeding a carat is not in proportion to its weight, but by the square of the weight, that is to say, to the weight multiplied by itself. Thus, if a diamond weighing one carat is worth sixty dollars, one which weighs two carats is worth 2 × 2, and then multiplied by sixty, or two hundred and forty dollars. A stone of three carats is worth 3 × 3, multiplied by sixty, or five hundred and forty dollars. The value, therefore, of a polished diamond is found by multiplying the square of the weight by the price of a stone of one carat. This is the rule generally given for the pricing of diamonds; but the value of each stone varies more or less according to its character, so that one stone weighing fifteen carats might be worth three or four thousand dollars more than another stone of the same weight. The best rule, probably, for obtaining the price of diamonds, is to ask a man who has them for sale. Diamonds are sold very much like any other commodity, that is, for the highest price the purchaser is willing to pay.

Diamonds, especially those of a large size, require, it is needless to say, great care in keeping, to save them from being stolen. The crown jewels of England are kept in the Tower of London in an iron cage surrounded with glass. Some of them are of great antiquity. The crown jewels include not only diamonds, but some valuable rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and pearls. The crown contains a heart-shaped ruby, which is said to have been given to Edward the Black Prince by Don Pedro, King of Castile, after the battle of Najera, A. D. 1367.

[Sidenote: FAMOUS STONES.]

It was afterwards worn in the helmet of Henry V., at the battle of Agincourt, in the year 1415.

The crown jewels of France disappeared in 1792, during the troubles of the first republic, though they were kept under seal, and in the royal treasury. Some of them were afterwards found buried in an obscure place, which was named in an anonymous letter sent to the prime minister. The famous Regent diamond was in this casket.

The Regent diamond is probably the finest and best cut stone in the world, though it is not the largest. It was named after the Duke of Orleans, who was regent during the minority of Louis XV. The regent bought it, in 1717, for one hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds sterling. It was sold to him by Governor Pitt, who paid twelve thousand five hundred pounds for it in India five years before. Its weight before cutting was four hundred and ten carats, and the process of cutting occupied two years. Its weight was reduced to one hundred and thirty-six carats, and its present value is estimated at a million dollars.

Pitt was an unhappy man during the five years he owned the stone. He carried it with him constantly. He never made known his movements a day beforehand, nor slept for two nights successively in the same house.

Another diamond, quite famous in its way, is the “Sancy.” It fell from the helmet of Charles the Bold at the battle of Granson, and was picked up by a Swiss soldier. The soldier disposed of it for two francs, and thought he had made a very good bargain. In 1589 it was bought by De Sancy, treasurer to Henry IV. of France. In 1792 it was stolen, and after various adventures, was bought, forty years afterwards, by Prince Demidoff, who paid for it seventy-five thousand pounds. It has since been sold for a much smaller sum.

A few years ago a diamond was found in Brazil, and imported into France under the name of the Star of the South. It was found by a negress, and bought for a few dollars by a speculator, who obtained a large return for his investment. Its weight in the rough was two hundred and fifty-four carats; after cutting, it was one hundred and twenty-four carats.

Another famous stone, known as the Grand Duke of Tuscany, is of a yellow color, and weighs one hundred and forty carats.

It was lost at one time, and bought subsequently, it is said, for a few francs, out of a jeweller’s shop at Florence, the jeweller supposing that it was only a piece of colored crystal.

[Sidenote: THE ORLOFF AND THE KOHINOOR.]

A famous diamond in Russia is the Orloff. It is shaped like an egg, with an indented hollow in the smaller end. It was found at Landak, in India, and at one time formed the eye of an idol in a Brahmin temple at Pondicherry. An enterprising deserter from the French army managed to have himself shut up in the temple, and during his incarceration he gouged out this eye of the idol. He attempted to capture the other eye, but was unsuccessful. He was lucky enough to get away with his prize, which he sold to a jeweller at Calcutta. After passing through the hands of various purchasers, it was bought by a Greek merchant, who sold it to the Empress Catherine for four hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and an annuity of twenty thousand dollars, with a title of nobility.

One of the best known, and probably the most famous, diamonds in the world is the Kohinoor. It is interesting for the great number of historical associations connected with it. It is said to have been worn by an Indian king three thousand years before the Christian era. From this king the Kohinoor passed through the hands of successive sovereigns of Central India, until about the beginning of the fourteenth century, when it was added to the treasures of Delhi by the Patan monarch Aladdin. In 1739 the Persian monarch Nadir Shah conquered Delhi, and had an interview with its vanquished ruler. The latter put on his best garments in order to make as good an impression as possible. He wrapped a gorgeous turban around his head, and in it he fastened the Kohinoor.

The Persian conqueror, during the progress of the interview, saw this diamond, and, in the expressive language of modern days, “went for it.”

He was too polite to capture it by main force, but proposed eternal peace and friendship to Mohammed Shah, the vanquished ruler of Delhi. The latter, like Barkis, was willin’, and the two embraced.

“As a token of our friendship,” said Nadir, “let us exchange turbans.” Mohammed was cornered and obliged to comply, and Nadir walked off with the prize. But Nadir did not keep it long, as he was assassinated soon after.

After his death it passed to the hands of Ahmed Shah of Cabool, and thence through various other hands, until in 1849, when, on the annexation of the Punjaub to the East India Company’s territory, it was stipulated that the Kohinoor should be given to the Queen of England. It was sent to England, and was delivered to the queen July 3, 1850. It was exhibited at the Crystal Palace in London, but caused great disappointment by its inability to develop the proper refraction, unless surrounded by strong lights; in fact, it was much inferior to its glass model in the Tower. Its name, Mountain of Light, seemed to be a misnomer.

[Sidenote: RECUTTING THE KOHINOOR.]

An examination was made with a view to recutting it. Scientific gentlemen were called in, and skilful cutters at Amsterdam were sent for. After much consultation, it was determined to recut the stone. The proper machinery was prepared, and set up, and the Duke of Wellington was required to begin the work.

In cutting a diamond, the stone is firmly embedded in lead at the end of a stick. Only the portion which is intended to be cut is exposed at one time. The Kohinoor was properly fixed in its leaden surrounding, and placed in the hands of the duke. He held it firmly against a swiftly revolving wheel covered with diamond dust, and in a little while the first facet was finished. Then the stone was placed in the hands of the workmen who were to continue the operation; and when their labors were completed, the Kohinoor was found blazing brilliantly, and justified its title as the Mountain of Light.

The largest and most valuable diamond in the world, so far as known, is presumed to be the one so long owned by the Sultan of Matan, Borneo. It weighs three hundred and sixty-nine carats, and is valued at five million dollars—a very good piece of property to have; but it is said to be so carefully kept, that no ordinary diamond thief can obtain it.

[Sidenote: ARTIFICIAL DIAMONDS.]

Though diamonds cannot be made artificially, they can be imitated, and the imitation is almost perfect. Several French manufacturers of bogus diamonds have obtained high reputation for their skill. Flint, white sand, and silver are the substances used; at least they are said to be the substances, though there is doubtless some other material added which the manufacturers do not mention. These fraudulent diamonds, in weight, color, and brilliancy, are almost identical with the genuine ones, and some of them have even deceived the dealers. They will stand some, but not all, the tests applied to diamonds. They reflect the light perfectly, but are apt to grow dim in a few weeks, and require fresh polishing. The diamonds sold in New York under the name of Alaska, Australia, or California diamonds are mostly of French manufacture, and were never seen in the locality whose name is applied to them.

False diamonds have become so common among certain classes of Americans as to cause the real diamond to be used very rarely among other classes. During the prosperity of the famous Tammany Ring, false diamonds blazed on many a political shirt-front, where they could be seen and admired of men.

The followers of the Ring politicians were generally equipped with false diamonds; but the great leaders, like Tweed and his companions, decorated, or were supposed to decorate, themselves with the genuine article.

There are many strange stories told in connection with diamonds. We have already seen through what vicissitudes the famous diamonds have passed.

A story is told of a French prince, who, while travelling, was attacked by robbers. He had intrusted a valuable diamond to a faithful servant. The servant was slain, but the master escaped. He returned subsequently to the scene of the fight, and sought for the diamond, but could nowhere find it. At last he bethought himself to examine the body of his attendant, when he found that the latter had swallowed the diamond to preserve it.

[Sidenote: A FORTUNATE ACTOR.]

Some years ago an actor, looking through an old clothes shop in London, found a pair of slippers decorated with glass beads, and suited to a character he was about to play. He bought them for a trifle, paying two or three shillings for them. He wore them on the evening of his performance, and used to leave them lying carelessly about the theatre. He had them a year or more before discovering, as he did, by accident, that the supposed beads were diamonds, and that the shoes which had cost him a few shillings were worth thousands of pounds. He sold them soon after making the discovery, and retired upon the fortune so easily obtained. He never took the trouble to ascertain their previous character or history.

About twenty years ago, in a gaming-house in New York, a gambler, who may be called Smith, put up a ring as a stake, against an outside player for a hundred dollars. The player—I call him Jones for sake of convenience,—won the ring and went away with it. Smith had received the ring a short time before as a present, and was told at the time that it was false, or, as it is generally called, “paste.” Jones took the ring next day to a jeweller, and asked what it was.

The jeweller said, “It is paste—worth about two dollars.”

“Have you a genuine stone like it?” Jones asked of the jeweller.

“Yes,” was the reply, “I have one exactly resembling it, worth five hundred dollars.”

“Will you take out the paste and set the genuine stone in its place,” asked Jones, “provided I leave you its value as security, and pay you for the use of it?”

“Certainly,” was the reply; and the bargain was quickly settled. The change was made, and Jones walked away with the ring.

[Sidenote: HOW A GAMBLER WAS CAUGHT.]

That evening he was in the same gaming-house, and was chaffed by the friends of Smith on obtaining a paste ring against a stake of a hundred dollars. Jones insisted that the ring was genuine, and offered to back his opinion with a bet of a hundred dollars. The bet was taken, and it was agreed that Jones, Smith, and a person selected by the two, should go together to the prominent jewellers and ascertain the value of the ring.

Next day they visited the stores, and jeweller after jeweller examined the stone, and pronounced it genuine, and worth four or five hundred dollars. Most of them were ready to give four hundred dollars for it.

The bet was paid, and Jones departed to drive with a friend up town; but on his way he called at the jeweller’s, exchanged the genuine stone for the paste, obtained his five hundred dollars he had left on deposit, paid for the use of the diamond, and slipped away.

That evening he was again at the gambling-house, and rallied Smith on having sold himself. Smith acknowledged that he had been deceived, but he never supposed the ring was worth anything, and was surprised to find that the stone was genuine.

“Well,” said Jones, “I don’t wish to take any mean advantage of your stakes; you staked that ring for a hundred dollars, and the jewellers said it is worth four or five hundred dollars. For a hundred dollars, the amount of your stake, you can have it back again.”

Smith bit at the offer, paid the hundred dollars, and received the ring. Jones departed, and did not return. Imagine the disgust of Smith when he subsequently found out the real state of affairs.

XXVI.

THE DIAMOND FIELDS OF SOUTH AFRICA.

MODE OF REACHING THEM—THEIR EXTENT AND RICHNESS—THE YIELD OF THE MINES—CHARACTER OF THE AFRICAN DIAMONDS—MODE OF WORKING—THE NEGROES AND THEIR PECULIARITIES—DU TOIT’S PAN—KIMBERLEY—COLESBERG KOPJE—LIFE IN THE FIELDS—DUST STORMS AND HEAVY RAINS—A WHIRLWIND AND ITS EFFECTS—CAUGHT IN A STORM—INDIVIDUAL INSTANCES OF GOOD LUCK—A DIAMOND ON A BURST.

The owners of diamonds, and those who buy and sell the gems, were thrown into great consternation, a few years ago, by the announcement of the discovery of immense diamond deposits in South Africa. As usual, when rich deposits of precious stones or precious metals are known to have been found, there was a great rush for the newly-opened region. Many persons imagined they had only to land at some point on the coast of South Africa, and the first touch of the pick or spade would bring them fortune in the shape of Koh-i-noors by the thousands. Many of them found their mistake long ago. On the other hand, many others have been handsomely rewarded for their enterprise and exertion. The diamond fields of South Africa have created some large fortunes, and a great many small ones. “Lucky finds” have been numerous, and the diamonds seem to be pretty well distributed in the valleys where they exist.

The regular route to the diamond fields is by way of Cape Town, Cape of Good Hope. Cape Town is an interesting city of about thirty thousand inhabitants, picturesquely situated on Table Bay. The diamond fields are about seven hundred miles distant. There are no railways in that region, and the most rapid conveyance is by the mail-coach, which makes the journey in about six or seven days. A slower and cheaper conveyance is by ox or horse teams, generally the former. The route is not a picturesque one. Those who imagine beautiful valleys, wide-spreading plains, open prairies thickly covered with luxuriant grass, with a horizon of rugged mountains, will be disappointed with the reality. The plains are generally treeless and stony, many of the hills are barren, and the very settlements along the route are quite too dirty and dilapidated to be attractive. Several rivers are to be crossed, some of them very muddy, and some of them abounding with quicksand.

On some of the plains, the oxen suffer for want of grass and water, and the cruel beatings they receive from the hands of their Hottentot drivers are exceedingly disagreeable to sensitive travelers. The Hottentots carry a whip of Rhinoceros hide, known by the name of “shambok.” It is quite analagous to the “courbash” of the Egyptians. It resembles a small, long, flexible cane, and is capable of drawing blood at every stroke when handled by an artist. From twenty-five to forty days are consumed in the journey with ox wagons, and when the traveler reaches his destination, he feels very much as though he had been run through a cotton-picker.

[Sidenote: DU TOIT’S PAN.]

The diamond fields are first reached at Du Toit’s Pan, and the traveler suddenly finds himself in the midst of great activity. The ground is cut and seamed in all directions, and the pits whence the diamonds are taken, are, in many instances, two hundred feet deep. The mode of working in these mines is somewhat different from that of gold mining. In the first place, the white miners are not strictly miners at all, as they universally employ the natives to do the work, and their own occupation is simply that of overseer. The natives work for a sum equal to about five dollars a week and their board. They are of four different nations, and a miner thus describes them:

[Sidenote: THE NATIVE MINERS.]

“The handsomest and most trustworthy race are the Zulu Caffres of Natal and Caffraria. The next are the Basutos. Third are the thievish and drunken Hottentots, and fourth, the Koraunas, small, ugly, and contemptible beings, despised by all the rest, and of no use to the diggers, owing to their unconquerable laziness. I always admired a Zulu. There was one living near our tent, a model for a sculptor. He would sometimes cross my path, with his long steady strides, his blanket hanging around him in graceful folds like the toga of a Roman senator. One hand grasped the robe, and allowed freedom of motion, while the other would be crossed on his breast. In his woolly locks, braided and arranged neatly on his head, would appear feathers of different wild birds, while underneath his massive brow shone a pair of eyes—coal-black eyes—with such long lashes that they reminded me of eyes in eastern pictures. A man with such orbs as his could speak were he deaf and dumb. An aquiline nose, with inflated nostrils, overshadowed a delicately curved mouth, full of firmness and pride. Below was the massive chin of statesmen and conquerors. In fact, he was a model man in ebony.”

The natives will only work a short time. When they have accumulated a certain amount of money, they purchase arms and ammunition and go home. They are good-tempered, obedient, and faithful, and do not spend much money upon dress. Sometimes they get themselves up gorgeously, and a wardrobe sufficient for an ordinary white man will dress at least a dozen negroes. One will deck himself with a coat, another with a hat, another will consider himself finely arrayed in a paper collar, while a pair Of trousers will be sufficient for two, if properly divided. An odd boot, shoe, or stocking, or an old shirt that reaches perhaps as far as the waist, is considered the proper thing for polite society in negro land.

The discovery of diamonds in South Africa was made in the year 1870. A traveler through those regions stopped one night at a farm-house, and found the children playing with some pebbles. One of the pebbles attracted his attention, and he bought it for a trifle. He subsequently sold it, at Cape Town, for three thousand dollars. He bought another from a negro, which he sold for fifty-six thousand dollars, making a very fair margin of profit on his transaction. When the natives found these stones were of value, they began to search for them, and a great many were brought in. Then began the rush for the diamond fields. Great numbers of people went there from Cape Town, and as the news spread to England and to other countries, there was considerable excitement concerning the South African fields. The place where the diamonds were found is in an extensive district of country belonging to Dutch farmers.

[Sidenote: GARNET AS AN INDICATOR.]

The surface indication of a diamond mine are numerous garnets, which are not of any particular value. The general rule is that wherever the garnet is found, one is pretty certain to find diamonds. At first, the principal diggings were at a place on the Vaal river, where there was an abundance of water. The gravel was taken to the river and washed, and the diamonds were separated from the worthless stones. Only the earth was allowed to float away, as it was possible that some large and valuable gems might be carried off with the smaller stones. When the stones had been separated from the earth, they were carefully sorted, and in a short time the miners became very expert at recognizing the gems.

The diamond fields of South Africa, covering an area of perhaps one thousand square miles, are between longitude 24° and 28° east, and latitude 27° and 30° south. It is estimated that, down to the end of 1876, eighty-five million dollars worth of diamonds had been taken out, and this estimate does not include thousands of stones that were carried directly to England by their owners, and did not pass through the market at Cape Town. Diamond owners would have been ruined completely by the African discoveries, had it not been for the fact that the great majority of the diamonds found there are of poor quality. Professor Lenant, who has given considerable attention to the matter, says that of the Cape diamonds, about ten per cent. may be classified as first quality, fifteen per cent. of the second, and twenty-five per cent. of the third. The remainder, under the name of “bort,” is employed in cutting diamonds and for various other purposes, by the lapidary, by the engineer in rock drills, for cutting glass, and similar purposes.

[Sidenote: DIFFICULTIES OF MINING.]

Unfortunately for the miners at the Cape, there is a very short supply of water. If they could have adopted the system of hydraulic mining to their work, they would have saved enormous labor and expense. At many of the fields which are distant from the rivers, the gravel is removed by means of buckets, drawn up by long ropes, and it very often happens that a single heavy rain of a few hours, will destroy the entire labor of months, the pit becomes filled with water, and there will be no way of extracting it except by evaporation, or by the laborious process of hoisting or pumping. One of the fields, known as Colesberg Kopje, fell off, in one year, more than fifty per cent. from the yield of previous years, in consequence of the heavy caving and floodings caused by the rains. The value of claims in that region has gradually fallen, and so desperate is the condition that, at last accounts, money was loaned upon mining licenses at the rate of ten per cent. a month, with a foreclosure at the end of the first month if the interest was not paid.

At the diamond camp, the small stones form the basis of value. They might be used for currency except for one fact. Gold dust, in California, was used for currency, for a long time. Its value, of course, is directly proportioned to its weight, a pound nugget being worth exactly twelve times as much as an ounce nugget of the same fineness, but the value of diamonds increases with enormous rapidity as they grow heavier, so they cannot be put in bunch or weighed out the same as gold. Transactions frequently take place in diamonds, and the amount of exchange is often very difficult to compute.

The last region of which we have any account is known as Kimberley, and a city of ten thousand inhabitants, with banks, hotels, churches, and theaters, has grown up there. In its general features, it is not unlike a frontier city in California or Colorado, except that its streets are filled with carts carrying earth away from the diggings, and with great numbers of negroes who come to work in the mines. The diamonds are found in a conglomerate which is dug up from the bottom of what has once been a deep cañon. At Kimberley, the cañon is two hundred feet deep, and one thousand feet across. When one descends into this place, it is almost impossible to hear the human voice, on account of the noise made by the wheels and buckets, and the picks, shovels, and other tools of the miners. In the early times of the mining excitement at the Cape, the negroes were reasonably honest, but association with the white man has made them otherwise. When they can steal the diamonds they do so. They will secrete them in their ears, their mouths, or their noses, and a negro has been known to work an entire day with two or three diamonds concealed between his toes.

[Sidenote: HOW AN ENGLISHMAN LOST A DIAMOND.]

An interesting story is told of how an Englishman lost, one day, a valuable diamond, through his impetuosity. He had found a very large and fine stone at the bottom of his pit, and was coming up the ladder, carrying the diamond in his mouth. A negro happened to shake the top of the ladder, whereupon the Englishman proceeded to swear at him, as an Englishman might be expected to do. The result was, the diamond fell from his mouth down into the pit or into a neighboring one, and its whereabouts was never discovered by the unlucky finder. We have heard of mouths that speak pearls, but it is rarely the case that one hears of a mouth swearing diamonds.

In the early days at the diamond mines, there was a good deal of rioting and trouble. There was not much observance of law, mainly for the reason that there was no law. But at present, every thing is orderly and peaceable. The diamond fields are partly in regions controlled by the British government, and partly in the Republic of the Orange Free States. The latter country became known to many Americans through the Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia, in 1876. It had a small display, but a very attractive one. First and foremost, of course, were the diamonds in the rough, which included many specimens of stones, varying in color and size. Then came a quantity of the soil in which the gems are found, and then the pebbles which accompany the diamonds. Copper, iron, and other ores were exhibited; many excellent specimens of leather were displayed; there was a collection of stuffed birds; there were tusks of ivory, skins of various wild beasts, specimens of wool, and a model of the carts used to convey it to the coast. The great business of the country is in grazing, and the sheep and cattle in its limits may be counted by millions. Its population is estimated at about one hundred thousand, of which three-fourths are whites. Of late years, the farmers have found an excellent market for many articles of produce, by taking them to the diamond mines.

[Sidenote: SCENE AT AN AUCTION.]

The scene at the sale of edibles is a curious one. As the fields became thickly populated, there was a great demand for fruits and vegetables, and the farmers sent in everything they could spare. At one time, oranges sold for twenty-five cents each, potatoes for seven cents a pound, and eggs one dollar and twenty-five cents a dozen. Nearly everything was sold at auction, the farmers arranging the things in lots to suit purchasers, and then submitting them to the care of the market master. The scene at an auction is thus described:

“At seven o’clock in the morning, the market master mounts a stool, and business commences. An eager crowd surrounds him, of all colors and nations, yelling, talking, laughing, and making themselves merry, when suddenly a dead silence falls on the reckless assemblage, as a pail of eggs are held up to their gaze. ‘Now, how much for the eggs, at per dozen?—one shilling bid?’ A dozen heads bob in the affirmative. Two shillings; three. The price rises, until the man with the long purse becomes their owner. Up goes a pumpkin. A rush by the crowd. Every eye seeks that of the auctioneer. Every man wants to bid; but in the twinkling of an eye it’s gone. ‘For how much?’ an outsider asks of another. ‘Cheap at three “bob”’ (shillings), he answers. Up goes another pumpkin, and another, until very likely a whole wagon-load is disposed of, at prices which make the old Boer’s face wrinkle with smiles. Next there is a scramble to get exactly over a heap of fine potatoes which are to be sold. Two or three weaker ones get upset in the rush, while a dense circle of giant and muscular diggers surrounds the center of attraction. Of course the unlucky outsiders have no chance of catching the market-master’s eye, and, in self-defense, form an opposition circle around the next pile, each one mentally calculating the amount of ‘tin’ he is prepared to stake on the produce before him. This exciting work goes on until nine o’clock, when the crowd of diggers, having purchased everything eatable, leave for their claims, while the lucky owners of the wagons crowd into the little market-office, eager to receive the price of their loads, and to ‘trek’ away from the city of tents.”

[Sidenote: STRUGGLING WITH NATURE.]

The diamond fields are subject to heavy rains, and also to very sudden and furious winds. The amount of dust and flies in circulation, is quite uncalculable. One visitor says that the flies, troublesome as they are, are much more agreeable than the dust. “Although persecuting one most incessantly by day, night puts a stop to their torments, while no sooner does a puff of air come from yonder plain, than you inhale a volume of dust—not the earthy, loamy dust of agricultural land, but the whitish-gray lung powder which has been refined by the action of shovel and sieve, until it is as light as air. It impregnates your food, your hair is like a door mat, and your eyes have a chronic soreness, as though a thousand delicate needles were pricking into the eyeballs, while your body is chafed and sore from the friction of dusty clothes. All this is unpleasant; but we will suppose that the gentle wind has increased to a howling tempest, that storm clouds fill the sky, and tents shake to the breeze; then, and then only, do the diggers reach the climax of misery. From hundreds of sieves, and hundreds of conical dust heaps, the wind gathers its load, and, like some malicious fiend, sweeps through the camp, turning the light of day into a hideous yellow twilight, circling around unprotected tents, and through all the seams and cracks, filling them full of floating dust. The diggers sneeze, cough, weep, and for relief rush into the open air, or more properly, into an air of lime, where, utterly choked and blinded, they fall on their faces, there to gasp for breath, like a dying turtle, and curse the day they saw the fields.

“This sometimes continues for hours: business is suspended; people desert their claims, and shut themselves up in their dwellings; the streets are abandoned to the dogs, and no one has rest until the wind falls, or a blessed shower turns dust to mud. Whirlwinds of any size or power are always considered unpleasant visitors, and in Du Toit’s Pan they still keep up their reputation. They do not actually tear things upside down, and ruin whole tracts of country, as our Western tornadoes do, but they have an elevating influence, which tents, unfortunately, find it hard to resist, and try their hand at some mischievous trick, which involuntarily makes the sufferer shake his fist at the receding column, as if it was some naughty boy with a smart pair of legs. Now, a broad-brimmed hat leaves its owner’s head with a rush, and when he clears his sight, and spies it majestically revolving two or three hundred feet above him, and evidently having a through ticket for the distant plain, his heart sinks within him, and he mournfully descends his heap to purchase another, or lets his ‘angry passions rise,’ and flails his Caffre for ‘hooraying’ at the exciting spectacle. Again, a digger is industriously sorting on a light table. He has nearly finished his work, when, on looking up, he sees that which makes him shut his eyes, hermetically seal his lips, and bob his head under the table. It is an unlucky position, for the whirlwind upsets the table on his head. It skins his face, and then dives down the adjoining hole, on top of some affrighted black, while the column of wind and sand rushes on, increasing in size and power until it appears on the edge of the camp, to the dismay of all ladies on the streets, all cooks in their canvas or open-air kitchens, and all owners of crazy or dilapidated tents. A minute or two more, it is a thing of the past. The damage is done. The column is far out on the dreary plain, and people resume their occupations.

“One spring day, a tent-maker who lived by us, had placed a large and light frame tent upon the edge of the road, without fastening it in any way to the ground. He was warned not to leave it so exposed, but it being a calm day, the advice was neglected. About an hour after, he was inside, busy decorating its walls with red tape, when a sudden and violent whirlwind swept off the claims in all its dusty majesty, and careering down the road, encountered the unfortunate tent. A moment more, it rose in the air like a balloon, the astounded tent-maker vainly hanging to its ribs, until, seeing it was bound to go up, he dropped out, like an apple from a tree. Up it went, whirling with frightful velocity, and pursuing the course of the road, until it knocked fiercely against the gable of a neighboring canteen. In went the roof, while out came the inmates, amidst the smash of bottles and the running of brandy. On and on, and round and round, went the tent, until, espying a jaunty little canvas house which defied wind and rain, in a fit of jealousy it went into it, and, with a grand smash, both lay in ribbons on the ground, while the disgusted tent-maker settled a bill for two ruined houses, instead of being paid for erecting one.

“During the summer months, rain-storms, with heavy thunder and lightning, are frequent. They generally approach with a violent breeze, sharp lightning, and loud thunder. The clouds are all in motion, crossing and meeting each other, while along the face of the nimbus, or storm-cloud, is a heavy gray pall of vapor. This is much lower than the rain-cloud, and when close to the earth, portends a fearful storm. The gathering blackness, increased by clouds of dust, the zigzag lightning, the hoarse, reverberating sound of the thunder, and the moaning wind, all strike the spectator with awe. He gazes around him out on the distant plain, where all is dreary and somber; at the immense gray mounds of the claims, deserted, and looking ghostly and unearthly against their pitchy background—and the storm is upon us. Some ominous rain-drops strike the tent, a flash of lightning blinds, a peal of thunder stuns, and the gates of heaven open. The war of the tempest drowns all other sound, the tent shakes and trembles beneath the blast, while rivers of water course down the street, cutting great gullies in the road, and quickly undermining any protective earth-work the digger has placed around him. Soon the canvas begins to leak, and the inmates of the tent stand in dripping silence, listening to the war of the elements. One night, our Caffres were drowned out by one of these heavy storms. They generally slept in a large, circular fire-place of three feet deep, just sufficient to keep the cold from them, and thus were snugly ensconced when it began to rain. Above the fire-place was a hollow which drained into it. As this drainage was very unpleasant, and often, in heavy rains, flooded out the fire, we built a dam against it as a protection. On the night in question, it rained so fast the hollow was soon a sheet of water, which pressed with such force against the dam that it gave way. In an instant, the fire-place was full to overflowing, and the Caffres, thus rudely awakened, gave one mighty yell as the waters covered them. Aroused by the noise, I peeped forth as they were struggling out, their black heads showing around the edge of the fire-place like those of so many hippopotami. After getting out, and giving some hearty shakes, they commenced fishing up their bed-clothes from the treacherous flood. Long before sunrise, next morning, they were at the tent door, calling loudly for ‘soupies,’ or what we denominate ‘eye-openers,’ and certainly their condition, after what they had gone through, demanded relief.”

[Sidenote: THE LUCKY ONES.]

Some of the stories told about the diamond finds are decidedly attractive. Some of the earlier miners made large fortunes in a short time. They had nothing to pay for their ground, and found from one to twenty diamonds every day. When the price of claims went up, they sold out, anywhere from two to ten thousand dollars, and went home. One man made fifty thousand dollars in a month, divided his claim into six parts, sold each part for one thousand five hundred dollars, and went away satisfied. A ship was wrecked on the coast. The captain, of course, was a very unfortunate man. Not knowing what to do, he went to the diamond fields, where he stayed three months, and went away with seventy-five thousand dollars. A Dutch Boer found, in one day, thirty-one diamonds, which weighed respectively thirty-three carats, eighteen, fifteen, nine, seven and a half, and other smaller ones. He went away from the fields, and on returning, after an absence of a month, his black servants, whom he had left in charge, turned over to him more than three hundred diamonds. One man found a stone, at the end of four days’ work, which brought him, in clean cash, eighty thousand dollars.

[Sidenote: A CURIOUS FACT ABOUT DIAMONDS.]

A curious fact about the diamond is that it sometimes bursts. The experts at the Cape can generally determine, by examining a stone, whether it will burst or not. When first taken out, a small speck is seen in it. If it is put aside in a dry place, it is in fragments by the next morning. The miners keep such a stone in water or oil, generally, until they find somebody green enough to buy it. The bursting is caused by disappearance of moisture in the stone, and, of course, it is retained there as long as the stone is kept moist.

XXVII.

THE UNDER-WORLD OF PARIS.

THE IMMORALITY AND LICENTIOUSNESS OF THE CAPITAL.—COMPARISON WITH OTHER CITIES.—FRENCH ETHICS AND LITERATURE.—DIFFERENT GRADES OF THE DEMI-MONDE.—THE TRUE STORY OF CAMILLE.—THE GARDENS ON THE SEINE.—THE DANCES AND THE DANCERS.—THE PETITS SOUPERS OF THE COCOTTES.—AFTER-MIDNIGHT SCENES.—ACTRESSES AND CHAMPAGNE.—ADVENTURESSES AND CHÂTEAU MARGAUX.—INTERIOR OF A THIEF’S DEN AND MURDERER’S CELLAR.—BLOODTHIRSTY VIRAGOES AND DESPERATE CUTTHROATS.

The demi-monde is aptly named; for, while it is so eminently worldly, the world rejects it, and in most instances assumes to be unconscious of its existence. In the French capital it is accepted as a fact, and it can hardly be any more dangerous there on that account, than it is in cities where it is ignored. The French have gained the reputation, but without any good reason, of being much more immoral than other nations. We Americans are constantly asserting this, and our iteration has had the effect, no doubt, of inducing us to believe that we are a great deal better than they. Our assumptions are unquestionably loftier, and we are more anxious to hide our defects; but that we have fewer vices, setting aside our pretences, and stripping off our shams, must not be too hastily admitted. It is to the disadvantage of the modern Gauls that on many subjects they are inclined to say what they think, while we are disposed to think what we do not say. They, too, take human nature as they find it, as it has been from the first; having no expectation of changing it by shutting it up on one side, and giving it free vent on the other.

French authors are not at all squeamish or puritanical, and are addicted to the treatment of themes which we discuss only in private. The cities of France, notably Paris, do not robe themselves in external sanctity, careless of the inner quality of their ethical raiment, and, on account of their openness of speech and deportment, they are gravely misjudged.

[Sidenote: THE WORST CITY IN THE WORLD.]

Paris is bad enough, Heaven knows; but that it is the wickedest city on the globe, as is frequently asserted, must be taken with large grains of allowance. The wickedest of cities are numerous. Not only has Paris that reputation, but Vienna, Naples, St. Petersburg, Berlin, London, New York, have it also. Even Boston, the centre of the land of steady habits and high moral ideas, is pronounced by many persons, who know it intimately, as unequalled for private profligacy. Stockholm, in the far and frozen north, where the temperature might be fancied to freeze the evil passions before they could have full play, has often been declared more immoral than Paris, Naples, Vienna, or London. In proportion to the population, there are more illegitimate children born in Stockholm, it is said, than in any other capital of Europe; and as marriage is held to be the best and purest condition of men and women, this extraordinary extent of illegitimacy must be interpreted to the Swedish city’s discredit.

It is all folly to arraign any particular community as worse than another. Communities are like the individuals who make them up. This has certain defects which that has not. Circumstances and conditions produce different results in different places; but, on the whole, mankind, when thoroughly understood, will be found very similar in most of the centres of civilization.

As Paris is acknowledged to be the capital of gayety and pleasure, and as morals are left there to take their natural course rather than to be hampered without benefit, Paris is the best place to observe human nature in its disapproved relations. The demi-monde is opposed to the grand-monde, and ought to represent, therefore, not only women of a peculiar class, but the members of both sexes whom society, as the expression of conventionality, refuses to acknowledge. The demi-monde, in this sense, means the under-world, nowhere so interesting a study as on the Seine.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF THE UNDER-WORLD.]

Outwardly, the French capital is most decorous. Vice shows like virtue because it is relieved of grossness; even more, is softened and rounded with grace. You do not see there, as in London or New York, repulsive and revolting scenes. You do not encounter drunken and disgusting men: you do not hear women, who have unsexed themselves, indulging in ribaldry and profanity in the public thoroughfares, or anywhere else in fact. Everybody and everything appears so proper that inexperienced and innocent souls have expressed their astonishment at the ill fame the city has acquired, and have concluded that its bad name is undeserved. Promenading on the Boulevards or riding on the Champs Elysées, they are unable to distinguish the Faubourg St. Germain from the Quartier Latin—the upper-world from the under-world.

It is estimated that more than fifty thousand of the women of Paris live in a state of concubinage, which, in a population of two millions, is something enormous. The proportion is startling, but more from the facility attained there for procuring statistics than from the fact itself. Actualities, whether painful or not, are known and recorded in that capital, instead of being unsuspected, as they are likely to be elsewhere. This vast number of unchaste women are by no means professional courtesans,—probably five thousand would include all of these,—but embrace half a dozen grades of illicit relations.

[Sidenote: CAUSE OF PARISIAN WICKEDNESS.]

The causes that contribute to prostitution in France are, first, the unwillingness of men of education and position to marry girls who are poor, and can therefore have no marriage portion. Wedlock among the Parisians is far less sentimental and romantic than it is with us. It a species of one-sided covenant and partnership, in which the wife is expected to be loyal, and the husband to do as he pleases. He cares less for sympathy and affinity than he would if he did not expect to seek them outside of the domestic circle. He marries generally for practical reasons; because it will benefit him socially, or be of substantial advantage. In consequence of this, young women in humble circumstances are little likely to be wedded. They have hearts if they have not incomes, and when their affections are enlisted, they listen to the voice of Nature without waiting for the sanction of the priest. It is not the custom, either, in France for men or women to wed out of their station, though love or passion does not respect social lines or distinctions in that country more than in any other. Hence it may be seen that unwedded wives must be numerous in Paris.

Another cause is the draft that the army makes upon the young men of the country. Compelled to enter the military service before they are married, their habits are such, after they have remained in the army the allotted time, as do not conduce to matrimony. The whole land is drained for the sake of steel-and-gunpowder parade. Thousands and tens of thousands of people who have no interest whatever in, and are only made the worse for, war, are compelled to furnish its sinews at a ruinous cost to themselves.

Still another cause is the number of illegitimate children, who, regarded as the children of the state, are reared and educated by the state, and at a certain age are left to provide for themselves. Many of the young men seek military service, while the young women, for the most part, become what their mothers have been before them. Their tastes and their ideas are superior to their rank. They are unwilling to look for husbands in a lower grade, and cannot secure them in a higher. Gallants and lovers, however, are abundant and persevering, and under the circumstances seldom woo in vain. France, moreover, tolerates, if it does not encourage, relations that other countries raise their hands in holy horror at. It does not act on the conviction that the absence of one virtue expels all the other virtues; it refuses to brand and ostracize a woman because she has merely been unfortunate, or to make her responsible for the wrong she has sustained at the hands of man. France, it must be admitted, is juster to women than other nations are, for it gives them an opportunity to be independent and advance themselves, even though they have committed what we might regard as the unpardonable sin.

[Sidenote: THE DIFFERENT GRADES.]

The first circle of the demi-monde in Paris and other French cities, though it is not so called, includes the educated and rather refined women I have mentioned, who from poverty, dependence, or want of fixed position, cannot marry in the rank to which they properly belong. Their antecedents shape their destiny, and they hardly regard the relation they have been accustomed to consider inevitable as they would regard it had they been differently trained, and had the ethics of the nation been less liberal.

The second circle is represented largely by the grisettes. Many of them marry, and live domestically all their lives; but many others have a gay and coquettish disposition, prefer lovers to husbands, excitement to routine, display to conventionality, and the exhilarations of to-day to the serenities of to-morrow. These are truly of the half world, for they are half married, and yet wholly independent. They live with their masculine friends; take care of their apartments; are their companions at concerts, balls, and theatres, in the evening; and yet they have their regular daily duties at the shops where they are employed. They are not isolated; they have society of their own; are contented, cheerful, and often enjoy themselves better than the women who have been honored by wedlock.

The most showy and best defined type of the demi-monde is the adventuress, who is the popular representative of the entire class. The French playwrights have delineated her fully, and made her familiar to everybody. “Camille,” and “The Marble Heart,” have heroines of this sort. The former drama treats her sentimentally, and the latter cynically. She is not so generous and self-sacrificing as Camille, nor so selfish and sordid as Marco. After Alexandre Dumas wrote “Camille,” and achieved such astonishing success, another Parisian littérateur composed “The Marble Heart” as an offset to it, declaring Marco to be the real, instead of the ideal lorette.

[Sidenote: TRUE STORY OF CAMILLE.]

The story of “Camille,” or “La Dame aux Camelias,” as it is termed in the original, is founded very largely on fact. The central figure of Dumas’ pathetic drama had genuine existence. Her name was Marie Duplessis. She was as lovely in person and as elegant in manner as she is portrayed on the stage. Indeed, the theatric picture was almost a photograph, and the incidents of Marie’s life have been closely followed. The Armand was a young and excessively romantic physician, who, having met the beautiful cocotte at an opera ball, fell so desperately in love with her that he wished to make her his wife. She had too much good sense and prudence, independent of feeling, to permit such a sacrifice; but his devotion and generosity touched her nearly, and soon awoke an answering passion. In spite of her errors, she seems to have been intrinsically a fine and noble woman, who, under favorable circumstances, might have been pure and true. So much was she impressed by his chivalry that she cast off her admirers, purchased a handsome villa near Versailles, and begged her new lover to share it with her. He did so; for he was infatuated with Marie, and would not listen to the sober counsels of his family and friends. His father, in very moderate circumstances, was sorely troubled at the conduct of his son, who had no thought nor care for anything but his mistress. The old gentleman, unable to influence the head-strong boy, sought an interview with the lady of the camellias, and begged her to break off the connection. She undertook the task, and succeeded where his family had failed. Her success, however, was obtained at the expense of truth and her own heart; for she made her lover believe that her attachment to him was waning.

Armand, with all the gloom of the Inferno weighing upon his spirits, went to Italy, trusting that absence and travel would enable him to forget the woman he now deemed unworthy of him. He was gone a twelvemonth. He bore separation much better than she, as men usually do. Before half that time the charming lorette fell ill and died. The doctors asserted that her ailment was consumption, but the poets insisted it was a clear case of broken heart. Her death, with her previous history and romantic reformation, moved the curiosity and appealed to the sentiment of Paris, especially after the tale had been told in gushing style, and in any number of short paragraphs in one of the gossipping journals.

When the villa at Versailles was advertised for sale, with its elegant furniture and dainty articles of virtu, a crowd gathered, and the bidding was so spirited by reason of active competition, that everything brought nearly double its actual value. Dumas, then quite young, was present, and secured, as a memento, a handsome ring which Marie had worn.

Six months after, some one called at Dumas’ house to see him personally. The author found the stranger to be a pale and melancholy young man, who said he had come with the hope of buying the ring that had been purchased at the sale. Further conversation revealed the fact that the stranger had been Marie’s lover; that he had given her the ring; and now, overwhelmed by the news of her death, of which he had just been apprised, he begged, as a special favor, that he might be permitted to purchase what to him had such inestimable value.

Dumas, deeply touched by the story, insisted upon making a present of the trinket to the bereaved youth, and afterwards wrote out the tender tale which has since drawn tears from half the world.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF THE ADVENTURESS.]

The adventuress is usually favored by nature, and carries her fair face and symmetrical form to the best market. If not handsome, she is winning, has great chic, clear insight, a thorough understanding, and the weaknesses of our common humanity.

Good and kind at first, she has become what man has made of her; and in the vocation she has chosen, vanity and self are her impelling powers. Her beauty is a commodity she offers to the highest bidder. She receives large sums, but she squanders them recklessly; for display is almost the only passion of her being. She shines in the Bois; bets desperately at Baden; turns heads at Vienna; shocks the proprieties of London; dashes resplendent along the Nevski, in the height of the gayeties of Petersburg; creates a sensation at Florence; astonishes the staid Germans at Berlin; interrupts the opera at Madrid; and finally, furnishes the subject of a letter for the New York Herald.

[Sidenote: CAREER AND FATE OF A COQUETTE.]

Her career is necessarily brief, for her reign must end when years begin to tell. Between twenty and thirty-five her golden harvest must be gathered. Not unfrequently she dies by her own hand; but oftener she has learned prudence ere her charms have waned, and is contrite when it is no longer easy or graceful to sin. It is a great mistake to suppose that the adventuress is invariably drawn out of the Seine, and exposed at the Morgue. No longer able to repeat her triumphs, she likes to withdraw from Paris, in some retired town seek the consolations of religion, and bestow charity upon the poor. She is more interesting at forty than in the flush of her glowing youth; since then the flame of her self-love has been allowed to smoulder, and the radiance of her true womanhood returns once more.

The fourth circle of the demi-monde are those priestesses of Venus who sin without satisfaction, and laugh without gayety. They are not materially different in Paris from what they are in other cities. They have gone down by slippery and sable steps, but not to a level with despair. They do not despair and live, in the air of France; for with despair comes the pan of charcoal. They have intervals akin to cheerfulness, and highly-spiced sensations bounding from pleasure to delirium. They need not cease to hope or fear, since there is still a deeper deep; and that is the fifth circle, whose representatives frequent the streets at night, the cheaper cafés, and the common gardens, in search of means to continue in their horrid trade. Even these are not so degraded as the same kind of unfortunates are with us. They do not drink; they do not swear; they do not importune strangers rudely; they do not from the first disgust in their effort to attract. They have apartments of their own, a certain kind of society and a species of freedom that women, however fallen, always enjoy in France. They are not labelled outcasts, as in England and America, and therefore, in their darkest hours, they have glimpses of the heaven of hope. Careless and improvident as they are in their youth, they frequently provide for the future as years go on, and come to their end through confession and ecclesiastical forgiveness of all their transgressions.

[Sidenote: THE LOWEST CLASSES.]

The sixth class, the lowest and last of the semi-mundanes, are more nearly pariahs than any others of their kind. They rarely make any provision for to-morrow, since to-morrow is as dismal and as painful as to-day. Almost always in want, their wastefulness is such that they would be poor if every month were marked by a shower of gold. It is they who accost strangers at night on the Boulevards; ask loungers in the cafés to buy coffee and wine for them; make poses and smoke cigars in the streets; and are sometimes arrested for brawls, intoxication, and pilfering. When they have reached this grade of degradation they cannot go back; they cannot stand still; they cannot fall lower. They put formidable obstacles in their proper path, and are their own worst enemies. Such elasticity and endurance as they may have is soon spent. Before a great while, a damp cellar or dingy garret is broken open, a suffocating odor is perceived, the rude bed holds a corpse; a brazier of charcoal tells the story, and adds another to the countless tragedies which invariably keep the balance with life.

The gardens of Paris, like the Mabille, the Closerie de Lilas, the Château Rouge, and many others reveal another feature of the under-world. The Mabille, to which strangers generally go, is the least indecorous, and, I may add, the dullest. There half a dozen couples, the women being generally of the lowest demi-monde class, are paid so much per night for dancing of the most extraordinary sort. What it lacks in delicacy is made up in energy. The greatest ambition of the cocottes is to kick the hats from the heads of their partners, and to throw their drapery into the wildest confusion. Their movements belong rather to gymnastics than the quadrille, which they pretend to execute, and when their leaping and plunging begin to pall upon the spectators, they have recourse to the shamefully indecent can-can.

[Sidenote: MABILLE, CHÂTEAU ROUGE, AND PRADO.]

The Mabille draws strangers, as honey draws flies. Eminently respectable and altogether staid persons go there, and closely observe the dancers, without any apparent disapproval too, when they would be supremely shocked at home at the slightest intimation of such licentious conduct. I have observed pious matrons from New England watching the saltatorial goddesses through their spectacles, as they might watch the gambols of unknown animals. The Mabille soon grows wearisome, and few persons frequent it on their second visit to Paris.

The Château Rouge is a more extended, demonstrative, and free-and-easy place of resort than the Mabille. It is much more democratic also; the prices of admission for men (women are admitted without charge) being one franc, instead of three. To encourage attendance, prizes are offered to those who shall be present the greatest number of nights during the season, and the announcement of the prizes is placarded upon the wall, so that every one may see them. Silk gowns are the temptations for the gentler, and watches for the sterner sex. I should imagine that some of the girls expected a reward for lifting their gaiters in a direct line above their heads, so often do they attempt it, and so generally do they succeed.

The Closerie de Lilas, called the Prado in winter, is the place where the students and the grisettes go in crowds, and where they whirl and make merry for the pure love of the thing. The attendance is very large on Thursday and Sunday nights, when I have seen five or six hundred persons of both sexes, flushed with wine, and dancing like mad dervishes. The revels there are fast and furious enough. License reigns supreme, and Bacchus and Venus seem to inspire the orgies. Paris always limits its public exhibitions, and minions of the law are ever present to keep licentiousness within bounds. Without stimulants the grisettes and cocottes become wild with excitement as the music of Offenbach pours out under the sky to infect them with its sensuous frenzy. Doubtless the students and their lemans enjoy themselves to the utmost; for they could not counterfeit enjoyment so excellently. They smoke, and drink, and laugh, and talk, and chat, and caper together without the smallest reserve or restraint, as if they had not, and never would have, any other thought than of the present moment and its absorbing pleasure.

[Sidenote: A DELIRIUM OF DANCING.]

When the weather is unfavorable, they have their balls in a large, covered space; and to see and hear them leaping, tumbling, screaming, and roaring in one confused and palpitating mass, impresses the self-contained and impassive Anglo-Saxon very strangely. Those French revellers have few concealments. They do their wooing in the presence of hundreds; they have their little quarrels in the midst of their carnival of glee. Elise appeals to Jacques with shrugs and starts, and streaming eyes; and Victoire complains of neglect, and emphasizes his jealousy to Marguerite before the giddy throng, as if they were in the privacy of their own apartments. They make up their differences with petting words and copious caresses, and enact their melodramas regardless of curious eyes and smiling lookers-on.

There are resorts, and not a few, in Paris, of a more private character, where decorum is not observed, and where restraint is not practised. All evil passions are there let loose, and vices revealed that would be repulsive to any but morbid minds. Such shameful entertainments are declared to be in imitation of ancient Grecian revels and Roman rites. The claim is noteworthy, for Paris, in its most revolting and secret sins, never forgets to assure itself and the external world that such entertainments are sanctioned by classicism. These may be imagined: they certainly cannot be described.

[Sidenote: FAST SUPPERS.]

The petits soupers of the under-world are reckoned by many among the attractions of the French capital. They occur at many of the restaurants, though at Peter’s and the Café Helder they are given with the most flavor. These little suppers begin after midnight, and continue until dawn, and though the best of them are private, the public ones, or rather those in public places, have enticements for the masculine mind, on account of the eccentric women to be found at them. At Peter’s and the Café Helder are spacious saloons, provided with small tables; and about one o’clock in the morning, parties of gayly-dressed ladies, with their gallants, and often without gallants, begin to arrive. Many come in carriages, but some on foot, albeit the pedestrians are attired like stage queens. The majority of the women are lorettes, of different grades, but not a few of them are the inferior actresses of the Gaîté, Variétés, and Gymnase, and the ballet girls of the Vaudeville, Ambigu, and Folies Dramatiques. There they completely unbend, cast reserve to the breezes, take easy positions, chatter like magpies, blow small clouds of smoke at the frescoed ceiling, or keep time to the clinking of champagne glasses with their symmetrical feet. Those unescorted are entirely willing to be invited to partake of salads, ices, or wines by the gentlemen who drop in from mere curiosity, or from a desire to make feminine acquaintances.

Between two and three o’clock the sexes become adjusted to each other; everybody is eating and talking, drinking and smoking, at the same time. The handsome rooms resound with feasting and merriment. Glasses rattle, forks clatter, tongues wag, songs are sung, toasts given amid the highest glee and enthusiasm.

Standing in a chair, with a beaker of sparkling Clicquot, is the pretty soubrette of the Gymnase, making a mock-heroic speech; and at the end of every sentence she is greeted with the clapping of hands and loud huzzas. Near her the graceful danseuse of the Folies, encircled by the arms of the dramatic critic of the Figaro, is offering a toast in a goblet of Château Margaux, and at the other end of the saloon, two brunette deities are giving a bit of the can-can, in the midst of vociferous cheering.

Stretched on a velvet sofa, her heels elevated above her head, Marie Basquinette, a famous adventuress, who has just come from London, is entertaining her listeners with a droll account of the awkwardnesses and stupidities of the English. (Whenever the French wish to be particularly funny, they always caricature John Bull; and many of them really believe that no Briton can, by any possibility, appear other than uncouth and ridiculous.)

The French prints of well-dressed carousals with which we are so familiar, might be actual photographs of the petits soupers and their surroundings at the Café Helder. As the night wanes apace, and as the east grows gray, the revellers begin to disappear. There is something ghastly in the daylight surprise after a debauch, and the Parisians flee from it as if it brought sermons and endless prayers.

[Sidenote: THE DANGEROUS CLASSES OF PARIS.]

What we should call the dangerous classes would seem, from the fair outside of Paris, to have no existence there; and yet, as the police well know, many of the most cunning thieves, audacious burglars, and desperate scoundrels are native and to the manner born. They keep out of sight by day, and are rarely seen in the fashionable quarters, unless they have some special mission of villany. These fellows have their organizations and their amusements, and herd together and hold nocturnal revel in out-of-the-way dens, where no one but the gendarme or government spy would think of looking for them.

Having some desire to become acquainted externally with French scoundrels, I mentioned my desire to a private detective, who promised to take me to the district known as the Batignolles, where, he said, many of the choicest miscreants of the city were in the habit of assembling on Sunday nights. He told me that, while there was not likely to be trouble or danger, it would be well to be armed; and so, with two revolvers each, we sprang into a calèche, one stormy Sunday evening, at the Grand Hôtel, and drove to our point of destination.

After nearly an hour’s ride through narrow and dreary streets, over rough pavements, and past malodorous neighborhoods, he stopped before a tall stone building, that looked like a deserted mill.

[Sidenote: VISITING A DEN OF THIEVES.]

Not a light was visible anywhere, and, as the night was dark, I asked my guide if he were not mistaken in the locality. He assured me that he was not, and, taking my hand, told me he would lead the way. I could see nothing; but after we had stumbled along for a few seconds, a flash of lightning revealed a long, narrow stone staircase before us, and down this we slowly crept. At the base was a heavy oaken door, which appeared as if it might withstand a battering-ram, and I was wondering how we were to open it, when the detective put his mouth to the key-hole, and gave a peculiar whistle. The door swung open at once; we stepped into a dismal vestibule, and were confronted by a huge figure, who grunted out, “Tout bien,” as he recognized my companion, slammed to the door, and bolted it securely. So large a Frenchman I had hardly seen. He was a giant in proportions, and I discovered by a few phrases, that he was an Alsatian. He knew what we wanted, and told us, pointing in the direction, to go to the main hall, where, to translate him freely, the boys were very lively, and having a good time.

A few steps brought us to the hall,—it should have been called a cellar,—and in it were some fifty of the most villanous-looking men and coarsest women I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It was evident, at a glance, that they were thieves, robbers, and assassins; the slightest acquaintance with phrenology and physiognomy made that clear—that some of them were of the sneak, some of the burglar, and others of the desperado order. The place was dimly lighted with a few sputtering candles; the ceiling was low, and the air mephitic. A few of the men were standing and smoking pipes; but the greater part sat at rough tables drinking and talking in hoarse tones, with vile oaths, on subjects in which it was natural they should be interested.

A murder that had been committed a fortnight before in Marseilles, an account of which had been printed in the Paris journals, occupied much of their attention. They were very laudatory of the skilful manner in which the crime had been perpetrated, and of the adroitness displayed by the criminal in getting away. They had not a particle of pity for the victim, an old and inoffensive man, whose throat had been cut while he was asleep in bed, that a trunk in his apartment might be broken open and plundered of a thousand francs.

The women, if they might be termed such, were more brutal and bloodthirsty in their dispositions, judging from their expression, than the men themselves. They were, as I was informed, either thieves themselves or aids and accomplices of the thieves. Some of them were what we should style shoplifters; others made it their business to obtain information from servants in regard to private residences, and imparted it to the burglars with whom they consorted.

[Sidenote: LOOKING AT A MURDERESS.]

One Amazon, who had a mustache and slight whiskers, had committed two murders, the detective said—one in Lyons, and the other in the arrondissement Vaugirard. She had been so adroit that she could not be convicted on trial, though there was not the least shadow of doubt of her guilt. She was a species of she devil in that tophet, and, as I perceived, was looked up to as something of an oracle. She planned many of the boldest robberies, and was herself regarded as absolutely fearless. She must have been very strong; for she was as broad across the shoulders as a grenadier, and her rolled-up sleeves showed that she had muscle like a black-smith. I would much rather have encountered a masculine ruffian and assassin than that virago, who seemed fierce and cruel, not from passion, but from nature. There was a tigress look about her which made my flesh creep and my hair bristle. She appeared so bloodthirsty that I should not have been surprised if she had sprung upon me and fastened her fangs in my neck.

The thieves and robbers in the cellar knew the detective of course, as they know detectives all the world over; nodded to him familiarly, and asked him in an argot—which had to be translated to me—if he had been successful in making any arrests recently.

I observed that they changed their tone of talk as we entered, determined not to give him any clew to their latest crimes. They continued, however, to discuss the exploits of the members of their profession, and to express the warmest admiration for the greatest scoundrels. It hardly seemed possible that human beings could be so hardened and so vicious, and that they could find their chief gratification in disorder, violation of law, and revolting iniquity. These fellows were more like brutes than men in semblance. Their eyes had a fierce and lurid expression; their mouths were sensual and coarse; their jaws had a heavy, animal-like firmness; and their whole faces were dark and forbidding. I noticed that many of them drank spirits, which is uncommon in France, and that the largest potations did not sensibly affect them.

Three or four of the gang were so repulsive in feature that I felt a curiosity respecting their history, and made inquiry thereabout of the detective.

[Sidenote: HISTORY OF A HOUSE-BREAKER.]

“That chap sitting down with the short pipe in his mouth,” said the legal bloodhound, “is not more than thirty years old, though he looks nearly fifty. He was born and reared in or near this city, and has been a thief since his earliest child-hood. His father was a noted burglar, and died in prison at Bordeaux, where he had been arrested for an attempt to break into the vault of a bank. The man’s name is Pierre Boudrot; but he is called by his associates the Mad Bull, from his great strength and violent temper. Until he was fifteen or sixteen, he was a petty pilferer; but he afterwards aspired to highway robbery outside the barrières. He prospered in this for some time; but having, as it was suspected, shot and killed a merchant, he was forced to fly to England. Returning three years after, he was apprehended and tried for the crime. No direct evidence could be adduced against him, and he was acquitted. He has been involved in any number of personal encounters with his fellow-villains, and has stabbed and shot at least a dozen of them. Generally speaking, they have refused to testify against him, and he has therefore escaped punishment. He is now a house-breaker, and operates so skilfully that the police seldom have an opportunity to interfere with him. Some sixteen months ago, he was living at Pantin with his mistress, a young woman of some intelligence and so remarkably handsome that it was strange she could fancy so ill-favored a wretch. Having become jealous of her, they had several boisterous quarrels. One morning she was found in bed with her throat cut from ear to ear, and he had disappeared. He was suspected at once, and publication of the fact was made in the newspapers, whereupon he surrendered himself, and during the examination which followed, several of his accomplices swore that the girl had committed suicide, giving many details that rendered their statements plausible. As his witnesses could not be impeached, he was acquitted, and returned to his old calling. He has frequently been seized by policemen while carrying out some nefarious design, but such has been his strength that he has almost always managed to get away. On one occasion he threw an officer of the law from a fourth story window, and broke his neck. Still nothing could be proved upon him, as no one had witnessed the deed. He must ultimately come to the guillotine, however, as he is growing bolder and bolder in his commission of crime, and more reckless of the means he adopts. Intemperance is telling upon him, as you can see by his bloodshot eye and bloated face.

[Sidenote: A CRIME-STAINED SCOUNDREL.]

“The gray-haired man,” continued the detective, “laughing so loudly, with a broad scar above his eye, has been in nearly every principal prison in France, and yet has never served out a single term. Professional thief as he is, he does not appear to be very vicious or malignant. He has never been known to do any one bodily harm, and is always as cheerful as he is now. He would not be such a bad-looking fellow except for that scar, and the fracture of his nose, which was caused, some years ago, by his jumping from a wagon conveying him to jail.

“The very dark man, sitting on that bench, and swinging his legs, is a Spaniard. He came here from Madrid, where he had been for some years a bull-fighter, and whence he had to fly for poisoning his father to get a little property. Poisoning is his specialty, and he is believed to have disposed of a number of persons in that way. Whenever he takes life, he has, of course, a purpose in it, and he has come into possession of a good deal of money by the deaths he has brought about. A greater villain than he probably never breathed: he seems to have no more objection to committing murder than he has to smoking a cigar; and he is known as Pedro the Killer—a nickname of which he is really proud.”

[Sidenote: THE GREATEST SCAMP IN PARIS.]

“There is a young person I have not noticed before,” I said to my companion, pointing to the left. “Who is he? He can’t be a thief. He must have gotten into this company by mistake. Is he a gentleman seeking for acquaintance with underground life, like myself?”

The man I had designated could not have been more than twenty. He had a fresh, handsome face, and when he smiled, as he often did, his smile lighted up his countenance as sunshine lights up a landscape. It was hard to associate him with crime or vice of any kind, and hence my question.

The detective laughed, and said, “You mean the Badger. He is one of the greatest scamps in all Paris, and one of the most desperate scoundrels. There is nothing in the world he would not do for money. If I were not here, and anybody were to offer him five francs, he would walk up to you, salute you politely, and blow your brains out, regarding it as a capital joke. The Badger is well educated, and is reputed to be the son of a prominent lawyer by an actress. He ran away from home, and turned thief on instinct. He is absolutely without fear and without conscience. That crime is natural to him is proved by his enjoyment of it. He has had marvellous good luck, for, though frequently arrested, he has never been punished, and the fact of his getting off again and again is ascribed by some to the influence and wealth of his father.”

The detective would have told more; but by this time the thieves, all of whom had drank liberally, began singing a coarse and profane song, in which morality, religion, and decency were burlesqued, and which, rendered by the harsh voices of the men and women, sounded, in that dreary cellar, like a chorus of infernal fiends.

[Sidenote: GOING HOME.]

Informing my guide that I had seen and heard enough, we went out of the stifling cellar, beyond the heavy oaken door, up the narrow stone staircase, reached our calèche, and as the fresh breeze welcomed us, and the clouds overhead broke away, revealing the stars, I seemed to have been transferred to another sphere, and I wondered that such dens of crime could exist and flourish under the beautiful exterior of Paris.

XXVIII.

THE EAST RIVER BRIDGE.

LAYING THE FOUNDATIONS UNDER WATER.—HOW THE WORK WAS PERFORMED.—THE CAISSON.—HOW IT IS MADE.—ITS MODE OF OPERATION.—WORKING UNDER WATER.—EXPLORING THE BED OF THE RIVER.—DESCENDING INTO THE BOX.—EFFECTS OF A GREAT PRESSURE OF AIR.—AN UNPLEASANT SENSATION.—A STRANGE SIGHT.—ACCIDENTS.—HOW A MAN’S ARM WAS CAUGHT.

A bridge to connect New York and Brooklyn has long been desired, and many plans for such a structure have been made. It was finally determined to erect a suspension bridge high enough to permit the passage of ships beneath it, and stretching, in a single span, from one side to the other of the East River. Work was begun in 1870, and continued, with occasional interruptions. The bridge, by comparison with similar structures, is the longest and largest of its kind in the world.

The bridge rests on two piers, one on the east and the other on the west bank of the river. The eastern pier was begun some time before the other, and the work of laying its foundations was of a peculiar character. Ordinarily, where a pier is to be set in the water, a coffer dam is built around the place where it is to stand, and the water is pumped out. But in the present instance, this mode of working was deemed impracticable, and it was decided to lay the foundations by means of a caisson. This is quite a curiosity in its way, and well deserves a visit and a description. I did not visit the one on the east side, but deferred my caisson explorations till the work on the west side was under way.

On the invitation of Colonel Paine and Engineer Cottingwood, I was one of a party of four to descend into the caisson to examine its workings and inspect its machinery. Arriving at the foot of Roosevelt Street, we found indications of the construction of a large building. There were numerous derricks, scaffoldings, and building materials in the vicinity, and every where there was activity. Just as we reached the works we found a gang of sixty men indulging in hot coffee, which is always served to them previous to their descending the shaft of the caisson. Their coffee drinking over, and the roll-call answered, they walked in single file to the mouth of the shaft, and there waited the arrival of those whom they were about relieving.

Most of the men wore nothing but their shirts and trousers, with water-proof boots reaching above the knees. At a signal given by the foreman of the gang, some of them entered an elevator, while others proceeded down a spiral staircase, and were soon lost to view. Before taking the reader to the interior of the caisson, it may be well to state that it is nothing else than a large box of iron and wood, the full size of the intended abutment. This box is turned bottom upward, and rests upon its edges.

[Sidenote: DESCRIPTION OF THE CAISSON.]

It is one hundred and two feet wide, and one hundred and seventy-two feet long, and nearly ten feet in height. Its immense weight is supported by several solid trusses of oak and iron, which run across the caisson; and in addition to this, it receives an upward support of forced air equal to forty thousand tons. The pressure of the air in the caisson is forty-four pounds to the square inch, being twenty-nine pounds more than the ordinary atmospheric pressure.

The air is sent down the caisson by means of pumps, there being fourteen engines, each of twenty-four horse power, constantly at work. In the centre of the caisson, an entrance is obtained by means of a shaft having a spiral staircase of over one hundred circular steps, and there is another entrance by an elevator, which, by the by, is the most agreeable way of descending, particularly if the visitor is inclined to corpulence.

It was down this entrance I went with the rest of our party. Like the workmen, each of us swallowed a small quantity of hot coffee and biscuit, as we were told that we should suffer less from the effects of the descent. Under the direction of our guide, we took our stand inside the elevator, for the simple reason that we could not sit. There were no velvet-covered seats, as are generally found in hotel elevators.

[Sidenote: GOING INTO THE INTERIOR.]

At a given signal, we began our journey into the East River, and descended until we reached what our conductor termed the “lock.” Here we changed our stands again, and entered the lock by crawling through an opening at the bottom of the elevator sufficiently large for a man of ordinary size to pass easily. This lock is an oblong iron box, or boiler, of just sufficient size to allow half a dozen persons to stand erect. It is eight feet long, and six feet in diameter. At the bottom of the lock there is an iron door or opening, similar to that through which we entered, which gives admission to the interior of the caisson. These iron doors are fitted with rubber, so as to make them perfectly air-tight.

When we had all entered, the door was closed upon us. We looked at each other, wondering what would be done next, and we soon found out. Our conductor, previous to starting the lock, gave us what he termed a few useful hints, so that we might be able to make the trip as agreeable as possible under all the circumstances.

“Now, gentlemen,” said he, “in descending, you will find a disagreeable sensation, particularly about your ears. You will find great ease by closing the nostrils every few seconds,—as the pressure of the air will act upon the tympanum of the ear,—and also by inflating your cheeks to their full extent.”

These instructions were given that we might cause an artificial pressure upon the inside of the ear, and thus prevent its rupture.

Our conductor then proceeded to turn a cock, to admit the air forced from above. In a moment it rushed in with a tremendous force, making a noise similar to that of a locomotive blowing off steam. The effect of this was anything but pleasant. A sudden deafness seemed to overtake us, as if a cannon had been fired under our noses; our voices were also changed, and appeared cracked, and we almost wished our curiosity had not led us so far.

[Sidenote: A HEAVY PRESSURE OF AIR.]

This feeling was caused by the air rushing too fast into the orifice of the ear. There was just sufficient light inside the lock to discern our faces, and that was all. It took five or six minutes to get the necessary amount of pressure into the lock, and then the air was turned off.

We seemed suddenly to lose our footing, and then to regain it; and no sooner had we righted ourselves than we had another sudden shoot, and this continued until we reached the bottom. The actual descent was made in about a minute and a half, or perhaps two minutes; but owing to the pain we suffered, it appeared to be three times as long.

The sensation we experienced was certainly very disagreeable and painful, and for a pleasure trip I certainly would not recommend any one to undertake the journey. Should a lady go down, however strong-minded she might be, I would not answer for the consequences. One of the party was so much affected by the pressure of the air that our conductor had to turn off the cock frequently. The stranger’s ears pained him greatly, and blood began to spurt from them.

Having reached the bottom of the caisson, where the workmen were digging out the earth and blasting rock, we were detained in the lock some minutes, to allow the admission of air of the same density as that below. This being done, I descended a short iron ladder leading into the bottom of the caisson, and speedily found myself standing on the bed of the river, seventy-eight feet below water-mark.

There were several men working in their shirt sleeves, with big drops of perspiration rolling off their cheeks. The subterranean vault was very well lighted with gas forced down the pipes in the same manner as the air; and it is a curious fact, that in the compressed air a foot burner gives as much light as a four foot one would in the ordinary atmosphere. The caisson seemed to be full of steam, as if a hundred washerwomen were plying their avocation at the tub. The bottom of the caisson is divided into several chambers by means of iron and wood partitions, with entrances leading into each other. The air does not seem impure nor unpleasant. According to an examination made a few days before my visit, it was then found to contain a small percentage of carbonic acid, but not enough to do any harm.

[Sidenote: OPERATIONS BELOW.]

As soon as the sand is dug, it is sent up various pipes, four inches in diameter, which operate in the same way as siphons. It is odd to notice with what force the sand ascends to the top of the caisson, and it is all that six men can do to shovel it in fast enough. Boulders of trap rock were found embedded in the quicksand. These were broken up and hoisted out by an apparatus similar to a dredging machine, working in an immense shaft filled with water.

The shape of the interior of the caisson resembles very much the lips of an enormous bell, and in reality it is worked upon the same principle as an ordinary diving-bell, the water being kept out by the great pressure of air. As soon as the caisson is perfectly settled, and all the sand and debris down to the bed rock is removed, the interior is filled with concrete and masonry, and thus the pier obtains a foundation perfectly solid.

While making a tour through the various chambers, I found a pair of doves, which had been placed there for testing the effect of the compressed air. The birds appeared to have become accustomed to their new habitation, where they had been for several weeks. They looked, however, rather disconsolate and sickly, and I learned, a day or two later, that one had died from the effects of its imprisonment.

A black and tan terrier had also been taken into the caisson, but after it had been down a few hours it became paralyzed in its hind legs, and was taken up; and for more than a fortnight it did not recover from the shock to its system.

[Sidenote: SCENES IN THE CAISSON.]

The scene in the caisson is a very novel one. The water, seen through the gas jets, sparkles in the pools at the bottom of the river, the men are toiling and perspiring amid the rushing and rumbling noise of the sand siphons, and everything appears in confusion. While our party was making its tour, it was found that our voices had completely changed; each one appeared to stutter, and altogether the voice had a very unnatural sound, as if we spoke in a half screeching key.

An attempt was made to whistle, but whistle we could not. The lips might be puckered, and you might blow as hard as you pleased, but it was all in vain, as not a note could be heard. Some of us tried to whistle by our fingers, but were unsuccessful.

Communication is had with the upper-world by means of a movable iron rod and a couple of dials, one above and the other below. These form the telegraph. On each dial are printed, in plain letters, the words, “All right,” “Start,” “Faster,” “Slower,” “Stop,” “Less,” “More,” “Bucket is caught,” “Highest corner,” “Stopped,” “Come up all;” and the last is the most pleasing call of the entire number to the laborers below.

Adjoining the dial is a thermometer, which indicated the atmosphere to be eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit.

Accidents occur in the caisson, in spite of all precautions. A short time before my visit, a small stone caught in the pipe of the siphon, and one of the workmen came very near losing his arm while attempting to pull it out. His hand was drawn into the pipe, as if by a powerful magnet. The man was thrown upon his face by the great power of the atmosphere, and at the same time his arm was drawn up the pipe: had it not been for four of his comrades instantly pulling his arm down, the limb would have been torn from his shoulder. He received severe injuries, and is not likely to be so careless again. The skin of the arm looked as if a quantity of boiling oil had been poured over it, and it soon became blistered from his shoulder downward.

After a stay of nearly an hour, the party proceeded to return once more to terra firma. We entered the lock, as on making the descent, through the small iron door; then the compressed air was allowed to escape until the pressure of the air was equal to that of the atmosphere outside.

[Sidenote: CHANGE OF ATMOSPHERE.—THE JAMS.]

While this was going on, a peculiar sensation was experienced, but it was not as disagreeable as that of making the descent. It seemed as though there was a rush of water through the ears, and we were diving. Ascending to the top of the caisson occupied about ten minutes, as the physician in attendance recommends that the change from the high pressure should not be made rapidly. We were all glad to breathe the pure air and enjoy daylight again. Several of the workmen stated that nearly every day some of them suffered from the work below, and said one,—

“We have all had the jams.”

“What are the jams?” said I.

“Well,” said another, “they ain’t the jim-jams, brought on by drink, for we dare not take much, but a feeling like the flesh a tearin’ off of our bones.”

“We have the cramps in our legs, body, arms, and chest,” said another, “and at times it causes us so great pain that we cannot work; we do not notice anything amiss until we have been out of the caisson for some hours, sometimes not until the next day. These ‘jams,’ as we call them, go away as quickly as they come, but sometimes return after another visit to the caisson.”

The men are cautioned to abstain from drinking spirits, but with some the caution is not heeded, and those that will drink spirits in preference to coffee are generally the greatest sufferers.

The construction of the abutments of this bridge is a novel one. It was first introduced on the building of the St. Louis suspension bridge, and since then great improvements have taken place. When completed, the bridge will be a noble monument of engineering skill.

XXIX.

THE INUNDATION AT LALLE.

INUNDATION OF A MINE ON THE LOIRE.—HOW THE MEN WERE SAVED.—SONG OF THE PUPILS OF THE MINING SCHOOL AT ST. ETIENNE.—TERRIBLE FLOOD OF A MINE AT LALLE.—BREAKING IN OF A RIVER.—COURAGE OF AUBERTO, A WORKMAN.—SAVING SIX LIVES.—PLAN FOR RESCUE.—DISCOVERING THE WHEREABOUTS OF THE PRISONERS.—ONE MONTH’S WORK IN THREE DAYS.—OPENING THE DRIFT-WAYS.—SIXTY FEET OF TUNNELLING.—IN THE DARKNESS WITH A CORPSE.—STORY OF THE RESCUED.—THIRTEEN DAYS OF PERIL.—FINDING THE BODIES OF THE DEAD.—ONE HUNDRED AND FIVE MEN DROWNED.—SAVING A CHILD.—EATING WOOD AND LEATHER TO SAVE LIFE.—A HORRIBLE SIGHT.

In one of the mines on the River Loire, about thirty years ago, there was a terrible accident, caused by the sudden eruption of the water. The water came in like a torrent, and drove the miners up an inclined gallery, where there was no outlet. The people above ground rushed to their assistance; the engineers brought their plans of the mine, and determined where the enclosed men were to be found, if still alive. Workmen volunteered to go to the assistance of their comrades, and a new gallery was begun in the direction of the supposed place of refuge. The blows of the pick upon the wall were at first unanswered; but after a while, faint sounds were heard in response. The rock was hard, and progress was slow; but every man did his best, working night and day. Sound is transmitted through rock with great facility, and in a little while the workmen could hear the voices, as well as the knocking of their imprisoned friends. Six days passed in this way, and at length a hole was bored through the rock, and the colliers were found to be all living.

Though they were near starvation, and had eaten their candles, and even their leather straps, their first appeal was for light, not for food. Prolonged darkness is distressing in the extreme, and these men had suffered the total absence of light nearly the whole of their time of imprisonment. Candles were passed through the bore-hole, and then a tin tube, through which broth was poured. The work of relief was pressed forward, and at the end of the sixth day the sufferers were released and brought to daylight, amid the cheers of the men assembled around the mouth of the mine.

The story of the release of these miners is familiar to all the inhabitants of that region. The pupils of the Mining School of St. Etienne composed a ballad, of which the following is the opening stanza:—

[Sidenote: SONG OF MINING STUDENTS.]

“Mineurs, écoutez l’histoire De trois malheureux ouvriers, Restés sans manger ni boire Pendant six grand jours entiers. Au fond d’une galerie Serrés comme en un local, Ils auraient perdu la vie Sans la coupe verticale.”

This ballad was sung two or three times daily, at the beginning and end of lessons when the master was not present. One of the teachers of the school assisted at the rescue of the miners, and used to tell the story to his pupils. He added a moral to it, after the manner of Æsop with his fables, and endeavored to impress upon the school the importance of vertical shafts from all the principal galleries to the surface. Many lives have been lost in mines in consequence of the absence of these shafts, and in every locality where mining is conducted on an extensive scale, the law should compel the owners to make at least two openings to the outer world.

In 1862 an inundation occurred at the mine of Lalle, in France, by which one hundred and five persons lost their lives. The story is thus related by M. Simonin:—

On the 11th of October, between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, a violent storm visited the country, and it is asserted by some of the inhabitants, that a waterspout had burst there. The waters of the River Cèze, as well as those of a stream and of a ravine, which is dry at ordinary times, both of them being tributary to the Cèze, rose higher than they had ever been seen before. It was a vast inundation, or, as the people of that region describe it, a deluge. The mine extended under the river, and its mouth was not far from the bank. The water made a whirl at one point, and then rushed into the mine through a large opening over the outcrop of one of the coal seams. There was a rumbling noise all through the mine; all hands were at work under ground, and there was danger of a terrible calamity. Some of the men managed to escape by the ladders, while others hastily ascended a shaft, and floated upwards on the surface of the water.

A noble act of courage and devotion was performed by a Piedmontese workman by the name of Auberto.

[Sidenote: COURAGE OF AUBERTO.]

He escaped up a shaft, and as he did so, he gave the alarm to a comrade who was at work in a lower level. Auberto then ran to another opening, fastened the tub to a rope, descended, and called, the water falling all the while in a perfect torrent. Five men came out; four entered the tub, and were saved; the fifth hesitated a moment, and was lost. As soon as they reached the surface, Auberto caused himself to be lowered again. Perceiving a man entangled in the timbering of the lower gallery, he drew him out, threw him into the tub, and was drawn up at the moment the water took possession of that part of the mine.

Auberto had saved six lives, and would have saved more, but no other point was accessible, the whole mine being then under water.

There was only one outlet remaining, and this had been formed by the breaking of the ground near the point where the waters were rushing in. Lights were seen shining there, and ropes were thrown in; but the violence of the waters increased, the ground fell in afresh, this last outlet became closed, and all the men in that part of the mine were drowned. In half an hour the interior of the mine was converted into a lake. The air and gas in the mine were compressed by the weight of the water, and were forced out through fissures in the ground, producing the effect of gunpowder, throwing the earth to a considerable distance, and in some cases overturning houses.

Everybody in the vicinity rushed to the mouth of the mine, and an anxious and terrified crowd was speedily collected. The engineers and superintendents were first on the spot, and were speedily joined by the engineers and workmen from the neighboring mines.

[Sidenote: PLANS FOR RELIEF.]

No immediate relief is possible. Perhaps the colliery is only a vast tomb, for out of a hundred and thirty-nine men who entered the mine in the morning, only twenty-nine have escaped. A hundred and ten are scattered in the interior of the mine, some at one point and some at another, at different depths and in varying conditions. How are they to be found? and is it certain that even one of them is living?

A dike was made at the surface to keep out the water, and the engineers consulted the plan of the mine, in order to devise the surest and readiest means of relief. While this was being done, a young boy, who had previously been employed in the mine, entered one of the galleries, and, after knocking for some time on the walls, thought he could distinguish sounds answering to his own. He called his comrades, and repeated the experiment with the same result. The engineers were informed, and everybody hastened to the spot. M. Parsan, of the Imperial School of Mines, had arrived from Alais, to direct the work of salvage. He ordered everybody to maintain the most perfect silence, and then he made a signal by knocking with a pick at regular intervals of time. He has written an exciting account of these operations.

“With ears resting on the coal,” he says, “and holding our breath, we soon heard, with profound emotion, extremely faint, but distinct and timed blows,—in fact, the miners’ signal,—which could not be the repetition of our own, because we had only knocked at equal intervals.”

Between the prisoners and their rescuers there was a solid wall more than sixty feet thick, which must be cut through; but the greater part of the miners were shut up in the mine. But volunteers were ready from the other mines, and soon the blows of the pick carried hope to the hearts of the prisoners. The work began at six o’clock on the evening of the 12th, at five differents points in the gallery where the sounds were heard.

[Sidenote: PUSHING THE WORK OF RESCUE.]

The five drift-ways were made towards the place where the sufferers were enclosed. One pickman at a time worked in each heading, and he was relieved at the moment when he began to feel wearied. He worked with all his energy, and the coal which he removed was carried away in baskets as fast as it was detached. The labor proved more difficult in consequence of a want of air, and it became necessary to put up ventilators. Sometimes the lamps would only burn in front of the air-pipe. At two o’clock on the morning of the 14th, the voices of the imprisoned colliers could be heard. “There are three of us,” they said; and they gave their names. The coal increased in hardness, and the heat became unbearable. All that day and the next the best pickmen went to the front, hewing the coal with all their strength, the prisoners all the while making themselves heard. Finally, at midnight of the 15th, one of the drift-ways was completed, and the three men were reached.

Only two were alive. The youngest was sobbing, the other was in a high state of fever, and the third, an old man, had been unable to survive the trying ordeal, and was found dead not far from his companions.

The two survivors were covered with blankets, refreshed with cordials, and carried to the hospital of the mine, where they were put in the care of the physician, who next day pronounced them out of danger.

The work of rescue had continued without intermission for seventy hours. On calculating the amount of rock and coal removed from the drift-ways, it was found that a full month would have been required, under ordinary circumstances, to do the work which had been performed in three days.

[Sidenote: STORY OF THE SUFFERERS.]

The most precise details of the circumstances of their confinement were given by the two rescued colliers. They were at work in a heading when the water was heard coming upon them. They then ran to the upper end of the gallery, where they were found—a narrow place with a considerable slope, and very slippery. With their hands and the hooks of their lamps they dug a little place in the shale to sit down in; the water was up to their feet, and they were in a sort of bell, in which the air was highly compressed. They felt a singing noise in their ears, and for a time they lost their voices. Their lamps went out for want of oil. They tapped with the heels of their shoes on the walls of the gallery to summon assistance. This sound was the one which was heard, but only after they had been imprisoned twenty-four hours!

Convinced that help would arrive, the eldest of the three, the one who was destined never to behold the light of day again, shed tears of joy. Another, mad with thirst, descended into the level with the water up to his armpits, in a vain search for a way through the rubbish; but he afterwards regained his place, being guided by the voices of his companions. The youngest, seventeen years of age, frequently fell asleep, and would have fallen into the water but for the help of his neighbor, who held him in his arms like a child, and thus saved him from death. At one time the noise of the ventilator connected with the operations of their preservers reached their ears, when they imagined that a new influx of water was about to occur, and they became discouraged. The old man was constantly active. Overcome by his efforts, he slid from his resting-place into the water, and was drowned without a struggle, and without uttering a cry. Frozen with horror, and held motionless in their places, the two others dared not move to his assistance, and they even refrained from announcing the accident to those who were working to relieve them. “There are three of us,” they cried, when in reality only two were alive.

[Sidenote: IN DARKNESS WITH A CORPSE.]

The one who suffered from thirst finally determined to move, but touching the dead body while drinking, he clambered back again. Fatigue, bad air, and this fearful vicinity to a corpse, rendered him delirious, and he said to his comrade, “Come, let us leave this.” The other was frightened, and in order to divert his attention, suggested that he should go and drink again. He went, and returned, striking against the dead body in passing. “The darkness,” said he, “made the place more horrible than anything I had ever imagined.”

In the mean time the water got lower in the level, but it was cold there, and the two captives remained in their places where the air was dry and warm, though constantly growing more impure. At last they were recovered, and carried into the light by their comrades. By a strange phenomenon they had lost all notion of time, and thought they had not been in the mine more than twenty-four hours. Other instances of a similar nature are recorded. Some miners of Hainault, who lived twenty-five days shut up in a mine during an inundation, thought they had only been there eight or ten hours.

While the operations for saving the lives of these two men were in progress, other works were undertaken, with the view of penetrating the interior at other points. Pits were dug where the miners were suspended from ropes for fear of explosions, while other workings, which had been injured by the flood, were repaired. One of the old shafts was undergoing repairs at the time of the accident. In ordinary times, fifteen days, at the least, were required to refit the engine, put up the ropes, and get everything ready. In this instance everything was done in four days: the pumping began on the 15th of October, and was not again interrupted.

The workmen continued to bore and dig shafts. On the 24th of October, thirteen days after the accident, the men working at the bottom of the shaft heard shouts. Three men were still alive, only separated by rubbish and a vacant space of ground from the point where the workings were in progress. Disputes arose as to who should save them, each man desiring the honor of going down first. At last the favor was given to one of the overmen, who descended and found two men, who clung to him, and begged for relief. He encouraged them, and fed them from a can of broth which he carried. In a little while the timbermen made the place secure, and the captives were brought out.

[Sidenote: A CHILD BURIED IN THE COAL.]

A third prisoner, a child, was still left. His comrades described the place where they had buried him in the coal to keep him warmer. The engineer hastened to the spot, and seized the child, who embraced him and wept; the three were taken at once to the hospital, where they soon found themselves in the company of the other two, who had already been saved.

Like their comrades whose story I have just told, the three last colliers had fled before the water from the first moment of its breaking in, and finding a rubbish passage stopped up, they despairingly made an opening into it. They afterwards clambered to the heading of the gallery as a last refuge. Their lamps were out, but they heard the water rise, and retreated before it. The noise occasioned by falls, and the breaking of timber, as well as the sound of explosions caused by compressed air, reached their ears distinctly, like a frightful tumult, which seemed to announce to them the last hours they had to live. One of them had a repeating watch, which he caused to strike several times; but it stopped on the morning of the 12th of October at a quarter to three o’clock. They heard the noise of the tubs plunging into the water in two adjacent shafts. They conceived the idea of reckoning the progress of time by means of the short intervals of rest caused by changing the gangs. They thus formed a very near guess at the period of their captivity, which they reckoned at fifteen days, instead of thirteen.

To satisfy their hunger, they ate the rotten wood of the timber supports, which they crumbled in water, and then devoured, having previously eaten their leather belts. They could quench their thirst at will, and that sustained them. Afterwards the water rose to where they were, and wet their feet. Subsequently it fell, and then they thought of fastening one of their boots to a string and drinking out of it. Finding the water retiring, the child resolved to go in search of an outlet. Swimming or holding on by the walls, he groped his way along, but found nothing. Exhausted and chilled with cold, he returned to his companions, who lay close to him to warm him, and then covered him with small coal, in which position he was found.

[Sidenote: THIRTEEN DAYS IN DARKNESS.]

These men were liberated after being shut up thirteen days: the temperature, the pressure, and the composition of the air in which they were found, were favorable to life, and, moreover, they had the means of quenching thirst. Under such conditions, it may be possible to live a month. Our nature can endure a great deal when it is compelled to exert itself. The energy and tenacity of life are great, and few men know how much they can undergo until they are driven to make the experiment.

Only five were saved in this catastrophe at the mines of Lalle. All the rest of the one hundred and ten perished. Drainage of the mine was steadily pushed amid innumerable accidents, and the colliery was free of water on the 4th of the following January, fifty million gallons of water having been removed. During the interval the bodies were slowly discovered, and heart-rending was the spectacle which the mouth of the shaft presented as the bodies of the victims were drawn up, relatives and friends pressing forward and endeavoring to recognize or guess at some well-known face. And the scene in the mine, as the water slowly fell and the bodies were found floating on the surface with the light thrown upon them by the lamps of the searchers, is described as horrible in the extreme.

[Sidenote: GOVERNMENT MEDALS.]

From the managers to the humblest workman, everybody connected with the rescue did his full duty. Every man vied with his neighbor in doing what was needed, however difficult it might be. All the directors of mines in the Department of the Gard, assembled, and brought their overmen, surveyors, and workmen, who, in every instance, gave proof of a courage and self-denial which never failed for a single moment. The government bestowed crosses and medals upon those who rendered material assistance in the rescue, and the sad occurrence will long be remembered in and around the mines of Lalle.

XXX.

PERILS OF THE MINER.

NARROW ESCAPE OF THE AUTHOR.—CAUGHT IN A LEVEL.—SETTLING OF THE ROOF.—BREAKING TIMBERS.—A PERILOUS PASSAGE.—FALLING OF A ROOF.—THREATENING DANGERS.—ADVENTURE OF GIRAUD, THE WELL-DIGGER.—CAUGHT IN A FALL OF EARTH.—THREE WEEKS WITH A CORPSE.—ONE MONTH WITHOUT FOOD.—HOW HE WAS RESCUED.—A MINER COVERED WITH COAL.—HIS RESCUE.—AN IRISHMAN’S JOKE.—INUNDATION.—CURIOUS THEORIES OF THE MINERS.—EFFECT OF STRIKING A VEIN OF WATER.—DRAWING THE MEN IN A MINE.—THE SEA BREAKING IN.—CLOSING THE SHAFT.—A TERRIBLE STORY.—EXPERIENCE OF A FRENCH ENGINEER.—CASUALTIES AND THEIR NUMBER.—SUFFOCATION OF THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-ONE MEN IN ONE MINE.

I was once in a mine in Colorado, when I fervently wished myself out of it. I had been there a day or two before, and found that in one of the levels I was just able to stand erect. At the visit in question I found I could not stand erect without hitting my head. I was certain that I had not grown six inches taller in the mean time, and I accordingly concluded that the roof had settled. All at once, while proceeding on my walk, I was astonished at hearing a crackling sound behind me; and on looking around, I discovered that some of the timbers were giving way.

Here was a predicament. The breaking timbers were between me and the entrance to the mine, and I knew that if they should fall, so as to close up the passage, I should be cut off from escape.

[Sidenote: AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT.]

It did not take a long time for me to determine what to do. At the risk of being crushed by the falling timbers and rock, I darted backward, extinguishing my light in the rapidity of my movements, and becoming wrapped in almost complete darkness. Luckily, however, there was a light burning in the level; and as I crept among the breaking timbers, it was as welcome to me as the polar star to a man at sea, when his compass has become unreliable.

Another and another of the timbers gave way as I walked, or rather crept, beneath them. When they were broken in the centre, they had partly, but not completely, closed the passage, their ends being held firmly in the rock. I managed to reach the other side, and as soon as I considered myself safe, I turned round to see what was going on. The timbers settled very slowly; there was no one on the level beyond them; and had any persons been there, the settling of the roof was so slow, that they would have had plenty of time for escaping.

When I reached the outside, I made a vow to avoid similar dangers in future, and it was some time before I again ventured where I should be liable to a similar accident.

Falls of the roof are a kind of danger which is always thought of when underground works are considered. In certain kinds of rock there is no liability to occurrences of this sort. The roof is as solid, and as well supported, as that of any house, and there is no danger of its yielding; but where the rock is slippery and loose, or where the ground is soft, the peril that threatens is constant.

Falls of earth are not unfrequent in digging wells. Many a man has lost his life in consequence.

An exciting story is told of a well-digger, named Giraud, who was excavating a well near Lyons, about twenty years ago.

[Sidenote: TERRIBLE FATE OF A WELL-DIGGER.]

The earth caved in, and Giraud found himself dashed to the bottom of the hole by the side of a fellow-workman. Luckily, the timbers fell in such a way as to form a sort of arch above their heads, and thus saved them from being crushed at once. Some men, who were above at the time of the accident, immediately set to work to save the sufferers. It was necessary to dig a new shaft near the first, and then connect the two by a driftway, which would reach the men at the point where they were enclosed. Their efforts were constant, but in spite of them, a whole month was spent in reaching the spot, as fresh falls of earth were constantly occurring in the new workings. Giraud and his comrade could hear the noise of the pick, and could converse with the workmen, and assure them that they were alive.

At the end of a week, Giraud’s companion died of exhaustion and starvation. Giraud was a man of great strength, both of mind and body, and bore up as well as he could under his suffering. The dead body of his companion, which lay near him, poisoned the little air he had to breathe; but somehow he lived day after day for a whole month. Every moment his rescuers expected to reach him, when some fresh accident occurred, and much of the work had to be done over again. On the thirtieth day they reached the prison, and Giraud was saved.

He was wasted to a skeleton, and unable to stand. His body was a mass of sores; gangrene had attacked all his limbs, caused by the corpse which had been rotting at his side for three weeks. He was carried to the hospital, and every attention was given him; but he had suffered too much, and died within a month of the day of his rescue.

Occasionally masses of rock drop from the roof without the least warning, and fall upon the heads of the miners. Sometimes a man may escape with the loss of a limb, or he may be killed outright. In other cases, the walls and timbers give way, and men are crushed beneath their weight.

A story is told of a miner who was caught by the fall of some coal which nearly crushed him, but he had sufficient strength remaining to call for help. A comrade heard him, and gave the alarm. All the men who could work in the small space were immediately gathered; and a part of the coal having been removed from around the sufferer his head and one of his hands became visible. He was lying on his right side upon the floor of the gallery, with his legs doubled beneath him. There was a mass of broken timber above him, so that he could not move, but fortunately his chest was not compressed. Air was supplied him by means of a ventilator and a tube. The rails and some of the other timbers by which he was enclosed were cut through, and a space was opened in such a way as to reach him from below. He did not lose courage a moment; he remained perfectly cool, and gave his preservers several useful suggestions. Finally, after six hours of suffering, he was removed.

In several instances miners have been enclosed in such a way that escape was impossible. All efforts to relieve them were unavailing, and those who remained uninjured from the fall of the rock died of suffocation or starvation.

[Sidenote: AN IRISHMAN’S JOKE.]

Let us change a moment from the horrible to the ludicrous. A few months ago, an Irishman, who was digging a well in Illinois, left his work, and went to breakfast. When he returned, he found that the earth had caved in. There was a clump of trees a few yards away, and after looking around to ascertain if any one was in sight, and knowing that some friend would be there shortly, he took off his coat, hung it upon a post, and then, taking his shovel and pick, retired to the shelter of the trees. He had just concealed himself, when his friends made their appearance. They saw the coat hanging upon the post, and they saw that the earth had caved in. Immediately concluding that their friend was buried below, they set at work to rescue him.

They worked with the greatest energy for two or three hours, and at the end of that time had removed all the fallen earth. But no Pat was there. Just as they were wondering what had become of him, he walked leisurely from his place of concealment, and thanked them for what they had done. At first they were inclined to be indignant, but finally concluded that it was a good joke, and a few drams of bad whiskey removed all differences.

The danger of underground inundations is as great as that of falls of earth. Water is constantly accumulating in a mine, and sometimes in such quantities as to defy all attempts to keep it under control.

Miners have curious theories about streams of water which enter the mines. Some of the English miners believe the earth is alive, and they compare the veins of water in the earth to the veins and arteries of the human body. Sometimes they say, “When the water breaks into our working-places, it is the Earth which revenges itself upon us for having cut one of his veins.” The Belgian miners have the same belief, and they call the water which flows out of the coals, ‘le sang de la veine,’ that is, ‘the blood of the vein.’

[Sidenote: FLOODING A MINE.]

Inundations of mines are frequently fatal. Sometimes the water enters with great force. One day, in an English coal mine, the water fairly drove out the auger with which the workmen were boring a hole. It came as if from the nozzle of a fire engine. The workmen made several attempts to plug the hole, but could not, and were driven out. A few hours later the mine was flooded. Pumping machinery was set up, but it was not until the end of seven years that the water could be removed. It was only then stopped by means of banking, that prevented its further entrance.

In a mine near Newcastle, many years ago, there was an inundation which enclosed ninety men in a place where it was impossible to relieve them. Several persons, who were working close to the shaft when the water entered, managed to escape, but they were very few in number. The accident occurred in May, and it was not until the following February that the bodies of the drowned men were recovered. With one exception all were recognized.

At another coal mine, which was worked on the sea-shore, and extended a distance of fifteen hundred yards under the Irish Sea, the manager, in his anxiety to produce a large quantity of coal, recklessly cut away some of the pillars which supported the roof. One day the whole neighborhood was alarmed with the report that the mine had fallen in. The commotion was so great that many persons on the shore observed the whirl of the sea directly over the spot where the water entered. A few of the laborers escaped, but thirty-six men and boys were drowned. The accident happened more than thirty years ago. The coal mine is now, and always must remain, under water, and the bodies have never been recovered.

[Sidenote: DEATH BY SUFFOCATION.]

Some of the most terrible mining accidents are those which occur in consequence of the closing of the shafts. Where a mine has two shafts there is little liability of such accidents; but where there is only a single shaft the danger is constantly threatening. The terrible calamity at Avondale, which is fresh in the minds of many readers, will be described elsewhere.

A similar accident at an English coal mine, a few years ago, was even more terrible in its results than the calamity at Avondale.

The beam of the pumping engine gave way, and killed five men who were at that moment coming up in the cage. One hundred and ninety-nine men and boys were then working under ground. The enormous beam of the engine weighed more than forty tons. In its fall it carried down all the timbers of the shaft, damaging the walls in several places. The rubbish and broken timbers accumulated in the shaft, and closed the only mode of egress for the miners. The beam and timberings cut off all connection between the interior of the mine and the outside world. The mine was furnished with ventilating furnaces, in which a large quantity of fuel was burning, and it was supposed that the imprisoned miners died of suffocation within twenty-four hours. Some of the men who were imprisoned tried to force an outlet, but they were unable to do so, and died in the effort.

Many accidents of this kind might be described. In the various coal-mining countries of the globe, they may be said, in the aggregate, to be of almost weekly occurrence. Where the owners of mines neglect or decline to provide their works with two entrances, it is imperatively necessary, for the protection of life, that the law should interfere, and compel them to do so.

[Sidenote: ACCIDENT AT A FRENCH MINE.]

A few years ago, at a mine in France, the engineer one day observed that the cages did not work properly in the guides. Fifty-six yards below the surface he discovered that the lining of the shaft deviated from the perpendicular. The joints and displacements were visible at several points. All the men, three hundred in number, were ordered to leave the mine.

Men went down the shaft to cover the openings, but the result was only to create fresh ones. For the next two days the lining of the shaft repeatedly cracked.

The planks broke one by one, and the water rushed into the works. The consulting engineer of the mine was called in, and when he arrived he descended with the superintendent, both of them in fear that they were going to certain death. Their lamps went out while they were descending, but they carried a lantern, which was hanging to the bottom of the tub in which they descended. By the light of this lantern they discovered an enormous opening in the middle of the lining. Stone, and earth, and rubbish were continually falling, and a torrent of water ran through.

“Let us go up again,” said the engineer. “The water is master of the situation, and all hope of saving this working is gone.”

In relating this incident afterwards, the engineer said, “I lived ten years in half an hour. My hair turned white in that perilous descent, which I shall never forget as long as I live.”

A few hours afterwards, holes which began at the middle of the shaft extended from top to bottom. At the pit’s mouth, an immense opening had formed nearly forty yards in diameter, and ten yards deep. Engine, boilers, buildings, machinery, and scaffolding gradually fell into the opening. At each movement of the ground a fresh ingulfment took place. The sky was dark and covered with clouds. The timbering of the shaft gave out sparks under the enormous friction which was caused by the sudden fracture of the wood. A peacock, shut up in the neighboring court-yard, gave signs of alarm, and uttered loud cries at every movement of the ground, and at every fresh fall. “No poet could describe, nor painter represent, the desolating spectacle which we witnessed,” said the engineer, in concluding the account of the occurrence.

[Sidenote: STATISTICS OF ACCIDENTS.]

In this country it is next to impossible to give correct statistics of the number of lives lost by these accidents. In Great Britain and France statistics are obtainable.

In those countries, according to the report of the inspectors of mines, about one half the mining accidents are occasioned by falls of the roof and coal. A third of the accidents are in the shaft in various ways. The remainder, or one sixth of the casualties, occur from blasting, explosion of fire-damp, suffocation, and, finally, inundation.

According to an English report, there was one death for every two hundred and sixteen persons employed in the mines. It was estimated that one life was lost for every sixty-eight thousand tons of coal obtained. In some districts of England the proportion was one life lost for every twenty-two thousand tons. In the year 1866, six hundred and fifty-one lives were lost from explosions of fire-damp. In the previous year there were only one hundred and sixty-eight deaths from the same cause. Altogether, in the year 1866, there were fourteen hundred and eighty-four deaths from mining accidents in Great Britain alone. The total number of deaths from all violent causes in the mines of Great Britain, in ten years, was nine thousand nine hundred and sixteen. Twenty per cent. of these were caused by fire-damp explosions.

The greatest number of lives lost at any one time through mining accidents was at the Oaks Colliery, in 1866, when three hundred and sixty-one miners lost their lives.

[Sidenote: GREAT LOSS OF LIFE.]

At the Hartley, Wigan, and Bury Collieries, many fearful accidents have taken place within the past few years, whereby many lives were lost. These accidents, in justice to the owners, or superintendents, let it be said, are not always due to the want of precaution on the part of the managers, but from gross neglect, or through non-observance of the rules under which the mine is worked. For example, the men were very careless in the use of the safety-lamps. Every lamp is locked before it is given out, and every care is taken to prevent its being opened. The men will occasionally amuse themselves by trying to pick the locks, and that, too, in places where the air is full of explosive gas. So accustomed are they to danger, that they hold it in great contempt; and the result is, that fatal accidents were much more common than if men were cautious and obedient.

At the time of the Oaks Colliery explosion, great sympathy was manifested throughout England, just as was subsequently seen in the Avondale disaster in America. For days after the occurrence, the daily papers were filled with long details of the horror, the recovery of the bodies of the victims, the distressing scenes at the mouth of the mine, and at the graveyard, and the brave deeds of the men who were fortunately absent from the mine at the time of the explosion.

Subscriptions were opened in nearly every church for the benefit of the survivors, and at the suggestion of Queen Victoria, the then Lord Mayor of London and Common Council held a public meeting to raise money for the families of the victims. The appeals were liberally responded to through the whole country. Many of the wives of the dead miners received life pensions, and all the bereaved families were placed above immediate want.

XXXI.

THE MAMMOTH CAVE.

ROMANCE AND MYSTERY OF CAVES.—THE FAMOUS CAVES OF THE WORLD.—THE GREATEST CAVERN ON THE GLOBE.—ITS IMMENSE FAME.—AMERICANS’ NEGLECT OF IT.—CAUSE OF THEIR INDIFFERENCE.—SITUATION OF THE MAMMOTH CAVE.—ITS MISERABLE MANAGEMENT.—ANNOYANCES AND IMPOSITIONS PRACTISED UPON TOURISTS.—JOURNEY THROUGH THE VAST TUNNEL.—WHAT ONE SEES, FEELS, AND DOES.—CONSUMPTIVE GHOSTS.—WONDERS OF THE STAR-CHAMBER.—DESCENT INTO THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.—CROSSING THE STYX AND THE LETHE.—MARVELLOUS ECHOES.—STARTLING ACCIDENTS.—WOMEN IN AWKWARD SITUATIONS.

Caves in all ages have been associated, not only with mystery and romance, but with sorcery and superstition of every conceivable kind. Fable and tradition have converted them into the abodes of demons and witches, and history shows that robbers and law-breakers have always made them places of refuge and shelter. Every mountainous or picturesque region I have visited has abounded in witches’ caves, robbers’ caves, murderers’ caves, and caves generally, in which supernatural rites and horrid deeds are supposed to have been celebrated or committed. The dark, dreary, and weird quality of many caves, added to their unique and fantastic formation and uncertain windings naturally awake a feeling of awe, and appeal strongly and strangely to the imagination.

The ancient priests, in order to influence favorably the minds of the ignorant, pretended that the divinities they claimed to interpret had their residence in deep and dreary caverns, and that thence they revealed their mighty purpose to their mortal agents. The oracles of Delphos, which princes and sages were wont to consult, were interpreted, as it was assumed, by a priestess sitting at the mouth of a cave, and claiming to predict the future of nations, and tell the destiny of kings. The old Norsemen performed their barbarous rites in caverns; the Indian Brahmins devoted caverns to religious purposes, and from natural openings in the rocks constructed gorgeous temples. These subterranean chambers were doubtless the earliest abodes of men, and even now, in certain uncivilized regions, they are so employed. Petra—the Sela and Joktheel of the Bible—continues to be visited as a curiosity, because its ruins plainly indicate that its inhabitants dwelt in spaces hewn out of the solid stone. That caverns were used for the dead as well as for the living is evinced by the Catacombs of Thebes, Rome, Naples, and Malta.

[Sidenote: MYSTERIES OF CAVES.]

The greatest caves known—new ones are constantly being discovered—are of limestone, and of comparatively recent origin. Geology teaches that the primary formations of caves are many, though small, being produced by the action of water coursing through the strata, and that the continuation of this process for ages creates the vast and beautiful chambers, which all of us are so fond of exploring. Sweden and Norway boast of granite vaults, especially Marienstadt, of extraordinary dimensions, though some of them have been, as yet, but partially penetrated. The vicinity of Quito contains caves of modern porphyry, and the Isle of France caves of lava. Gurtshellir is a cavern of lava in Iceland, forty feet high, fifty broad, and one mile long. The caves of Agtelek in Hungary, and of Adelsberg in Carniola,—the latter noted for its transparent white pillars and brilliant stalactites,—are among the most remarkable in Europe.

Adelsberg has an unusual interest for naturalists, because a strange reptile, called the proteus, half a lizard and half an eel, has its habitat there. It has an extremely elastic constitution, and an extraordinary adaptability, as may be inferred from the fact that it subsists equally well on land or in water, imbedded in rock or buried in mud, requiring neither air nor light, food nor drink, for the sustainment of its existence. What an excellent littérateur the proteus would be as respects its limited necessities! If it happened to be an unappreciated genius, like most literary men, it need not feel any concern, for it could afford to wait until the world had come round to it, and the age had grown worthy of its thought. Fame, being a bubble, and therefore air, could not injure the nondescript creature, nor could the throwing of mud, as is the custom of journalists, mar it in the least. Much as it might be in (hot) water, it would not be troubled, and as to detraction and misrepresentation, its house would be (occasionally at least) built upon a rock, and would therefore stand firm.

[Sidenote: THE CAVE OF GUACHARO.]

In Venezuela is the celebrated cave of Guacharo, among the loftiest precipices of the mountain range; the entrance being through a gloomy ravine, running above a subterranean stream, the banks of which are covered with luxurious vegetation. Guacharo, as the name implies, is the resort of immense quantities of night birds, and their harsh notes resounding through its dismal recesses gave it the reputation, with the ignorant natives, of being the abode of the devil and his imps. For generations they have had traditions of dreadful ceremonies and hideous orgies held there, and have believed that many wicked persons have been seized by the imps, carried into and tortured in those awful recesses. They would not enter the cavern for any earthly consideration, sincerely believing that to do so would insure the loss of their souls. Humboldt, so far as known, was the first man who ever set foot within Guacharo; and he then succeeded, after unwearied patience and perseverance, in inducing a certain number of natives to accompany him as guides. They had not proceeded far, however, when the clamor of the birds so terrified them that they fled, in spite of every effort of the great naturalist to calm their superstitious fears.

Near Iletski, in Russia, is a freezing cave, so called because, reversing the order of the seasons, it is partially filled with ice in the summer, and altogether free from ice in the winter. Not a few of the caverns of the old world have been found to contain the bones of extinct species of animals. One of these, at Kirkdale, in Yorkshire, was discovered about half a century ago, and in it were quantities of remains of bears, lions, tigers, hyenas, and hippopotami, all of orders that had passed away. It is presumed that the Kirkdale cave was for a long while a vast den of hyenas, and that some great inundation destroyed them and their kind.

[Sidenote: THE GREATEST CAVE IN THE WORLD.]

The greatest cave known on the globe is the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, situated in Edmonson County, near the Green River, ninety-four miles from Louisville, and nine miles from Cave City, the station on the Louisville and Nashville Railway where passengers get off when they wish to visit the celebrated cavern. The Mammoth Cave is world-renowned: I have found that the people of every nation, even our antipodes, are acquainted with it, though that may be the only thing in America of which they have any clear apprehension. I question if there be any other natural curiosity half so well known as that. Never have I travelled in any domain inhabited by intelligent people, who had not only heard of it, but who did not have something like accurate information respecting its extent and peculiarities. Famous as it is, and easy of access, comparatively few of our countrymen have explored it. Indeed, the very ease of its access has prevented a great many persons from going there who would otherwise have gone. What we can do at any time we are not likely to do at all; for any time is really no time. I have met residents of Naples who had never ascended Vesuvius, or seen the ruins of Pompeii. I am acquainted with citizens of Schaffhausen who have never set eyes on the magnificent Rhine Falls. There are Parisians who have never been in the Louvre Gallery, or the Park of Versailles; Romans who have never stood before the Apollo, the Laocoön, or the Transfiguration; Athenians who have never been within the Parthenon; Cairines to whom the pyramids are a dream; denizens of St. Petersburg unacquainted with Moscow; Viennese ignorant of the Belvedere and Schönbrunn; Berlinese unfamiliar with Potsdam, and cultivated Londoners who have never made a pilgrimage to Stratford, to the tomb of the most wonderful genius the world has yet shown.

It is not strange, therefore, that Kentuckians, liberal as their state vanity is, should often die without “doing” the Mammoth Cave. I remember how often I went within a few miles of the cave before I took the trouble to visit it, and that, finally, dissatisfied with myself for its long neglect, I made a special journey from New York to carry out my much deferred purpose. For several years a branch railway has been talked of from Cave City to the Cave; but it has never been built, needful as it is in the saving of time. Eighteen miles of coaching, in these rapid and driving days, appear to the average traveller considerable of a task; and when to this is added the two full days required for an exploration of the enormous cavern, it is easy to understand why so many persons refuse to examine the subterranean chamber lying along the Green River.

[Sidenote: A SWINDLING MANAGEMENT.]

You cannot do the cave in much less than four days, owing to the determination of the coach-driver and the keeper of the hotel to delay tourists as much as possible. I still recall my first experience, and the second and third have not been in any essential respect dissimilar. The train reached Cave City at twelve o’clock, but the vehicle that was to convey me to the vast cavern would not leave for more than two hours, this arrangement being entered into by interested parties to secure each passenger for dinner at the railway station inn.

The conveyance takes its departure very leisurely, and before you are fairly inside or outside, as the case may be, you are obliged to pay not only your fare to the cave, but your fare back, even if you have no intention of returning for a month. This ruffles most people, and impregnates them with the notion that the astuteness of negotiations in that neighborhood is not far removed from swindling—a notion apt to be strengthened as they go on. Arriving at the Mammoth Cave Hotel, a great, rambling, ill-kept, uncomfortable collection of frame buildings, of the kind of which travellers in the South cannot be ignorant, you are informed that you are too late to enter the cave on that day.

There are two routes—the long, and short; the former extending nine miles from the mouth of the cavern, and the latter three miles. The day following you can do either of these, but if you want to do both you must remain two days. There is no need of this, since a strong man, accustomed to exercise, can make the double subterranean journey in ten or twelve hours without difficulty. Were he to do so, however, the rustic Boniface would lose the price of one day’s board; and hence the tourist must be put to serious inconvenience and delay for merely mercenary reasons. Men frequently offer to pay twice or thrice the rate of the day’s board for the privilege of making the entire underground journey in a single day. This is refused, because it would fully expose the trick, and give an opportunity for victims to advertise the fraud.

You may grumble—that is the privilege of every free-born citizen—but you can’t help yourself. The public house employs the guides, and the guides will do nothing contrary to the annoying and cheating customs it has established. The hotel, the coachmen, and the guides, are in league one with the other, and as there is only one Mammoth Cave, and only one way of getting into it, if you are really determined to see it, you may growl and swear as much as you please, but you must conform to the rules that have been laid down for the private benefit of the little ring, and for your own disadvantage.

[Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF THE CAVE.]

[Sidenote: A NARROW AND MISTAKEN POLICY.]

The cave was accidentally discovered some seventy years ago by a hunter, and ten years later was worked for the purpose of procuring saltpetre; the company so engaged finding it unprofitable, and at last abandoning it to curiosity-seekers. The property belonged originally to a Dr. Croghan, who died some years since, leaving it to the heirs of the [General] Jessup estate. These heirs are so anxious to make money out of it, and so narrow at the same time, that they have adopted a penny-wise and pound-foolish policy. They will not lease the hotel for a period of more than five years, and, consequently, no lessee can be had who will make such improvements in the house and grounds as are needed. They are very fearful that a new entrance to the cave, beyond the limits of their real estate, will be discovered; and for this reason all visitors are forbidden to carry compasses, or make topographical observations upon the bearings or directions of the great natural tunnel. They have purchased, since 1860, some three thousand acres in the immediate vicinity of the cavern, from their apprehension that on the land which they so acquire another gateway might be found. They realize, I have been told, from fifteen thousand dollars to twenty thousand dollars per annum from the fees (two dollars each for the short, and three dollars each for the long route) charged inflexibly to every tourist. They might make more than twice as much by putting up a good hotel, building a railway to Cave City, and dealing fairly with travellers. Numerous capitalists have tried in vain to buy the cave property; but its owners, or the executors, will not sell. They refuse themselves to do anything for the benefit of the public, even when their interest prompts, and they refuse to allow anybody else the desirable privilege. This cannot very long continue, however. Time removes hunkses as well as difficulties, and cures meanness by putting it under ground.

The region about the cave is very high,—four hundred feet above Cave City,—and is said to be superlatively salubrious. The neighborhood is very sparsely settled, but dwellers in it, according to popular report, are compelled to move away when they wish to die; and hence it happens that wealthy old uncles and disagreeable mothers-in-law are always informed that Edmonson County is one of the most unhealthy localities on this continent.

Game, such as quail, rabbits, wild turkey, and even deer, is abundant there, which, with the good fishing in the Green River, less than a mile distant from the public house, should recommend the vicinity to sportsmen, and would unquestionably, if the accommodations were what they ought to be. As it is, most visitors get so vexed with the obnoxious arrangements appertaining to the Cave that they hurry off after exploring it, and seldom go back. Even their memories of its grandeur are infected with the Little Peddlington spirit of its management, and the poetry of the place overlaid with the prose of its accompanying sordidness.

Nearly all the old guides familiar to visitors before the War, when Bell’s Tavern was the starting-point for the underground journey, have yielded to nature and to circumstance. One of the ancient band, however, Sam Meredith, still lingers,—at least, he did a year or two ago—and is a genuine autochthon. He has been a guide for a quarter of a century; was born on the spot, and has never been twenty miles beyond the limits of the county. He is naturally intelligent, though he can neither read nor write; but he makes up for these slight defects of education by his skill with the rifle. He is regarded as one of the best shots in Kentucky; has a wife and children, and a small farm; receives fifteen dollars a month; does not know that the world is round; believes Paris, in Kentucky, is the capital of civilization, and is, on the whole, as contented a mortal as I have ever met.

[Sidenote: TEMPERATURE OF THE CAVE.]

In addition to the short and long routes already mentioned, the great cavern has a vast number of avenues and branches, many of which remain as yet unexplored. All these ramifications, taken together, would give a length to the cave, it is said, of nearly three hundred miles. Its temperature, all the year round, is 59° Fahrenheit. The interior air is believed to be much purer than that of the outer world, and, on account of its elasticity and sweetness, to be remarkably invigorating. There seems some foundation for this opinion, inasmuch as tourists can make much more exertion, and endure much more fatigue, in that underground region than they can on the ordinary surface of the earth. I have observed weak men and delicate women perform acts of pedestrianism which astonished themselves, and of which they would be incapable outside the mouth of the cavern. I know that I have done thirty miles in those sombre recesses in a few hours without being jaded in the least, and on one occasion I accomplished the last mile of the long route—the roughest and most difficult of all—in eleven minutes by a stop watch, which the guide pronounced the best cave time on record.

[Sidenote: DRESSED FOR THE EXPEDITION.]

My last visit to the cave was during the spring of 1870. Early as the season was, I found at the hotel about a dozen persons bent on the same errand. Seven or eight of them were anxious to traverse the long route, and as that was my purpose also, we rose betimes, and prepared ourselves for the journey. There were several ladies in the party, and they were obliged to part with their hooped skirts and city attire, and put on water-proof cloaks, with the simplest possible arrangement of their hair and toilet. We tyrants of the race donned some old clothes, heavy boots, and caps, each taking a lamp attached to long wires, so that we could hold it easily and swing it as we walked along. Our conductor, who was no other than Sam Meredith, looked very carefully after our lamps, to see if they were properly supplied with oil and properly trimmed, since the consequences of having one’s light go out in those desolate chambers, and of being left in awful solitude and darkness,—perhaps forever,—are in no manner pleasant to contemplate. At different parts of the cave, small tanks of oil are kept, from which the lamps may be replenished in case of accident, and these have proved to be invaluable in numerous instances.

Eight o’clock in the morning was our hour for starting, and though we had become acquainted the evening previous, we were so changed in appearance—thanks to our simple attire—that we were scarcely able to recognize one another when we assembled for the march.

The masculine excursionists had not undergone such a metamorphosis as our feminine friends, whose mothers would have been excusable for not knowing them in the Spartan severity of their costumes. One young lady, whom I had thought quite pretty, was anything but pretty in the absence of her usual chevelure and modish robes. Another girl, still in her teens, who had appeared decidedly plain, really shone with comeliness and grace in her water-proof and generally dishevelled state. Her common raiment so set her off that I was obliged to conclude that none of her personal charms depended on her wardrobe, and that the less she wore the lovelier she seemed.

[Sidenote: A GROTESQUE COSTUME.]

A bright and intellectual widow, to whom years had brought a breadth of figure in which Hogarth’s line of beauty could not be traced, looked positively grotesque in her unique garments. Agility acknowledged no kinship with her, and symmetry was unquestionably of alien blood. She expressed, from the beginning, her scepticism as to her endurance, and particularly inquired of our rustic fugleman if she could rest a little on the way, provided she should happen to be spent. As we set out, she evinced a lack of physical elasticity and clearness of movement that foreboded ill to her success. But for the gallantry due to all her sex, I should say she waddled, and presented such a figure that, if Cruikshank had caught a glimpse of her, he would have claimed her for his own.

We were off at last, and in a few minutes were before the mouth of the mighty Kentucky marvel. There is nothing remarkable in the mouth, which conveys the impression of a decayed and abandoned culvert, and such I should take it to be, had I not known otherwise. The path by which you enter is damp and slippery, unless in very dry weather, and the opening of the cavern promises none of the wonders that the interior reveals.

After going less than a hundred yards, we lost the spot of daylight which the mouth furnished, and were wrapped in such shadows as might have marked primeval chaos. Our little lamps displaced so small a part of the thick darkness that the vast volumes which remained grew blacker than ever. The air was so full of oxygen as to be sensible at once, and I could not help but notice an inflation of my lungs and a lightness of my limbs, such as one feels on mountain-tops. My spirits rose rapidly, and my mood grew involuntarily hilarious. I jested constantly, I laughed at the smallest trifle. Buoyancy was in every breath, and a mercurial quality, by a strange paradox, in the surrounding gloom. The cave, if not delightful, was exhilarating in the highest degree, and I fancied it would be agreeable to spend nights there. I should say days, if the word did not convey an impression of light. The effect of the place on me was entirely different from that of the Paris Catacombs, owing, doubtless, to the oxygenated air. The peculiarity of my temperament, however, which, by a principle of antagonism, reflects the opposite of surroundings, must have had something to do with it. Society which is considered the gayest oppresses, and graveyards enliven me. It is not strange, therefore, that the Mammoth Cave, apart from its atmosphere, should animate my spirits.

[Sidenote: A REFUGE OF BATS.]

We noticed that the walls and roof of the cavern were frescoed with bats hanging by their claws, heads downward, though some of them were flying nimbly about in the darkness, evidently disturbed by the glare of our torches, and the noise of our speech. During the winter they assemble there in such quantities that the curves of the cave are black with them. Their flitting through the thick gloom, relieved only by the flare and glare of the lamps (added to the hollow and dreary echoes awakened by our voices, and succeeded every few moments by an oppressive stillness), made those vast limestone chambers appear so dismal that the women of the party declared they should go mad if forced to remain in them for any length of time.

Very soon we came to the remnants of a number of rude habitations erected in 1845, and inhabited by certain consumptives who had been recommended to try the equable temperature and pure air of the tunnel, with the hope that their lungs might be healed. The poor patients had high expectations from living there, and though their first experience was not favorable, they remained several months, unwilling to believe that they would not be ultimately helped. The longer they remained, the worse they grew. After a while their faces became livid; the pupils of their eyes expanded, and darkened until the iris was invisible, having the appearance of two spots burning above a deathly pallor. They lost every particle of flesh; crept gloomily about, coughing so hollowly as to suggest the sound of the first earth falling upon a coffin-lid; and added to the natural dreariness of the vault a hundred-fold. Everybody saw and knew that they were tottering on the brink of the grave; and yet, such was their hope—a distinct and inseparable accompaniment of the disease—that they could not be persuaded to quit that purgatory. They even imagined they were improving, and insisted that they were stronger, when they could not drag their leaden limbs after them.

[Sidenote: AN UNSUCCESSFUL SANITARY EXPERIMENT.]

The preciousness of existence (to most persons) was strikingly illustrated in those poor consumptives who had no hold on life, and still could not be resigned to death. One would think that serious trouble with the lungs would disarm the grave of most of the terrors it is popularly supposed to have (those who have had much familiarity with death are aware that this is an error), since it destroys all physical comfort, and all mental peace. And yet quite the contrary is true. Generally, no man is so unwilling to order the undertaker as the man who has long suffered from consumption, which shows how inconsistent and unreasonable human nature is, especially after it has been badgered by doctors and dosed with drugs.

Finally three or four of the consumptives expired in the cavern,—there were nearly twenty of them in all,—and the remainder having it borne in upon them that neither consumption nor the Mammoth Cave could insure immortality, they consented to be removed. Every one of them died—if they could be considered to have been in any true sense alive—within a few weeks after their return to the sky and the sunlight. But the history of their residence in those dreary chambers will be remembered for generations, and in 4873 will have become one of the traditions of the cave, so altered and exaggerated that very few of the positive facts will be left or allowed to mar the poetic and romantic version then current.

The cavern varies greatly in width and height, and so many avenues branch off from it, that it would be almost impossible to thread your way without a guide. A large part of the passages have been explored at different times; but some of them are virgin yet. The majority of the branches end on the bank of the river, and it is very strange that new mouths to the tunnel have not been discovered. It is not improbable that they have been; but the owners of the property, as I have said, are so fearful of suffering from a rivalry in the show business that they would be the last to disclose any such fact. Different quarters of the cavern are differently named, according to their actual or fancied resemblance to the titles they bear. It requires a deal of imagination to trace the similitude sometimes, though at others it is apparent at the first glance.

[Sidenote: UNDERGROUND CHURCH.]

The Methodist Church, one of the first localities of note, is a semicircular chamber, in which a ledge of a rock represents the pulpit. Theological service has been performed there, and the logs brought in for seats are still in perfect preservation, though they have been there more than half a century. More recently service has been improvised by enthusiastic itinerants of the Methodist creed, who, having heard that the groves were God’s first temples, may infer that caves have an equal fitness for divine worship. The imagination on which religious fervor so largely depends could not fail to be kindled by burning tapers, swelling music, and earnest appeals in those natural aisles and chancels, nor could they do other than remind the pious participants of the primeval Christians who fled to caverns and to catacombs that they might adore their Creator in secret, and be preserved from persecution.

Just beyond the church is a figure of gypsum on the roof, a sort of bas-relief called the American Eagle. Patriotism prevents me from indorsing this symbolic bird, which, whatever it may have been originally, is now sorely shorn and shattered. One leg, a wing, and part of the body are literally relieved, being no longer visible under the light of a dozen lamps; and the entire animal is so deranged that it might as well be styled a dromedary or a griffin. The American eagle is usually on such admirable terms with itself that I am confident this bird would be ashamed to pretend that it is what it is represented to be. If it be an eagle, I will be sworn it does not know it. I choose to consider it a unicorn, since a unicorn is a fabulous beast, and may be presumed to resemble anything, even that amorphous gypsum figure on the roof. If the likeness cannot be traced by ordinary observers, they may be reminded that it consists in the—or more properly in a—horn.

Minerva’s Dome is remarkable for its fluted walls and a honey-combed roof, though why it should be devoted to Minerva, who is not herself present in any form of natural sculpture, is an enigma not to be solved. The probability is, that Kentucky orators have so constantly referred to Minerva springing full-armed from the brain of Jove, that the goddess, even if she once had her image there, has removed it, lest its sight might induce the five or six public speakers in the state who have not used the time-honored simile to force it into their next brilliant effort.

[Sidenote: THE FAT MAN’S MISERY.]

Near the Dome, those who wish to traverse the short route only, branch off, while the long route is continued until the cave contracts, and Fat Man’s Misery is reached. This is a passage through the rocks so very narrow that a man of average proportions is compelled to go sidewise. It must have been worn by a stream of water in the dim ages past; and now the only stream of water visible is that which flows down the sight-seer’s face, as he toils along, and crawls through the Valley of Humility, where the roof is so low that you are obliged to bend nearly double. Persons with weak backs, or inclined to lumbago, have to return here with the fleshy people who have surrendered at the Fat Man’s Misery. The Great Relief is a broad passage, a little farther on, where tourists bring themselves to an erect position once more, and mop their brows with their handkerchiefs, so frequently brought into activity during their arduous journey.

[Sidenote: RIVERS IN MAMMOTH CAVE.]

There are numerous streams in the cave, the chief of which have been christened the Echo and Roaring Rivers, the Styx and the Lethe; the last often called Oblivion, because the unclassical public is resolved to pronounce the Greek title as if it were a monosyllable. The Echo River is renowned for its echoes. It is much larger and more striking than the other streams, and when it is high, as it usually is in the spring, it is difficult to cross. When I last made the passage, I had to lie almost flat in the little boat to get under the shelving rocks, and, only a few days before, the guides had to stop there in consequence of the swollen stream. After we had rowed out a little way, we shouted, and called, and sang, and had the pleasure of hearing our words come back to us again and again, with almost perfect articulation. Even the tone of the voice and the emphases are preserved, and I could scarcely believe sometimes that persons were not concealed, and repeating our phrases. The thick darkness, and the weird aspect of the cavern at that point, aid the fancy, and stimulate the feeling of superstition, said to exist, more or less, in every human breast. Two hundred years ago, countless witnesses might have been found to tell of hobgoblins and demons they had heard with their own ears, and seen with their own eyes, too, in the ghastly vault.

The Roaring River does not roar much,—indeed, not at all,—and is not especially noteworthy. It is a dark and turbid stream when it is high, though at its lower stage, it is as clear as any of the south-western waters. We rowed over it, as we had rowed over the Echo River, our little scow being as inconvenient, awkward, and dirty as its fellow.

The Styx flows about a hundred feet below the floor of the cave, and is passed by a rough wooden bridge. We could hear the murmur of the stream below, and tried, with the aid of our lamps, to see it. We did not succeed until the guide attached two or three of the lights to a long pole, and let them down over the bridge. Then we saw a great fissure in the rock (manifestly made by the water), the walls of which are tolerably smooth. The borders of the chasm were so slippery that great caution was necessary to prevent one from falling into the yawing gulf. Near the Styx is the Bottomless Pit—a nominal no less than an actual hyperbole, because it has a bottom not more than one hundred and seventy-five feet from the spot where we stood. We peered down into it as best we could, and concluded that it merited its title in point of gloom and dreariness.

[Sidenote: DESCENDING THE BOTTOMLESS PIT.]

Until within a few years the pit had never been descended; but several enterprising and rapid Kentuckians, who had done nothing to distinguish themselves, thought they would render their names historic by becoming acquainted temporarily with the region which, they feared, they might know permanently in the future. They went to the spot well prepared with lights, ropes, hooks, and ladders; but the place looked so ugly that only one of them had the nerve to go down. He came within an ace of breaking his neck several times before he was lowered to the base, where, after groping about for half an hour, and finding nothing but rough rocks, he expressed a desire to be pulled up again.

This was easier said than done, in consequence of the difficulty of managing the rope. On his upward passage he was jammed against the walls, and cut by sharp ledges, until he was exhausted, more from terror and pain than from loss of blood; and finally he was dragged to the top, just as the rope, in several places, held only by a few slight strands. He did not recover from his wounds and the shock to his nervous system for a long while, and he frequently asserted that he would not repeat the excursion for any consideration under heaven. He never recovered, I may say, from the indirect effect of his exploit; for it gave him a certain local notoriety, and he nourished his fame on such generous quantities of Bourbon whiskey, known in the state as Kentucky wine, that, after several brilliant seasons of imbibition at Frankfort, the delirium tremens and two undertakers took him to his eternal home.

Since then, the descent of the Bottomless Pit has been made not unfrequently, one of George D. Prentice’s sons having performed the feat, and furnished a two-column article of sophomorical extolment thereon in the Louisville Journal.

The Lethe has steep and rocky banks, and as we floated down its current, through the almost tangible darkness, with our flickering torches and the hollow murmur of our voices, it really seemed as if we might be disembodied spirits on the sad Plutonian shore. When we ceased to chatter, the dropping of water through the roof into the stream, and the dip of the oars, broke the silence with strange impressiveness.

[Sidenote: MUSIC ON THE LETHE.]

Sam Meredith was not musical: but I remember on a previous occasion, that our ancient sable guide treated me to a dirge on the flute, while we glided over the bosom of the river of oblivion. The effect was magical; the solemn strains were so in keeping with the sombreness of the surroundings, the flame of the torches was so weird and fitful, the faces of the tourists looked so pale and wondering, and the ebony player assumed such an impishness of form and feature, that I should not have been in the least astonished to meet, sailing along in another boat, spirits long departed from the world.

Would it had been Lethe indeed! How gladly I should have drank of its waters! how willingly have forgotten the earthly life and all its sorrows, including the bad breakfast I was to get at the hotel the next morning, and the boredom I was doomed to encounter for the fortnight to come!

On the long route the most noticeable localities are the passage of El Ghor, a long, narrow, covered causeway; the Brown Chamber, so called from the color of its walls, and its square, apartment-like shape; Martha’s Vineyard, the roof of which resembles clusters of grapes cut in marble; Snow-ball Grotto, showing a remarkable likeness to sculptured (floral) snowballs overhead; the Rose Chamber, a fine counterfeit of roses in rock; Silliman’s Avenue, a narrow gallery so regular that it might have been the work of engineers; and numerous chambers of different proportions, and marked by striking geological features.

The Maelstrom is an ordinary pool containing an eddy and a great disappointment at the same time. It is no more of a sham, however, than the famous (fabulous) whirlpool off the coast of Norway, which was supposed to carry down ships and whales, and which in reality is not perilous to vessels or even small open boats, except during winter and in time of violent storms.

The Rocky Mountains, the end of the long route, extend about a mile, and are nothing more than an extremely rough surface detrimental to the physical comfort and shoe-leather of those going over them. Women seldom attempt this passage, which has little to commend it except the difficulty of its execution, and the probability of fatigue in its accomplishment.

[Sidenote: EYELESS FISH IN THE ECHO RIVER.]

I should have mentioned the celebrated eyeless fish, peculiar to the Echo and other rivers. They have been the cause of many scientific theories and speculations among savants, who have deduced from them either that Nature does not furnish organs which are of no use, or that organs unemployed cease to exist. Abundant as the fish are, it is difficult to catch them, and I was considered extremely fortunate because I secured three or four in as many minutes. I gave them to a man who had dabbled somewhat in science, and he was very grateful for the present. I told him he need not be, for I would rather have half a dozen brook trout or a Spanish mackerel for breakfast than all the eyeless fish the Mammoth Cave contained. These sightless little creatures, generally about four inches long, resemble ordinary minnows, though of a rather darker hue, and more inclined to translucency.

On the short route, the Giant’s Causeway, the Gothic Chapel, the Grand Dome, and the Star Chamber, especially the last, have the most reputation and attract the most attention. The Causeway receives its name from its likeness to the Causeway on the coast of Ireland, and the likeness is considerable, as I can testify by actual observation.

The Chapel is striking and picturesque, albeit there is no more reason to call it Gothic than Doric or Ionic. It closely resembles a chapel, and I should fancy Nature might have been in an ecclesiastico-architectural mood when she formed it.

The Grand Dome is seen through a large opening in the wall, and shows to great advantage, being about one hundred feet below the ordinary level, and one hundred feet above, and possessing a vastness and majesty to which few other parts of the cave can lay claim.

[Sidenote: WONDERS OF THE STAR CHAMBER.]

The amount of rhetoric the Star Chamber has given rise to is beyond calculation. It has supplied innumerable similes, and has been discoursed upon in every language. The Chamber is some seventy feet high, and the roof is composed of crystal of gypsum, and black oxide of manganese. As soon as we entered the Chamber, the guide took several of our lamps, descended into a hollow in the rock, and threw the light therefrom upon the ceiling. The effect was wonderful. The light, striking upon the crystals of gypsum, made them look precisely like stars, and—all the lower part of the vault being in deep shadow—created so complete an illusion that I could hardly doubt but that I was standing under the evening sky. Never was space so elongated. Those seventy feet seemed immeasurable. The longer I gazed, the more the shining ceiling appeared like the heavens. I could scarcely believe that I was under ground, and that the green grass and trees were growing above my head. I was completely lost for a while, just as any one will be after a long and earnest contemplation of the stars; and when the guide stepped out of the hollow with the lamps, and changed the scene entirely, I felt as if I had been awakened from a dream. My companions were unreserved in their expressions of astonishment and delight, and “beautiful,” “splendid,” “magnificent,” “marvellous” were the adjectives that dropped momentarily from their lips. The Mammoth Cave would be well worth visiting, if its only wonder were the Star Chamber. I have seen it a number of times, and each time its beauty is greater, and its illusion more complete.

The dimensions of the cave find their extremes in the Fat Man’s Misery and the Grand Dome—the former not more than twelve inches wide, and the latter over a hundred feet. The height varies quite as much. The Valley of Humility, where one is obliged to make a crawling L of himself, is offset by the loftiest rocky chambers; and the frequently smooth limestone floor is diversified by streams, ledges, and roughnesses culminating in the so-styled Rocky Mountains. What the cave lacks more than aught else is stalactites and stalagmites, though these are found well represented in the Gothic Chapel. The great cavern is noted for its variety, having nearly all the remarkable features that characterize other celebrated caves. It is no less attractive to the ordinary sight-seer than it is to the naturalist, the geologist, or the general lover of science. It appeals to every taste—to that of the poet and of the philosopher, of the curious and the enthusiastic, of the reverent and the sceptical, of the worldling and the mystagogue.

[Sidenote: FATIGUES OF THE JOURNEY.]

How did your party come out? The masculine portion of it very much as it went in, except that some members complained very bitterly of fatigue. The feminine portion suffered in various ways. The young woman who had been changed for the worse by the cave costume, grew homelier and homelier every mile she went, and so disenchanted her immediate companion—he was her lover, I think—that after the excursion he ceased to regard her with fond and favoring eyes.

The other young woman, who needed not the foreign aid of ornament, steadily improved with fatigue, drippings of water, and splashings of mud. If she had fallen into the Styx or Lethe, and then been drawn for half an hour over the floor of the cave, I have little doubt she would have appeared charming. I never knew one of her sex to make such æsthetic advances under adverse circumstances.

The plethoric widow gave out a dozen times during the journey, detained us materially, and was at last left behind, in company with a sympathizing friend, until the rest of us had retraced our steps, and literally taken her up again. She declared that she never would be able to get rested; and two weeks after her journey I heard she was still an inmate of the hotel, bemoaning her fatigue and disordered nerves.

Persons have been lost, from time to time, in the cave, but not nearly so often as has been reported. Some years ago, one of a party who made the exploration disappeared in the Star Chamber, and all effort to find him proved abortive. When they went back to the hotel, the greater part of the valuables belonging to the excursionists, which had been deposited with the landlord, had faded out of sight. Investigation established a close connection between the disappearance of the man in the Star Chamber and the watches and jewelry. The fellow was, unquestionably, a professional thief, but had pretended to be a clergyman from St. Louis. After the party had set out, he hurried back to the house, and informing Boniface that the ladies and gentlemen had altered their minds, and preferred to take their valuables with them, the latter was unsuspecting enough to hand them over. The pretended divine rejoined the excursionists, kept his own counsel, and consulted his interests by disappearing from the Star Chamber when the lamps had been removed.

[Sidenote: ACCIDENTS IN THE CAVE.]

In 1835 two men from Bourbon County, Kentucky,—their appearance indicated that they had for a long time quaffed the fiery beverage of that region,—arrived at Bell’s Tavern, and declared that they could go all through the cave without a guide, and come out safely. They even laid wagers to that effect, and though they were warned against such folly, they started upon their expedition. They certainly went in, but they have never come out; and as thirty-seven years have elapsed, it is highly probable they have deferred their return indefinitely. It is supposed that they got lost in some of the windings off the main route, and starved to death.

In the summer of 1840, a middle-aged lady from Boston suddenly swooned from fatigue, while making the underground journey, and sinking to the earth in silence, the remainder of the party went on without missing her. On their way back, the guide observed her sitting on a stone, chattering to herself like a monkey. The poor woman had become insane. Recovering her consciousness, and finding herself in the darkness,—for in her fall she had extinguished her lamp,—she had believed herself lost, as it is supposed, and the terror had shattered her intellect. The excursionists had not been absent two hours; and yet that brief time was sufficient to destroy her reason utterly. She never recovered, and died two years after in the Worcester (Massachusetts) Insane Asylum, a raving maniac.

To be lost in the Mammoth Cave would be enough to overturn the strongest brain, since, with all its beauties and wonders, it has capacities for terrible tragedy and ineffable horror.

XXXII.

INSURANCE AND ITS MYSTERIES.

HISTORY OF FIRE AND MARINE INSURANCE.—LIFE INSURANCE.—OBJECTIONS OF A CALIFORNIAN.—HOW HE ANSWERED AN AGENT.—FRAUDS UPON COMPANIES.—A DEEP-LAID SCHEME.—JOHNSON AND HIS THIRTY THOUSAND DOLLARS.—OPENING A GRAVE.—A FICTITIOUS CORPSE.—PURSUIT BY DETECTIVES AND CAPTURE OF THE SWINDLER.—LITIGATIONS ABOUT INSURANCE.—CHINESE TRICKS ON AGENTS.—SUBSTITUTES FOR EXECUTION.

The system of fire and marine insurance has been in use for centuries. The Chinese claim to have invented it, as they have claimed nearly everything else; but the probabilities are, that it was of western origin. It is alluded to in the English laws about the middle of the thirteenth century. Its earliest form was in that of marine insurance; afterwards the system of fire insurance was invented. Still later came insurance against death, which has grown in recent years to very great proportions.

Many people are unable to understand how insurances can be effected against an event which is sure to happen. There is a story of a man in California who was approached by an insurance agent with a request to take out a policy on his life. The agent painted in glowing colors the advantages of insurance, and the man listened to him very patiently. When the agent had finished his story, the victim said with great deliberation, “Stranger, I have lived in this yere country twenty-five years. I have bucked agin nearly every game that they have ever brought out, but I’ll be hanged if I want to play at anything where I have got to die before I can win.”

[Sidenote: OBJECTIONS TO INSURANCE.]

The objection which this individual made against insuring his life, was a very natural one, and is an objection made by many people, though in a different form. The insurance companies, some of them at least, meet this objection with a plan by which a man arriving at a certain age without dying, can draw the money that would come to his heirs in case he died before the specified age was attained. They have devised other plans to meet the objections of all classes of people, and it is safe to say, that the system of life insurance is about as near perfection as it is possible to bring it. It is a question whether, in many cases, the companies do not reap a much larger advantage than is their just due. It is noticeable that the companies, as a general thing, pay enormous salaries to their officers, erect costly buildings, pay heavy dividends, and have a good time generally. The conclusion is natural that the rates of insurance are altogether too high, and the advantages are much greater for the companies than for their patrons.

It is possible, sometimes, for dishonest men to defraud the insurance companies, though it is not always easy. The companies are generally on the safe side; they require the most positive proof of the death of a person whose life has been insured, and they throw a great many obstacles in the way of the collection of the amount of the insurance. I have known them to demand one certificate after another, and compel the person who was endeavoring to collect the insurance money to make ten or twelve visits to the office before meeting his just demands. Very often, after the death of an insured person, questions are raised which were never before mentioned. The premiums may have been paid for years, and the officers of the company claim to make a discovery that relieves them from all responsibility. In some cases their action in this respect is just, but in many others it is about as unjust as anything that can well be conceived. It would seem proper that where a person has been accepted for insurance, and the premiums on the amount of money called for have been regularly paid and received without objection, no objection should be raised after the person’s death.

[Sidenote: NEAT FRAUD ON A COMPANY.]

Some interesting stories are told of the way in which insurance companies are sometimes defrauded. One was told to me by the secretary of a prominent company in New York, which indicates great ingenuity on the part of the swindler.

“One day,” said the secretary, “a man called at our office, and said he wished to effect an insurance of ten thousand dollars on his life, and was ready to submit himself for immediate examination.

“The physician of the company was called in, and made a careful examination of this man, whom I will call Johnson. Johnson was pronounced a good subject. All sorts of questions were asked, and he answered all of them satisfactorily. He was closely inspected. His limbs were pinched, and his chest was thumped in the orthodox way, but no defect could be discovered. To all appearances he was good for three-score and ten, and possibly more. He gave us references, stated that he was a clerk in an up-town house, and his statement was fully verified. I called upon his employer, inquired about his clerk, and was told that his character was of the best, and that he was a very industrious and strictly temperate young man. We were satisfied, and insured his life for the full amount.

“In a little while he made a request to be permitted to travel west, and of course we granted it. His parents lived in a small town in Connecticut. He had married in New York, and had been married for three or four years. Occasionally he took his wife on a brief visit to his old home. He went west soon after his application, and we lost sight of him. His wife accompanied him, and he announced his intention of finding employment and settling in one of the western cities.

“Six or eight months after his departure, his wife telegraphed to her friends in the east that her husband was very ill with pneumonia. Two days later she telegraphed that he was dead, and that she would bring the body to Connecticut for burial.

“In due course of time she arrived, dressed in deep mourning, and evidently suffering from deep grief. The funeral was held, his parents attended, the coffin was opened, and the features were visible through the glass plate, though they were much dimmed by the moisture which collected on the inside.

“A few days after the funeral, the widow, whose name had been inserted in the policy at the request of her loving husband, called at our office, presented the proper papers, and made the necessary application. We made an investigation, were satisfied that everything was correct, and paid over the money.

“We lost sight of the widow after that, but learned casually that after a short residence in New York she had gone to California.

[Sidenote: AN EXTENSIVE SWINDLE.]

“We happened to learn also, soon after, that the same man had insured his life for ten thousand dollars in another company, a Massachusetts one, having an agency in New York; and also in a Hartford company for the same amount. Of course this naturally raised our suspicions. The premium on thirty thousand dollars is a very heavy one for a man on a clerks salary, and we became convinced that all was not right; so we began an investigation.

“We saw the merchant that had employed Johnson while in this city, and learned that the young man went west at the time indicated. The merchant had heard of his death, but had no positive proof or knowledge of it. Then we went to the village in Connecticut whence Johnson had hailed, and though we made the most searching inquiries, we could learn nothing to confirm our suspicions. His parents were positive of his death. Had they not seen his widow? and had they not seen his features through the glass plate of the coffin? and had they not seen that coffin buried in the public cemetery? To their minds everything was perfectly straight, and they were indignant at our supposing that there might be something wrong.

“I had a suspicion that the body in the coffin might be a ‘dummy’ with a wax face, in imitation of the features of Johnson. So I hired the sexton in charge of the cemetery to open the grave and allow me to examine the interior of the coffin. We did the work at night, and unknown to Johnson’s parents, as we knew they would be greatly offended if they learned what was going on. But I was doomed to disappointment, as the corpse proved to be genuine, and as good a one as ever was buried. Plainly I was on the wrong scent when searching for a body of straw and a face of wax.

“The three companies agreed to work in concert, and share the expenses of an investigation into the whole affair. We sent a detective to the city where Johnson had died, and after a little inquiry he ascertained that a man answering to the name of Johnson, and the proper description, had actually died in that city. His body had been sent to the east, and that was all that was known; but it was ascertained that instead of dying of pneumonia after a few days’ illness, the man had lingered some time with a disease strongly resembling consumption. Here was a clew which we determined to follow up.

[Sidenote: PURSUING A WIDOW.]

“As the widow had gone to California, we told the detective to follow, and trace her out. She had written no letters to the parents of her dead husband, except a single one announcing her arrival at San Francisco, and giving a brief description of her overland journey. She said she had friends living near San Francisco, and she expected to reside a short time with them; perhaps she might remain in that place through the winter, and perhaps not; could not tell; would write again.

“The detective had a long search for the widow, and visited every place around San Francisco, and even advertised for the missing Mrs. Johnson. His advertisement stated, after describing her in sufficiently explicit terms, that by sending a note to a certain address she would learn something to her advantage. This was not exactly true, as she would have learned something greatly to her disadvantage, had the detective been able to find her; but in the pursuit of criminals, it is generally considered proper to tell a few falsehoods in order to serve the ends of justice.

[Sidenote: A SHARP EYE FOR MONEY.]

“One day the detective visited a ship which had just come in from the Sandwich Islands. He went there with an acquaintance who knew the captain, and was invited on board. While they were in the cabin enjoying the captain’s welcome, the detective heard the ship’s steward telling a friend, who had called to see him, something about their last voyage out. He said there were a lady and gentleman, very nice people, who occupied a state-room, which he indicated, and who seemed to be very fond of each other. ‘They had a good deal of money with them,’ said the steward, ‘and they were pretty liberal with it, though they would never allow me or anybody else to go into their state-room, unless one of them was there. They had their money in a small trunk, which they kept under the lower berth; and whenever they were both out of the room at the same time, they always carried the key with them.

“‘When their room was fixed up in the morning, one of them always stood near the door; and if we wanted to steal ever so much, we would not have had a chance. To make everything sure, they had a spring-lock on the door—a lock they brought with them, and fixed there with the captain’s permission. They were not going to have anybody get into their room with a pass-key.’

“The steward went on to describe the couple, and the detective found himself interested. So he questioned him very closely, and became pretty well satisfied that the gentleman was the veritable Johnson who was supposed to be dead and buried some months before in Connecticut, and that the lady was the disconsolate widow who had drawn the money from the insurance company.

“Here was a dilemma; the captain and steward only knew that their passengers had gone to Honolulu. They sailed not under the name of Johnson, but under the very rare name of Smith. John Smith, I believe, was the gentleman’s name, while the lady was Mrs. John Smith. It is not easy, as everybody knows, to trace out a man bearing this name; and even if he could be traced, very little good could come out of it, if the man were in one of the South Pacific Islands, or, in fact, in any place where our extradition laws could not reach him.

“While we were about it, we thought it would be well to know the whole truth of the matter; and so we sent the detective down to the islands, and told him to follow them up, but not to make it expensive. He went to the islands, and there found that the parties had gone to Australia. Then he went to Australia, and traced them to New Zealand, and in New Zealand he found that they had gone, according to the best of his information, in about three different ways; so he went back to Australia. After a long and vigilant search he found them in Melbourne.

“He had no authority for the arrest and detention of Johnson, though he made him believe that he had, and frightened him into giving up half of the money he had fraudulently obtained, on condition that he should not be further troubled, and on the condition also that he should tell the whole story of the accomplishment of his fraud. As long as we could not get the fellow, we thought his story would be an interesting one, and would serve to put us on our guard in future. The detective obtained what he believed the whole story, and with the money Johnson had returned he made his way as speedily as possible to New York.

[Sidenote: HOW THE FRAUD WAS ARRANGED.]

“The deception began at the very outset of the scheme. Bear in mind that the man’s name was Johnson, that he was from a town in Connecticut, had married his wife in New York, and was in the store of a merchant of the great metropolis. There was a clerk in that store by the name of Johnson, and he was from Connecticut; we will say Smithville. He had married in New York about four years before this occurrence. He was a steady, well-behaved man, and contemplated going west. His wife had a small amount of property in her own name, but she was not personally known to the merchant, and the merchant did not know that Johnson hailed from Smithville. There was another clerk in the adjoining store whose name was likewise Johnson. For convenience in designating the two men, I will call the second one Roberts. He came from Brownsville, in Connecticut. He had been married about four years. He was a fast fellow, and rather unscrupulous, though his employer did not know that he was in any way dishonest. The two clerks had become acquainted by accident.

“When Roberts ascertained that Johnson conceived the idea of going west, he (Roberts) laid a plan for swindling somebody. His wife was as unscrupulous as himself, and so she entered into the scheme. Roberts was of vigorous health, and could pass an examination with a life insurance company without trouble. He was of the height, complexion, and general appearance of Johnson; and this fact, added to the other coincidences greatly favored his scheme. So he came to us, and obtained the insurance, as before stated. When we made the inquiry of the merchant, his answers were satisfactory, and all the references were exactly as he stated them.

“His plan worked completely. He waited patiently until Johnson went west, and then he went likewise. He did not, however, go to the same city.

“He explained that it was his intention, a month or two after his arrival out west, to obtain from a body-snatcher a corpse which would answer his description, and then his wife would send the proper telegram to her friends in the east, and proceed there with the remains, which would appear to be those of her husband.

[Sidenote: FORTUNE FAVORS THE WICKED.]

“Fortune favored his scheme more than he had anticipated. At a boarding-house where he was temporarily lodged, he found that a boarder named Johnson was in very bad health, and not expected to live. Affecting an interest in him, and claiming to discover a relationship, he tended him carefully until the time of his death. The detective had a suspicion that the sick man was helped along, but of that there was no proof. Immediately after the death of the invalid, the telegram was sent, and the wife proceeded east, as before related. She had been at one time an actress, and was very good at simulating grief. She deceived all the relatives of her husband in the most complete manner. They thought her bowed down and broken-hearted with grief, when all the time she was doubtless laughing in her sleeve. The honest Johnson, whose name had been used without his knowledge or consent, was found, after the detective’s return, to have lived at St. Louis, the place to which he had first emigrated, and had gone thence to New Orleans. He was much surprised when he learned what had occurred, and positively denied ever having an insurance on his life, or on that of anybody else. I suppose the swindler Johnson is still in Australia, and trust that he will end his days there in peace and quiet—though I fear his success in this instance will embolden him to some other fraud. His operation was fairly, though not exceedingly profitable, as, after deducting the premiums for the first year of insurance, the expenses of his expedition, and the money he returned, he did not net more than ten thousand dollars by the operation.”

[Sidenote: HOW POLICIES ARE VITIATED.]

Some of the insurance companies insert in their policies an announcement that the policy becomes void if death results from execution on the gallows, or in any other legal way, or from suicide. On one occasion a man whose life was insured was killed in a duel, and the company refused to pay the policy, on the ground that the man died virtually by his own act. His adversary was known to be a dead shot. The lawyer of the company, after stating all the arguments to show that a man who goes a duelling is, for all practical purposes, a suicide, clinched his argument by declaring that a man who would go out with such an adversary might know beforehand that he would be killed, and therefore his death was voluntary. I believe the court did not sustain the claim of the company, but required the amount named in the policy to be paid to the heirs of the unfortunate duellist.

I have heard it argued by insurance men that, where a person insured takes to hard drinking, and dies from the effects of rum, he dies by his own hand, and the suicide clause exempts the insurance company. In some cases, I believe, this claim has been sustained; but it is now generally discarded. A few cases have occurred in the United States where men have insured their lives for the benefit of their families, and have then deliberately killed themselves. The insurance companies, in those cases, have resisted the payment of the claims; but, I believe, they have been generally, though, not always, allowed.

[Sidenote: POPULARITY OF SUICIDE IN CHINA.]

There are some countries in the world where an insurance company would be ruined in a very short time, if it paid the insurance claims of men who kill themselves. In China, for instance, let a company start upon this basis, and it would do a flourishing business for a short time. Men in China are much more ready than others to die for the benefit of their families or themselves; and a Chinese who could make a good thing by killing himself would be sure to do it. A company doing business in the way I have just stated would find, some pleasant morning, that about half of its policy-holders were dead, and the other half were making their preparations for blotting themselves out of existence. The Chinese loves his family, and would think he was doing a nice stroke of business by insuring his life for their benefit, and then, quietly bidding them good by, “handing in his checks.” If he could effect an insurance for a thousand dollars, he would spend a hundred in having a glorious spree, and leave nine hundred dollars to his afflicted widow.

[Sidenote: CHINESE SUBSTITUTES.]

The indifference of the Chinese to death may be well illustrated by an allusion to the substitute system, as practised in the Celestial Empire. Persons condemned to death for certain offences are allowed to die by a substitute. This would be utterly impossible in America, as one could nowhere buy a substitute who would be willing to die for a stipulated sum; but in the Celestial Empire it is easy enough to find a man who is ready to take the place of one accused of a crime and ordered to be executed. The real culprit sends a friend to make the negotiations. The broker can find a man for about six hundred dollars, half down, and the balance on the fulfilment of the contract. The cash is paid, and the time fixed for the execution, both of the contract and substitute. With the money in hand, the substitute assembles his friends, and they have a right royal spree. Everybody gets blind drunk on samshoo or opium, and when the money is all expended, the substitute bids farewell to his friends, and delivers himself up for sacrifice. He is led to the place of execution, where he drops on his knees. His head is bent forward, the executioner’s sword whizzes through the air, and the substitute is a head shorter by the operation. The culprit, who has thus satisfied the law by proxy, pays over the balance of the money to the widow of the departed; everything is lovely, and everybody is happy.

XXXIII.

RAILWAY TUNNELS.

TUNNELS AMONG THE ANCIENTS.—HOW THEY WERE MADE.—MODERN TUNNELS AND THEIR LENGTH.—LAUGHABLE INCIDENTS IN RAILWAY TUNNELS.—THE TWO LOVERS.—THE ANXIOUS FRENCHMAN.—ROBBERS.—THE HOOSAC TUNNEL.—ITS HISTORY.—THE AUTHOR’S VISIT.—NATURE AND PROGRESS OF THE WORK.—AN EXPLOSION.—ACCIDENT FROM NITRO-GLYCERINE.—THE CENTRAL SHAFT.—THE TERRIBLE CALAMITY OF 1867.

Quite recently I picked up a newspaper about thirty years old, and read in it an account of the great engineering difficulties which had been overcome in the construction of the Boston and Lowell Railway.

This road, twenty-five miles in length, was among the earliest constructed in America, there being less than half a dozen railway lines which are older. The account proceeded to say that the great obstacle was the deep cut through solid rock, near the city of Lowell; and I can remember, in my boyhood days, riding over this road, and as we reached the cut, the attention of passengers was called to it, and at least half our number projected their heads through the windows to look at the wonderful work. Three times was the work let out on contract, and twice did the contractors fail, one of them failing not only to complete the work, but to pay the men he employed. The third contractor succeeded, but I believe he made no money out of his speculation.

This once famous cut through solid rock is only a few hundred feet in length, and I think about forty feet in depth. It has dwarfed into almost microscopic insignificance by hundreds of other railway cuts in this country and in Europe.

Railway tunnels were at that day unknown, though tunnels existed in Europe for other purposes, some of them of very ancient date.

[Sidenote: LENGTH AND EXTENT OF TUNNELS.]

Tunnelling, in civil engineering, is an underground passage usually constructed for conducting a canal or road beneath elevated ground. In mining the term is also sometimes applied to horizontal excavations. Tunnels are more common in Europe upon railways and canals than in this country. In the United States the total length of tunnels is not more than one mile for every thousand miles of road. In Great Britain it is considered cheaper to tunnel through rocks than to make open cuts deeper than sixty feet. In England the Wood-head Tunnel exceeds three miles in length; and there is another on the London and North-western Railway nearly three miles long. Twelve or fifteen others on different roads exceed one mile each. The Box Tunnel on the Great Western Railway, between Bath and Chippenham, is thirty-one hundred and twenty-three yards long, or rather more than one and three fourth miles.

On the canals of England there are five tunnels exceeding three thousand yards in length. The longest of these is the Marsden Tunnel, fifty-five hundred yards long. In France there is one tunnel on the St. Quentin Canal over thirteen thousand yards long.

Some of the tunnels of the ancient Romans were quite extensive in their character. One which was constructed by the Emperor Claudius was cleared out some years since by the Italian government. It proved to be about three miles long, thirty feet high, and twenty-eight feet wide at the entrance, and was nowhere less than twenty feet high.

The excavation seems to have been conducted, after the plan practised at the present time, by means of a number of vertical shafts first sunk on the line of the tunnel, and from the bottom of these shafts the work was carried on simultaneously in opposite directions.

Another tunnel, made in the early period of the Roman republic for the partial drainage of the Alban Lake, is more than one mile long.

[Sidenote: TUNNELS IN AMERICA.]

Most of the tunnels in America are on the lines crossing the Alleghany Mountains. There is one tunnel on the Pennsylvania Railway thirty-six hundred feet long. It was built in two years, and cost half a million dollars. There are many short tunnels on the line of the Baltimore and Ohio Railway? and there is a tunnel on the Blue Ridge Railway in Virginia forty-two hundred feet long. In South Carolina there are several tunnels, one of them nearly six thousand feet long. The Long Dock Tunnel in Bergen, New Jersey, opposite New York city, was completed in 1860. It is forty-three hundred feet long, twenty-three feet high, and thirty feet wide. On the line of the Central Pacific Railway, over the Sierra Nevada Mountains, there are several tunnels, the longest of them exceeding a mile; and railway engineering was carried to such perfection in the construction of this road that its tunnels were completed in a shorter time than in works of the same kind and with an equal hardness of rock anywhere else in the United States.

A journey through a railway tunnel is always more or less interesting to a novice, but an old traveller soon gets accustomed to it, and pays very little attention. On most roads, when a long tunnel is approached, it is customary in the daytime to light the lamps but this is by no means the general rule. Some queer incidents occur in these dark journeys through tunnels.

The darkness is so thick that one could almost cut it with a knife. It affords opportunities for enterprise, either for entertainment or mischief. Enterprising robbers sometimes conduct their operations in railway tunnels. Half a dozen of them will jostle a passenger, pick his pocket, and carry away his satchel, and when he emerges from the tunnel the robbers will have disappeared. It not unfrequently happens that loving couples bestow attentions upon each other in passing through tunnels which they would hardly indulge in were they in open daylight, and under the eyes of their fellow-passengers.

Every one has read, and many have seen, demure couples sitting quietly in their seats as the train enters a tunnel. There would be heard the sounds of a slight struggle, and also of less slight kisses. When the train emerges into the daylight, the pair will be sitting as demure as ever, but with reddened cheeks and a general appearance of disorder.

[Sidenote: INCIDENT IN BERGEN TUNNEL.]

On one occasion I was riding on a train approaching the Bergen Tunnel, near New York. The lamps were not trimmed and burning, and when in the tunnel we were as much in the dark as an ignorant newsboy attempting to read a page of Sanscrit.

In front of me was a young couple, and by their devoted attention to each other I concluded that they were not married, or, if married, were wedded to somebody else than to themselves. The gentleman was reading a newspaper; the lady was busy with a novel, and giving an occasional glance out of the window. As soon as the train entered the tunnel it was so dark that you could not see anything. I heard a struggle. There seemed to be a dislocation of hair, accompanied by a shower of hair pins. The gentleman’s hat fell to the floor, and I heard his paper crush as though it had been taken up by a clothes-wringer. Then there were several warm osculations, accompanied by ejaculations which sounded like, “You ought to be ashamed. Somebody will hear you.”

These utterances seemed to be more a matter of form than anything else, as the kissing went on like a company of infantry engaged in file-firing. You would have imagined that a whole flock of school-girls had met another flock of school-girls, from whom they had been separated at least six months.

By and by the train came out of the tunnel.

The gentleman recovered his hat and pretended to be reading his newspaper; he had it upside down, and it was torn, half through. The lady’s book was open at about the first page, though she had been reading it for three hours. Her hair had been loosened, and was falling down. Her lace collar was disordered, and quite in keeping with the collar of her masculine friend, one side of which was turned up like the toe of an old boot, while his neck-tie had lost its trim knot, and its ends were dangling like a pair of fish lines over the side of a ship. The gentleman and lady were very red in the face, and somewhat exhausted, and altogether they looked like a pair of butterflies that had been run through a sausage machine.

[Sidenote: AN UNHAPPY FRENCHMAN.]

A story is told of a Frenchman travelling in a railway coach in England, who was very anxious to change his shirt in order to make a visit after the train had arrived, without taking the trouble to go to a hotel. His guide-book indicated a tunnel on the road, and he asked the guard or conductor how long the train would be in the tunnel. The guard mistook his question, and supposed he asked how long before the train would reach the tunnel. He answered briefly, “Half an hour.”

The coach in which the Frenchman was travelling was filled with ladies and gentlemen. The traveller got down his valise, unlocked it, and made everything ready for a change of apparel while they were in the tunnel. As soon as they entered it he pulled off his shirt, and prepared to put on a clean one; but imagine his surprise, and that of his companions, on discovering that the train remained only three minutes in the tunnel, instead of thirty. As they came out in open daylight he was standing in their midst in a condition quite unfit for a mixed company of ladies and gentlemen.

The longest railway tunnel in the United States, is the Hoosac Tunnel, in Massachusetts. Its total length is twenty-four thousand five hundred feet, or more than four and one-half miles. Its width is eighteen feet, and its depth fourteen feet. As long ago as 1825, the Hoosac Tunnel route was surveyed, and a legislative commission was appointed to investigate the practicability of building a canal from Boston to the Hudson River. They made their report, in which they recommended a tunnel through the mountain.

In 1828 another commission reported to the legislature of Massachusetts that they could get over the mountain with a railway more quickly and more cheaply than through it, and recommended the Boston and Albany line, which was opened for travel in 1842.

From Boston to the Hudson River the route by way of the Hoosac Mountain is very feasible, with the exception of the mountain itself.

A story is told that Loammi Baldwin, the engineer who made the first survey for the canal, was very much in favor of this route. With a map or plan spread before him, he would say to the listener, “Why, sir, it seems as if the finger of Providence had marked out this route from the east to the west.” “Perhaps so,” said a listener, one day; “but what a pity it is that the finger of Providence had not been thrust through the Hoosac Mountain!”

[Sidenote: THE HOOSAC TUNNEL.]

In 1848 a company was chartered to construct a railway between Troy and Greenfield. Three years later the work was begun, and the directors voted to expend twenty-five thousand dollars in making experiments upon the proposed tunnel. An enormous machine was constructed and set to work in the winter of 1852. It was expected to perform wonders, and it did; but they were all the wrong way. The chief wonder was, that the machine, so carefully constructed, at such great cost, could do nothing whatever.

According to the description, it was “designed to cut a groove around the circumference of the tunnel thirteen inches wide and twenty-four in diameter, by means of a set of revolving cutters. When this groove had been cut the proper depth, the machine was to be run back on its railway, and the centre core blasted out by gunpowder, and split off by means of wedges.” This wonderful engine was not all that fancy painted it. It cut a very smooth and beautiful hole into the rock for about ten feet. Then it became deranged, and then—it never smiled again. Its cutting days were over, and when it was withdrawn it was quickly discarded and sold for old iron.

Another boring machine of the same sort, which was to cut a hole only eight feet in diameter, was tried at the other end. That, too, made a most glorious failure. Its failure was even more brilliant than that of the first machine, for it never succeeded in cutting a single inch of rock.

Different engineers have tried their hands and their skill on the Hoosac Tunnel. In 1854, the legislature of Massachusetts appropriated two millions of dollars to the Troy and Greenfield Railway, and in the following year they were at work in earnest.

[Sidenote: CROSSING THE HOOSAC MOUNTAIN.]

General Haupt, who became famous in the late war as a bridge-builder, attempted to pierce the Hoosac Mountain; but after several years he abandoned the work, and the whole property of the company was transferred to the State of Massachusetts. When the state took possession it began work on its own account, and in 1868 the legislature appropriated five millions of dollars, and made a contract with Walter and Francis Shanly, of Canada, for the completion of the tunnel. They began work in the following March, and there is very little doubt of their completing the tunnel.

In 1870 I made an excursion up the valley of the Connecticut as far as Greenfield, and there took the railway train to the Hoosac Mountain. At the east side or end of the tunnel I abandoned the cars, and took to a six-horse coach. I managed to obtain a seat near the driver, a burly, moon-faced fellow, who collected fifty cents extra for the privilege of riding near him. He treated everybody on the outside as politely as though he were king of the Cannibal Islands, and we were his subjects. For downright impudence, with a good deal of rudeness to the bushel, I will back an American stage-driver against any other man in the world.

Soon after dinner we drove away from the station, and after the horses had given us a little circus exhibition on their own account, which threatened to overturn us and break half a dozen necks, we climbed slowly up the valley skirting the edge of a forest, whose leaves were tinged with the varying colors of autumn. Our progress up the eastern face of the mountain was slow, but when we came down the western side the case was different. On the upper part of the mountain there is a long and comparatively level stretch of ground, on which there are many fine farms, and a general appearance of prosperity. Approaching the western face of the mountain, we overlooked the flourishing town of North Adams, and a region of country spread out before us like a beautiful panorama. I have looked from mountains in many countries, but rarely have I gazed upon a landscape more beautiful and more attractive than this. It is not grand—awfully grand—in its character, like many other landscapes, but there is an air of beauty about it which makes it charming in the extreme.

The road winds, in a sort of zigzag, down the side of the mountain, and our horses went at a good speed. The coach swung from side to side, and the baby of a feminine passenger screamed as if a dozen pins were being driven an inch or so, into its arms and legs. Down, down, down the mountain we went, and soon we were inside the busy town, and were driven up in front of the Wilson House. There I concluded to remain, and take my point of departure the next day for the tunnel.

On the following morning it was raining, not exactly cats and dogs, but a drizzly, misty, damp—very damp—sort of rain. I did not care very much for rain, though, especially as it made no difference, when once in the tunnel, what the outside weather might be. When breakfast was over, I started for the tunnel under the escort of the proprietor of the hotel.

[Sidenote: VISITING THE TUNNEL.]

The western portal of the tunnel is two miles south of the village. The road leading to it is among some small hills that appear trying to hug the mountain. Mr. Haupt began his work on this side of the mountain, in a limestone rock, from which he expected to pass directly into the solid primary rock, forming the base of the mountain; but to his surprise and mortification, his hopes were not realized.

[Sidenote: DEMORALIZED ROCK.]

Instead of reaching the solid rock, he entered into a mass that is known as demoralized rock, a sort of combination of mica, quicksand, water, and everything else that is disagreeable. It was perfectly unmanageable. As fast as they dug it out it flowed in. Imagine a mouse attempting to construct a tunnel through a barrel of swill, and you can form a very good idea of the difficulty of working in this rock. You might as well attempt to make a tunnel through a thousand cart-loads of soft mud; in fact, you could get along easier in the mud than in this demoralized rock, because you could take precautions against the flowing in of the mud, which you could not take against this disintegrated mica. It is a sort of soft stuff which French miners denominate “moutarde,” and English miners allude to as “porridge.”

In order to escape this porridge, the engineer tried to make a tunnel farther up the hill-side; but it was of no use. There was the stuff again, and somehow it must be met. Not only was it impossible to prevent its caving in, but it was necessary to prevent its rising upward. Consequently an arch must be made below, as well as above; in fact, it was necessary to construct the brick-work in such a way that it would form, when completed, a perfect cylinder, as the pressure of the porridge would be exerted in all directions. As the work was put forward and completed, a casing of timber was made, and inside this casing of timber the brick arch of the tunnel was built.

Our first visit was made to the western portal, into which we penetrated several hundred feet. For about seven hundred feet, the tunnel is laid in brick seven or eight courses thick, and forms a complete arch. Beyond that the rock is quite soft, but sufficiently hard to sustain itself long enough to permit the construction of an arch. When this work is completed there will be some two thousand feet of brick arching.

We thought that in entering this western part of the tunnel, we should get out of the rain; but we found streams of water occasionally coming through the brick-work, and especially through the stone at the heading, where the work of arching was going on. Quite a stream of water ran through the bottom of the tunnel, and I managed, in the course of my walk, to get my feet pretty thoroughly soaked. However, I had been wisely encased in a suit of old clothes, and when I emerged, there was more mud than clothing visible about me.

Climbing out of the western portal, we took the open road again, and went to what is known as the western shaft. The work through the demoralized rock and porridge was so slow that the engineers determined to sink a shaft farther up the mountain. It is about half a mile from the portal, and is three hundred and eighteen feet deep.

As soon as the shaft was sunk, the miners turned and worked outwards through the soft rock, cutting a small passage through to the western portal, so as to allow the water to drain off, and thus save the use of the pumps. In the other direction, that is, towards the east, the miners had found the solid rock of the mountain. At the time of my visit they were about half a mile from the bottom of the shaft.

[Sidenote: FLOODING A TUNNEL.]

Along our road forming the portal to the shaft, there was a small stream of water. My guide explained to me that in the great flood a year before, the water came down, tearing away the embankment which separated the brook from the tunnel. In a few minutes the embankment was all torn away, and the whole force of the stream was poured into the tunnel. An alarm was given as quickly as possible, and by running rapidly, the men who were working in the tunnel escaped, with the exception of one who was doing his first day’s work there, and was probably delayed by his unfamiliarity with the place. In a very short time the water completely filled the tunnel, and it was some weeks before the works were restored to their old condition.

Along this brook and around the west shaft there was quite a village occupied by the miners and their families. The town of North Adams provided a school-house and a school for the children, of whom nearly one hundred received instruction there during the week. For a part of the year the school-house was occupied at different hours, on Sunday, by two Sunday schools, one conducted by some of the Protestant churches, while the other is under the care of the Roman Catholics.

Around the shaft were the usual buildings and shops for the repair of tools, and for the ordinary machinery used about the mine. After a pleasant talk in the office of the superintendent, I was requested to dress in an oil-skin suit and a lantern, preparatory to going below. When all was ready, we went to the shaft, entered a cage, and descended. From the bottom of the shaft we struck out along the tunnel to make our way to the heading.

Our guide explained to us that there would be a blast in, about twenty minutes, and that we must move forward at good speed in order to see it. “Step right out without fear,” said he; “there is no danger of falling through, as the bottom is perfectly solid. You need not mind splashing those boots with water and mud, as they are used to it.”

[Sidenote: WALKING UNDER GROUND.]

I obeyed his directions and followed him, and I did some very rapid walking. The lanterns gave out just about light enough to make darkness visible. Away in the distance we could see the lights of the miners, and hear the noise made by the machinery and the tools of the workmen. An iron pipe six inches in diameter lay at one side of the floor, and through this was forced the air which furnished the power to the drilling machinery, and at the same time ventilated the tunnel. A channel had been cut in the solid floor to carry off the water which flowed in from various seams in the rock.

A short distance from the foot of the shaft were the stables, containing several mules, which were used for hauling the cars. The mules seemed to look at us with a desponding gaze, as if connecting us in some way with the outside world, which they would never see again.

“Did these animals,” said I, “come down in the cage where we descended?”

“Certainly,” said the assistant superintendent. “How else could they come down? They were sent down in that box, not all together, but only one at a time.”

I endeavored to ascertain how it was possible to pack a live animal into that cage without killing him. The assistant said it was easy enough if you only knew how, and could induce the animal to do as you wanted him to. “They are good mules,” said he, “and with a strong rope you can double them up any way, though they do not exactly like it. If they live two years longer, they will get out alive, otherwise they will die here. It does not pay to be hoisting live mules out, and lowering other live mules in. When they get here, they stay till we are through with them.”

About half way from the shaft to the heading we passed a couple of surveyors, who were making an alignment of the tunnel, to see that everything was correct. They had the ordinary instruments used for levelling purposes in the open air, but it seemed rather odd to find them using the same instruments by the light of lanterns, and laying out the track far down in the interior of the mountain. Every foot of the work of the tunnel had to be laid out with the utmost care, in order that the ends, when they met, could be made to join perfectly.

[Sidenote: SUGGESTION OF A VISITOR.]

There was a narrow track along the bottom of the tunnel, where cars drawn by mules, for the removal of the rock to the foot of the shaft, where it could be hoisted out. My guide told me that a recent visitor to the tunnel asked, with apparent innocence, why they hoisted out all that rock, and suggested that it would be much easier to dig a hole in the bottom of the tunnel, and bury it there; but he did not suggest what should be done with the rock which they removed to make the hole. We encountered several of these cars, and at one place were crowded rather closely against the walls.

Originally gunpowder was used for blasting purposes in the tunnel, but later in the work nitro-glycerine was adopted.

Several accidents with explosive materials occurred during the construction of the tunnel, one of the most serious being in 1869. The magazine where the nitro-glycerine was stored for operations on the eastern part of the tunnel, was about a quarter of a mile from the portal. Three of the miners went one morning to prepare the nitro-glycerine for the day’s use, and an explosion occurred, killing them all. Two of them were inside the building at the time, and nothing but a few pieces of them were found; the other, who was outside the building, was so badly disfigured that it was almost impossible to identify him, and the force of the explosion was so great that not a plank or a timber of the building remained.

[Sidenote: THE GREAT EXPLOSION.]

On the 19th of October, 1867, a terrible accident occurred at this shaft. A depth of nearly six hundred feet had been reached, and thirteen men were at work below. The gasoline apparatus used for lighting the works exploded, and set fire to the buildings. The engineer was badly burned, and driven from his post, and the men perished by suffocation. The shaft was soon filled with water, but it was not until next day that the fire was extinguished so that anybody could descend. A workman named Mallory was lowered, with three lanterns attached to him. Near the bottom two of his lanterns went out, and at a signal he was drawn up nearly insensible from breathing the foul air. He said there were fifteen feet of water in the shaft, and no signs of the men. It was necessary to erect buildings and machinery to clear the shaft, and it was not until a year after that the water was pumped out, and the bodies of the victims were recovered. They were all in a good state of preservation, but crumbled to pieces soon after exposure to the air.

As we neared the heading the noise increased. The shouts of the miners and the sound of the drilling machines overpowered any ordinary tones of the voice. The drilling machine was an iron frame, resting upon trucks, and was pushed as near as possible to the face of the rock. The drills were fastened to it in such a way that they could be turned upon any designated point. They were operated by compressed air, and worked with great rapidity, striking as many as three hundred blows to the minute. The quality of the rock was generally so hard that the drills became dull and blunt in a short time, and required to be sharpened; but they worked much more expeditiously than hand drills. Under the ordinary process of hand drilling it would take six weeks to accomplish the distance made in a single week by them.

When the drill-holes had been sunk to the required depth, the machine was moved back, and some plank doors were closed in front of it to prevent injury by the flying fragments of rock. Just as we reached the end of the heading the noise ceased, and the machine was drawn back, preparatory to blasting. The holes were cleared, and then three men came forward with the charges of nitro-glycerine in long tin tubes. These were put in the holes, the wires were fastened in their places, and then the men moved back; it is hardly necessary to say that I moved back at the same time, and quite as far as the workmen. Everything being ready, the signal was given.

“Look out that you are not blown down!” said my guide.

I did look out. There came a sound and a quick explosion, followed by the rumbling and crashing of the rock, and then a rush of air and smoke that almost threw me over.

The pressure of the air in the iron pipe for working the drills and ventilating the tunnel was about six atmospheres, or ninety pounds to the square inch. As soon as the blast was made, the air was turned on; the smoke from the blast was driven back, and the miners found themselves in a clear atmosphere.

After this blast it was intimated that there was nothing more to see, and we made our way out of the tunnel into the open air again, and back to the Wilson House.

On December 12th, 1872, the east heading was connected with the one driven east from the central shaft. The west heading was connected with the one driven west from the shaft on the 27th of November, 1873. This proved a splendid engineering feat.

The road bed was finished and the track laid early in 1875, and the first freight train passed through on the 5th of April of that year. The first passenger train was run through, July 8th, 1875.

[Sidenote: ACCIDENT AT THE CENTRAL SHAFT.]

Owing to the explosive action of nitro-glycerine the rock was broken for some distance beyond the limits planned in constructing the sides and arch of the tunnel, and there was constant danger of pieces of rock falling upon the track. The plan of arching it with brick was conceived of, and a contract was made in 1874, to do the arching and also to enlarge a portion of the tunnel at the eastern terminus. This work was completed, and the road is now in complete running order.

The cost of the work in the aggregate is nearly $15,000,000. The construction of the tunnel opens direct communication between Boston and Troy, and is of inestimable advantage to Massachusetts from a commercial point of view.

XXXIV.

THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL.

MOUNTAIN CHAINS BETWEEN NATIONS.—MONT CENIS.—CROSSING THE ALPS.—THE GREAT ALPINE TUNNEL.—LAYING OUT THE WORK.—THE ARC AND DORA.—DIFFICULTIES.—THE SURVEYS.—PENETRATING THE MOUNTAIN.—COMPLETION OF THE WORK.—THE CHANNEL TUNNEL.—ITS COST.—COST OF TUNNELS IN VARIOUS COUNTRIES.

It has been said with truth that “mountains interposed make enemies of nations.” In various parts of the world we find that mountain chains stand as barriers between different nations, and in many instances the boundaries thus formed by nature have remained unchanged for hundreds of years. On the map of Europe the most prominent mountain chain is that of the Alps, and it has stood as a separating line between nations for a long time. It is true that occasionally wars have been carried beyond these mountain chains, and conquests have been made in spite of them; but for practical purposes the chain of the Alps has been for centuries the separating line between France and Austria on the north, and Italy on the south. Sometimes the French possessions have extended to the south of the Alps, and sometimes Italy has extended her possessions to the north of that chain. Such possessions have never been held for a great length of time, and in one way or another they have fallen to the nation to whom they belonged by natural position.

Carriage roads were long since made across the Alps. In later years the railway has traversed these mountains, but the ascent is tedious and laborious, so that rapid communication was impossible. It remained for the science of the present day to overcome the obstacles which the mountains afforded, not by cutting away the Alps, but by piercing a passage through them.

More than twenty years ago the attention of the French and Italian governments was called to the necessity of a tunnel through the Alps by which France and Italy should be connected. The project was discussed for some time, and finally a convention was formed between France and Italy for the purpose of undertaking the work. Four or five years were consumed in surveys and in the contemplation of plans. All sorts of objections were made, and a list of these objections forms a humorous page. One man contended that the heat would be so great in the centre of the mountain that the men would be roasted alive while working in the tunnel. Another was positive that the noxious gases and vapors arising in the tunnel would suffocate everybody. Another contended that rivers of water would be found in the mountain so great that they would overwhelm the workmen, and convert the tunnel into an enormous spring. And so on, one after another, the objections were heaped up, and there was at one time a prospect that the work would not be undertaken.

[Sidenote: COMMENCEMENT OF THE WORK.]

The actual work on the tunnel was begun on the Italian side in 1857, and a little afterwards work on the French side also commenced. A great deal of labor had been performed in locating the tunnel. A mountain chain is not a single line of mountains, like a row of potato hills; but it consists of a central back-bone of mountains, with other and smaller mountains on either side, so that a chain may often be a hundred or more miles in width. Now, in piercing a chain like the Alps, it is necessary to find a way among the outlying hills on each side through the valleys of the rivers that flow from the central chain. In this way the open-air railway is brought to the foot of one of the mountains forming the great central back-bone.

But a difficulty arises in finding two of these valleys directly opposite each other. You may follow a valley until you get to the very base of one of the highest mountains of the range, but on looking to the other side you may find no corresponding valley.

It was this peculiarity of all mountain chains that greatly hindered the location of the Mont Cenis Tunnel. After much search, the best location was found to be by following the valley of the River Arc, on the northern side, and the River Dora, on the southern. A great many surveys were made, and it was finally discovered that the Arc and Dora, in their windings, were, at a certain point, less than eight miles apart. At this point, it was evident, Nature designed—if she had any design about it—that the great work should be constructed.

[Sidenote: VISITING THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL.]

In 1867, while travelling north from Italy to France, I determined to pay a visit to the Mont Cenis Tunnel. It was said to be quite difficult to obtain a permit to enter the workings; but perseverance and letters of introduction will accomplish a great deal, and after a little delay I obtained what I asked for. I found it more convenient to visit the northern end of the tunnel for the reason that on the Italian side the workings were sixteen miles away from the regular line of travel, while those on the northern side were directly on the route of tourists.

A railway over Mont Cenis was then under construction, and nearly completed; but as it was not open for travelling, I made the transit in a carriage, just as many thousands of people had made it before me. The railway over the Alps is of itself a curiosity. In some places the ascent equals one foot in ten, so that great power was required for the locomotives to enable them to drag their burdens upward. The track was narrow, and it was peculiar in having three rails instead of two. The wheels of the carriages run on two rails only, just like wheels of carriages on other railways. The central rail was intended for the use of the locomotives, to assist their power of traction. The wheels were arranged on these locomotives in such a way as to grip the central rail with tremendous force, and the brakes were also so arranged that by pressing this central rail they could bring the carriages to a sudden stop in case of accident.

The line of the railway over Mont Cenis follows very nearly the carriage road, and occasionally crosses it. In some places it passes through short tunnels, and in others it is roofed in to avoid injury by snow. In crossing the mountain by this railway very little time is saved over the ordinary carriage route, while the latter is very much to be preferred on account of its comfort and the advantage it gives for observing the scenery. We were a party of four, and after an unhappy night in a dirty hotel at Susa, an old town founded by the Romans, and containing some ruins dating from the time of the Romans, we started on our journey.

[Sidenote: A ROW WITH A LANDLORD.]

Our night had been unhappy. Our breakfast was still more unhappy, and our bill for what the landlord facetiously termed our “entertainment” was the worst feature of all. The discomfiture of his establishment was greater than the comfort of the best hotel in Paris, and he charged us about twice the rate that any Parisian landlord would dare to ask. We consoled ourselves and settled our breakfast by getting up a magnificent row with him, threatening to break his head, and talked at least fifteen minutes in mingled patois of English, French, Italian, Russian, and Chinese. We did not succeed in having our bill reduced, but I am confident if what we said to that landlord remained ringing in his ears for twenty-four hours, it must have driven him to hopeless insanity.

We wound slowly up the mountain, with the top of our carriage thrown back, so that we could enjoy the view.

The Mont Cenis Pass is the least interesting of all the great passes of the Alps. Tourists complain of its tameness, but there are points where it is picturesque.

At places during the ascent we had some fine views of that portion of Italy which stretches away from the base of the mountain, and we tried to imagine that we could now and then catch a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. The rough mountains were piled above and around us, frequently in fantastic shapes, and we found the air getting steadily more and more cool as we made the ascent.

Finally on the summit, only a few hours after leaving a tropical temperature in Italy, we were riding amid fields of snow, and shivering in our travelling coats and thick shawls.

[Sidenote: DESCENDING THE MOUNTAIN.]

The ascent was slow, but the descent on the French side was rapid. As we passed the boundary between France and Italy, our driver gathered his reins, and the horses went at full speed down the magnificent road. We left a cloud of dust filling the air behind us, and were whirled along so rapidly that I sometimes thought we might be tossed over one of the precipices in some of the short windings of the road. At every half mile there is a small shed, or house, known as the “refuge.” It is intended for travellers who are overtaken on the mountain, during the winter season, by violent snow-storms.

As it was summer we had no occasion to seek these refuges, but it was easy to see that they were of great advantage in protecting and saving life during the severer portion of the year.

At Lans-le-bourg we stopped at the French custom-house to undergo an examination; but our baggage was so small in quantity, and we manifested such a readiness to submit it to inspection, that the officers of customs did not detain us. Behind us was a carriage, in which were two American ladies, and they drove up a few moments before we started. They had that enormous amount of baggage peculiar to their sex and race, and protested that their trunks contained nothing of value. But the custom officers were inexorable, and as we drove away, the trunks of the ladies were being unpacked, and were undergoing a rigid examination. If you wish to avoid trouble at custom-houses when travelling in Europe, never carry a large amount of baggage, and never show the least hesitation to open it for inspection. Many a time have I found my baggage passed without examination, while the next man’s would be overhauled, and, as nearly as I could judge, only for the reason that he urged the officers not to look at it, and assured them that it contained nothing contraband.

[Sidenote: SURROUNDINGS OF MONT CENIS.]

At Modane we found the base of operations for the northern part of the tunnel, and here we halted to make our investigations. By the way, I never have been able to make out why the name of Mont Cenis should be attached to the famous tunnel, since that mountain is about twenty miles away from it. The tunnel does not pass under Mont Cenis, but under three peaks called Col Frejus, Le Grand Vallon, and Col de la Roue, the first being on the French, the third being on the Italian slope, and the second about half way between the two. I suppose, however, that the tunnel was named after Mont Cenis because it is better known than any other summit or range in this neighborhood, and because it would be better to give it a name which does not belong to it at all, rather than naming it after any one of the three peaks deserving equal distinction.

Modane, or, more properly speaking, Fourneaux, was the base of operations. Fourneaux is a miserable little village in a narrow gorge in the valley of the Arc, and its inhabitants are chiefly remarkable for their deformity and idiocy. The Grand Vallon is eleven thousand feet above the sea level, and crowned with snow. Its sides are steep, and it would be quite impossible to carry a railway over it. The other mountains on the route are equally rugged in character, but their height above makes little difference with the workings carried on in their interior.

The Mont Cenis Tunnel is the largest in the world, extending from Fourneaux, on the French side, to Bardouneche, on the Italian side. When it was begun, with the ordinary system, of hand drills, it was found that at the ordinary rate of progress, it would take thirty or forty years to finish the work. With an ordinary tunnel, where the elevation of earth or rock is not very great, shafts are sunk along the line, as before stated; but in this case it was impossible to sink these vertical shafts, on account of the great distance. A necessity arose for penetrating the rock much faster than by ordinary means, and there was also a necessity for supplying the workmen with fresh air.

[Sidenote: SOMMELIER’S AIR COMPRESSOR.]

These necessities led to Sommelier’s invention of drills worked by compressed air, and of the machinery for compressing the air. The machines have already been described in connection with the Hoosac Tunnel. A great many experiments were made before the air could be successfully used; but finally, when they were completed, the work progressed rapidly. By means of the compressors that were worked by a stream of water from the mountain, the air was reduced to one sixth of its natural bulk, and thus, when liberated, it exercised an expansive force equal to six atmospheres. The compressing machines used at most tunnels to-day are simply enormous and very powerful pumps, but the machine of Sommelier used the weight of water. Twenty or more large iron tubes were placed in an upright position. The “head” of the supply was far up the mountain side, and the water was brought to the machine in an iron pipe. A piston perfectly tight was fitted to the tube, the water was turned on, and its weight, added to the head it had received, compressed the air in the tube. As it was compressed, a valve was opened, through which it could escape into a reservoir. From this reservoir the air was conveyed in an iron pipe into the tunnel, where it was used to work the perforators.

We found that the entrance to the tunnel was quite a distance up the side of the mountain, and it was evident that considerable engineering skill would be required to bring the railway track thither when the work was completed. Opposite the mouth of the tunnel, my attention was called to a large target, made of boards painted white, and securely fastened against the rock. The target was used for the proper alignment of the work. At every foot of progress into the mountain, bearings were carefully taken. At night a Drummond light was placed in the centre of the target, so that it could be visible from the middle of the mountain.

It will be seen that it was a work requiring the utmost caution to lay out the route and direction of the tunnel through the mountain. A variation of a hundredth part of an inch at any point in the surveys would have changed the course of the working on one side or the other, so that the two ends would not meet. Bear in mind that these surveys were carried from the valley of the Arc to the valley of the Dora,—the opposite points being eight miles apart,—and the route lying, not through level fields and meadows, but over three rough and high mountains, where there was no path beyond that which the surveyors and their assistants laid out. And yet, so carefully was the work performed from the two sides, that the workings were brought together exactly, without a variation of a single foot.

[Sidenote: RULES IN REGARD TO VISITORS.]

The entrance to the tunnel is about twenty-five feet wide, and the same in height. To go inside the workings, you are clad with a rubber suit, and supplied with a lamp, and accompanied by a guide. For some time after the working began, almost any one could be admitted; but it was found that the workmen were greatly hindered by frequent visits, so that the rules became very strict. No one could enter the tunnel, unless employed there, without a pass from the management, though it was not very difficult for a journalist or a person of influence or prominence to obtain admission. As fast as the work progressed, a double railway was laid down to carry in the materials used in the working, and to bring out the broken rock. There was a narrow sidewalk of flagged stone on each side. The pipes for the air were ranged along the side of the tunnel, and between the lines of the rails, in a deep trench, were the gas and water pipes.

Like all tunnels this one was damp, from the streams of water coming through the roof; and if you wondered before entering, why you should be asked to wear a rubber coat, your wonder speedily ceased. At the time of my visit the workmen were nearly three miles from the entrance,—that is to say, the tunnel was finished for that distance,—while for about a quarter of a mile the men had cut the heading, but the upper part of the tunnel had not been opened.

The heading is the most difficult part of the work, and in all tunnel operations the workmen at the heading are kept sufficiently in advance of the enlargers, so that one party will not be in the other’s way.

The passage from the entrance through the finished portion was comparatively easy, but after you reached the newly-opened part you found it more difficult. There were wagons and men moving to and fro, and fragments of rock were lying everywhere about. The space was narrow, and every little while you found yourself running much nearer a man or a mule than you wished to; unless you moved about very carefully, you were under the risk of being run over by a mule, or crushed by the wheels of a wagon.

The perforators kept up a perpetual din, and you could hardly hear yourself speak; and I have heard persons aver that you could not hear yourself think. The drill of the Mont Cenis machine stands on a carriage, which the Italians call the “Affusto,” and it strikes about two hundred blows a minute. Its force upon the rock is about two hundred pounds.

A stream of water is thrown upon the rock into the drill-hole, to facilitate the perforating process.

The wear and tear of machinery in the tunnel were very great, owing to the hardness of the rock. Every fifteen minutes it was necessary to change the drills, and a great many affusti were worn out.

[Sidenote: DESTRUCTION OF DRILLING MACHINES.]

It was estimated that by the time the tunnel was completed four thousand machines were utterly worn out. At the entrance of the tunnel we saw a great many of these disabled affusti, reminding us of worn-out carriages around a stable.

With the exception that the workmen were clad in different costumes, and were shouting in French instead of English, the work was very much like that already described in the Hoosac Tunnel. Accidents were much more frequent in the Mont Cenis Tunnel than in the Hoosac Tunnel, for the reason that much less care was taken. It was said that nearly twelve hundred men lost their lives in the tunnel, or in connection with it, during the time of its construction,—at least, some of the workmen said so,—while the guides and directors insisted that the loss of life had not been more than one tenth of the number. Owing to the hardness of the rock the cost of the work was very great. Taking the average of the whole length of the tunnel, it was one thousand dollars a lineal yard, making a total, in round numbers, of fifteen millions of dollars.

The expense was shared between the French and Italian governments, and the tunnel will form a bond of union between the two nations greater than could be made by any other use of the same amount of money. By the terms of the convention between the governments, the tunnel is to remain uninjured should France and Italy be engaged in hostilities against each other. The tunnel shortens the route of travel very materially, and where the route of travel is shortened the work of peace and good will among men is greatly facilitated.

[Sidenote: TUNNEL UNDER THE ENGLISH CHANNEL.]

A tunnel has been proposed for the Straits of Dover, between England and France, and several plans have been considered. The London Times stated, early in 1872, that a company has been formed and funds subscribed to the amount of some one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, with the immediate object of making a trial shaft, and driving a driftway on the English side about half a mile beyond low-water mark, with the view of proving the practicability of tunnelling under the Channel. The completion of this work will furnish data for calculating the cost of continuing the driftway from each shore to a junction in mid-channel, and capital will then be subscribed for that purpose, or for enlarging it to the size of an ordinary railway tunnel, as the engineers may deem most expedient.

The tunnel will be made through the lower or gray chalk chiefly, if not entirely, and by the adoption of machinery, of which the promoters of this company have recently made practical trials, it is expected the passage from shore to shore can be opened within three years from the time of commencing the work, and at a cost very considerably less than any previous estimates.

[Sidenote: COST OF TUNNELS.]

The same paper, referring to the proposed enterprise, gives the following details about railway and other tunnels: “The cost of existing tunnels has been governed by such various conditions of locality and soil, that they can have little bearing upon the present question. It may be worth while, nevertheless, to cite a few prominent examples. The Mont Cenis Tunnel has cost one hundred and ninety-five pounds per linear yard, which would amount, for a length of twenty-two miles, to seven millions four hundred and fifty thousand four hundred pounds. The three most costly tunnels made in England have been the Kilsby, the Saltwood, and the Bletchingley, each of which was executed in treacherous strata, giving out large quantities of water. In making the Kilsby Tunnel a hidden quicksand was discovered, by which the works were drowned out. For a considerable time all pumping apparatus appeared insufficient, but by the employment of one thousand two hundred and fifty men, two hundred horses, and thirteen steam engines, working night and day for eight months, one thousand eight hundred gallons per minute were raised from the quicksand alone. The cost of the work was raised from ninety thousand pounds, the original estimate, to three hundred and fifty thousand pounds, or one hundred and forty-five pounds per yard for two thousand four hundred yards. The same rate of expense for twenty-two miles would amount to five millions six hundred and forty-six thousand six hundred and twenty pounds. The Saltwood Tunnel cost one hundred and eighteen pounds per yard, the Bletchingley seventy-two pounds; or for twenty-two miles, four millions five hundred and sixty-eight thousand nine hundred and sixty pounds, and two millions seven hundred and eighty-seven thousand eight hundred and forty pounds, respectively.

“The cost of railway tunnels in France has varied from thirty pounds per yard—being that of Terre Noire, on the Paris, Lyons, and Mediterranean Railway, to ninety-five pounds per yard, that of Batignolles, near Paris, on the Chemin de Fer de l’Ouest. In Belgium, Braine le Comte Tunnel cost forty-six pounds per metre, and the tunnels on the Liège and Verviers line fifty pounds per metre. In Switzerland the very difficult Hauenstein Tunnel between Basle and Berne cost eighty pounds a yard.

[Sidenote: ESTIMATE OF THE CHANNEL TUNNEL.]

“In America, the Hoosac Tunnel, in Massachusetts, through mica slate, mixed with quartz, has up to this time cost one hundred and eighty pounds per yard, and the Moorhouse Tunnel, in New Zealand, through lava streams and beds of tufa, intersected by vertical dikes of phonolite, cost sixty-eight pounds fifteen shillings per yard. It will be a convenient standard of comparison for these amounts if we remember that twenty-five pounds per yard would represent very nearly a million sterling for the twenty-two miles. Any estimate for the Channel Tunnel must at present be purely conjectural, and an estimate professing to embrace contingencies must be more conjectural than any other; but it is reckoned that the work, if practicable at all, could be completed within five years of time, and for five millions of money.”

XXXV.

THE PARISIAN SEWERS.

THE SEWERS OF PARIS.—THEIR EXTENT.—A JOURNEY THROUGH THEM.—THE START AND THE MODE OF TRAVEL.—DESCRIPTION OF THE GREAT SEWER.—ACCIDENTS OF SEWER TRAVEL.—HISTORY OF THE SEWERS.—THEIR FIRST GREAT INSPECTION.—BRUNESEAU.—INUNDATION FROM THE SEWERS.—A MAN LOST.—HORRIBLE DEATH IN THE SEWERS.—THE OLD AND THE NEW.—THE EXCAVATIONS.—NATURE OF THE WORK.—BREAKAGE OF THE CANAL.—JEAN VALJEAN IN THE SEWERS OF PARIS.—HIS FIRST SENSATION.—CAUGHT IN A LABYRINTH.—THE SEWERS OF ST. DENIS, AND THE MARKETS.—CAUGHT IN THE WATER.—THE POLICE IN PURSUIT.—FRIGHT OF THE FUGITIVE.—THE QUICKSAND ON THE COAST OF BRITTANY.—A HORRIBLE DEATH.—QUICKSAND IN THE SEWERS.—HOW IT WAS FORMED.—JEAN VALJEAN IN THE QUICKSAND.—HIS SUFFERINGS AND ESCAPE.

Paris, the gayest and brightest city in the world, has an underground life surpassing that of any other metropolis. Beneath the broad streets there are many miles of sewers constructed on a plan that furnishes a complete system of drainage. The total length of the Paris sewers is now about four hundred and thirty-four thousand yards, or three hundred miles. The length of galleries to be constructed in course of time is about two thousand yards more. To organize the network of sewers, the site of the capital has been divided into five basins, of which three are on the right and two on the left bank of the Seine.

Six great principal galleries, cutting the city nearly at right angles, and having for tributaries fifteen secondary galleries, out of which branch a multitude of galleries of less importance, constitute the principal arteries of the network. Three of the six principal galleries are on the right bank of the river: the first is that of the quays; the second descends the Boulevard de Sebastopol, and joins the first at the Place du Chatelet; and the third runs from the Place de la Bastille to the Place de la Concorde, through the streets St. Antoine and de Rivoli.

On the left bank the first gallery includes the line of the quays from the Pont d’Austerlitz to the Pont d’Iéna; the second follows the Boulevard St. Michel from the Place de l’Observatoire to the Pont St. Michel; and the third receives the Bièvre, and at the Rue St. Jacques joins the long gallery into which the sewer of the Boulevard St. Michel falls.

[Sidenote: IN THE SEWERS OF PARIS.]

The sewers, or at any rate a portion of them, are interesting places to visit, though nobody would care to live in them. Only a limited number of permissions are granted, and these only on stated days. I experienced considerable difficulty in securing a ticket, and it was only after exercising patience and perseverance to a liberal degree that my wishes were granted.

The ordinary route for visitors is to enter at the Place de la Concorde, or near the Madeleine Church, and come out at the Place du Chatelet. The sewer between these points is very broad and high, and is evidently the show-place of the whole system. In the centre is a canal about eight feet wide, and at its edges there are rails for the wheels of cars propelled by the workmen, who walk at the sides. The sidewalks are broad and carefully swept, so that one could walk upon them without difficulty. Visitors are generally seated in the cars and pushed along by the men to whom they are expected to give some money at the end of the journey. The car moves above the canal, and every visitor is surprised at the absence of foul odors and at the general cleanliness of the place. On each side of the larger sewers, and supported on iron posts, there are large pipes for the conveyance of water, and in some places the telegraph wires and gas tubes are visible.

[Sidenote: LADIES IN A SEWER.]

When everything is in order, there is very little to see, and a hundred yards or so are as good as the entire distance. The faint rumbling of the carriages can be heard overhead, but otherwise the silence is unbroken, save by the voices of the visitors and workmen, and the occasional sound of falling water. The party to which I was assigned was a serious one, and made very little noise, compared to one a little way in advance, and containing several ladies. The presence of lovely women can add a charm to a sewer, though I should hesitate to take a feminine acquaintance into such a place until I had first made the journey. We had no incident of importance greater than the loss of a hat, which was crushed beneath the car wheels, and the narrow escape of the owner from a tumble overboard as he attempted to clutch the falling article. The place was well lighted with gas; but I think everybody was glad to see the light of day as it streamed through the opening at the Place du Chatelet.

The sewers of Paris were begun several hundred years ago. The exact date is not known; in fact, their history is not exactly known, and some of it is mixed up with a great deal of fiction. In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo has given a graphic account of them, though, like much that he has written, the account is not always strictly true. (I quote his language.) He says, “The sewer of Paris, in the middle ages, was legendary. In the sixteenth century, Henry II. attempted an examination, which failed. Less than a hundred years ago, the cloaca, Mercier bears witness, was abandoned to itself, and became what it might.

“Such was that ancient Paris, given up to quarrels, to indecisions, and to gropings. It was for a long time stupid enough. Afterwards, ‘89 showed how cities come to their wits. But, in the good old times, the capital had little head; she could not manage her affairs either morally or materially, nor better sweep away her filth than her abuses. Everything was an obstacle, everything raised a question. The sewer, for instance, was refractory to all itineracy. Men could no more succeed in guiding themselves through its channels than in understanding themselves in the city; above, the unintelligible, below, the inextricable; beneath the confusion of tongues there was the confusion of caves; labyrinth-lined Babel.

[Sidenote: INUNDATION OF THE SEWERS.]

“Sometimes the sewer of Paris took it into its head to overflow, as if that unappreciated Nile were suddenly seized with wrath. There were, infamous to relate, inundations from the sewer. The inundation of 1802 is a present reminiscence with old Parisians. The mire spread out in a cross in the Place des Victoires, where the statue of Louis XIV. is; it entered the Rue St. Honoré by the two mouths of the sewer of the Champs Elysées, the Rue St. Florentin by the St. Florentin sewer, the Rue Pierre à Poisson by the sewer of the Sonnerie, the Rue Popincourt by the sewer of the Chemin Vert, the Rue de la Roquette by the sewer of the Rue de Sappe; it covered the curbstones of the Rue des Champs Elysées to the depth of some fourteen inches; and on the south, by the vomitoria of the Seine performing its function in the inverse way, it penetrated the Rue Mazarine, the Rue de l’Echaudé, and the Rue des Marais, where it stopped, having reached the length of a hundred and twenty yards, just a few steps from the house which Racine had lived in, respecting, in the seventeenth century, the poet more than the king. It attained its maximum depth in the Rue St. Pierre, where it rose three feet, above the flagging of the water-spouts, and its maximum extent in the Rue St. Sabin, where it spread out over a length of two hundred and sixty-one yards.

“At the commencement of this century the sewer of Paris was still a mysterious place. Mire can never be in good repute; but here ill-fame reached even fright. Paris dimly realized that she had a terrible cave beneath her. People talked of it as of that monstrous bog of Thebes which swarmed with scolopendras fifteen feet long, and which might have served as a bathing-tub for Behemoth. The big boots of the sewer men never ventured beyond certain known points. They were still very near the time when the scavengers’ tumbrils, from the top of which Ste. Foix fraternized with the Marquis of Créqui, were simply emptied into the sewer. As for cleansing, that operation was confided to the showers, which obstructed more than they swept out. Science and superstition were at one in regard to the horror. The sewer was not less revolting to hygiene than to legend. The Goblin Monk had appeared under the fetid arch of the Mouffetard sewer; the corpses of the Marmousets had been thrown into the sewer of the Barillerie; Fagon had attributed the fearful malignant fever of 1685 to the great gap in the sewer of the Marais, which remained yawning until 1833 in the Rue St. Louis, almost in front of the sign of the Gallant Messenger. The mouth of the sewer of the Rue de la Mortellerie was famous for the pestilence which came from it; with its pointed iron grating, which looked like a row of teeth, it lay in that fatal street like the jaws of a dragon blowing hell upon men. The popular imagination seasoned the gloomy Parisian sink with an indefinably hideous mixture of the infinite.

[Sidenote: THE BOLDEST MAN IN FRANCE.]

“One day in 1805, on one of those rare visits which the emperor made to Paris, the minister of the interior came to the master’s private audience. In the carousal was heard the clatter of the swords of all those marvellous soldiers of the Grand Empire; there was a multitude of heroes at the door of Napoleon; men of the Rhine, of the Scheldt, of the Adige, and of the Nile; companions of Joubert, of Desaix, of Marceau, of Hoche, of Kléber. The whole army of that time was there in the court of the Tuileries, represented by a squad or platoon guarding Napoleon in repose; and it was the splendid epoch when the grand army had behind it Marengo, and before it Austerlitz. ‘Sire,’ said the minister of the interior to Napoleon, ‘I saw yesterday the boldest man in your empire.’ ‘Who is the man?’ said the emperor, quickly; ‘and what has he done?’ ‘He wishes to do something, sire.’ ‘What?’ ‘To visit the sewers of Paris.’

“That man existed, and his name was Bruneseau.

[Sidenote: WORK OF THE INSPECTOR.]

“The visit was made. It was a formidable campaign; a night battle against pestilence and asphyxia. It was at the same time a voyage of discoveries. One of the survivors of this exploration, an intelligent working-man, then very young, still related, a few years ago, the curious details which Bruneseau thought it his duty to omit in his report to the prefect of police, as unworthy the administrative style. Disinfecting processes were very rudimentary at that period. Hardly had Bruneseau passed the first branchings of the subterranean network, when eight out of the twenty laborers refused to go farther. The operation was completed; the visit involved the cleaning; it was necessary, therefore, to clean, and at the same time to measure; to note the entrance of water, to count the gratings and the mouths, to detail the branchings, to indicate the currents at the points of separation, to examine the respective borders of the various basins, to fathom the little sewers ingrafted upon the principal sewer, to measure the height of each passage under the keystone, and the width, as well at the spring of the arch as at the level of the floor; finally, to determine the ordinates of the levellings at a right angle with each entrance of water, either from the floor of the sewer or from the surface of the street. They advanced with difficulty. It was not uncommon for the step-ladders to plunge into three feet of mire. The lanterns flickered in the miasms. From time to time, they brought out a sewer-man who had fainted; at certain places, a precipice. The soil had sunken, the pavement had crumbled, the sewer had changed into a blind well; they found no solid ground; one man suddenly disappeared; they had great difficulty in recovering him. By the advice of Fourcroy, they lighted from point to point, in the places sufficiently purified, great cages full of oakum and saturated with resin. The wall, in places, was covered with shapeless fungi, and one would have said with tumors; the stone itself seemed diseased in this irrespirable medium.

“They thought they recognized here and there, chiefly under the Palais de Justice, some cells of ancient dungeons built in the sewer itself. Hideous in pace. An iron collar hung in one of these cells. They walled them all up. Some odd things were found; among other things, the skeleton of an orang-outang which disappeared from the Jardin des Plantes in 1800—a disappearance probably connected with the famous and incontestable appearance of the devil in the Rue des Bernardins in the last year of the eighteenth century. The poor devil finally drowned himself in the sewer.

“Under the long, arched passage which terminates at the Arche Marion, a rag-picker’s basket, in perfect preservation, was the admiration of connoisseurs. Everywhere the mud, which the workmen had come to handle boldly, abounded in precious objects, gold and silver trinkets, precious stones, coins. A giant who should have filtered this cloaca would have had the riches of centuries in his sieve. At the point of separation of the two branches of the Rue du Temple and the Rue Ste. Avoye, they picked up a singular Huguenot medal in copper, bearing on one side a hog wearing a cardinal’s hat, and on the other a wolf with the tiara on his head.

[Sidenote: EXTENT OF THE WORK.]

“The complete visitation of the subterranean sewer system of Paris occupied seven years, from 1805 to 1812. While yet he was performing it, Bruneseau laid out, directed, and brought to an end some considerable works. At the same time, he disinfected and purified the whole network. After the second year, Bruneseau was assisted by his son-in-law Nargaud.

“Tortuous, fissured, unpaved, crackling, interrupted by quagmires, broken by fantastic elbows, rising and falling out of all rule, fetid, savage, wild, submerged, in obscurity, with scars on its pavements and gashes on its walls, appalling,—such was, seen retrospectively, the ancient sewer of Paris. Ramifications in every direction, crossings of trenches, branchings, goose-tracks, stars as if in mines, cœcums, cul-de-sacs, arches covered with saltpetre, infectious cesspools, an herpetic ooze upon the walls, drops falling from the ceiling, darkness,—nothing equalled the horror of this old voiding crypt, the digestive apparatus of Babylon, cavern, grave, gulf pierced with streets, Titanic molehill, in which the mind seems to see prowling through the shadow, that enormous blind mole, the past.

“At present the sewer is neat, cold, straight, correct. It almost realizes the ideal of what is understood in England by the word ‘respectable.’ It is comely and sober; drawn by the line; we might almost say, fresh from the bandbox. At the first glance, we should readily take it for one of those underground passages formerly so common and so useful for the flight of monarchs and princes, in that good old time ‘when the people loved their kings.’ The present sewer is a beautiful sewer; the pure style reigns in it; the classic rectilinear alexandrine, which, driven from poetry, appears to have taken refuge in architecture, seems mingled with every stone of that long, darkling, and whitish arch; each discharging mouth is an arcade. If the geometric line is in place anywhere, it surely is in the stercorary trenches of a great city. There all should be subordinated to the shortest road. The sewer has now assumed a certain official aspect. The very police reports, of which it is sometimes the object, are no longer wanting in respect for it. The words which characterize it in the administrative language are elevated and dignified. Villon would no longer recognize his old dwelling in case of need.

[Sidenote: HOW THE SEWERS ARE BUILT.]

“The excavation of the sewers of Paris has been a difficult work. Paris is built upon a deposit singularly rebellious to human control. There are liquid clays, living springs, hard rocks, those soft and deep mires which technical science calls Moutardes. The pick advances laboriously into these calcareous strata alternating with seams of very fine clay and laminar schistose beds, incrusted with oyster shells contemporary with the pre-adamite oceans. Sometimes a brook suddenly throws down an arch which has been commenced, and inundates the laborers; or a slide of marl loosens, and rushes down with the fury of a cataract, crushing the largest of the sustaining timbers like glass. Quite recently at Villette, when it was necessary, without interrupting navigation and without emptying the canal, to lead the collecting sewer under the St. Martin Canal, a fissure opened in the bed of the canal; the water suddenly rose in the works under ground beyond all the power of the pumps: they were obliged to seek the fissure, which was in the neck of the great basin, by means of a diver, and it was not without difficulty that it was stopped. Elsewhere, near the Seine, and even at some distance from the river, as, for instance, at Belleville, Grande Rue, and the Lunière arcade, we find quicksands in which we sink, and a man may be buried out of sight. Add asphyxia from the miasma, burial by the earth falling in, sudden settlings of the bottom, and the work of constructing sewers can well be understood to be dangerous.”

[Sidenote: JEAN VALJEAN’S ESCAPE.]

In all that he has written, Victor Hugo has produced nothing more graphic than his description of Jean Valjean in the sewers of Paris, when endeavoring to escape from the police, after the fight at the barricades. We quote his description, omitting a few paragraphs.

“It was in the sewer of Paris that Jean Valjean found himself.

“A resemblance of Paris with the sea. As in the ocean, the diver can disappear.

“The transition was marvellous. From the very centre of the city, Jean Valjean had gone out of the city, and, in the twinkling of an eye, the time of lifting a cover and closing it again, he had passed from broad day to complete obscurity, from noon to midnight, from uproar to silence, from the whirl of the thunder to the stagnation of the tomb, and, by a mutation much more prodigious still than that of the Rue Polonceau, from the most extreme peril to the most absolute security.

“Sudden fall into a cave; disappearance in the dungeon of Paris; to leave that street in which death was everywhere for this kind of sepulchre, in which there was life, was an astounding crisis. He remained for some seconds as if stunned; listening, stupefied. The spring trap of safety had suddenly opened beneath him. Celestial goodness had in some sort taken him by treachery. Adorable ambuscades of Providence!

“Only, the wounded man did not stir, and Jean Valjean did not know whether what he was carrying away in this grave were alive or dead.

“His first sensation was blindness. Suddenly he saw nothing more. It seemed to him also that in one minute he became deaf. He heard nothing more. The frenzied storm of murder which was raging a few feet above him only reached him, as we have said, thanks to the thickness of the earth which separated him from it, stifled and indistinct, and like a rumbling at a great depth. He felt that it was solid under his feet; that was all; but that was enough. He reached out one hand, then the other, and touched the wall on both sides, and realized that the passage was narrow; he slipped, and realized that the pavement was wet. He advanced one foot with precaution, fearing a hole, a pit, some gulf; he made sure that the flagging continued. A whiff of fetidness informed him where he was.

[Sidenote: LIGHT AND DARKNESS.]

“After a few moments he ceased to be blind. A little light fell from the air-hole through which he had slipped in, and his eye became accustomed to this cave. He began to distinguish something. The passage in which he was earthed—no other word better expresses the condition—was walled up behind him. It was one of those cul-de-sacs technically called branchments. Before him there was another wall, a wall of night. The light from the air-hole died out ten or twelve paces from the point at which Jean Valjean stood, and scarcely produced a pallid whiteness over a few yards of the damp wall of the sewer. Beyond, the opaqueness was massive; to penetrate it appeared horrible, and to enter it seemed like being ingulfed. He could, however, force his way into that wall of mist, and he must do it. He must even hasten. Jean Valjean thought that that grating, noticed by him under the paving-stones, might also be noticed by the soldiers, and that all depended upon that chance. They also could descend into the well and explore it. There was not a minute to be lost. He had laid Marius upon the ground; he gathered him up,—this is again the right word,—replaced him upon his shoulders, and began his journey. He resolutely entered that obscurity.

“The truth is, that they were not so safe as Jean Valjean supposed. Perils of another kind, and not less great, awaited them perhaps. After the flashing whirl of the combat, the cavern of miasmas and pitfalls; after chaos, the cloaca. Jean Valjean had fallen from one circle of hell to another.

[Sidenote: A PERPLEXING SITUATION.]

“At the end of fifty paces he was obliged to stop. A question presented itself. The passage terminated in another, which it met transversely. These two roads were offered. Which should he take? Should he turn to the left or to the right? How guide himself in this black labyrinth? This labyrinth, as we have remarked, has a clew—its descent. To follow the descent is to go to the river.

“Jean Valjean understood this at once.

“He said to himself that he was probably in the sewer of the markets; that, if he should choose the left and follow the descent, he would come in less than a quarter of an hour to some mouth upon the Seine between the Pont au Change and the Pont Neuf; that is to say, he would reappear in broad day in the most populous portion of Paris. He might come out in some gathering of corner idlers. Amazement of the passers-by at seeing two bloody men come out of the ground under their feet. Arrival of sergent-de-ville, call to arms in the next guard-house. He would be seized before getting out. It was better to plunge into the labyrinth, to trust to this darkness, and rely on Providence for the issue.

“He chose the right, and went up the ascent.

“When he had turned the corner of the gallery, the distant gleam of the air-hole disappeared, the curtain of obscurity fell back over him, and he again became blind. He went forward, none the less, as rapidly as he could. Marius’s arms were passed about his neck, and his feet hung behind him. He held both arms with one hand, and groped for the wall with the other. Marius’s cheek touched his, and stuck to it, being bloody. He felt a warm stream, which came from Marius, flow over him and penetrate his clothing. Still, a moist warmth at his ear, which touched the wounded man’s mouth, indicated respiration, and consequently life. The passage through which Jean Valjean was now moving was not so small as the first. Jean Valjean walked in it with difficulty. The rains of the previous day had not yet run off, and made a little stream in the centre of the floor, and he was compelled to hug the wall to keep his feet out of the water. Thus he went on in midnight. He resembled the creatures of night groping in the invisible, and lost under ground in the veins of the darkness.

“However, little by little, whether that some distant air-holes sent a little floating light into this opaque mist, or that his eyes became accustomed to the obscurity, some dim vision came back to him, and he again began to receive a confused perception, now of the wall which he was touching, and now of the arch under which he was passing. The pupil dilates in the night, and at last finds day in it, even as the soul dilates in misfortune, and at last finds God in it.

“To find his way was difficult.

[Sidenote: THE TRACK OF THE SEWERS.]

“The track of the sewers echoes, so to speak, the track of the streets which overlie them. There were in the Paris of that day two thousand two hundred streets. Picture to yourselves below them that forest of dark branches which is called the sewer. The sewers existing at that epoch, placed end to end, would have given a length of thirty miles. We have already said that the present network, thanks to the extraordinary activity of the last thirty years, is not less than a hundred and forty miles.

“Jean Valjean began with a mistake. He thought that he was under the Rue St. Denis, and it was unfortunate that he was not there. There is beneath the Rue St. Denis an old stone sewer, which goes straight to the collecting sewer, called the Grand Sewer, with a single elbow, on the right, at the height of the ancient Cour des Miracles, and a single branch, the St. Martin sewer, the four arms of which cut each other in a cross. But the gallery of the Petite Truanderie, the entrance to which was near the wine-shop of Corinth, never communicated with the underground passage in the Rue St. Denis; it runs into the Montmartre sewer, and it was in that that Jean Valjean was entangled. There, opportunities of losing one’s self abound. The Montmartre sewer is one of the most labyrinthian of the ancient network. Luckily Jean Valjean had left behind him the sewer of the markets, the geometrical plan of which represents a multitude of interlocked top-gallant-masts; but he had before him more than one embarrassing encounter, and more than one street corner—for these are streets—presenting itself in the obscurity like a point of interrogation; first, at his left, the vast Plâtrière sewer, a kind of Chinese puzzle, pushing and jumbling its chaos of T’s and Z’s beneath the Hôtel des Postes and the rotunda of the grain-market to the Seine, where it terminates in a Y; secondly, at his right, the crooked corridor of the Rue du Cadran, with its three teeth, which are so many blind ditches; thirdly, at his left, the branch of the Mail, complicated, almost at its entrance, by a kind of fork, and, after zigzag upon zigzag, terminating in the great voiding crypt of the Louvre, truncated and ramified in all directions; finally, at the right, the cul-de-sac passage of the Rue des Jeûneurs, with countless little reducts here and there, before arriving at the central sewer, which alone could lead him to some outlet distant enough to be secure.

“If Jean Valjean had had any notion of what we have here pointed out, he would have quickly perceived, merely from feeling the wall, that he was not in the underground gallery of the Rue St. Denis. Instead of the old hewn stone, instead of the ancient architecture, haughty and royal even in the sewer, with floor and running courses of granite, and mortar of thick lime, which cost seventy-five dollars a yard, he would have felt beneath his hand the contemporary cheapness, the economical expedient, the millstone grit laid in hydraulic cement upon a bed of concrete, which cost thirty-five dollars a yard, the bourgeois masonry known as small materials; but he knew nothing of all this.

“He went forward with anxiety, but with calmness, seeing nothing, knowing nothing, plunged into chance, that is to say, swallowed up in Providence.

[Sidenote: MOVING IN THE DARKNESS.]

“By degrees, we must say, some horror penetrated him. The shadow which enveloped him entered his mind. He was walking in an enigma. This aqueduct of the cloaca is formidable; it is dizzily intertangled. It is a dreary thing to be caught in this Paris of darkness. Jean Valjean was obliged to find, and almost to invent, his route without seeing it. In that unknown region, each step which he ventured might be the last. How should he get out? Should he find an outlet? Should he find it in time? Would this colossal subterranean sponge, with cells of stone, admit of being penetrated and pierced? Would he meet with some unlooked for knot of obscurity? Would he encounter the inextricable and the insurmountable? Would Marius die of hemorrhage, and he of hunger? Would they both perish there at last, and make two skeletons in some niche of that night? He did not know. He asked himself all this, and he could not answer. The intestine of Paris is an abyss. Like the prophet, he was in the belly of the monster.

[Sidenote: APPROACHING THE SEINE.]

“Suddenly he was surprised. At the most unexpected moment, and without having diverged from a straight line, he discovered that he was no longer rising; the water of the brook struck, coming against his heels instead of upon the top of his feet. The sewer now descended. What? would he then soon reach the Seine? This danger was great, but the peril of retreat was still greater. He continued to advance. It was not towards the Seine that he was going. The saddle-back which the topography of Paris forms upon the right bank, empties one of its slopes into the Seine, and the other into the Grand Sewer. The crest of this saddle-back, which determines the division of the waters, follows a very capricious line. The culminating point, which is the point of separation of the flow, is in the St. Avoye sewer, beyond the Rue Michel de Comte, in the sewer of the Louvre, near the Boulevards, and in the Montmartre sewer, near the markets. It was at this culminating point that Jean Valjean had arrived. He was making his way towards the belt sewer; he was on the right road. But he knew nothing of it.

“Whenever he came to a branch, he felt its angles, and if he found the opening not as wide as the corridor in which he was, he did not enter, and continued his route, deeming rightly that every narrower way must terminate in a cul-de-sac, and could only lead him away from his object, the outlet. He thus evaded the quadruple snare which was spread for him in the obscurity, by the four labyrinths which we have just enumerated.

“At a certain moment he felt that he was getting away from under the Paris which was petrified by the émeute, in which the barricades had suppressed the circulation, and that he was coming beneath the Paris which was alive and normal. He heard suddenly above his head a sound like thunder, distant, but continuous. It was the rumbling of the vehicles.

“He had been walking for about half an hour, at least by his own calculation, and had not yet thought of resting; only he had changed the hand which supported Marius. The darkness was deeper than ever, but this depth reassured him.

“All at once he saw his shadow before him. It was marked out on a feeble ruddiness almost indistinct, which vaguely empurpled the floor at his feet and the arch over his head, and which glided along at his right, and his left, on the two slimy walls of the corridor. In amazement he turned round.

“Behind him, in the portion of the passage through which he had passed, at a distance which appeared to him immense, flamed, throwing its rays into the dense obscurity, a sort of horrible star, which appeared to be looking at him.

“It was the gloomy star of the police which was rising in the sewer. Behind this star were moving, without order, eight or ten black forms, straight, indistinct, terrible.

[Sidenote: FOLLOWED BY THE POLICE.]

“During the day a battue of the sewers had been ordered. Three platoons of officers and sewer-men explored the subterranean streets of Paris; the first, the right bank, the second, the left bank, the third, in the city.

“The officers were armed with carbines, clubs, swords, and daggers.

“That which was at this moment directed upon Jean Valjean was the lantern of the patrol of the right bank.

“This patrol had just visited the crooked gallery and the three blind alleys which are beneath the Rue du Cadran. While they were taking their candle to the bottom of these blind alleys, Jean Valjean had come to the entrance of the gallery upon his way, had found it narrower than the principal passage, and had not entered it. He had passed beyond. The policemen, on coming out from the Cadran gallery, had thought they heard the sound of steps in the direction of the belt sewer. It was, in fact, Jean Valjean’s steps. The sergeant in command of the patrol lifted his lantern, and the squad began to look into the mist in the direction whence the sound came.

“Jean Valjean saw these goblins form a kind of circle. These mastiffs’ heads drew near each other and whispered.

“The result of this council held by the watch-dogs was, that they had been mistaken, that there had been no noise, that there was nobody there, that it was needless to trouble themselves with the belt sewer.

[Sidenote: NARROW ESCAPE FROM CAPTURE.]

“The sergeant gave the order to file left towards the descent to the Seine. If they had conceived the idea of dividing into two squads and going in both directions, Jean Valjean would have been caught. That hung by this thread. It is probable that the instructions from the prefecture, foreseeing the possibility of a combat and that the insurgents might be numerous, forbade the patrol to separate. The patrol resumed its march, leaving Jean Valjean behind. Of all these movements Jean Valjean perceived nothing except the eclipse of the lantern, which suddenly turned back.

“Slow and measured steps resounded upon the floor for some time, more and more deadened by the progressive increase of the distance; the group of black forms sank away; a glimmer oscillated and floated, making a ruddy circle in the vault, which decreased, then disappeared; the silence became deep again; the obscurity became again complete; blindness and deafness resumed possession of the darkness; and Jean Valjean, not yet daring to stir, stood for a long time with his back to the wall, his ear intent and eye dilated, watching the vanishing of that phantom patrol.

“He resumed his march, and after a time felt that he was entering water, and that he had under his feet pavement no longer, but mud.

[Sidenote: CAUGHT IN A QUICKSAND.]

“It sometimes happens, on certain coasts of Brittany or Scotland, that a man, traveller or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick to it; it is sand no longer, it is glue. The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot, the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil, all the sand has the same appearance, nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from the surface which is no longer so; the joyous little cloud of sand-fleas continues to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer’s feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines towards the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland. He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels somehow as if the weight of his feet increased with every step which he takes. Suddenly he sinks in. He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road; he stops to take his bearings. All at once he looks at his feet. His feet have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws his feet out of the sand; he will retrace his steps, he turns back, he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out, and throws himself to the left; the sand is half leg deep ; he throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the fearful medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, he lightens himself like a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees.

[Sidenote: QUICKSANDS ON THE COAST OF BRITTANY.]

“He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more; if the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if the sand-bank is of too ill repute, if there is no hero in sight, it is all over; he is condemned to enlizement. He is condemned to that appalling interment, long, infallible, implacable, impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for hours, which will not end, which seizes you erect, free and in full health, which draws you by the feet, which, at every effort that you attempt, at every shout that you utter, drags you a little deeper, which appears to punish you for your resistance by a redoubling of its grasp, which sinks the man slowly into the earth while it leaves him all the time to look at the horizon, the trees, the green fields, the smoke of the villages in the plain, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine, the sky. Enlizement is the grave become a tide and rising from the depths of the earth towards a living man. Each minute is an inexorable enshroudress. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being swallowed up; he howls, implores, cries to the clouds, wrings his hands, despairs. Behold him waist deep in the sand; the sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arms, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath, sobs frenziedly; the sand rises. The sand reaches his shoulders, the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it; silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them; night. Then the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand; a hand protrudes, comes through the surface of the beach, moves and shakes, and disappears. Sinister effacement of a man.

“This fatal mishap, always possible upon one or another coast of the sea, was also possible, thirty years ago, in the sewer of Paris.

[Sidenote: QUICKSAND IN THE SEWER.]

“The water filtered into certain underlying, particularly friable soils; the floor, which was of paving-stones, as in the old sewers, or of hydraulic cement upon concrete, as in the new galleries, having lost its support, bent. A bend in a floor of that kind is a crack, is a crumbling. The floor gave way over a certain space. This crevasse, a hiatus in a gulf of mud, was called technically fontis. What is a fontis? It is the quicksand of the sea-shore suddenly encountered under ground; it is the beach of Mont St. Michel in a sewer. The diluted soil is, as it were, in fusion; all its molecules are in suspension in a soft medium; it is not land, and it is not water. Depth sometimes very great. Nothing more fearful than such a mischance. If the water predominates, death is prompt, there is swallowing up; if the earth predominates, death is slow, there is enlizement.

“Can you picture to yourself such a death? If enlizement is terrible on the shore of the sea, what is it in the cloaca? Instead of the open air, the full light, the broad day, that clear horizon, those vast sounds, those free clouds whence rains life, those barks seen in the distance, that hope under every form, probable passers, succor possible until the last moment; instead of all that, deafness, blindness, a black arch, an interior of a tomb already prepared, death in the mire under a cover! the slow stifling by the filth, a stone box in which asphyxia opens its claw in the slime and takes you by the throat; fetidness mingled with the death rattle; mire instead of sand, sulphuretted hydrogen instead of the hurricane, ordure instead of the ocean; and to call, and to gnash your teeth, and writhe, and struggle, and agonize, with that huge city above your head knowing nothing of it all!

“The depth of the fontis varied, as well as its length, and its density by reason of the more or less yielding character of the subsoil. Sometimes a fontis was three or four feet deep, sometimes eight or ten; sometimes no bottom could be found. The mire was here almost solid, there almost liquid. In the Lunière fontis, it would have taken a man a day to disappear, while he would have been devoured in five minutes by the Phélippeaux slough. The mire bears more or less according to its greater or less density. A child escapes where a man is lost. The first law of safety is to divest yourself of every kind of burden. To throw away his bag of tools, or his basket, or his hod, is the first thing that every sewer-man does when he feels the soil giving way beneath him.

[Sidenote: PERIL OF JEAN VALJEAN.]

“Jean Valjean found himself in presence of a fontis. A yielding of the pavement, imperfectly upheld by the underlying sand, had occasioned a damming of the rain-water. Infiltration having taken place, sinking had followed. The floor, broken up, had disappeared in the mire. For what distance? Impossible to say. The obscurity was deeper than anywhere else. It was a mud-hole in the cavern of night.

“Jean Valjean felt the pavement slipping away under him. He entered into this slime. It was water on the surface, mire at the bottom. He must surely pass through. To retrace his steps was impossible. Marius was expiring, and Jean Valjean exhausted. Where else could he go? Jean Valjean advanced. Moreover, the quagmire appeared not very deep for a few steps. But in proportion as he advanced, his feet sank in. He very soon had the mire half-knee deep, and water above his knees. He walked on, holding Marius with both arms as high above the water as he could. The mud now came up to his knees, and the water to his waist. He could no longer turn back. He sank in deeper and deeper. This mire, dense enough for one man’s weight, evidently could not bear two. Marius and Jean Valjean would have had a chance of escape separately. Jean Valjean continued to advance, supporting this dying man, who was perhaps a corpse.

“The water came up to his armpits; he felt that he was foundering; it was with difficulty that he could move in the depth of mire in which he was. The density, which was the support, was also the obstacle. He still held Marius up, and with an unparalleled outlay of strength he advanced; but he sank deeper. He now had only his head out of the water, and his arms supporting Marius. There is in the old pictures of the deluge a mother doing thus with her child.

“He sank still deeper, he threw his face back to escape the water, and to be able to breathe; he who should have seen him in this obscurity would have thought he saw a mask floating upon the darkness; he dimly perceived Marius’s drooping head and livid face above him; he made a desperate effort, and thrust his foot forward; his foot struck something solid: a support. It was time.

[Sidenote: SAVED AT LAST.]

“He rose, and writhed, and rooted himself upon this support with a sort of fury. It produced the effect upon him of the first step of a staircase reascending towards life.

“This support, discovered in the mire at the last moment, was the beginning of the other slope of the floor, which had bent without breaking, and had curved beneath the water like a board, and in a single piece. A well-constructed paving forms an arch, and has this firmness. This fragment of the floor, partly submerged, but solid, was a real slope, and, once upon this slope, they were saved. Jean Valjean ascended this inclined plane, and reached the other side of the quagmire.

“On coming out of the water, he struck against a stone, and fell upon his knees. This seemed to him fitting, and he remained thus for some time, his soul lost in unspoken prayer to God.

“He rose, shivering, chilled, infected, bending beneath this dying man, whom he was dragging on, all dripping with slime, his soul filled with a strange light.”

XXXVI.

MERCURY.

PROPERTIES AND PECULIARITIES OF MERCURY, OR QUICKSILVER.—AMALGAMATION.—CINNABAR.—WHERE IT IS FOUND.—ALMADEN AND OTHER MINES.—CURIOUS CUSTOMS AT IDRIA.—MODES OF WORKING.—HUANCA VELICA.—QUICKSILVER MINES IN CALIFORNIA.—CALIFORNIA LAWSUITS. - WONDERFUL PROPERTIES OF SPANISH TITLES.—AN UNHAPPY ACCIDENT.—PRACTICAL VALUE OF AN EARTHQUAKE—AN UNDERGROUND CHAPEL.

One of the most valuable mineral substances is the one which is known as Mercury, or Quicksilver. It has many properties peculiar to no other metal. At an ordinary temperature it is a fluid. At thirty-nine or forty degrees below zero (Fahrenheit) it becomes solid, and resembles lead. At six hundred and sixty-two degrees (Fahrenheit) it boils, and is thrown out on an invisible, transparent vapor, like steam. Before it reaches the boiling point, if it is exposed to the air at a high temperature, it absorbs oxygen, and is converted into red oxide. Strong nitric acid will absorb mercury. Acids affect it somewhat, but not to any great extent. It mixes with lead, zinc, gold, and silver, and it may be separated from them by a chemical process, and be made perfectly pure. Sometimes the cheap metals are used to adulterate mercury; but the effect of this mixture is to produce an amalgam, whose adulterations can be easily detected. It is found sometimes in a native or pure form, and sometimes amalgamated with silver; but these instances are so rare that deposits of this sort cannot be relied upon as sources of supply.

Sometimes mercury is found in its natural state in cavities in the earth, so that it may be dug up in considerable quantities. The chief source of supply, however, is in the form of cinnabar. Cinnabar is said to be an East Indian name, originally given to the mixture of the blood of the dragon with that of the elephant, and afterwards applied to the common ore of mercury. On account of its beautiful red color, known as vermilion, this ore has been worked in various parts of the world for more than three thousand years. Some of the Roman historians refer to the use of mercury in amalgamating gold; and the mines of Almaden, in Spain, which still produce cinnabar, are known to have been worked for thousands of years before the Christian era. Cinnabar consists of eighty-six per cent. of mercury, and fourteen per cent. of sulphur. It forms beds and veins in certain rocks, and in many places the rocks near the veins will have cinnabar distributed through them. When finely ground it makes a brilliant red paint, and, as before stated, is known as vermilion; and it is said that the Indians of California first called the attention of the Spanish settlers to the presence of quicksilver by their use of cinnabar in ornamenting their faces.

[Sidenote: CINNABAR MINES.]

The most important mines of mercury in the world are those of Almaden, in Spain; New Almaden, in California; Idria, in Austria; and Huanca Velica, in Peru. There are smaller mines in Hungary, Bohemia, Bavaria, China, Japan, Brazil, and a few other countries. Formerly the Almaden mines, in Spain, controlled the quicksilver market of the globe. The owners of the mines could affect the price of the article just as they pleased. If they raised or lowered it, the other mines were obliged to lower or raise their prices.

Almaden is situated in New Castile, about fifty miles north of Cordova. Apart from its mining peculiarities, it possesses no feature of attraction, as it consists simply of one long street, built on a ridge of rock, where the cinnabar ore is found. The town has a mining school, half a dozen or more ordinary schools, three hospitals, and a liberal supply of churches, and about ten thousand inhabitants. Until about the beginning of the present century the mines were worked by convicts, who were compelled to wear chains, and were kept at such severe toil that they never lived long. Later, however, the mines have been worked on a voluntary labor system, and employ about five or six thousand persons. Each laborer is required to toil only six hours a day. A longer exposure than this to the quicksilver is considered injurious to the health. The annual production of the Almaden mines is about two million pounds of pure metal.

[Sidenote: MINES IN AUSTRIA AND PERU.]

The mines of Idria, in Austria, are about thirty-two miles northeast of Trieste. The town is a small one, its population being less than five thousand. Its annual production is about three hundred thousand pounds. A single shaft has been sunk to a depth of about one thousand feet. The excavations are made through horizontal galleries extended from this shaft. The descent into the mine is accomplished partly by steps cut in the rock and partly by ladders. About five hundred miners are employed. They preserved a peculiarity by wearing a uniform of their own, and, though the occupation is unhealthy, the appointment of a miner at Idria is greatly sought. The mines have been worked about four hundred years, and are the property of the government. The product of the other smaller mines of this metal throughout Europe is so inconsiderable as to have no material effect on the market. The same may be said of the quicksilver mines of China, Japan, and Australia.

The Peruvian quicksilver mines have been worked since the beginning of the sixteenth century. At the great mines of Huanca Velica the ores are found in sandstone and shales along a belt of ground or rock about four hundred feet thick. Most of the excavations are open ones, and appear as if laid out without much plan or method. Accidents frequently occur, and at one time two hundred workmen were buried by the caving in of the earth. The total annual yield of the Peruvian mines is about four hundred thousand pounds.

Mercury is found in many places in Mexico, but no mines of it are now worked, the deposits not being sufficient to pay for the exploitation. The quicksilver mines of California were first opened and worked in 1845, by one of the Spanish settlers. It was known that for a long time the Indians had made use of cinnabar to ornament their faces, and it was found that they had made pits fifty or sixty feet deep into the mountain in search of it. The first attempt made by the Spaniards in these Indian mines was to work the cinnabar ore for silver; but no silver could be found. The war of 1846 stopped the working of the mine, and nothing was done after that until 1848, when operations were recommenced on a large scale. A company of Mexicans and English worked the mines from 1850 to 1858, when they were stopped by the United States court on account of a lawsuit about the title.

[Sidenote: NEW ALMADEN IN CALIFORNIA.]

The New Almaden mines are situated about twelve miles from San José, an important town fifty miles south of San Francisco. It was my pleasure to visit these mines several years ago, and learn something of the mode of working them. A small party of us took the train from San Francisco, and proceeded to San José, whence we travelled in carriages over an excellent road, which undulated just enough to make it interesting. Unfortunately for us, at the time of our visit, no work was in progress in the lower mines in consequence of one of those lawsuits for which the region is famous. Consequently we did not go down into the mine itself, but were obliged to content ourselves with an inspection of the reduction works.

I may remark, by the by, in speaking of these lawsuits of the New Almaden mine, that it is a peculiar dispensation of providential care or human cupidity to afflict every valuable piece of property in California with a lawsuit. I would not wish to assert that there is a dishonest man in all California, as the assertion might be followed by an assault on the writer by some enthusiastic resident of the Golden State; but I do say that the result of my observation was, that nothing could be found in California worth the having but that some claimant under a previous title would be sure to present himself. The New Almaden mines, as soon as their value became known, found plenty of claimants under Spanish titles and Indian titles. A great part of their revenue has been swallowed up in legal proceedings. When all these questions shall have been settled finally, I presume some claimant will turn up who holds a title given him by Columbus or Queen Isabella, and possibly by the founder of the Christian religion. Titles in California can go back to a wonderfully distant period, and they are always so indefinite as to afford holding-ground for a legal anchor.

[Sidenote: FRAUDULENT TITLES.]

I do not think a single mine or very valuable property in California has ever escaped legal difficulties. A rocky island in San Francisco Bay was pointed out to me as the locality of a Spanish claim. It had stood very quietly unoccupied, and was not considered worth ten cents for any practical purpose. By and by the government wished to use it as the site of a fortification. Immediately there arose a claimant under a Spanish title, and he came very near compelling the government to pay him a handsome price for the property. I presume, if a volcanic island should be thrown up in the middle of the bay, and somebody should take possession of a piece of it, somebody else would have a Spanish or Indian title to it, or would possibly produce a title from his Satanic Majesty, who had caused the island to be made for the especial benefit of the claimant, in return for valuable services rendered in times past or present.

On reaching the mines, we proceeded at once to the Reduction Works, and were politely shown around by Mr. Butterworth, the superintendent. We amused ourselves trying to lift flasks of quicksilver, and were nearly choked with the fumes arising from the places where the ore was being reduced. The reduction works are very simple affairs. They consist of piles of brick with furnaces beneath them, and with large cavities, down which the ore is placed. The ore is roasted, and the mercury rises in vapor, and is condensed. The furnaces are, most of them, forty feet long, eight feet wide, and ten feet high, and fixed near each other. Each furnace is divided into compartments, the fire occupying one at the end and a little below the compartment, where the ore is placed. The heat does not come in direct contact with the ore, but is driven through it by means of flues.

[Sidenote: THE CONDENSING CHAMBERS.]

There are several Condensing Chambers, so called, each of them eight feet long, four feet wide, and about six feet high. The chamber where the ore is placed is connected with the condensing chambers by means of a flue. Eight or ten tons of ore are placed in the furnace at one time. Seven other condensing chambers succeed the first, and the fumes are passed through one after the other, and finally into a tank, where they are condensed in water. Each chamber is so constructed that the mercury will flow into the iron tank, where it is collected and put in flasks. About sixty hours are required to extract the mercury from a charge of ore.

In spite of all precautions a great deal of mercury is lost. At the time of our visit, new furnaces had been constructed to take the place of some old ones, which had been torn down a year or two before. They showed us an immense cavity in the earth, where the quicksilver had accumulated and settled. Its weight had made places for it in some instances, while in others the ground was thoroughly saturated. These deposits were discovered quite by accident, and I was told that several tons of quicksilver had been taken from them.

One of our party became aware of the peculiar properties of quicksilver in a way that was not at all satisfactory. At the tank where the material was waiting to be placed in the flasks there were several gallons of mercury, and we amused ourselves by forcing our hands beneath the surface. The sensation was peculiar, and to most of us entirely new. Our friend was wearing a ring on one of the fingers that he thrust into the metal. The quicksilver allied with the gold, and suddenly it was discovered that the ring had turned white. His attention was called to it by our guide, who suggested that the ring must be removed instantly and heated. It was taken from the finger, not without considerable difficulty, placed upon a shovel, and heated. A goodly portion of the mercury, which had adhered to it, was driven away; but I believe the ring subsequently tumbled to pieces, and became valueless.

Men and animals employed about the Smelting Works are salivated and otherwise injuriously affected by the mercury; but I believe no like effects are experienced in the mines. The ore is found irregularly distributed in the hills a little more than a mile from the smelting works. The vein is very irregular; in fact, it is less a vein than a series of chambers. The mine is entered through a level, which extends twelve hundred feet into the hill. Side galleries are excavated on the line of deposits, and sometimes they follow these deposits four or five hundred feet. The earthquake of 1865 opened up several new chambers in the rock, and gave an increased value to the property—about the only property which an earthquake was ever known to benefit. Most of the laborers in these mines are of Indian or Spanish origin. They have a chapel in the mine, similar to chapels which are fitted up in the mines of Catholic countries all over the world. The chambers of the mine are occasionally used for fêtes and celebrations, and at such times are quite interesting.

[Sidenote: EXTENT OF THE PRODUCTION.]

The quantity of quicksilver produced annually at the New Almaden mine is about two million pounds. Sometimes it falls short of this amount, and sometimes exceeds it; but the production is largely in the control of the managers, and they can raise or lower it almost at will. The stock of this company has been the subject of a great deal of speculation in Wall Street. Some men have made money by it, and others have lost. The speculations in it have been so extensive that it has become a sort of financial football, which prudent people would do well to let alone.

The New Idria mine was opened subsequently to the opening of the New Almaden mine. The mercury of New Almaden had driven that of Spain from all the American markets, and fairly controlled the world. The mine at Idria, together with mines at other places in California, produced a comparatively small amount, so that the market of the New Almaden mine was not seriously affected.

A universal system is followed over the entire globe, so far as the packages in which mercury is placed are concerned. The Almaden mines of Spain adopted the plan of enclosing the mercury in iron flasks, containing seventy-six and one half pounds, and the example is followed elsewhere. Sometimes half flasks and quarter flasks are made; but the standard of seventy-six and a half pounds for a whole flask is universally maintained.

[Sidenote: HOW MERCURY IS USED.]

The greatest consumers of mercury are the Chinese, not physically, or for mechanical or chemical purposes. The Chinese use a great many paints, and especially red ones. As a natural consequence, quicksilver enters largely into their composition. Other uses of quicksilver are in the extraction of silver and gold from their ores in the amalgamating process, and also for coating or silvering the backs of mirrors. Mercury is employed in the construction of philosophical instruments, and is preferred to other fluids for filling thermometers and barometers. It is used in medicine to a considerable extent; and doubtless many of my readers are familiar with it. Its most general form is in what is known as the blue pill. Nearly all physicians prescribe it, but they always enjoin great caution in its use. One celebrated medical writer says, “Few medicines produce such a marked sense of depression, both mentally and bodily, as mercury, even of ordinary doses; and when the system is brought thoroughly under its influences, the effects become distressing.”

XXXVII.

GUANO AND THE COOLIE TRADE.

GUANO AND ITS CHARACTER.—WHERE IT IS FOUND.—THE CHINCHA ISLANDS AND THEIR WEALTH.—NOVEL PLANS OF THE PERUVIANS.—HOW THEY DIG AND LOAD GUANO.—EFFECT OF GUANO ON A STRANGER.—JARVIS’S AND HOWLAND’S ISLANDS.—THE COOLIES AND THEIR LABOR.—STORIES OF HORRIBLE CRUELTIES.—HOW THE ASIATIC SLAVE TRADE IS CONDUCTED.—MUTINY ON SHIPBOARD.—MURDER OF THE CREW.—HUMAN MINCE MEAT.—TREATMENT OF COOLIES AT WORK.—EXTENT OF THE COOLIE TRAFFIC.—PROBABLE FATE OF MISSING SHIPS.

The exhausting effect of agriculture, in many localities, renders it necessary to furnish the soil with enriching materials. From time immemorial, use has been made of the excrement of animals, of deposits in bogs and swamps, where vegetable matter has decayed, and of various mineral substances known to contain ingredients nutritious to growing plants. An important ingredient of nearly all manures is the substance known as ammonia, which is contained in large quantities in the excrement of birds. Any farmer will tell you that the space beneath his hen-roost furnishes a material more valuable, pound by pound, than any other part of his barn-yard establishment. In some parts of the world the excrement of birds is found in large quantities, but these places are few in number, for the reason that they are only in districts where there is no rain. In localities subject to rain, although the birds may be numerous, the valuable material is washed away, or, at all events, is so greatly reduced in quality as to render it worthless or nearly so.

[Sidenote: THE CHINCHA ISLANDS.]

The great deposits of bird excrement, popularly known as guano, are in tropical regions, the most important of them being at the Chincha Islands, which are situated in the Pacific Ocean, near the coast of Peru, in latitude 13° 38´ south, longitude 76° 28´ west. They are three in number, and are small, rocky, and perfectly dry. They appear to have been formed by separate inundations of lava under great pressure, and are composed of a gray and reddish colored rock that in some places presents a perpendicular wall three hundred feet above the surface of the ocean. The islands have a wild and picturesque appearance. Immense flocks of sea-birds are constantly flying around them. The walls of the islands are full of caves and arches, some of them very high, and the beating of the waves in the caves and arches can be heard a long distance.

The islands are small, no one of them being more than a mile in length. The total amount of guano upon them is estimated at forty millions of tons. It has been accumulating during thousands of years. In some places the depth is estimated at more than a hundred feet, and over nearly all the extent of the islands it is rarely at a depth of less than sixty feet. The value of guano was well known to the Peruvians of ancient times, and these immense deposits were specially cared for by the government. By command of the Incas of Peru no person was allowed, under penalty of death, to visit the islands during the breeding season of the birds, and the same penalty was inflicted upon those who killed birds at any time of the year.

According to the histories, five hundred years were required for the formation of a single inch in thickness of guano; consequently, the time required for the formation of a layer of guano a hundred feet thick must be something more than the period of life allotted to Methusaleh, or any of his contemporaries.

[Sidenote: FIRST IMPORTATION OF GUANO.]

The attention of Europe was first called to guano in 1804, by the great traveller Humboldt. He caused the substance to be analyzed, and found that it was composed of phosphates of ammonia, lime, and urate and oxalate of ammonia, together with other organic matters not determined. A few years later further attention was called to it by Sir Humphry Davy, who suggested that it might prove valuable to farmers; and it was soon after tried at St. Helena. The first shipment ever brought to Europe was in 1840, and consisted of twenty casks. It was tried, and found useful; and the next year several cargoes were taken to England, and several more to the United States. The exclusive right of digging and shipping guano for the term of nine years was sold at this time, by the government, for forty thousand dollars; but it was repudiated soon after, as the increased demand for guano developed its immense value. The monopoly was, however, revived in a little while, one firm being allowed the exclusive trade with England, and another with the United States. The demand increased so rapidly that a great many ships went into the carrying trade, and sometimes as many as two hundred ships have been waiting at the Chincha Islands for their cargoes.

Explorations were made for other deposits, and some rich ones were found on the Lobos Islands, off the north coast of Peru. A great many smaller islands were found to be covered with guano, and in various parts of the Pacific Ocean there are extensive deposits. The most important of these are upon Jarvis’s, Baker’s, and Howland’s Islands, situated in the South Pacific Ocean, belonging to a New York company, and named after American merchants interested in them. Jarvis’s Island was estimated a few years ago to contain nearly four millions of tons; the quantity on Baker’s and Howland’s Islands was not determined.

To show the rapid increase in the demand for guano, it may be mentioned that, in the year 1841, six thousand five hundred tons were exported from the Chincha Islands, and in the five following years, one hundred and twenty-seven thousand tons were exported,—or an average of more than thirty-five thousand tons a year.

In 1849 the exports of guano were nearly a hundred thousand tons, and from 1852 to 1857 the yearly average was more than two hundred thousand tons.

[Sidenote: NATURE OF GUANO.]

The value of guano varies according to the demand, but is ordinarily fixed at about seventy dollars a ton. It is sufficiently valuable to induce enterprising men to adulterate it; and more than half the guano sold in England and the United States is said to be mixed with inferior substances before it reaches the consumer. Nearly all dealers who purchase large quantities require a careful analysis of samples before they close their bargains. The analysis of guano is very desirable for the farmer, in order to indicate the best method of applying the fertilizer, and to ascertain for what crops and to what soils each kind is best adapted. For example, some soils might be most benefited by the Peruvian guano, which contains large quantities of ammonia; while others would be most benefited by the cheap qualities, which contain larger quantities of phosphate. Full details respecting the guano trade and the use of guano are contained in the document accompanying the message of the President of the United States to the Senate, February 5th, 1859.

Another locality where guano is found is in the Caribbean Sea, near the coast of Venezuela; but the islands containing this guano are in the region of tropical rains, and consequently the substance formed there is quite different in character from the dry, pulverized guano of the Chincha Islands. Some of these Caribbean islands are low, and covered with sand, shells, and other substances, in which the birds lay their eggs. Others rise in peaks to the height of several hundred feet; and on these peaks there are rocky layers which have been formed from guano. These rocky layers contain large quantities of phosphate and carbonate of lime. Other layers contain very little carbonate and a larger proportion of phosphate. Another variety is a solid rock, which forms a crust sometimes two feet thick, and consists mainly of phosphate and sulphate of lime. The evaporation of the ammonia and similar substances renders this rock porous, and has led many to believe that it was of volcanic origin. The heat and moisture of the surface have made wonderful changes in the organic substances or deposits of these islands; though the formation of these rocks can be directly traced to the excrement of birds and the remains of the birds themselves, all vestiges of animal life have disappeared, and the substance presents all the characteristics of a metamorphic rock, dug from the base of a volcanic mountain.

The work of handling guano is not the most delightful in the world; especially is this the case at Chincha Islands, where the air is dry, and the guano is in the form of dust, or of a hard material which easily separates into dust. Guano has a very pungent character, and causes the eyes to inflame, and sometimes deprives them altogether of the power of sight.

[Sidenote: NORTH, SOUTH, AND MIDDLE ISLANDS.]

As before stated, the Chincha Islands number three only, and are known as North Island, South Island, and Middle Island. The Middle Island is the most important, not only for having the largest quantity of guano upon it, but also for being the residence of the commander and deputy commander of the three islands. The palace of the commander is rather an imposing building of its character; and at a little distance stands that of the deputy commander. This is more modest and unpretending in architecture, being nothing more nor less than what Americans would term a flat-roofed shanty, constructed of cane and rush matting.

The average height of the rock which is the sub-strata of the island, is from one hundred and fifty to two and three hundred feet; and upon these rocks lie the guano as upon a scaffolding or platform rising out of the sea. The guano on this island lies on what may be termed a smooth, rounded mound, and is in some parts about one hundred and sixty feet thick. More than forty acres have been cut away from the side of the hill nearest to the vessels on which the guano is shipped. The birds which live and die upon these islands are principally of the Photo-Huenco species, and resemble blue and white pigeons with red bills. The white birds keep themselves separate from the blue, and hundreds of acres of land are completely covered with them. In addition to these, there are a number of sea-lions also to be found on these islands, which contribute somewhat to the quantity of ammonia created by the birds. Eggs and wings of birds, and teeth of sea-lions, are seen in abundance changed into ammonia in each and every part of the islands.

[Sidenote: WALKING IN GUANO.]

The guano, when exposed to the air, is of a reddish brown-yellow color, which covers the whole of the three islands, and nothing else is to be seen but the rocks on which it rests. In substance it is like light, dry earth, and is very difficult to walk upon. Frequently one finds himself sinking ankle and knee deep; and should you attempt to hurry, you are almost sure to lose your footing. Should you fall and get covered with this ammonia, it matters but little, as it is pure, and contains no animal substance to make it disagreeable. If you penetrate a few feet below the surface of the ammonia, it is found to be perfectly compact, and not unlike castile soap.

The men employed to dig the guano are Chinese. They have a very hard time of it; and in addition to being hard worked, they are very badly treated. Close to the residence of the deputy commander a number of the coolies are engaged digging out the guano for shipment. The gang is superintended by the most unfeeling task-masters, who apply the lash very freely to the naked backs of the workmen on the slightest pretence. It is by no means an unfrequent occurrence to see half a dozen coolies lying about the scene of operations dead, or in their last throes of agony; and not the slightest sympathy is extended to them in their suffering. Bodies are left exposed all day in the open sun, where they may be found covered with flies or vermin; and sometimes in a few hours there are large holes in these bodies, pecked by hundreds of birds.

At the edge of the principal cutting on Middle Island, coolies are found working with their pickaxes, while others convey the guano in barrows to the side of the cliff where the vessels are in readiness to receive it.

There are about fifteen hundred men constantly engaged in cutting out the guano. As above stated, these men are coolies, and the overseers are negroes, stationed at short distances apart, and provided with heavy whips. The coolies work with no other covering than a thin pair of pantaloons. As they are lashed by their task-masters, their cries are painful. The officers are frequently eye-witnesses of these tortures, but give them very little attention.

[Sidenote: TASKS OF THE COOLIES.]

As soon as the guano is dug up, it is carted to the depot or open enclosures called the Margueras, and thence to the launches or vessels. These margueras are made of strong canes, resembling a palisade round a prison, and are supported by chain cables. In some parts of the islands, when the distance is far from the depot, the guano is conveyed there in cars drawn by donkeys, but generally the coolies have to wheel it themselves. Each man is expected to dig and wheel five tons of guano per day, and if he does not do this amount of work, he is severely flogged in the presence of his fellow-workmen at the close of the day’s labor. The extent of punishment is always left to the discretion of the task-masters, who appear to be destitute of mercy. The men are paid one real (twelve and a half cents) per day, and their rice; but should their task not be completed, in addition to the flogging, the defaulter has part of his wages deducted.

While at work they are compelled to wear thick bandages over their mouths, owing to the strength of the ammonia. When the guano is wheeled to the depot, it is pushed down to the lower end of the margueras, where there are a number of openings connected with shutes, or long canvas pipes. These shutes are about the size of an ordinary barrel, and lead down to the base of the hill or cliff, and then into the vessels.

Sometimes the ships are loaded from the side, the guano being hoisted in bags; but this process of loading occupies too much time, and is never resorted to except in cases of necessity. When the guano is poured directly into the hold, a vessel can be loaded in a day or two; whereas, by hoisting it in, it occupies as long as two or three weeks to make up a cargo.

While the ships are being loaded,—and generally there are a large number at the same time,—they present a very interesting appearance. An ordinary visitor would at first imagine that they were on fire, owing to the yellow smoke or dust which rises during the loading.

The air is so thoroughly impregnated with the ammonia that at times one might reasonably think he had a bottle of strong hartshorn under his nose, and most people suffer much from the effect it has upon their eyes and lungs. It has often been the subject of remark how the coolies can stand this great tax upon their eyes and lungs daily, particularly when they are so hard worked. The digging of guano is much harder than that of ordinary railway digging and mining work.

When a vessel has received its full cargo, there is a little rejoicing, and the men are permitted to leave their work for a short time. One of the crew of the loaded vessel goes to the yard-arm in a tub; three cheers are given by all the other ships, and their guns are discharged.

[Sidenote: HOURS OF LABOR.]

The coolie laborers are required to work every day in the week, Sundays included, excepting those laborers under the immediate charge of the commander. If there is a rush in getting the vessels loaded, and it becomes necessary for his men to work on Sunday, he pays them extra for their labor; but it is not so with the other laborers.

On the islands there are several rude huts, where reside doctors, overseers, and nondescripts of various sorts. There are also several groceries, cooking stores, candy shops, and various sheds, which present a picture of a small village of hovels.

The men complain that they have no protection afforded them, and their emaciated appearance goes to show that they are not over fed, and are badly used.

There is hardly a laborer to be found on the whole islands without large welts on his back, made by the thongs of the task-master. The men present a striking similarity to a used-up horse, their bones almost protruding through their skin. The small pittance that these coolies earn is kept from them, and when one of them has served the time mentioned in his contract, he finds his master has a claim against him for luxuries supplied during his term of service, and being unable to pay him, he has to resume work, as before.

Few get any rest whatever, and they may be said to live and die like dogs. No women are allowed among them, and being thus deprived of feminine society, in addition to their other sufferings, many commit suicide, believing that their spirits will wake in their native land.

[Sidenote: INCEPTION OF THE COOLIE TRADE.]

The history of the coolie trade may be found interesting in this connection.

In the year 1847, a Portuguese vessel, named the Don Pedro, was in the port of Macao, China, waiting for a cargo. The captain found that it would be several months before a new crop of tea would come in, and consequently he would be obliged to wait some time before his ship could be loaded. While loitering about Macao he fell in with a Spaniard who had come over from Peru on business, and the conversation happened to turn on the cheapness of labor in China. It occurred to the Spaniard that it would be a good thing to take a thousand Chinese to Peru, and finally it was decided to attempt to load the Don Pedro with these men. Whether they made any contract with the coolies is not known, and probably will never be ascertained. Three hundred men were engaged ostensibly for Java, and on the 1st of June, 1847, they sailed from Macao, supposing they were going to Java, but really destined for Peru.

The ship was steered across the Pacific, and after a voyage of more than a hundred days, with a great many vicissitudes, on very short allowance of food and water, the coolies were landed in Peru. Owing to some misunderstanding and some difficulty about the contract, this first consignment was not taken to the Chincha Islands, but was placed on a plantation near Callao. They had been secured for five years’ labor, and the Spaniard who brought them from China disposed of his merchandise to such good advantage that he immediately returned for another cargo. Not only did he go for another cargo, but for several cargoes, and the story of his success, and the advantages to be obtained by coolie labor, spread rapidly through South America, Australia, and other parts of the world.

[Sidenote: HOW THE TRADE WAS CONDUCTED.]

The trade increased with wonderful rapidity. Rumors went about in China that the coolies were taken to the other side of the world, and were murdered as soon as their labor contract was ended. In consequence of this rumor it was difficult to obtain men voluntarily, and the dealers were obliged to buy or steal men. A system very much like the African slave trade, with a few additional horrors, speedily grew up.

The Portuguese and Spanish traders at Macao established slave pens, like those in Africa, and bought men and women just as they might buy cattle. Bands of robbers went into the country, seized the men at work or at their houses, bound and forced them into boats, took them to Macao, and sold them. Robbers infested the mountains, stealing men in preference to anything else. Sometimes fathers and mothers sold their sons, and sometimes an enterprising youth brought his able-bodied father to market, sold him to a trader, and went home with a fortune of ten dollars in his pocket.

The price varied from five to ten dollars a head. Sometimes there was a scarcity in the market, and prices advanced; and then again would come a “bear” movement; large quantities would be offered, and prices went down.

Chinese junks, known as lorchas, were sent up the bays and rivers to bring away the marketable inhabitants of the rural districts. From Macao the traffic was carried to other ports, so that five years after the first voyage of the Don Pedro, vessels were waiting for cargoes of coolies at half a dozen ports.

A writer on China says, that about this time “the coolie trade caused a civil war in some of the provinces, just as the slave trade causes a constant warfare between various tribes in Africa.” During the most prosperous years of the coolie trade the mandarins and village chiefs used to connive at the robberies, and sometimes they sent their personal attendants to assist in the capture of citizens of their own town.

If they had a spite against any one, or considered that he ought to be out of the way, they combined business with pleasure by assisting to sell men to the coolie traders.

In 1854 the extensive traffic and the cruelties practised came to the ears of various governments; one after another the civilized ones forbade their ships to engage in it, and from that time the business declined, though it by no means entirely died out. The wholesale capture and sale of men have been greatly restricted, and at the present time the traffic is confined to Macao, where prisoners taken in the civil war are sold, and where certain captives taken by the lorchas find a market.

One mode of obtaining men is by coaxing them into gambling-houses, and inducing them to play for money until they have lost an amount beyond that they have about them. They are then required to sign bonds which hold them as securities for their debts. With these bonds they can be turned over to a coolie-trader, who has a depot or private jail of his own, where he locks up his human securities. When a sufficient number is accumulated, the men are sold to the exporters.

[Sidenote: NUMBER OF COOLIES STOLEN.]

From 1847 to 1870, the number of coolies or forced laborers taken from China to Cuba was one hundred and thirty thousand, to Peru two hundred thousand, and to Australia, Java, and other parts of the Indian Ocean, about fifty thousand. These do not include voluntary emigrants, nor any of the coolies taken to India or the Sandwich Islands; neither does it include a good many ship-loads known to have been sent away, but of which no record exists. Together not less than half a million coolies—and some persons, familiar with Chinese affairs, say nearly a million—have been taken away by this Asiatic slave trade. The men are bound by contracts to a service of eight years, the contract stipulating that at the end of that time they are free to return to their homes, that they shall receive a certain amount of money, and their return passage shall be paid; but such are the cruelties practised in Peru, Cuba, and other countries, that not one man in five hundred ever returns to China.

The treatment of the coolies on shipboard is quite as severe as that of African slaves. They are crowded densely together. Frequently they are chained or loaded with irons, and the food and water which they receive are in very small quantities. Hundreds of them die on the voyage, and hundreds and thousands more live but a short time after arriving at their destination, especially at the Chincha Islands, where they are, or were until quite recently, made to perform tasks which speedily drove them to despair. They were cruelly whipped, and to escape their tortures thousands put an end to their lives. Many committed suicide by jumping into the sea. One day in 1856, three hundred and forty-two coolies committed suicide in this manner. Two hundred of them walked into the sea together, and were drowned. It can be readily understood that the treatment they received was of the severest character, to drive them to kill themselves.

[Sidenote: MUTINIES ON COOLIE SHIPS.]

Several coolie ships were never heard from after their departure from China for Peru. Sometimes it happened that the coolies mutinied; and when defeated in the attempt to take possession of the vessel, the entire party jumped overboard, and were drowned in the sea.

In several instances the attempted mutiny was successful, and the vessels were burned, sunk, or abandoned, at some of the islands.

In 1857 a cargo of coolies murdered the officers and crew of the ship, and then drifted helplessly about the ocean until two thirds of them were dead through starvation, and the remainder were scarcely alive. The vessel was stranded on a sand-bar, near one of the Fiji Islands. Another ship was captured by the coolies and carried southward, where she went ashore on one of the islands, and all that remained alive on board at the time of her destruction were eaten up by cannibals. Horrible stories are told of the fights between the coolies and crews of ships. In case of a mutiny both sides fight with desperation, as they know it is a matter of life and death. If the coolies are overpowered they are killed or commit suicide. If the officers and crew are overpowered, they are killed, and their bodies thrown into the sea.

[Sidenote: HUMAN MINCE MEAT.]

In one instance the bodies of officers and crew of a coolie ship were literally cut into mince meat before being thrown overboard. One of the survivors afterwards stated that there was not a piece of any one of the murdered persons that weighed more than two or three pounds, when the mutiny was ended.

On one occasion a ship sailed from Macao, and had made nearly two thirds of the voyage to the Chincha Islands when a mutiny occurred. The fight was long and severe. A part of the crew were surprised and killed on deck, the remainder were below and suffered great torture for several hours. The coolies obtained complete possession of the ship, and one by one the prisoners below were brought up and murdered.

When this work was ended the men turned the ship’s head to China, and for days drifted in a helpless sort of way, knowing nothing about navigation, and allowing the sails to be blown to pieces, and the ship rendered helpless.

After nearly two months floating about, they finally arrived in one of the ports of Japan. On the voyage they had several times quarrelled among themselves, and their quarrels had led to bloodshed, in which many of their number were killed. The survivors were arrested and taken to prison by the Japanese. They were finally sent back to China, to be dealt with by their own authorities. Some of them were executed, and others were imprisoned for various periods.

XXXVIII.

AVONDALE.

THE GREAT CALAMITY IN PENNSYLVANIA.—ITS CAUSE.—DISCOVERY OF THE FIRE.—SCENES AT THE MOUTH OF THE MINE.—BURNING OF THE BREAKER.—DESCRIPTION OF THE FIRE.—EFFORTS FOR RESCUE.—THE DOG AND LAMP.—DESCENT OF THE SHAFT.—WHAT THE EXPLORERS SAW.—DISCOVERY OF THE BODIES.—AFFLICTION OF FATHER AND SON.—BRINGING OUT BODIES.—BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

In a former chapter a brief allusion was made to the terrible disaster at Avondale, Penn., where nearly three hundred lives were lost. Public attention was everywhere called to the disaster at the time of its occurrence; the daily and weekly journals were filled with details of the incidents at Avondale, and the illustrated papers vied with each other in giving pictorial representations of the horrifying scenes. To many readers the accounts of the time are doubtless still fresh in memory, and will remain so for years to come.

Avondale, the scene of the catastrophe, is about four miles from Wilkes Barre, and the same distance from Plymouth, and is situated on the right bank of the Susquehanna, in Luzerne County. Near Avondale the scenery for some distance is quite pleasing to the eye, and has often been praised by tourists. At the time of its occurrence the accident was called “The Unparalleled Disaster,” and very properly so, for never before and never since has it seen its equal in the United States.

[Sidenote: DISCOVERY OF THE FIRE.]

The fire broke out on the morning of Monday, the 6th day of September, 1869. It was thought by many persons that the fire was the work of an incendiary, and to this day there are some who adhere to this theory, although no evidence was ever obtained to warrant such a belief. The idea rose from the fact that, for nearly two months before the disaster, the miners had been on a strike for an increase of wages, which their employers had refused to grant, and the men were compelled to give up the contest in consequence of the exhaustion of their funds. It was on the first morning of the resumption of work inside the mine that the fire broke out, and at a time when nearly three hundred men and boys were at work.

The Avondale Mining Works were built in 1867, and at the time of their destruction yielded a supply of about four hundred and fifty tons of coal daily. The mouth of the mine is two hundred feet up the side of a mountain, and over it was erected a large building, known in mining parlance as the “breaker.” Here were also the engine-rooms, and the machinery for breaking and screening coal as it comes up from the mine. Above this entrance the ground rises at an angle of forty-five degrees, the town of Plymouth lying to the north. From this point there is a charming view of the valley of the Wyoming. On both sides of the mine are mountains, which stretch far away to the north and south, while meadows and gardens slope gently to the edge of the river, which meanders through the valley.

About eight o’clock on the morning of the disaster, some boys, working in a field near the breaker, observed a bluish vapor rising, but paid no attention to it, knowing that the miners had resumed work. An hour or so later the keeper of the stables in the mine took a quantity of hay for his mules down the shaft, and on his way nothing attracted his attention; but as soon as he reached the bottom he discovered fire. He at once gave an alarm; and at the instant his cry was heard, a column of flames shot with terrific fury up the ventilator and into the engine-room. So great was the heat, that, before the engine-man could reverse or stop the engine, he was driven from his post, and in a very short time the breaker and out-buildings were a mass of flames. The hoisting apparatus, the only avenue for the escape of the miners, was completely destroyed, while there were two hundred and fifty persons below. The only way to get air into the shaft was through the main opening,—in fact, the only opening,—and this was found to be partly filled with burning timbers and débris. Before the flames could be stopped the shaft was partly filled up, and all communication with the miners was cut off.

Immediately after the fire broke out there was the greatest excitement around the entrance to the mine. For a time everybody appeared to have lost his reason, and men were rushing to and fro, not knowing what to do. But this state of things did not last long, and confusion speedily gave place to order, or at any rate as much of it as could be expected at such an occurrence. Despatches were sent to different places, and soon the fire departments of Scranton, Wilkes Barre, Kingston, and other cities were on their way to the scene of the conflagration, where, it is needless to say, they did good service, and were gladly welcomed. In a few hours thousands of people were journeying to the Avondale mine, some as sight-seers, and others to render what aid they could to the poor fellows known to be below. The neighboring mines suspended operations, and master and men joined heartily in the work of rescue. When the fire department arrived, it was thought impossible for the men below to be alive, as they were supposed to have been suffocated; yet there was a hope of their reaching some retreat in the inner chambers of the mine, and it was determined to lose no time in attempting a rescue of the miners at all hazards.

[Sidenote: THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT.]

The shaft, which was lined with wood, was ten feet by sixteen feet square, and about three hundred and fifty feet deep. A partition extended from the top to the bottom, forming a flue for the foul air to pass out of the mine. It was up this wooden box or chimney that the fire first came, and, as it was separated from the main shaft, the stable-man could not discover the fire on his way down.

In order to purify the air in a coal mine like the one at Avondale, it is necessary to force out the foul vapor; and, in addition to the fans used, it is customary to build fires at the bottom of the shaft, in order to get rid of the “damp.” When the mine is in operation these fires are never allowed to go out. When work is resumed after a suspension, care is necessary in kindling the fire. As before stated, there had been a strike among the miners, and work entirely suspended at the mine. The fire at the bottom of the shaft had gone out, and when work was resumed, it had to be rekindled. When it was relighted, the blaze flashed up before any coal had been placed upon the wood. It was supposed that the wooden lining of the shaft caught from the blaze, although there were several feet of brick-work at the bottom. With a strong current of air, the flame immediately rushed up into the engine-room, setting fire to everything combustible in its way. The appearance of the fire, to one who could forget the peril of the men in the mine, was grand in the extreme. When it was at its height, the flames rose a hundred feet and higher. They were swayed by the wind, and could be seen now at an angle of forty-five degrees, and then almost perpendicular, while dense clouds of smoke rose and filled the air. As the day drew to its close, the excitement of the scene increased. For many miles up and down the beautiful valley the glare of a thousand lights was visible. The vast quantities of coal that had caught fire in the breaker were covered with sheets of colored flame, and occasional flashes added to the glare that lighted up the valley.

[Sidenote: A TERRIBLE SCENE.]

While preparations for entering the mine were in progress, hundreds of eyes were in tears, and the air was filled with the shrieks and sobs of those whose relatives and friends were below. As soon as the firemen could get to work, they began operations by sending a stream of water down the burning shaft in order to extinguish the fire; but for a long time the flames seemed to defy their efforts, and it soon became evident that the water supply was a very meagre one. It was also found very difficult for the firemen to work, as the location was upon a steep hill-side. In a few hours after the outbreak the shaft was completely choked up, for a distance of forty feet, with rubbish. Most of the day was taken up in endeavoring to clear away the débris, so that the engines might be used.

While all this preparatory work was going on, the throng of miners and workmen increased, and the hill was crowded with people. Meetings were organized for various purposes, and at one of them fifty experienced men were selected to enter the mine as soon as it was practicable to go there. Among these men three were owners and superintendents of adjacent mines; they volunteered their services, and were ready to die, if necessary, in the effort to rescue their fellow-miners, and subsequently some of them barely escaped death.

[Sidenote: THE DOG AND LAMP.]

About half past five P. M., most of the timber and rubbish had been cleared away, and a dog and lamp were sent down the shaft to test the condition of the air. The cage was lowered as far as possible. When it came back the dog was alive, and the lamp was still burning. At half past six a man went down in a bucket, and returned in about seven minutes. He was able to breathe, but could not get beyond the obstructions. Soon after his return two men went down with tools, and, after clearing away the obstructions, they returned safely. While they were down they went through a gangway sixty or seventy yards, and came upon three dead mules lying near the stables. Then they came to a door which led into the mine, and, although they shouted and struck upon it repeatedly, they obtained no reply, and there were no indications that any of the imprisoned men were alive. Clouds of sulphurous gas were pouring out of the mine; so the men retreated.

Again another party descended to make explorations, but they were obliged to retreat, owing to the foul air and “black damp,” and by the time they reached the top they were partially overcome. An engine was then rigged for the purpose of driving a fan at the mouth of the shaft, so as to force in air through a canvas hose, as the “choke damp” was found to be three or four feet deep at the bottom of the mine. One gang of men from the Scranton mines also suggested that an attempt should be made to drive a gangway from a neighboring mine into the Avondale; but it was found that it would take too long to cut through the solid rock, and the suggestion was not carried out.

[Sidenote: SEARCHING FOR THE IMPRISONED MEN.]

After the engine had been put at work forcing air down the shaft, another party descended into the mine. They penetrated through the gas about seventy-five feet, and found the large door leading into the mine open. They went for some distance farther, and in one of the passages found a small door closed. They reported that, had the door been open, there might have been some hopes for the men, as the gas, and fire, and smoke would have had a free passage around the circuit and out again. Owing to the presence of a large quantity of gas and sulphur, the explorers had to retire, and were more or less affected by it, one of the men being overcome and almost insensible for some time after coming out of the mine.

After a consultation, a fresh party of volunteers were sent down, and when they came back they stated that they had made an important discovery. They said all efforts had been made to extinguish the fire in the shaft and send in air, it being thought that the fire in the furnace had been drawn out by the miners on the first alarm. It was found, however, that the furnace was full of coal and burning, and that a pile of coal had just caught fire and was blazing. Consequently the air sent down the shaft had not only swept over this fiery surface, but must have carried the gas and smoke to the inner recesses of the mine, and caused the death of every one of the unfortunates. A change of operations was to be considered, and all hope of getting to the men that night was abandoned.

During the night efforts were made to extinguish the fire in the furnace and beyond it, as nothing could be accomplished until this was done. A hose was let down the shaft, and four men descended. They were gone about twenty minutes without being heard from, and there was considerable anxiety for their safety. At last they gave a signal, and were brought up. They could not fix the hose, owing to the foul air, but reported that the fire appeared to be dying out.

The next day another party went down, although those outside had given up all hope of seeing any of the miners alive. On the return of the explorers, they reported the air to be less foul, and they had arranged the hose so as to throw the water against the roof at a great pressure, and allow it to fall on the furnace. Another visit was shortly made. The fire, though still burning, was much less, and the hose was hoisted so as to get at the flames. The heat at this time was very great, and the explorers were much fatigued, and had to be brought up, one of them being insensible.

On the next journey the fire had still decreased, and while the party were down the cracking of the roof of the tunnel was heard, and part of it fell from the effects of the cooling water. The noise of the falling roof was heard outside, and the party were loudly cheered as they came up the shaft safe.

Throughout the second day efforts were made to get at the bodies of the men, but this was found impossible until the fire and foul air could be controlled, as the men could not remain down the shaft for any length of time. At midnight of the second day a party went down to throw more water on the fire, and reported that in a few hours all would be safe for entering the mine.

At two o’clock on the third morning the atmosphere was found greatly improved, and the fire nearly extinguished. The party who went down this time succeeded in getting to the stables, and there came upon the first two bodies of those known to be below. When light was procured, the bodies were unrecognizable, their features being blackened and distorted. One body was evidently that of a middle-aged man, and the other of a young man about eighteen. The explorers were brought up the shaft, and made known their discovery.

[Sidenote: FINDING THE FIRST BODIES.]

At once preparations were made for sending down gangs of men, four in each gang, for the purpose of bringing up the dead as fast as they were found. At half past six A. M., four hours after the discovery of the bodies at the stables, a gang of men went down, and remained about half an hour. This proved the successful visit, so far as finding the bodies of the dead miners was concerned. Nearly the entire number of men were found to have fled to the east side of the plane. As this gang came up, and reported the finding of the bodies, another party went down, but were hindered in getting at the bodies by a car packed around with coal, culm, and clothing, and when this was removed another obstruction appeared.

[Sidenote: HOW THE DEAD MEN LAY.]

One man was found lying upon the outside, where he had been assisting to build the wall. The wall was completed, save a small aperture sufficient to admit a person. Apparently the man had just finished his work, and was crawling back to his companions, when death overtook him. The majority of the miners were found piled one upon another.

The first body brought out caused great excitement among those whose relatives and friends were below. The countenance wore a placid look, and was not much disfigured. The left eye was partly open, and the arms and legs were slightly burned.

The next body had both eyes open, and the head turned aside. The next was that of a boy, who had gone down the mine on the morning of the fire for the first time. Then came the body of a man who had evidently suffered extreme agony, judging from his countenance. His hands were firmly clinched, and in one he tightly grasped a pick. Another body appeared to have suffered great pain. Two boys had clasped their arms about this body, and the three proved to be father and sons. Another man was found in a kneeling posture, as if his dying moments were devoted to prayer.

Some of the men in the fresh gangs lost their way on several occasions, and so a barrel of lime was sent down to make a direct path to what may be called the dead-house.

About four hundred yards from where the most of the miners were discovered, a body was found by itself. It was resting upon the face, and had apparently been thrown upon the ground. At a little distance was another body in a similar position, and this, too, had been thrown to or had fallen upon the ground.

[Sidenote: GRIEF OF THE SURVIVORS.]

In less than two hours over sixty bodies had been taken out of the mine. As they were brought up the grief was intense and heart-rending. Almost to the last moment wives, children, and relatives hoped against hope; but as the bodies were one by one sent up the shaft, the hopes died away. All around the sobs and moans of mothers and wives broke at intervals into piercing shrieks and wails of agony as the bodies were recognized. Many of the men were overcome with grief as they saw the remains of their comrades, and tears trickled down their cheeks from eyes unused to tears. Children too young to know their bereavement clung in mute astonishment to the sides of their weeping mothers, and shrank from the blackened corpses in which they were unable to recognize the fathers who kissed them farewell on the morning of the fatal day.

The men who brought out the bodies described the scene in the mine as best they could through their mingled grief and horror. Fathers and sons, they said, lay clasped in each other’s arms. Some of the dead were kneeling; some were sitting hand in hand, as if they had vowed to live and die together; some lay on the ground, as if they had fallen while fleeing; and others lay as if pressing their faces into the earth in the hope of extracting from it a breath of pure air. Near the embankments were the picks and shovels that had been used to lay up the works that should exclude the foul air. In one chamber every man had stripped off his clothing to use it in stopping the crevices of the embankments, and one man was in the attitude of pushing his coat into a crevice. Apparently while he was so employed the foul gas rushed in and overcame him.

[Sidenote: NEW LAW ABOUT MINES.]

Most of the dead were buried on a knoll overlooking the Wyoming Valley. The funeral was attended by many hundreds of people, and was probably one of the most impressive funerals ever seen in the United States. Public subscriptions were opened in all parts of the country, and the people everywhere responded liberally to the appeal for aid. The legislature of Pennsylvania passed a law forbidding the exploitation of mines beyond a certain depth and capacity with but one shaft, and a similar law was enacted in other states. Never has public attention in America been so completely drawn towards a mining accident as in this instance. Good has come out of the terrible disaster, and it is to be earnestly hoped that more good will follow.

The terrible calamity at Avondale will be long remembered, not only in Pennsylvania, but throughout the United States. Every few months an accident at some one of the coal or other mines causes the interest in Avondale to be awakened; but happily there has been no accident at all approaching it in loss of life.

XXXIX.

IRON AND IRON MINES.

IRON AND ITS VALUE.—ITS ABUNDANCE, AND WHERE IT IS FOUND.—A MOUNTAIN OF IRON.—IRON MOUNTAIN AND PILOT KNOB.—THE AUTHOR’S VISIT.—CHASED BY GUERRILLAS.—A NARROW ESCAPE.—THE ANTIQUITY OF IRON.—ITS VALUE IN MANIPULATION.—IRON AS MONEY.—INCONVENIENCE OF USING IT.—FIRST IRON WORKS IN AMERICA.—DIFFERENCE BETWEEN IRON AND OTHER MINES.—DIRECT AND REVERSE WORKINGS.—A PICTURESQUE SCENE.

Of all the metals, iron is the most useful, and is found in great abundance in many parts of the globe. England, Sweden, and Russia are the most famous countries of the old world for the production of iron, and in the new world, North America has an inexhaustible supply. Along the Atlantic coast, from the New England States to the Carolinas and Georgia, there are numerous deposits of iron. On the west side of the Alleghanies there is an abundant supply. The great centre of the iron mines of that region is at Pittsburg. As we go farther west, we find most of the states are rich in this mineral, and in Missouri there is a mountain composed almost entirely of iron. The Iron Mountain of Missouri is of itself a great curiosity.

[Sidenote: A MOUNTAIN OF IRON.]

It is situated in Washington County, and is easily reached by railway from St. Louis. Properly speaking, it is not a mountain, but a hill. Its elevation above the valleys around it is less than four hundred feet. It is a low cone, with gently-sloping sides, and covered with a forest of oak trees. The soil where these trees grow consists of peroxide of iron, some of it being pulverized, and some of it in small lumps. On the sides of the mountain there are loose lumps of ore scattered about, and before the workings began there were large masses of iron on and near the summit, some of them weighing many tons. Though the character of the mountain has been known for many years, no attempt was made to work this immense mass of ore until 1845.

A cutting was made in one side of the mountain, and the ore was found to be of excellent quality. In the valleys surrounding the mountain there is an abundance of ore, and for all practical purposes the iron mines of Missouri are inexhaustible. The ore contains nearly seventy per cent. of iron, though its yield, owing to the manner of working, rarely exceeds sixty per cent. About six miles south of Iron Mountain is Pilot Knob, which covers an area of three hundred and sixty acres, and is nearly six hundred feet high. It contains great quantities of iron, but is not as rich proportionally as the mountain which bears the name of the metal.

About two thirds the way up the side of Pilot Knob, there is one bed of ore about twenty feet thick, and estimated to cover more than fifty acres. Other mountains of the same character are in the vicinity, and all that is required to make the Missouri iron mines the best in the world is the discovery of a mountain or two of coal suitable for reducing the ore and refining the metal.

Iron is applied to a greater number of purposes, and consumed in larger quantities, than all other metals combined. There is no other metal which increases so much in value by the process of manipulation as this. A bar of iron worth five dollars is worth ten dollars when made into horse-shoes, fifty-five dollars when made into needles, four thousand dollars when made into penknife blades, and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars when made into balance springs of watches. In the form of wrought iron it is soft when heated. It can be hammered into any desired shape, rolled into plates, or drawn into fine wire. Plates can be rolled no thicker than a sheet of letter paper. The wires can be drawn so small as to be almost invisible to the naked eye. Combined with a certain quantity of carbon, it can be melted and cast into any desired shape, and with another proportion of carbon, it takes the form of steel. As before stated, it enters in a thousand ways into our daily life, and if all the iron in the world were destroyed, mankind would suffer greatly.

[Sidenote: IRON AS MONEY.]

The antiquity of iron is not exactly known, but it is supposed that the metal has been in use more than four thousand years. The catacombs of Thebes and the tombs around Memphis, some of them more than four thousand years old, represent butchers sharpening their knives on round bars of metal, and the color of the knife and metal indicates that they were of iron or steel. Homer has alluded to iron in the poems which have descended from him to us. History tells us that the Spartans were required to use this metal as money; probably it was more valuable at that day than now. If our money were made of iron it would be rather a serious matter for a man to carry cash enough about him to make himself comfortable for twenty-four hours. Imagine a New Yorker, starting on a journey where there were no banks, and he were required to carry a thousand dollars or so in coin. He would need a pair of horses to transport enough for buying his railway ticket to Washington, and for handling the loose change required on the road, he would need the assistance of half a dozen porters.

During the first seven centuries of the Christian era, the manufacture of iron attracted little attention. In the early part of the eighth century, mines were opened in the south of Europe, and from there, in the ninth and tenth centuries, the manufacture of iron spread northward. Improvements in the process of manufacture were steady, but slow. Small furnaces were made by which cast iron was produced, and after them came the invention of the blast furnace, which is said to have occurred about the middle of the sixteenth century. Other improvements were made in the following centuries, and in the eighteenth century a blast was forced into the furnace by means of a steam engine. Up to 1827 the blast was cold; but in that year a Scotch inventor patented a system by which hot air was thrown into the furnace, instead of cold. The invention was regarded of so much importance that the patentee obtained damages of nearly a million of dollars from a single company that had infringed upon his rights.

[Sidenote: IRON MINING IN AMERICA.]

Iron mining in America belongs almost entirely to the present century. The existence of the ore was known before that time, but very little use was made of it. A History of Virginia says that the settlers of that colony started an iron work on the banks of the James River in the year 1622, but before anything was done, the people were killed by the Indians, and the works were abandoned for more than a hundred years. A few forges and furnaces were set up in various parts of New England, one of them as early as 1702.

In 1717 iron was exported from Pennsylvania to England; and a few years later an act of Parliament prevented the erection of rolling or splitting mills in the American colonies. The greatest improvement in the manufacture of iron, in America, is in the use of anthracite coal. Previous to 1820, iron was reduced by means of charcoal. About that year anthracite coal was tried, and found to be available; and as soon as it came into general use the business of iron manufacture progressed rapidly.

The working of an iron mine is very much like working a mine of any other character. There are shafts, and tunnels, and levels, just as in a coal mine. The ore must be raised, and the men lowered and raised, just as in any other mine. There are, however, more open worked mines of iron than of coal, for the reason that the veins of iron are generally found nearer the surface than the veins of the combustible mineral. In the Iron Mountain of Missouri, which has already been described, there is no necessity for shafts and levels, for the reason that the mountain is a mass of ore, and the only working necessary is to remove it in an open cutting, just as a bank of earth might be removed in making a passage for a railway.

The only visit I ever made to the Iron Mountain and Pilot Knob region was during the war, when work at the blast furnaces had been suspended. A small party of us climbed to the summit of Pilot Knob, and it was not a great climb, after all. We found that the mine consisted entirely of open cuttings. The ore was drawn away from the cuttings by means of small cars, running upon a track. As the cuttings were partly up the side of the mountain, the loaded cars had a downward grade, so that no power was required to move them. Considered as mines with picturesque cuttings and underground scenes, they were a total failure.

[Sidenote: CHASED BY GUERRILLAS.]

We looked around among them, and found nothing which we could call sensational. While we were lamenting the absence of something interesting, a small party of guerrillas made their appearance in the valley below. They were armed, and we were not, and they were more numerous than ourselves. They moved straight in our direction, and we began to think that the place might be sensational, after all. We scattered among the oak trees, and disappeared as much as it was possible for us to disappear. The guerrillas evidently concluded that we were not worth attacking,—and they were entirely right in this conclusion,—for they changed their course, and rode away. We immediately abandoned our researches among the iron works, and returned to the railway station, which we considered a much safer place.

In many metallic mines the operations are not conducted exactly like those of coal mines, for the reason that the position of the veins and beds is frequently quite different. Some of the metal lodes are sometimes perpendicular, and generally have a high inclination to the horizon. In such cases, the system of working is by means of steps. Sometimes these steps are direct, or descending, and are made by attacking the ore from above. In other cases the steps are reverse, or ascending, and the ore is attacked from below. In either case the excavations are like steps of stairs. The direct system is not in use in coal mines, because the miner would be obliged to stand upon the coal which he had disengaged; but it is frequently adopted in obtaining metallic ores, which have to be pulverized and dressed to make them fit for the furnace.

Where the metallic ores are in very rich lodes, or thick masses, they are worked by a system of large chambers, or extensive excavations. In this system great chambers are hollowed under the earth and around the masses of valuable ore. In the copper mine of Lake Superior, and in some of the Nevada mines, this system is frequently employed, and sometimes the uncovering of a large mass will require considerable time.

The methods and apparatus used in the underground beds and levels of coal are equally applicable to iron and all other ores. The railway wagons and horses are the same in the levels and galleries of all kinds of mines. The workings are conducted upon the same principle; the ventilation is afforded by the same means, and the surveys are accomplished in one case the same as in the other. The arrangements of the shafts are very much the same, and the buildings at the surface have a family likeness. There is, however, more animation usually about coal than about metal mines, for the reason that very few metal mines furnish in the course of a month as much weight of material as some coal mines do in a single day.

[Sidenote: DIFFERENCE BETWEEN IRON AND OTHER MINES.]

In metallic mines the work is generally harder than in coal mines, and a great deal of blasting work is required. The drills, hammers, and other tools used are like those used elsewhere, and sometimes the groups at work are very picturesque. Imagine three men stripped to the waist, one of them holding a drill and the others striking at alternate and regular intervals with large hammers. A single lamp burns near them, and makes a curious effect of light and shade. The perspiring skins of the men glisten beneath the rays, and as they swing their arms back and forth to wield the heavy hammers, they have an appearance not altogether human. A novice in mining, when taken to the locality where these men are at work, might easily be persuaded that he was looking at a group of gnomes and wizards engaged in some diabolical business.

[Sidenote: REFRACTORY ORES.]

In the production of iron it is generally found less expensive to transport the ore to the coal than to transport the coal to the ore. Most of the ores are carried to points where coal can be obtained at a cheap rate; and where coal mines and iron mines are found close together, the production of iron will be most profitable. For example, the ores that are obtained in Oneida County, New York, are transported to the anthracite regions of Pennsylvania, to be smelted in the great furnaces at Scranton, and the canal boats that carry the ore bring back coal for the furnaces near the mines. The reduction of iron ore is much more difficult, in most cases, than the work of obtaining the material from the earth. Sometimes the ore is of such a peculiar character that it will only yield to the hottest fires, and frequently the furnaces are run at considerable loss.

XL.

EXILES IN SIBERIA.

TOILING IN A SIBERIAN MINE.—A DARING ESCAPE.—HOW IT WAS PLANNED.—TUNNELLING TO LIBERTY.—DISARMING GUARDS.—WORKING IN THE DARK AND WITHOUT FRESH AIR.—A MURDEROUS ATTEMPT.—CUSTOMS OF THE SIBERIAN PEASANTRY.—CARE FOR THE EXILE.—A SURPRISE.—A NARROW ESCAPE FROM DEATH.—LIVING IN A MOUNTAIN GLEN.—HUNTING IN THE ALTAI MOUNTAINS.—KILLED BY AN ARGAL.—SEPARATION AND DEPARTURE.—HOW TO OBTAIN PASSPORTS.—SAFE ARRIVAL AT HOME.

One of the mining regions of Siberia is in the valley of the Yenesei River, and along some of its upper tributaries. The Birusa River is one of these tributaries, and many an exile has been sent there in times past, to work out the sentence allotted him. Most of the mines are known as surface washings, like the gulch mines of California, but some of the more extensive are conducted on the tunnelling principle. Tunnels are driven into the hill-sides where it is thought gold can be found, and the earth is then brought out and washed in the river. In one of these mines some years ago, there was a daring and successful attempt to escape, which was described as below by one of the participants.

“Occasionally the earth in the tunnels used to fall, in consequence of not being properly secured; but the quantity was rarely very large, and the result was not serious except in two or three instances. We were driving a tunnel in one of the small hills on the banks of the Birusa, and, as the soil was of a loose character, the falls of earth were quite frequent. The men worked in gangs of ten or twelve, under the charge of an armed overseer; and as each man was in chains, and the mouth of the tunnel was carefully guarded, there was no expectation of an attempt at revolt. There were some criminals among us, but the most of the laborers were unfortunate Poles, who had been sent to Siberia because they wanted their own country to be free, and had endeavored to secure her freedom. I was among the latter, and had been more than a year in the mines when the incident I am about to relate occurred. Not a day had passed, during my imprisonment, when I was not meditating some plan of escape.

[Sidenote: DARING PLAN FOR ESCAPE.]

“At last I hit upon something which I considered feasible, and mentioned it to one of my companions. He agreed to it, and we gradually broached it to the rest of the men in our gang. Some of them hesitated at first, but they soon entered into it, and we made our arrangements.

“The hill was small, and I had discovered a sort of ravine or valley running along and into one side. I understood surveying pretty well, and calculated that the tunnel at one point was not more than twenty feet from this ravine. The prison where we were kept when not working was some distance from the hill, and the guards were so placed, that if we could get from the tunnel into this ravine, we could escape. My plan was to have a fall of earth in the tunnel near the entrance, and to dig a passage into the ravine while the dirt was being removed from the place where it had fallen. I took a lesson from ground squirrels and other burrowing animals, and intended to fill the tunnel with the dirt we removed, so as to keep our pursuers, or rather our rescuers, busy as long as possible. We managed to secrete an extra lot of candles, and also to conceal two days’ supply of provisions. We then communicated our plans to the gang that relieved us at sunset, and they agreed to join us.

“On the evening fixed for our attempt, the relief gang was marched into the tunnel, and we were ordered to quit work. At a given signal we seized and disarmed our guards, and then bound them securely, putting gags in their mouths to prevent their giving any alarm. I then went to the place I had selected for the fall of earth, and pulled away the wooden supports. Down came the earth in such quantity as to block up the entrance, and cut us off completely from the outer world. There we were enclosed in the tunnel, with many tons of gravel to be taken away before we could get out.

“We knew that we should soon be missed; in fact, it was more than probable that the guards at the mouth of the tunnel would hear the noise of the fall, and give the alarm at once. Of course it would be believed that the occurrence was purely accidental, and that we would set at work at our end of the heap to make our way out. I had carefully noted the spot where I intended to begin my tunnel, which should lead us to the open air, and to freedom.

“Part of the men began digging at the place I indicated; others carried the dirt, which was taken out, to the heap which formed our barricade. Two or three men were kept at the barricade making a great noise with pounding on the fallen timbers and pretending to shovel away the dirt. Our object in doing this was twofold; first, to drown the noise of our work on our new tunnel, and, secondly, to make it appear that we were as anxious to get out, and were as diligent in our efforts, as were those outside to help us. My calculations were, that we could get outside in about eight hours, as the earth was not very hard, and we were only making a narrow tunnel through which we could just pass by stooping.

[Sidenote: CONFINED IN A HOT ATMOSPHERE.]

“The men worked with a will, for life and liberty were at stake. We relieved each other every half hour, and never did men do more active service. The perspiration rolled from us in streams, for the air was hot and close, and I had not calculated in how short a time the confined atmosphere of our cavern would become foul with our breath, and with the heat of the candles. We extinguished all our lights except those where the men were employed, and those who could do nothing towards our enterprise sat in the gloom and were silent for the most part. We talked in low tones, through fear of being overheard by those who had been our guards, of our movements after we should escape from our confinement. Gradually the men ceased to speak, and some of them dropped their heads forward in sleep. As I had planned the escape, I was looked upon as the leader. I had too much responsibility upon me to allow me to sleep. I felt drowsy, however, and seemed to be falling into a sort of stupor, like my comrades. I knew that my feelings and theirs were caused by the heavy atmosphere, and longed most anxiously to reach the open air.

“Eight hours had passed, and there were no signs of an end to our labors. The candles were burning dim, and threatened to go out speedily for want of oxygen to sustain them.

[Sidenote: SAVAGE PROPOSAL OF A CRIMINAL.]

“Two of our number were criminals, and not, like the rest of us, political prisoners. One of the criminals proposed to kill our guards, so that they could give no information about us; but we refused to consider his proposition. He was a bloodthirsty wretch, who had been exiled for attempting to kill a companion while in a dispute over a glass of vodki. But he seemed so determined to murder the guards, that we concluded he might prove treacherous to us, and so we watched him closely. He tried by stealth to kill one of them, and I then thought he deserved no more forbearance from us. We bound him hand and foot, determining to take him with us a day or two, so that he could not give information about us, and then leave him to take care of himself.

“Just as the candles were flickering, and we were almost suffocated with the foul air, one of the men at work in the tunnel rushed from his place, and said, half shouting, and at the same time half whispering,—

“‘We’re through! We’re through!’

“I went forward, and sure enough, there was a small aperture through which the dawning day was just visible. In a few moments the aperture was enlarged so that a man’s body could pass to the outer air. The cool, clear atmosphere was refreshing in the extreme, and the shock of the change was so great that I almost fainted as I began to breathe freely. Day was breaking, and no time was to be lost. We could hear the men at work removing the fallen debris, and it was evident that they had not yet discovered our plans, or suspected that we were trying to escape. We had few preparations to make, and in five minutes after the opening had been sufficiently enlarged, we crept through it, and were out of our temporary tomb.

[Sidenote: OUT IN THE OPEN AIR.]

“We crouched close to the earth, as a part of the ravine was visible from the prison, and there were fears that some of the guards might discover us. We left our chains where we had thrown them off, in the tunnel, and fresh strength seemed to be added to our limbs, as we moved without restraint, and inhaled no longer the hot air of our place of labor. The murderer endangered us by rising to his feet, and standing at full length in an exposed part of our pathway. I was just behind him, and carried one of the guns wrested from our guards. I gave the scoundrel a punch with the bayonet, and quickly brought him to the ground. I threatened to kill him on the spot, but he promised good behavior in the future, and I allowed him to live.

“From the ravine we managed to get into a small forest, without, as we thought, being seen by any one. In the forest we could walk erect, but we had great fears of meeting some one of the soldiers who belonged to the station, and might be astir to select wood for cutting. We pushed along, and luckily encountered no one; and by the time the sun was up, we were more than a mile from the place where we had dug our way to freedom. We walked in silence, stopping now and then to look around in all directions. We had nearly as much fear of meeting any one as we had of being pursued, since an encounter with a soldier or Cossack would give the alarm of our flight, and pursuit would then be a question of only a few hours at farthest.

[Sidenote: KINDNESS OF SIBERIAN PEASANTS.]

“Two miles or more from the station, we reached the house of a peasant, or rather the edge of the clearing where he was settled. We dared not approach the house; but we knew that we should find means to save the provisions we carried, as there was pretty sure to be a turnip-patch in its vicinity, where we could help ourselves. The Siberian peasants show great kindness to escaping exiles. They never speak of them as exiles or prisoners, but as ‘chasti ludi,’ or ‘unfortunates.’ Frequently they put loaves of bread outside their windows, in such position that they cannot be stolen by dogs, though easily taken by men. A hungry fugitive can thus help himself without fear of detection; and when the peasant rises in the morning, and finds the bread gone, he crosses himself devoutly, and breathes a prayer for the successful journey of the fugitive. ‘God will help him,’ he says, ‘and speed him on to safety.’ Frequently they plant patches of turnips at a little distance from their houses; and these turnip-patches are specially consecrated to feeding the unfortunates. And if no special field is set apart for his use, the exile knows that he can help himself to whatever vegetables will satisfy his hunger, and the owner will make no complaint.

“We found a small garden, where turnips and other vegetables were growing, and we did not hesitate to take what we wanted. A man came from the house, and I think he saw what was going on; but he pretended the most perfect indifference, and walked back again. Only two of us entered the garden; the rest remained in the edge of the forest, and waited for the two to gather what was needed for all. After taking a couple of turnips for each man, we moved away, and travelled in a westerly direction a little distance from the valley of the river. And now we began to debate about the best plan for our future action. How should we travel? Should we separate? And, if so, into how many parties? And what direction should we take? These were the questions that troubled us.

“The Siberians have a proverb, ‘He who runs away has but one road; he who pursues has ten.’ Several hours must elapse before our flight would be discovered, and when it was known, it would take some time to find where we had gone. But we were three thousand miles from Poland, and all except the two Russian criminals spoke Russian so poorly that we could not disguise ourselves effectually. All along this road there were military posts and soldiers, and in the towns we should be likely to pass there were the local police. Our number was so large that it would excite suspicion at the very first station we passed; and the probabilities were, that if we kept together, and attempted to travel on the great road, we should all be retaken within three days. Plainly, this was not our proper course.

“We held a consultation, and each man was told to advance his views.

[Sidenote: PLANS OF ACTION.]

“One plan which was offered was, that we should keep together, and push southward into the Altai Mountains, trusting to subsist on fish caught from the streams, and on whatever game we could kill with our guns. The mountains are quite unsettled, and game is abundant; so that the plan was a good one, so far as existence went, provided we could make our ammunition hold out. But we had only ten charges for each gun, and these would soon be exhausted. We might set traps, and catch game in them; but this would involve delay, and render our progress very slow. South of the Altai Mountains we should be out of Russian territory, and among the wild Kirghese and Tartar tribes. Among these we could travel westward till we reached the Caspian Sea. Crossing that body of water, we should be in Circassia, and might have reasonable hopes, if we reached it in safety, of ultimately seeing our homes. But the way was long and dangerous; the Tartars are treacherous, and might convert us into slaves, or sell us back into Russian hands. After a brief debate it was decided not to adopt this course.

“Another plan was to break into parties of two or four, and attempt to travel by night, while lying concealed during the day. We had almost resolved upon this, when I thought of a feasible scheme, which I proposed. It met a ready concurrence, and was at once adopted.

“‘All roads will be watched,’ I said; ‘and if we break into parties, and move on at once, some of us will be caught. Let us move south into the mountains, and find a place where we can pass the winter. We can trap game enough for our winter support, and can make a tolerable shelter by piling up stones, and roofing them over with trees. We will keep together till spring, and can find a secluded place where we shall not be liable to be discovered. We have no passports, and cannot travel without them; and my scheme includes an arrangement for getting them. In the spring we will leave our hiding-place, and break up into parties of three. Our beards will have grown out by that time, so that we shall not be recognized as prisoners, and our hair will be long enough to cut in the Russian style. Then we can go to the private mines, and hire out as laborers during the summer, and by the end of summer we shall be able to travel without much fear of detection. We can pretend to having lost our passports, and the certificate of our discharge from the mine where we were employed will be sufficient for us until we get out of the province. After that we can get along somehow; at all events we can stay a couple of years in the mines, and then obtain papers that will carry us in comparative safety where we want to go. It may take us two or three years to reach Poland, but we shall certainly be better off than by running the risk of recapture.’

“When our plan was settled, we all knelt and prayed for success. We observed the direction of the sun, and travelled towards the south, keeping well away from the river valley, where we could see the only settlements which the region contains. We made good speed that day, and halted at night in a little glen surrounded by high rocks, and affording an excellent place for concealment. From a small stream near by we caught a few fish, and as each man had carefully preserved the provisions brought from the station, and eaten nothing but the two turnips obtained in the morning, we had no immediate fear of starvation.

[Sidenote: CONTINUING THE JOURNEY.]

“Early in the morning we continued our journey. No incident of importance occurred during the day, and at night we halted in a place much like the one where we had last slept.

“On the third day we saw mountains in the distance, and knew that they were some of the peaks of the outlying chain of the Altai range; but they were a long distance away, and seemed to recede as we approached them. We pressed forward as fast as possible, though some of us were in danger of falling through exhaustion. Our feet were sore, as we had long been unused to travel, and on the fourth night we concluded to rest a day or two to gather strength. We dared not light a fire through fear of discovery, and so we passed the cool hours between sunset and sunrise closely huddled together, and shivering till our teeth chattered with pain. We made rude beds of boughs, and slept on them as best we could; but our sufferings were so severe that we shuddered at thought of the winter that was coming, and more than once several of us wished we were back again in prison. The day of our halt was passed in sleep, two of our number being kept at watch, to warn us of the approach of any one who might discover us.

[Sidenote: DISCOVERED BY A TRAVELLER.]

“Towards evening a man was seen approaching our retreat. The murderer convict, whom I will call Egar, was on the watch at the time, and with him was one of my compatriots. A low whistle from Egar warned us, and we all sprang to our feet. I hoped the man would pass without seeing us, and consequently we would not have occasion to harm him; but fate willed it otherwise. He came directly towards our retreat: had he stopped, and turned back, when within twenty feet, he might have escaped, as we stood among the rocks in such a way that only a near view would reveal us. As he passed the spot were Egar was crouching behind a rock, the latter sprang forward and seized the stranger by the throat. There was a struggle, in which both fell, and we rushed to the assistance of our companion. Egar seized a stone, and was about crushing the head of his antagonist, when the other watchman seized his arm.

“‘Let me kill him; let me kill him,’ screamed Egar.

“The other held him, and in a moment all of us were at his side.

“‘No blood: no blood,’ was our united demand; ‘or, at least,’ said I, ‘let us do no murder. If the man must die for having found us, let us give him a little time for preparation.’

“We released the stranger from the hands of Egar, and assisted him to his feet. He was half stunned, and I saw that he was greatly frightened, as indeed he had reason to be.

“‘I give myself up,’ he said, as soon as he could speak.

“‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

“‘From the Petrovsky mine,’ he replied.

“‘When did you leave it?’

“‘Three weeks ago.’

“‘Where have you been during that time?’

“‘Hiding in the forest, and among the rocks; but take me back, and I will not resist.’

“‘Well, come along,’ I said, in a tone of authority; and we led him to the place we had just left.

“Two of us held the muskets over our prisoner, while I questioned him closely, and found that he was, like ourselves, escaping from captivity. When fully satisfied of the truth of his story, I nodded to my companions, and told him our true character.

[Sidenote: MUTUAL ASTONISHMENT.]

“He opened his eyes in astonishment, and then fell on his knees, to thank Heaven that he was yet free. Of course he was added to our party, though Egar urged that it was the safest plan to put him to death, and thus prevent the possibility of his escaping and giving information of our movements.

“But all the rest were opposed to such a bloody deed, as we shrunk from killing a fellow-being, and besides, were satisfied that the man told the truth.

“In the morning we changed our position to a more secluded spot, as we naturally thought there was danger that others might wander in the same direction as the new comer. We rested the entire day, and were sufficiently recovered to push on. Just as we were about starting, our lookout saw, in the early light, a couple of horsemen riding up the valley. They were followed by two other horsemen at a short distance, and we naturally concluded that they were pursuing us. So we remained concealed, and, four or five hours later, we saw the men returning, as if they had abandoned the search. I say, we saw them, but, in fact, only one of our number did so, as the rest lay concealed among the rocks. As soon as they were out of sight, we moved forward, and made a good day’s progress, notwithstanding the loss of the morning hours.

“We were in a wild country, where settlements were few, and none of them extended beyond the valley of the river. We dared not approach any of these for fear of giving indications of our whereabouts; we could trust the peasants in most instances, but of course there might be, now and then, one who would betray us. Some of the settlers in this region are Cossacks, and these have not usually any sympathy with the exiles, but would capture or kill them with little compunction. ‘Shoot a rabbit, and you get his skin,’ says a Cossack proverb; ‘but shoot a varnak (vagabond), and you get skin, pelisse, and overcoat.’

[Sidenote: HOW THE WANDERERS LIVED.]

“We lived upon fish from the small streams, upon edible roots which we found occasionally, and upon the remnants of our provisions brought from the mine. We resorted, in a few instances, to theft, at the suggestion of Egar and the man he had captured. A strange sort of friendship sprang up between them, and they went together on several enterprises for our common support. At night they would descend to a farm, whenever one was within reach, and would generally manage to bring away a lamb or pig, which would be immediately killed and cooked. We made fires at night only, and always in such a way that the light was not visible for any distance; but this mode of supply was precarious, and whenever we obtained anything by it we were careful to preserve our provisions as long as possible.

“Among the outlying hills of the Altai we left the settlements altogether, and depended entirely upon our own resources. Now and then there were villages or encampments of the Tartar inhabitants of the region, but we avoided them altogether, though occasionally stealing a sheep from them. These Tartars have large flocks of sheep, and are not very watchful of them; so that a theft was comparatively easy, with the exception of the danger of discovery by the dogs, which are always kept around an encampment. Several times Egar returned empty-handed from his expedition, and severely anathematized the dogs for interfering with what he considered a legitimate pursuit.

“With many hardships, but with no adventures of importance, we reached a sheltered place in the mountains, where we thought we would be safe from pursuit, and established ourselves for the winter. We found a glen containing a grove of larches and firs, and on three sides the rocks were precipitous and overhanging. The entrance was narrow, and could be easily defended, and in one place there was an opening in the rocks which we could easily roof over to form a house. The glen was full of hares and other small animals; Egar and his new friend were skilful in constructing traps, and we at once set at work to lay in a supply of food. Egar, in one of his expeditions in search of sheep, had stolen an axe, which proved of great service to us in many ways. We made a comfortable shelter, where we could live; our beds were of boughs cut from the trees, and we soon gathered a sufficient quantity of skins from the animals we caught to make a good supply of coverlets and winter clothing. We desired to save our ordinary clothing for future use. The suits we wore in prison were the common garments of the peasantry, and the only mark to indicate our character was a number sewed upon the right shoulder. This we had carefully removed, so that we could readily pass for peasants.

[Sidenote: KILLED AMONG THE ROCKS.]

“The winter came on, and proved of unusual mildness. The snows were light, and we were well sheltered, so that we did not suffer. We trapped game, and hunted occasionally among the hills, but were very careful of our ammunition, so that we relied almost entirely upon our traps. On several occasions we ran down the argal, or mountain sheep, and frightened them into attempting to jump a ravine too wide for their strength. They fell upon the rocks, and were killed by the force of the fall. But we found this mode of hunting very dangerous, and once it resulted fatally. Serge Ponitsky, one of my countrymen, was pursuing an argal over the rocks, and half a dozen others of our party were shouting to the animal in order that he might keep in the desired direction. Serge was close upon the argal, and in his excitement did not observe that he was near the edge of a high cliff. Suddenly the brute stopped, and wheeled around. Serge waved his cap to make him continue in the way he ought to go, but he had made up his mind not to keep on. Serge then seized him by the horns,—not thinking of the great strength of the animal,—and the two struggled for a few moments; in their struggles they went near the edge of the precipice, and suddenly rolled over it.

“We scrambled to the foot of the cliff as soon as possible, our hearts full of fear for the result. We found the argal dead, and Serge lying upon him. Both his legs were broken, several of his ribs were crushed, and as I bent over and took his hand, I heard him faintly pronounce the words ‘home’ and ‘Poland.’ He then became unconscious, and five minutes later he was dead.

[Sidenote: A SAD SEPARATION.]

“We buried him near our camping-place, covering the grave with heavy stones, and erecting a cross above it. The event cast a gloom over our party, and for several days no one cared to venture into the mountains. After this accident we were more cautious, and nothing of a serious nature occurred during the rest of the winter.

“In the spring we divided into twos and threes, as previously arranged, and left our camp. We drew lots to settle the order of departure, as it was arranged that the divisions should start at least two days apart, so that there would be little risk of their encountering each other, and attracting attention by their numbers. Our parting was tearful, as we had been endeared to each other by our mutual experience of peril, and it was certain that we should never again be united. My lot fell to the third division, and though I live a thousand years I shall never forget the morning when I embraced those I was leaving behind me, and set out to encounter dangers that I could not foresee. Silently with my two companions I left the camp, and for more than two hours neither of us could utter a word.

“We travelled on and on to the settlements on the Yenesei, subsisting as we had subsisted at the time of our escape. At one of the private mines we obtained work during the summer; laborers were scarce, and the proprietors were quite willing to engage us without asking any questions that might annoy us.

[Sidenote: HOME AT LAST.]

“At the end of the summer we were paid off. A few days before our payment we managed to drop some worthless papers into a fire where several men, among them one of the superintendents, could see us. We pretended to be in great distress, that the papers were our passports, and that we had nothing else for our protection. The chief of the mine consequently made certificates to the loss of our papers by accident, and the certificates were sufficient for our protection. During the winter and early spring, we managed to travel to the Ural Mountains, where we again hired out for the summer. In this way we obtained money enough to take us to Poland, where we arrived three years after the date of our escape.

“What became of the rest of our party I have never positively known. Two of them have reached Poland, as I am informed; and I have heard vague rumors that some of the others were captured, and returned to the servitude from which they had escaped. But no direct tidings from any of them have ever reached me.”

XLI.

LEAD MINES OF IOWA.

BLUFFS AT DUBUQUE, IOWA.—THE LEAD MINES.—HOW LEAD IS FOUND THERE.—INDIAN DISCOVERIES.—HOW THE SECRET BECAME KNOWN.—STORY OF THE SIX INDIANS.—FOLLOWING THEIR TRACKS.—AN INDIAN TRAITOR.—AN EXPLORER’S ADVENTURE.—THE INDIAN GUIDE AND THE GREAT SPIRIT.—MURDER OF TWO EXPLORERS.—USES OF ABANDONED SHAFTS AND CAVES.—AN EDITOR’S DISCOVERY.—AN UNDERGROUND BANQUET.—UPS AND DOWNS OF A LEAD MINER.—DEATH OR A FORTUNE.—A DANGEROUS BLOW.—A MINUTE OF GREAT PERIL.

On the Upper Mississippi, in the vicinity of Dubuque, Iowa, there are many lead mines, and in the vicinity of these mines the bluffs contain numerous caverns, rarely of great extent. Sometimes these caverns are in the form of a succession of chambers extending and opening into one another; and in these chambers rich deposits of ore are found. Several years ago the author visited Dubuque and the region around it, and was kindly escorted by one of the citizens, Mr. Henry W. Pettit, in an examination of the natural and artificial curiosities of the place. We had a wearying tramp, and returned to the hotel covered with dust, accumulated in our inspection of shafts, tunnels, caves, and other underground works of nature or art. I was under the impression that if we had been reduced in a furnace, a fair amount of lead could have been obtained by the reducer; and lest some enterprising resident should make an effort in that direction, we washed off the accumulation as speedily as possible.

[Sidenote: AN INDIAN SECRET.]

The lead mines of Dubuque were discovered and opened soon after the settlement of the place by Julien Dubuque, after whom the city was named. The Indians were aware of the existence of the rich mineral, and the first information about it was obtained from one of the red-skinned gentlemen who had partaken rather freely of the white man’s fire-water. They used to bring lead to sell to the whites; they revealed some of the localities whence they obtained it, and then their white neighbors went to work to dig for themselves. But there was one deposit, supposed to be the richest of all, that the Indians would never reveal, if the story was told to me correctly. There were half a dozen Indians who used to appear and disappear mysteriously; whenever they wanted money or goods, they would go away a few days, and return with all the lead they could carry. All efforts to induce them to tell where they obtained it were of no avail. The experiment was tried repeatedly of getting them drunk, but the more they got drunk, the more uncommunicative they became. They were promised that if they would show the rich deposit, they should never again be required to draw a sober breath as long as they lived; but even this glittering bait did not allure. Wealth, fame, and perpetual intoxication could have been theirs, but they preferred to bask in the sunshine of the smiles of the Great Spirit, who would be unpardoningly angry if they told their secret to the white man.

A watch was set upon their movements; but an Indian is proverbially a troublesome customer to the detective who tries to follow him, and the spies on the track of these aborigines invariably came to grief. Finally, one of the pale-faces pressed his arguments so far as to induce an Indian to agree to turn traitor to his brethren, and reveal the locality of the lead mine. Comfortably soaked with whiskey, the twain started, with provisions for several days’ journey. The Indian led the way to a secluded spot among the hills, miles away from any human habitation. All around in this little valley there were the remains of fires where the Indians had melted out the lead from the ore; it was so rich that a common wood fire in the open air was quite sufficient for its reduction.

But suddenly the Indian stopped, and looked anxiously into the sky. After gazing there a full minute, he turned to his companion, and refused to show him further.

“Go on, go on!” said the impatient explorer.

“No; not go on,” replied the Indian. “Great Spirit angry; I see him looking now.”

[Sidenote: A FRIGHTENED ABORIGINAL.]

The explorer looked, but could see no spirit beyond that which he carried in his bottle. He offered some of it to the Indian, in the hope of overcoming his terror.

But it was “no go” with the red man. He took the proffered drink, and then looked again into the sky. Evidently he saw, or fancied he saw, the Great Spirit frowning upon him, for he turned on his heel, and ran faster than he had ever been known to run before.

The explorer was left alone, and concluded to investigate on his own account. There were the remains of the fires where the lead had been melted, and the number of them showed that a goodly amount of smelting had been done there. The mine must be near, and of course it ought to be easily found. He looked for a path which might lead to it, and here he found that the Indians’ cunning had baffled him. In no direction was there any track, and it was evident that the Indians had made it a rule never to follow the same course twice when entering or leaving the valley. They had brought the ore from somewhere, but there was no way of knowing whether that place was feet, yards, or miles away.

He spent a couple of days in a careful examination of the vicinity, but found nothing, and returned home very little wiser than he went out. He had a suspicion that he was watched from the time the Indian left him until he gave up the search, but could not say positively that such was the case. A few days after his return, the Indian made his appearance with a fresh lot of lead, for which he refused all compensation, though he did not decline to get drunk at the expense of his acquaintance. He would not talk freely, but solemnly declined to go on another expedition, and, furthermore, cautioned the white man not to undertake it.

The latter would not be advised; and, two or three weeks later, he set out with a friend, with the intention of spending a week or two in exploring the region around the Indian smelting-place.

They were absent one, two, three weeks, and finally their friends became alarmed for their safety, and started out to look for them. Their search was unrewarded, as no trace of the missing men could be found anywhere. No Indians were seen. The half-dozen came and went as usual, but to all questions they returned the most unsatisfactory and non-committal answers.

[Sidenote: MURDER OF THE EXPLORERS.]

One day a hunter found the remains of the two men. Wild beasts had devoured the bodies, but their weapons and scraps of clothing remained, and sufficed for their identification. In each skull there was a deep indentation, caused, undoubtedly, by a tomahawk in the hands of an Indian. But further than this the circumstances of their deaths were never known. After the discovery of the bodies, the Indians did not visit the settlement as often as before, and it was universally supposed that they committed the murder, or, at all events, knew to whom it should have been attributed.

Years afterwards a rich vein of lead ore was found two or three miles from the valley to which the Indian led the first explorer. There was a small cave, so carefully concealed by brushwood that it was only revealed by accident. There were indications that it had been visited by Indians, and that quantities of the ore had been carried away. All around the sides and roof of the cavern there were blocks of rich ore, and the discoverers made a comfortable fortune out of the deposit. It was supposed to be the cave whence the Indians obtained their supply, but whether so or not was never positively known.

In the bluff at Dubuque, lead mining was carried on in two ways—first, by entering the caverns and veins from the foot of the bluff; and, secondly, by sinking shafts from the surface. The shafts were not very deep, so that no elaborate machinery was required for hoisting purposes, a common windlass or a whim, worked by horse power, being all that was required. Where the mining was pushed from the foot of the bluff, levels were driven in until a cavern or seam was reached, and very often the seams in the bluff were taken as the starting-point. The lead was not found in continuous veins, like coal and iron, but in separate masses, that had little connection with each other, though frequently the chambers or caves communicated. Consequently a mine might be soon exhausted, and then the shaft or level would be abandoned, as it was no longer lucrative. The hills back of Dubuque, at the time of my visit, were full of abandoned shafts, and it was dangerous to walk there at night, as many of the shafts were entirely unprotected by fences or railings. Several accidents have occurred by persons falling into these shafts; and I was told that on one occasion two lovers, who were taking an afternoon promenade there, walked into a shaft, and were killed by the fall.

While the business of Dubuque was in the height of its prosperity, about 1857, some enterprising men constructed a shot tower on the low ground near the Mississippi River. It is well known that shot for ordinary hunting purposes is made by pouring melted lead through a sieve, where it can have a fall of a hundred feet or more. In falling it assumes a spherical shape, and at the same time is cooled and hardened. To save it from injury it is received in a tank of water. Afterwards it is polished and brightened by being rolled in plumbago and certain other substances, and is then ready for the bags in which it is offered for sale in the sporting stores.

[Sidenote: AN EDITOR’S DISCOVERY.]

Now, the shot tower costs considerable money, and in order to be profitable, the work of making shot must pay the interest of the cost of the tower, besides the wages of everybody concerned. The editor of a newspaper at Dubuque was one day rambling among the abandoned shafts back of the town, and endeavoring to hit upon some plan for making them once more useful.

Suddenly an idea occurred to him, and he hastened to lay it before a friend who was interested in the shot tower.

[Sidenote: A SURPRISING DISCOVERY.]

“Here is my idea,” said the editor. “The melted lead must fall from a certain height, and you have spent fifteen thousand dollars to build a tower to give that height to the dropping lead. Now, it makes no difference where the fall is; and why could you not get it in one of these abandoned shafts, which would cost nothing? And besides, you save the expense of hoisting the lead to the top of the tower. I can start a shot company that will undersell you in spite of all you could do.”

The tower man stood a full minute in a brown study. When he had collected his thoughts, he said,—

“I think you are right, and wonder nobody ever thought of it before. But don’t say a word about it for the present. The St. Louis Shot Company is now negotiating for our tower; it wants to have a monopoly of all the shot business on the river, and we shall sell out. When we have sold out, and have the money in our hands, you can start your theory, and anybody that wants to try it can do so. If you say anything now, you may spoil the whole arrangement.”

The editor promised to wait, and kept his promise. The Dubuque tower was bought by the St. Louis Company, which congratulated itself on having a monopoly of the shot business at Dubuque. But very soon the editor advanced his theory; somebody put it in practice, and found it was entirely correct. Abandoned shafts were occupied by shot-makers, and found to answer the purpose exactly, and the business of the tower came to an end. “Why did not somebody think of this before?” is a question that is often asked whenever a new and simple invention is brought to the attention of the public.

When the mines were operated at the base of the cliff by means of levels, and the chambers were stripped of their lead ore, the owners found themselves in possession of magnificent cellars, that could be used for storage purposes. As time rolled on, and Dubuque grew into importance, many Germans went there to live. The German is fond of beer, and wherever you find Germans in goodly numbers, there you will find the care-dispelling lager and the appetizing pretzel. Breweries rose and flourished at Dubuque, and the fame of the beer that flowed from them extended even to the mouth of the Mississippi. The abandoned caves of the lead workers were well suited to the wants of the brewers, as they made excellent cellars for storing the beer between the time of its manufacture and of its sale. They were of an even temperature throughout the year, and the temperature was exactly suited to the Teutonic beverage.

[Sidenote: BANQUET IN A BEER CELLAR.]

On several occasions the brewers gave entertainments in their cellars, and set the tables for their guests between the rows of beer casks. The guests were converted into casks of beer by the time the entertainments ended, and occasionally they needed assistance to find their way out to the open air. There is a novelty about an underground banquet, especially when you find your legs giving way beneath your weight, and you are led to believe that the earth above will come down at an inopportune moment, and crush you as flat as a sheet of paper, without giving you time to send word to your friends.

In our rambles about the bluffs, Mr. Pettit told me of an adventurous inhabitant of Dubuque who used to alternate regularly between wealth and poverty every few months. He was a lead miner, who spent most of his time in discovering fresh deposits of the valuable ore. When he found a deposit, he was rich, and lived at a rapid rate until the money obtained from it was gone. Then, without a dollar to call his own, and frequently burdened with debts he could not pay, he would shoulder his pick and start on a tour among the hills, where he hoped to find the material with which his fortune could be restored. Sometimes he would hunt for weeks without finding anything; and just as he had determined to abandon the search, and hire out as a laborer, he would find what he wanted. One of his adventures was narrated to me in his own words, which I will give as nearly as I can remember them.

“Once I was dead broke,” said he, “and owed a good deal of money. My creditors were pressing, but they knew I hadn’t the first cent to pay with, and so they didn’t press very hard. I hunted around a long time, but not a bit of ore could I find, and I seriously thought of going to the river and making cat-fish bait of myself, so as to get out of my misery.

[Sidenote: AN EXCITING MOMENT.]

“One day I got in among the chambers in the bluffs, and in one of them I found a small hole, which I thought might possibly lead to something rich. I enlarged it, and got through into a new chamber where there were blocks of lead; and then I knew there was more of it close by. These chambers often lie one above another, and there was evidently one just above where I stood. A blow or two of my pick in the ceiling above would open it, and when it was opened, there was a fortune ready for me.

“Well, no, it wasn’t a sure fortune. This business has its drawbacks, and sometimes there is a serious drawback in a place like that. Most of these chambers are dry, but now and then they are full of water, and sometimes you will find a dry chamber under one that is full. There I stood, wondering what to do. I was never more puzzled in my life.

“The hole where I entered was small and long. It was a hard place to get through, and it took time. The place was low; in fact, I couldn’t stand erect without butting my head. If I tapped the ceiling, and the chamber above was full of water, I should be drowned like a rat in a cage. One blow would loosen the whole bottom, and the water would come down like Niagara.

“If I went out and tried to enlarge the entrance before tapping the ceiling, some other fellow might get in there and take possession. If he opened the chamber before I did, he would be the owner, and I could not lay any claim on account of discovery.

“I thought it all over. I thought of my poverty and the fortune that lay before me. I thought of the chance of death if the cave was full of water. I threw down my pick, and almost determined to go away, and not take the risk. Then I looked at my ragged clothes, and remembered that they were all I had, and that I hadn’t money enough to buy a breakfast. Then I stooped and grasped the pick, and took a firm hold of the handle.

“‘Here goes,’ I said, ‘for one thing or the other.’ I set my teeth, swung the pick, and tapped the ceiling above me.

[Sidenote: A FORTUNE AT ONE BLOW.]

“The water came down; I dropped to the floor, and felt that I was lost. I must have fainted, for the next thing I remember, my candle, which was only half burned when I struck the blow, was nearly consumed, and I was lying there soaked in a small pool that surrounded me.

“I rose, rubbed my eyes, and looked around, and then I saw how it was. There had been a few buckets of water in the chamber above, where there might have been hogsheads. I was alive and safe, and the chamber was opened.

“I lighted another candle, and went to work enlarging the hole I had made. In a little while I was able to climb through it; and there, all around me, lay blocks of rich ore; and I felt that I was no longer the poor vagabond I had been a few hours before. But I don’t think I would go through that excitement again for all the lead mines that ever were known.”

XLII.

MINING IN THE BLACK HILLS. THE WONDERFUL MINE UNDER LAKE SUPERIOR.

FIRST REPORTS OF GOLD IN THE BLACK HILLS—DISCOVERY OF PLACER DEPOSITS—THEIR EXTENT AND RICHNESS—DEADWOOD AND RAPID CREEK—SAD FATE OF AN EARLY EXPLORING PARTY—VALUABLE QUARTZ VEINS—MODE OF REACHING THE COUNTRY—OTHER RESOURCES OF THE BLACK HILLS REGION—BRILLIANT PROSPECTS FOR THE FUTURE—A REMARKABLE MINE UNDER LAKE SUPERIOR—CURIOSITIES OF SILVER ISLET—WORKING UNDER DIFFICULTIES—ORES OF UNEXAMPLED RICHNESS—MINING ADVENTURES UNDER THE LAKE—NEW ROUTE TO THE CENTER OF THE EARTH.

When the frontier newspapers first began publishing their exciting reports of rich gold discoveries in the Black Hills, some of their editors doubted its existence there in paying quantities. Gen. Custer had reported gold discoveries, but the scientific gentlemen accompanying his expedition had denied finding it in deposits of a remunerating richness. Doubt and uncertainty shadowed the prospect until the development of the rich claims of Deadwood and Whitewood gulches, and the encouraging indications found on Rapid Spring and French Creek, in the spring of 1876. But the richness and extent of the Black Hills gold mines may now be considered demonstrated. A great deal of money has already been realized from them, and as yet they have not been even thoroughly prospected. The fact that the Black Hills had so long been unexplored and unsettled by white men is not altogether attributable, as has been popularly supposed, to the strength and hostility of the Sioux Indians, who roamed over, and are still dangerously powerful to the west of that region. The principal reasons are that they were not immediately on the moving lines of transcontinental emigration, and that the country had no definite knowledge of their wealth in soil and mine, while the natural resources of other sections of the far West were advertised far and wide. That the Black Hills have been taken possession of by white men in the face of both government opposition and Indian hostilities, proves the correctness of this assumption.

Gold was discovered there by white men years before the lamented Custer entered the country at the head of an army. And it would undoubtedly have been settled and developed immediately after, had not these unknown first discoverers all been massacred by Indians, and therefore the reports of their discoveries were never published. Near Rapid Creek, and on Whitewood and Deadwood Creeks, old “prospect holes” have been found. There is an old shaft on a gold-bearing quartz vein which crosses Deadwood Gulch, and the trees near by bear the marks of bullets and arrows, whose appearance proves that they were made years ago. In one of the Deadwood claims old rusty nails were found, and on another there was an old pile of tailings. Of the conclusion arrived at from these evidences there can be no reasonable doubt: the unfortunate white men who sank the shaft on the gold vein were seized and tied to the missile-scarred trees and riddled with arrows and bullets. Those who excavated the old “prospect holes” likewise fell victims to the Sioux, and not one of these first discoverers was left to report the fate of the others.

[Sidenote: THE BLACK HILLS.]

The Black Hills are an isolated mass of elevations, about 120 miles in extent from northwest to southwest, with an average width of 50 miles; their area being not less than 6,000 square miles. They are so called from the somber aspect they present from a distant view, caused by the vast evergreen forests of pine with which they are generally clothed. According to the latitudinal lines they are about 60 miles north and a little over 800 miles west of the city of Chicago, and are situated between the two forks of the Cheyenne river, which surround them so completely that both these streams have their origin in the same locality, and their headwaters interlock. The north current is usually called the Belle Fourche, or beautiful Fork.

The Hills are reached by railroad to Sioux City and Yankton, or to Bismarck, on the upper Missouri, or to Cheyenne and other towns on the Union Pacific. They embrace all that is grand and beautiful in nature—cloud-piercing peaks, snow-crowned nine months out of the twelve; deep down cañons, gloomy and savage, with dense forests and craggy walls of slate, granite, or limestone; fairy fountains and crystal streams, and richly flowered plateaus and glades.

The highest peaks are from 5,600 to 8,000 feet high; not so great altitudes as are found among the perpetually snow-capped mountains of the Big Horn further west, but they appear as lofty when measured by the eye in comparison with the surrounding elevations.

[Sidenote: THE FIRST MINERS.]

As soon as the Custer expedition of 1874, which gave to the world its first authentic knowledge of the existence of gold in the Black Hills, had returned to Fort Lincoln, a party of adventurers organized at Sioux City and went thither. It consisted of twenty-eight men and one woman. They camped on French Creek, in the southern part of the Hills, where Custer City now stands, and erected stockades. They found encouraging gold prospects, but were soon forced to return from lack of supplies. The “gold fever” continued to spread, however, and soon got under such headway all along the frontiers that government opposition was of little avail. Hundreds flocked to the new El Dorado, their objective point being the stockades on the French Creek. In the spring of 1875 these pioneers organized themselves into a town company, and the site of Custer City was staked off into building lots, being at first christened Stonewall. The number rapidly increased, so that by the last of December, 1875, a provisional government was organized, and a few laws, simple in form, but comprehensive in their scope, were adopted, their execution being entrusted to a marshal and justice of the peace. Emigration continued to increase, the new comers first satisfying themselves that gold really existed on French Creek, and next securing a town lot and erecting a building thereon.

Soon a house of some kind was constructed on nearly all the lots contained in the town site of 640 acres, the hopeful owners believing they had a San Francisco in embryo. Notwithstanding that danger from hostile Indians existed everywhere, even in the very suburbs of the town, prospectors pushed their enterprise in all directions, and soon the auriferous deposits of Spring and Rapid Creeks, to the northward, were covered with miners’ claims and embraced in mining districts. During the winter of 1875-6, Deadwood and Whitewood gulches were reached 70 miles north of Custer City, and were also claimed throughout their extent.

[Sidenote: THE MINES.]

One claim in the former, No. 1 below discovery, was offered in February of 1876, for a sack of flour and corresponding amount of bacon, and a few months later had produced gold to the amount of $250,000. The number of mines in the Hills on the first of July, 1876, was estimated at 6,500, about half of which were settled in and about Deadwood City. Crook City, 10 miles below Deadwood, at the mouth of Whitewood, contained about 500 inhabitants; Hill City, on Spring Creek, had 150 houses and less than a score of inhabitants; and the mountains were pretty generally filled with prospectors.

An old placer miner, upon his first view of French Creek, would shrug his shoulders and say, “This don’t suit me.” The creek has a low, sluggish flow, the fall being very slight, and the natural advantages for mining are very bad. But there are millions in the auriferous deposits of French Creek, and the gold is the purest ever found on the American continent, the mint returns showing it to be worth $24 an ounce. The deposits are so flat, and the water supply so limited, that these diggings are not likely to be a successful field for the labor of the poor man. They can only be handled by company organizations controlling considerable capital. Steam hydraulics have been suggested; they would undoubtedly be successful on the adjacent hills and some of the higher bars, could an adequate supply of water be obtained.

The French Creek deposits are very extensive, the main gulch being miles in length, and having some promising tributaries, and they will give employment to several thousand men, when fully opened.

The quartz interests about Custer City are important. Many gold-bearing ledges have been discovered, some of which are being developed as vigorously as the limited means of their owners will permit. The mica deposits are worthy of note. Blocks of pure mica are obtained, which will shelve off in unfractured plates of from six to twelve inches square; it is found in inexhaustible quantities, and is pronounced of good commercial quality, being worth from four to six dollars a pound in the markets. This may become an important source of wealth.

[Sidenote: THE DEPOSITS.]

The Spring Creek deposits are 18 miles north of Custer, on the road to Deadwood. In their topography and geological formation, they look much more favorable for gold than French Creek district, being nearer and more directly connected with the eruptive portions of the Hills. Rich deposits are found in Creek Hill gulch, and bar ground, and they are extensive enough to give thousands employment. But the Spring Creek deposits, like those of French, demand capital for their development.

The creek ground lies more advantageously to be worked than that about Custer, but it is so very deep that much money must be expended in preliminary work before pay can be realized, and water can only be brought over the hills and higher bars by means of a great deal of costly fluming. Capitalists are now directing their attention to Spring Creek district, and, no doubt, several millions will be realized from it within a few years. The Spring Creek quartz interests are also important. Many very promising veins have been located, and crossing Spring Creek there is a quartz belt which is said to be 1,000 feet wide and over 30 miles long. Here, as along French Creek, there is an abundance of the finest wood for timbering shafts, fuel, building, etc. The formations are granite and slate, with lime often capping through the primitive rocks.

[Sidenote: RAPID CREEK.]

Fifteen miles north of Spring Creek, following the Deadwood road from Custer, we reach Rapid Creek, just half way between Deadwood City and Custer, and in the very center of the Black Hills gold region. It is one of the most beautiful of the mountain streams, its water being as clear as crystal and delightfully cool in the hottest weather. It has an average width of about twelve feet, an average depth of fifteen inches, and is the only stream in the eastern part of the Hills which flows continuously the year through. It was on this stream, as credibly reported, that the Indians found and presented to Father De Smet many years ago a gold nugget worth several dollars, the Father being camped there with the Indians at the time. Here we have what the old miner would call “the regular old-fashioned gold wash.” In the pebbly bed of Rapid a great deal of water-worn quartz is found, and the contiguous hills, gulches, and bars prospect richly, as a rule. It is generally believed that Rapid Creek will prove the most productive portion of the Black Hills. When the necessary fluming shall have been made to cover this rich, high ground with water, so that a system of hydraulics can be carried, the yield must be enormous.

The Rapid diggings are many miles in extent, and will give employment, when fully developed, to many miners. Some very promising gold-bearing quartz veins have been discovered in Rapid Creek district, and silver discoveries have lately been reported from there.

I am indebted for much of my information concerning the Black Hills to Mr. H. N. Maguire, who has made a careful examination of the country. He is very enthusiastic about its future prospects, and in summing up the resources of the region, he says:

“I may be over-sanguine, but I believe all those vast regions drained by the southern tributaries of the Yellowstone, or the major portion of them, comprise the richest mineral fields on the continent—gold, silver, copper, iron, and coal; and perhaps platinum, quicksilver, and other metals. They have all the other natural elements of imperial wealth and expansion: good soil, illimitable pasturage, health-giving climate, and a temperature delightful in summer, and very endurable in winter. Now that the Indians are about whipped into submission, I have no doubt emigration will pour thither in unprecedented numbers, soon resulting in an unbroken chain of industries, from the corn fields of Dakota to the stock ranges of the Yellowstone. The farmer and miner will sustain each other, while both will need and will be able to generously remunerate the artisan and tradesman. Honest industry in every field can not fail to be crowned with success.”

When perusing the estimates of the gold-yield of the Black Hills, we come to the conclusion that the total yield has been, for the year 1876, about $2,000,000.

[Sidenote: YIELD OF GOLD-PRODUCING COUNTRIES.]

Let us compare this with the yield of the other gold-producing countries:

California produced in 1848 (estimated), $3,826,230 In 1849 (returns manifested), 4,921,250 In 1850 (returns manifested), 27,676,346

These are the first three years of the California gold fever. It is difficult, at this late date, to calculate the exact amount of gold kept in the hands of miners, as specimens, and as a circulating medium, during the first year (1848), but suppose we place the amount at $173,770 (which is a liberal estimate), we have then $4,000,000 as the yield of gold in 1848. Taking into account all the amounts which usually escape the official returns, and also the amounts buried by the miners until their return to the states, the most liberal estimates of these, added to the official returns, can hardly place the yield of gold from this state in 1848 over $10,000,000.

Nevada produced from her placer mines from 1849, the year of the discovery, to 1859, when they ceased working them, both years inclusive, only $400,000. This was produced, however, mostly by Chinese miners, of whom there were only about 200 in the mines. It will be remembered, also, that the placers of Nevada were never very remunerative, and that they decreased in the amount of yield as we approach the final year, 1859.

Oregon, in 1866, only produced, $2,000,000 Montana, with an area of 146,689 square miles, produced, in 1862, from her placers, 300,000 In 1863, 8,000,000

It is impossible to give a correct estimate of the yield from Colorado for the year 1859, her first year, but the most liberal estimate would hardly place it above $800,000; the entire yield, including the quartz-mills, for nine years, from 1859 to 1868, as only $30,000,000. Of course there are several causes which it is not necessary to enumerate here, which operated fatally against any large yield from Colorado during these years.

The Black Hills proper has a superficial area of about 6,000 square miles. The bulk—we might almost say all—of the gold produced thus far from the Hills is from placer mines; the quartz interest has as yet hardly begun to be developed. By referring to the comparative figures, it will be seen that, considering her area, and the disadvantages which have surrounded her, the new El Dorado has done remarkably well this year, even if we confine her to the $2,000,000 which I have accounted for. She stands upon a very favorable footing with any of the auriferous districts during their early days. The quartz interest will give a large increase in the yield of bullion this year (1877), both in gold and silver and we may safely place the yield for 1877 at $7,000,000.

MINING UNDER LAKE SUPERIOR.

[Sidenote: MINING UNDER LAKE SUPERIOR.]

One of the most remarkable mines in America is the one known as Silver Islet in Lake Superior. It once was a small barren rock; its greatest width was seventy feet and its length eighty feet. It was only eight feet above the water, its position being about three-quarters of a mile from the main-land and exposed to a sweep of 200 miles of Lake Superior.

[Sidenote: SILVET ISLET.]

Operations were begun there on the first of September, 1870. On that date a party began the erection of cribs, and in thirty days there were put in place 460 feet of cribbing, thoroughly bolted together, filled with rock, and having an average depth of thirteen feet. Such an enormous extent of work was only accomplished by the force working unitedly, as one man, eighteen hours out of twenty-four. Inside of the crib-work a coffer-dam was constructed, enclosing seventy feet in length of the out-crop or back of the vein.

The water in the enclosed space was thrown out by steam siphons, and mining was commenced on October 5th. Everything worked successfully until October 26th, when 200 feet of breakwater was carried away by a heavy southeast gale. The coffer-dam also suffered considerable damage, and the pit excavated on the vein was completely filled with rock from the cribs. This breach was filled more substantially than at first by a double line of crib-work, having a base of twenty-six feet; the coffer-dam was repaired, the pit cleaned out, and mining resumed on November 18th, which was continued until November 26th, when the last shipment of ore was made for the season.

All through that season and the next the work was constantly interrupted by accidents. Whenever a severe storm arose the sea rolled in heavily and broke down portions of the dam, or crib-work, so that the mine would be flooded and the miners driven from their posts. But in spite of these delays, coupled with the small space in which the men could work, more than a million dollars worth of ore was taken out.

The mine is one of the richest ever opened in the country. The great deposit of ore occurs in a fissure vein having a bearing of N. 32° W., the dip or inclination being to the N. E. The vein is well defined at points, having good walls or clearages, but not uniform in width, opening out at points to 12 or 15 feet, and again closing up to a string of not more than six inches. The average width, however, might be put down from four to five feet. Still, aside from the vein proper, there are several strings or feeders, some of them at a distance of 30 feet, carrying rich packing ore.

The vein substance generally consists of calcareous spar and dolomitic spar, with quartz, in which are enclosed occasional masses of dioritic wall rock, slate, and plumbago. The contained minerals are galena, zinc, blende, iron pyrites, kupfer, nickel, cobalt ore, with small quantities of antimony, native silver, and silver glauce, or sulphuret of silver.

The deposit of silver is found at the intersection of the vein with an immense belt of diorite and plumbago. This diorite is an intrusive mass, cutting nearly perpendicularly through the original more or less horizontal formation of slates and sedimentary or silicious sandstone. The ore varies in value from $400 to $7,000 per ton, the general average being not far from $1,500 per ton. This is known as packing ore, for the reason that it is packed in barrels for shipment. In addition to it there is a broad vein of stamp rock, valued at from $45 to $50 per ton.

The vein, taking a northwesterly and southwesterly direction, crosses Silver Islet, where it was discovered. On its course north from the Islet the vein goes out of sight, being covered by the lake for about 3,000 feet, and then makes its appearance on Burnt Island; submerged again by water for a distance of 350 to 400 feet, it reaches the mainland, on which it can be traced for a long distance.

[Sidenote: ISLE ROYALE.]

Going south from Silver Islet, the vein passes under Lake Superior, and is said to cross Isle Royale, some twenty miles off. Tesels have been run out from the shafts, so that the miners work far under the lake, and during heavy storms they can distinctly hear the roar of the waters. But although the vein is placed below the lake, its position, so far, has not put it at a great disadvantage, compared with other mines producing silver.

[Sidenote: CHARACTER OF THE MINE.]

There are features about this mine which actually make it a favorite as regards cost of working. The two great causes which increase so rapidly the cost, and delay the progress of mining everywhere, are influx of water and the meeting with what is termed soft ground. This mine, so far, has been opened nearly 700 feet. The longest level opens up the vein about 730 feet, and yet by pumping some 155 gallons per minute, the mine is kept dry. Most of this water enters from above, and is therefore not expected to increase in proportion to the depth obtained in the future. Many mines, although situated on high and dry land, have to pump far more water than this. The rock here being less pervious to water than elsewhere, can only be accounted for by the fact that a longer time has elapsed since this region has undergone any serious volcanic disturbance. Some narrow belts of slaty shale lying next to the vein are identical, except in age, with the clay found next the true veins in other places.

The vein rock itself is of a hard and firm nature, needing but little timbering for support. Three samples, taken from the vein yet remaining in the roof of the mine, showed, from concentrations and assays, as follows:

1. South end of vein, silver per ton, 7,346 ozs. 2. Middle of vein, 2,886 “ 3. North end of veins, 5-4/5 “

The concentrations of No. 1 had hardly more than a trace of galena in them, being native silver, etc.

No. 2 was mixed, consisting of galena and native silver.

No. 3 was pure galena.

The mineral is called McFarlanite, from the man who first brought it into notice, it being unlike any other silver ore, a mingling of nickel giving it a peculiar tinge and a beautiful arborescence.

The mine has ten levels or adits running north and south, besides several cross-cuts east and west. They have lately been boring with a diamond drill west of the main vein, thinking to find another feeder similar to the east vein, or to ascertain if the streak that is seen in the water west may be a deflection in the main vein.

They descend by ladders only, the shaft being used solely for hoisting rock. They have Burleigh compressors and all modern appliances. Occasionally they strike gas, which throws out a jet of great power—at one time of forty feet—and burns for a long time when lighted. A miner once came upon a natural cavity, where he felt sure he was to touch the bonanza; so he inserted his head with the candle in his hat. It came out quicker than it went in, but without hair, whiskers, eye-brows, and almost without scalp. Holes are encountered discharging water, or water and gas combined. Some of the miners are apprehensive that they will by and by reach the bottom of the lake and fall into an enormous cavity, which will take them, perhaps, to the center of the earth.

XLIII.

CALIFORNIA AND HER TERRESTRIAL TREASURES.

WONDERS OF THE PACIFIC COAST—CALIFORNIA IN 1835—CAUSE OF HER RAPID PROGRESS—THE HONEST MINER OF THE OLDEN TIME—FATE OF THE FORTY-NINERS—EFFORTS OF A NOVICE—RUSHES TO NEW PLACERS—CHANGE FROM PLACER TO QUARTZ MINING—GRASS VALLEY—EXTENT OF THE GOLD-BEARING RIDGE—AMALGAMATING PROCESSES—SPECULATIONS IN MINING STOCKS—HOW A SHARP NEW YORKER WAS SOLD—A LUCKY HIT—COPPER MINES IN CALIFORNIA AND ARIZONA—NEW ALMADEN AND ITS QUICKSILVER—BENEFITS OF AN EARTHQUAKE.

For a few years after the discovery of gold in California, little attention was given by her inhabitants to any other pursuit than mining. But in course of time the agricultural resources of the State were developed, and California soon made herself one of the grain-supplying regions of the world. The mines do not hold such a prominent place as they did fifteen years ago, but they are still an important source of wealth to the Pacific coast, and will so continue for a long time to come. Had there been no discovery of gold or other precious metal west of the Rocky Mountains up to the present time, California would to-day be but little advanced beyond the condition in which she was found by the author of “Two Years Before the Mast,” when he landed on her shores in 1835. The cities along the coast would have grown larger, and the number of ships trading to San Diego, San Francisco, and other parts would have steadily increased, but the traffic would be mainly in hides from California cattle, or in the very few articles that were then the produce of this region. San Francisco could not have become in a few years a great city, without the discovery of gold in the streams and on the hill-sides of California.

[Sidenote: THE MINERS OF CALIFORNIA]

The first rush of gold-seekers in 1849, and for two or three years, subsequent to that date, was to the diggings along the various rivers and their tributaries. Men came, with pick and shovel, to gather up a fortune by separating gold from the earth along the valleys. The honest miner, with the tools of his profession, with his bronzed and unshaven face, his hair unkempt and matted like locks of wool, his clothing of the roughest character, and utterly innocent of whisk-broom or cologne water, was a figure well known on both the Atlantic and the Pacific coast. In California he existed in reality, but in the East he was drawn in caricature as something that all California emigrants must become. He toiled in the sands of the Sacramento and its tributaries, now with a run of good luck that sent him rejoicing to his home in the East, or furnished the material for a “high old time,” and again, with ill fortune that left him, after long exertion, with very little of the valuable metal in his own right.

The race of miners has not become extinct, as any one who has visited the interior of California can testify, but it is by no means as numerous as of yore. A large number of men who now stand high in the business world, began their California life by working in the mines. Many of the former miners have gone to their homes in the East, or to those undiscovered regions where gold is said to be of no particular use. Many long since drifted to other gold-mining countries, and many others have taken to agriculture, or to some business more certain—though less seductive—than gold-hunting. Most of the placers have been washed out and abandoned to the Mexicans or Chinese. Localities that formerly supported a large mining population are now deserted, while others can still count a goodly number of inhabitants. Whenever a new region is opened up there are many persons ready to rush to it, in the belief that they will find the fortune they have so long sought. Fraser River, Washoe, Kern River, and other regions have all stood high in the bill of attractions, and all proved more or less delusive. Hardly a year passes without a new discovery somewhere, and a consequent rush of emigration. Human nature remains the same, and there is no probability of the arrival of a time when men will no longer be tempted by extravagant stories to go in quest of a fortune.

[Sidenote: THE FIRST MINERS.]

In the early days, thousands of persons landed at San Francisco with no definite knowledge of the country, and with the impression that the gold mines were within a few hours’ walk of the city, and possibly inside its corporate limits. The story is told of a party of emigrants who came ashore from a steamer, breakfasted at a cheap hotel, and then, with their mining tools, proceeded to the beach at the foot of Telegraph Hill, and began washing for gold. The Sacramento was the deposit of a greater wealth than that of the Indies; they argued that all the water in the bay of San Francisco had come from that river, and therefore all the earth that it touched must be auriferous. Only a day’s toil in that locality could convince them that their theories were incorrect.

There was very little geological or other science applied to the early mining, as very few of the miners had any knowledge in that direction beyond what they acquired by practice. Men dug where they could find pay-dirt, and abandoned places that did not pay for their labor, but they could not often give any reason why one spot in a valley was richer than another. Mining was almost wholly a matter of experiment, and to this day the theories of the school of mines are of comparatively little value in the eyes of many miners. Many of the ordinary rules of geology are overthrown in the formation of the Pacific coast, so that the scientific geologists who have gone to California, find themselves involved in perplexities at almost every step.

The revelations of General Sutter’s mill-race established the existence of gold in California, and the news spreading rapidly throughout the world, brought a large migration. The first miners were nearly all adventurers without capital, and though the bulk of the immigration continued of this character, the second and subsequent years saw men of capital and intelligence going there to give a better direction to the interest of the country. The pick and pan, the primitive rocker, the long tom, the sluice, the tunnel, and other accessories of placer mining, marked the successive development of means for robbing the earth of its treasures. These operations culminated in hydraulic mining, which may be fairly considered as the perfection of this branch of work.

Of course it was but a single step from the discovery of gold in the dirt of the valleys, to its discovery in the veins of rock that formed the hill-sides and mountains. The rock from these veins was carefully assayed, and its richness established. Mere hand work was of no avail, or would be unprofitable in reducing these ores and extracting the metal. Heavy machinery must be erected, deep mines must be opened; shafts and wheels and pits would be expensive, and so would be the erection and management of machinery. Hence the necessity for capital and intelligence in this kind of labor. Individuals and companies led off in this work, and so quartz mining followed upon placer mining, and became a business of magnitude.

[Sidenote: QUARTZ MINING.]

The best established gold mines in California are at Grass Valley, a neat little city in Nevada County, twelve miles from the Central Pacific Railway, and for some time the home of the once noted and notorious Lola Montez. The other quartz mining districts are scattered through the mountainous region of the State, but the localities where the mines are profitable are not very numerous. Further explorations will of course increase their number, but it is not very probable that the development will be rapid.

In placer mining, the object is to separate the gold from the dirt where it has been deposited, and to accomplish this, water and labor are the only necessities. The dirt or earth is to be carried away while the gold remains. This is the whole process, whether we employ the simple pan and rocker or some more elaborate means of working. But in quartz mining the process is more complicated. The rocks must be taken from the veins and brought to the surface. There it lies, solid rock, with the gold mixed into its whole mass, while in a fluid state, just as salt or soda are mixed with flour in making bread. It must be reduced to powder, and for this purpose heavy machinery is employed. When reduced to a powder, the gold must be extracted, and this work requires more care and causes more perplexities than other labor connected with quartz mining. Besides the gold, there are various chemical compounds, some of which remain, while others may be washed away. Many men must be employed about a quartz mill; the monthly disbursements, provided the owners are honorable, are very large. Hence, while a man without capital may become a miner in the gulches and placers, the beginner in quartz mining requires both brains and capital.

The quartz district, which is from fifteen to a hundred miles in width, commences in Mariposa County, and extends along the western foot-hills of the Sierra Nevada for four or five hundred miles, disappearing somewhere in Oregon. The ledges of rocks lie at various angles, being in some places almost horizontal, while in others they vary little from the perpendicular. There are various theories touching the formation of the quartz ledges and their impregnation with gold, but none of them will apply to all cases. The mines that have been opened are along this ridge, and many shafts have been sunk for the purpose of reaching this rich rock. A considerable proportion of these shafts have been abandoned because they did not reach the ledge, while others have been forced to quit, because the ledge, though containing gold, was unprofitable. As before stated, those most generally successful are at Grass Valley, where the rock does not vary much in value, and where the profits of a year’s labor can be estimated beforehand with considerable accuracy. Year after year the work has gone on, and the town of Grass Valley has a more thrifty appearance than the majority of the mining centers of California.

There is very little difference in the character of the quartz mines and mills throughout California. Where the vein is perpendicular, or nearly so, the shaft is sunk directly through the vein; but where it lies at an angle, the shaft is sunk so as to strike the vein at a given distance from the surface. In either case, galleries, called levels, are run off from the shaft into the vein, sometimes for a long distance. At the surface, the vein may be but a few inches in thickness, but it gradually widens as it descends, so that some of the veins have a width of twenty-five feet or upwards. Along the levels the ore is brought to the shaft, and then sent, in buckets, up to daylight. In extensive operations, there are numerous shafts, galleries, and levels that connect with each other and form a subterranean network of streets and alleys. Once on the surface of the earth, the ore is sent to the mill, where it is first broken into small pieces and then reduced to powder by the action of the crushing machinery.

Various kinds of machinery have been devised for reducing the ore, the first being the stamp-mill, which consists of a row of heavy pestles, standing in troughs. These pestles or stamps are raised by steam power, and fall by their own weight. They are from four to eight in number, and sometimes there are twenty or more; they operate just as do the feet of the smiling maidens in the vineyards of France, when treading out the juices of the grape. No other mill has proved superior to this in reducing the ore; the testimony of miners and capitalists is almost unanimously in favor of the stamp-mill.

A stream of water pours into the trough where the ore is being crushed, each stamp falling from ten to eighty times a minute, and mixing the water and pulverized rock together. This runs upon blankets, which catch a portion of the gold; then it passes over a sloping surface, cut with horizontal crevices, filled with quicksilver, that catches all the gold it touches; then through a series of troughs and sluices, with occasional beds of quicksilver, and so on to a heap of wastes.

No perfect process of saving the gold has yet been invented, and much of it is still carried away in the sand or “tailing” of the mills. Rock that assays $40 or $50 to the ton will rarely yield more than half or two-thirds that amount, and sometimes falls far below it. Some of the mill owners claim to be satisfied with their present process, while others are constantly making experiments. Whoever succeeds in finding a cheap and effective means of saving all the gold in the pulverized rock, has a sure fortune before him. Many of the ores contain sulphurets of various kinds, and these are nearly always more or less refractory. Many of the mills are reserving their “tailings,” to be worked down again when some successful inventor makes his appearance. Some mill owners save the sulphurets from the ores for the purpose of selling them to the agent of an English house, who buys them for shipment to Wales.

Most of the quartz mines in California are from one hundred and fifty to six hundred feet in depth. The deepest and richest gold mine in the State is that known as Hayward’s mine, on Sutter’s Creek, Amador County. Its owner was unable to make it pay expenses for a long time, but it grew richer as it descended, and for the past twelve years or so has paid a handsome profit. Sixty tons per day are taken out and crushed; the operation goes on constantly, night and day.

The history of this mine seems to settle the question about the profitableness of deep mining, as the ore grows richer the farther it gets from the surface. The mines at Grass Valley steadily increase in richness as they descend from the surface. The owners of one mine have been pocketing a profit of $200,000 per annum.

[Sidenote: THE QUARTZ MINERS.]

All the fortunes made in California mining operations have not come from actual work upon the ledges. A great many men who never saw a mine have become rich by speculation in mining stocks; some of them have kept their money, but the majority have been unable to hold to it, in consequence of their eagerness for more. It is safe to say that more fortunes have been made by lucky sales of stock in mining companies than by holding for dividends. There have been some very large speculations in this kind of property, and at one time Montgomery street in San Francisco rivaled Wall street in New York in the magnitude of its operations. It is still a scene of financial activity, though the speculation is less than of yore.

[Sidenote: “CLEANING THEM OUT.”]

The California speculators are up to all the tricks and equal to the smartest of the Wall street men. A New York capitalist went there once with the laudable intention of “cleaning them out”. There had been a little flurry in the stock of a certain company, and it was well known who were the holders of the property. One day he received a telegram announcing that this mine had suddenly developed immense quantities of very rich ore, and the stock would consequently make an enormous advance. Other persons, who claimed to be his friends, received the same intelligence, and told him of it in the strictest confidence. The bait took, he bought all accessible stock of that company, paying a liberal price, and rejoicing at the reception of his news in advance of the market. The telegrams were all bogus; his pretended friends assisted in stacking the cards so as to win. The operators on the street used to speak of this as a very neat transaction, and declared that Wall street could not excel it.

A great deal depends upon knowing when to sell out. A friend of mine once bought fifteen feet of a mine, just opened, at ten dollars a foot, and sold it a year later at sixteen thousand dollars a foot. Three months later it could have been bought for not more than ten times the original cost. One man, who held on, is still keeping ten feet of the same mine, and is likely to do so.

Copper mining has been prosecuted to a considerable extent in California, and at one time was very profitable, owing to the war between Spain and Chili, which excluded the latter country from the copper market. The principal copper mines in California are at Copperopolis, in the foot-hills of the Sierra Nevadas, about forty miles from Stockton. The ore is extracted in the form of sulphurets, from a vein about twenty feet in width, which has reached a depth of more than six hundred feet. In consequence of the expense of smelting works, and the cost of fuel, it has been found more economical to send the ore to England, and to the Atlantic coast, for reduction. The sulphur is driven off by heat, and, after undergoing various manipulations to rid it of foreign matter, the fine copper remains. There are several mines at Copperopolis, all of them on the same vein. The most profitable of them employed at one time more than twenty ships in freighting its ore to the places where it was smelted. The net profit to the owners of the mine for one year, during the Chilian war, exceeded half a million dollars, but it fell off greatly with the return of peace.

[Sidenote: COPPER AND SILVER MINES.]

The ore contains an average of twenty to twenty-five per cent. of copper, the balance being sulphur and other chemicals, in combination with such earthy substances as are ordinarily encountered in sulphate veins. The richest copper mines of the coast are in Arizona, very near the California line. Specimens from a mine on “Bill Williams’ Fork,” eight miles from steamboat navigation, on the Colorado River, assayed from sixty to seventy per cent. of copper. The ore from these mines ought to yield from forty to fifty per cent. pure copper, and the miners are confident of a richer return than this as they descend into the earth.

Arizona is also rich in silver and gold, particularly the former, but the climate is so unhealthy, and the Indians have such a persistent habit of killing white men on frequent occasions, that a residence there is not as desirable as a home on the banks of the Hudson, or the Ohio. But as we are always ready to go wherever there is a prospect of money-making, this out-of-the-way territory bids fair to become peopled before many years have passed away. Steamboats are running on the Colorado, and the Southern Pacific Railway taps the country, so that the mines near it have a good prospect of development. Some of the companies now in operation in Arizona sell their ore to speculators, while the balance ship theirs to England for reduction.

The want of good coal mines is severely felt in California. Coal has been discovered, and is being taken out in considerable quantities at Mount Diabolo, thirty miles from San Francisco, but it is of inferior quality, and unfit for many purposes where coal is used. The same is the case with the coal from Bellingham Bay, British Columbia, and from nearly all other points on the Pacific coast where mines have been opened. The river steamers burn the California coal. Some of the founders use it, as well as all the establishments on land where the making of steam is the only object. It is said that ocean steamers cannot burn it, in consequence of its tendency to spontaneous combustion, when kept in the hold of a ship for any considerable time. Coal is taken there from the Atlantic seaboard, and from Sydney, New South Wales. If a mine, favorably located anywhere on the Pacific coast, furnishing a good quality of coal, could be found, it would yield a fortune to its owners.

[Sidenote: CALIFORNIA QUICKSILVER.]

I have spoken of gold, silver, and copper among the minerals, but there is another metal which is an important product of the coast, though the area of its production is somewhat limited. I allude to quicksilver, which exists in quantities worthy of note, only in Spain, California, and Peru. For a very long time the Almaden quicksilver mine in Spain was the only one known, and it held a rigid monopoly of the trade. The discoveries in Peru opened a new field, but, though it reduced the price for a time, it did not seriously affect it. The discovery in California threw such a quantity into the market, that the whole quicksilver trade of the world is now ruled by it.

The great mine is at New Almaden, sixty miles south from San Francisco. The ore is taken from a mine in the hills on the inside of the Coast Range of mountains, and is found in chambers, instead of veins. Some of the earthquakes that occasionally disturb San Francisco, put money in the pockets of the New Almaden owners, as they open up new and very rich chambers, not previously discovered. The ore from which the quicksilver is taken is about the color of a well-burned brick, and looks, when piled up for use, much like a heap of broken granite and bricks. The ore is placed in furnaces, a wood fire is built beneath, the quicksilver flies off in vapor, and is caught and condensed in air-tight rooms, partly filled with water. After condensation, it is bottled up in flasks containing 76-1/2 pounds, each of these being the same as the weight used at the Almaden mine in Spain.

This mine has been the subject of much litigation, as indeed has nearly everything valuable in California. The product in one year was 47,194 flasks, worth about $50 per flask, or a total value of $2,359,700. The cost of producing this result was about $800,000, leaving a very fair margin of profit. The ore averages from twelve to eighteen per cent. of quicksilver, and frequently exceeds the latter figure. A piece of the ore which I picked up at the mine, lies before me as I write. It is a deep red color, heavy, like a lump of lead, and is said to contain about twenty per cent. of quicksilver.

[Sidenote: QUICKSILVER.]

A large quantity of quicksilver is used in gold and silver mining on the Pacific coast, and the balance goes to various parts of the world. Of the production of the year I mentioned, fourteen thousand flasks were sent to China, ten thousand to London, five thousand to Peru, two thousand to Chili, seven thousand to New York, two thousand to Mexico, and two hundred to Australia.

XLIV.

RAPID TRANSIT IN NEW YORK.

THE UNDERGROUND RAILWAY SCHEMES.—ELEVATED RAILWAY LINES.—THE WEST SIDE RAILWAY.—TRAVELLING ON LAMP POSTS.—ADVANTAGES OF A SECOND STORY ROAD.—ADVENTURES WITH THIEVES.—PERILS OF THE MODERN STREET CAR.—ARTISTIC PACKING OF PASSENGERS.—THE PNEUMATIC RAILWAY.—VANDERBILT’S SCHEME.—AN UNCOMFORTABLE JOURNEY.—SHOT FROM A GUN.

For several years the people of New York city have been agitated on the subject of rapid transit from one end of Manhattan Island to the other. In one respect, New York is unlike any other city on the globe. Nearly all its business is conducted at one end of the island on which it stands, while nearly all the residences are at the other end. Consequently, a large part of the population must be transported in the morning from the upper part of Manhattan Island to the lower end, and transported back again in the afternoon and evening. All the lines of street railway and the stages are densely crowded at these times. There is not a street car or an omnibus that is not packed to its fullest capacity, in the morning, with people going down town, and packed in a similar way, about sunset, with people going up town.

Travel at these times in the direction indicated is accompanied with many annoyances. On some of the lines of street railway, the passengers are stowed away very much like sardines in a can, or like negroes in the hold of a slave ship. Comfort is not at all considered. Every man is anxious to reach his destination as speedily as possible, and if the seats are all taken, he is willing to stand. Very often passengers are wedged so closely that the movement of one affects nearly all the rest, and a person near the middle of the car finds it hard work to get out. Straps are suspended from horizontal bars running fore and aft the car; and the standing passengers suspend themselves from these straps.

[Sidenote: AN INGENIOUS DEVICE.]

An ingenious individual has devised a plan whereby the space above the heads of the standing passengers may be utilized. He proposes some additional straps, on which a few passengers can be suspended horizontally, very much as dried fish in a museum are hung up against the wall. The position would be uncomfortable, but comfort is a secondary or tertiary consideration altogether.

The ordinary street car is designed to seat thirty-two passengers, but very often as many as a hundred passengers are crowded on a single vehicle. The front and rear platforms are occupied down to the very edge of the steps. It is uncomfortable enough when the passengers are sober and well-behaved; but when, as often happens, half of them are drunk, and fifty per cent. of the drunken ones are quarrelsome, the position becomes serious. A man who travels late at night on a main line of street railway will have his love for sport fully gratified. He may expect a broken rib every week or two, and, as the noble and manly art prevails among the drunken gentlemen, he can be accommodated with a fight whenever he wishes it, and very often when he doesn’t.

The modern science of pocket-picking is very much in fashion in New York, and a goodly portion of the inhabitants seem to be engaged in an effort to make an honest living by robbing the rest. On a densely crowded car, one can frequently see gangs of pickpockets, varying from two to half a dozen persons, and unless he is very attentive, they will go through him without his knowing it. They are skilful operators, and the rules of the profession forbid the practice of the science until the artist is able to pick away a man’s eye-winkers without his feeling it. I always look with pleasure on a man who boasts that no pickpocket can rob him. His confidence begets carelessness, and the result is, that he is generally robbed more than any other man.

[Sidenote: SKILL OF PICKPOCKETS.]

With a long experience on street railways, it has been my pleasure to suffer the depredations of pickpockets several times; and I will do them the credit to say that their robberies were almost always committed when I was on the lookout for them, and was quite confident they could do me no harm. They never took my watch or pocket-book, but on two occasions they have taken a letter case out of the inside pocket of my coat, and once invaded my trousers, and carried off a card case which had no cards in it. They have gone through my overcoat, and relieved it of kerchiefs, and gloves, and such trifles, and I was in blissful ignorance of their operations until some time afterwards, when I happened to put a hand in my pocket, and found that my property had gone.

Quite often I have seen the pickpockets “working” a car, and have admired the effectual and artistic manner in which they perform their duty. A few days before writing this description, I travelled with five of these individuals on my way down town, and saw them go from one end of the car to the other,—the vehicle was very much crowded,—and after taking what watches and pocket-books they could find, they left from the rear platform. The cry of robbers was raised a little too late, and when the first announcement was made that valuables had disappeared, they were off the car and three or four blocks away. Two pocket-books and four watches were the result of that evening’s enterprise—a very fair compensation for five minutes’ work.

The omnibuses are somewhat better in character than the street cars, though they do not afford accommodations for standing, especially if the passenger happens to be in the vicinity of six feet high. Many persons do stand in them, however, and revenge themselves for their discomfort by treading on the toes of the sitters at every lurch of the carriage. Intoxicated people do not ride in the omnibuses as much as in the street cars, partly for the reason that the majority of drunkards live on the railway rather than on the omnibus routes, and partly for the reason that it is not so easy to enter an omnibus as to enter a street car. The car has a conductor, whose duty it is to assist passengers on board and collect their fares, to kick off the disorderly ones, and keep everybody on good behavior. Between the pickpockets and passengers, the conductors generally occupy a neutral position, very much like the woman in the celebrated contest between her husband and a bear. The omnibus has no conductor, and as no one is responsible for the conduct of the passengers, they generally behave much better than on board a street car. If a man misbehaves himself in the former vehicle, his fellow-passengers eject him; but in the latter conveyance, the passengers do not wish to take upon themselves the conductor’s duty, and as he is generally unwilling to perform it, it is not performed at all.

Time is an important consideration on these lines of travel. There are so many stoppages for landing and receiving passengers, so many blockades arising from vehicles in the street, and from other causes, that the journey from end to end of Manhattan Island is not a rapid one. From the City Hall to Harlem, the ordinary time required is an hour and a half, and proportionally for other distances. The omnibus is even slower than the street car, as it has not the advantage of rails on which to move, and makes frequent stoppages to wait for its passengers. The consumption of time in city travel, added to the annoyances, makes it very desirable that a more perfect system should be devised.

[Sidenote: SCHEMES OF RAPID TRANSIT.]

Consequently the question of rapid transit has been very much debated, and several schemes have been proposed. I shall not attempt to give all the systems proposed for public consideration, as they would occupy much more space than I have at my disposal. Some inventors propose an underground railway, and some propose a railway elevated sufficiently high to offer no obstacle to the passage of vehicles. There has been a great deal of talk on the rapid transit question, but up to this time comparatively little has been done. A single track has been placed in the air on iron posts something like lamp posts, and carried from the Battery through Greenwich Street, and connecting streets and avenues, as far as Thirtieth Street. It is very doubtful if it ever gets any farther, or if anything more than a single track is built. The enterprise thus far has not met the expectations of its projectors. It has swallowed up a great deal of money, and secured very little travel. It carries passengers at a fair speed, but it has had two or three accidents that have rendered the public distrustful of its accomplishments.

[Sidenote: HOW TO STUDY PRIVATE LIFE.]

It possesses one advantage—that of enabling strangers to study the private life of the people on second story floors along its route; and for this reason I presume distinguished foreigners, who come to New York, are generally invited to make a journey over this railway. By no other means now known can so good a knowledge of the domestic habits of New York be obtained. A gentleman who made a journey in one of the cars of this road soon after its opening, stated that he counted ninety-seven families at breakfast, of whom thirty-three were eating fish, twenty-seven were eating beefsteaks or mutton-chops, while the balance were sticking to bread and vegetables in various forms, or were breakfasting on nothing at all. He saw thirteen family quarrels in various stages of progress, and observed one lady, apparently of foreign origin, discussing home affairs with a broom-handle. He obtained an intimate knowledge of wearing apparel for both sexes, and saw a great many things he had never seen before, and hardly expected to see on so short a journey.

Soon after this Elevated Railway was begun, some enterprising gentlemen undertook the construction of a railway under Broadway, on the pneumatic plan. They leased a cellar at the corner of Broadway and Warren Street, dug a tunnel under the sidewalk, and thence directly under Broadway for a distance of two hundred and fifty feet. It had been claimed that an underground railway could not be made beneath Broadway without interfering greatly with the traffic of that busy thoroughfare. The projectors of this line, known as the Beach Pneumatic Railway, contended that they could do their work without interference with travel, and they not only did it in that way, but they kept the entire public ignorant of their operations until they were ready to throw open the completed portion of their line for inspection. They were at work three or four months before any outsider obtained the least hint of what was going on, and for the last few months of their work, the public dwelt almost entirely in conjectures. It leaked out that something was being done there, but what it was, nobody could exactly tell.

[Sidenote: OPENING AN UNDERGROUND RAILWAY.]

Finally, a certain day was fixed for the opening, and a great many persons were invited to be present. They found a comfortable station and waiting-room under the sidewalk of Warren Street. They found a passenger car on the track, and a well-lighted tunnel, through which they could walk, and listen to the rumbling of carriages overhead. The tunnel was as dry and comfortable as brick-work and whitewash could make it. Telegraph wires extended from end to end, so that communication could be had at any moment with the engineer; and although the distance was short, the car, in moving along the track, attained considerable speed. They found powerful machinery, capable of forcing thousands of cubic feet of air per minute, and propelling the cars at a rapid rate. The machinery was moved by steam power, and the cars were propelled by the force of the air pressing against them. Whether the tube was five yards in length or five miles, as long as it remained tight the car could be driven by the power of the stationary machinery.

Unfortunately for the rapid prosecution of the enterprise, the Pneumatic Railway was not, for the purpose of carrying passengers, a chartered institution; and up to the time of writing, it has never progressed farther than a single section, between Warren and Murray Streets. Its projectors have full faith in its ultimate success, and certainly the result of their enterprise, so far, has been satisfactory. They claim to be able to drill their tunnels for any distance, under any part of the city, without interfering with business; and they even propose to push their way under the East River, and thus extend their route to Brooklyn. They propose to have stopping-places every half mile, where passengers can be taken up and left, and they promise to run their cars from one end of New York to the other inside of half an hour. They promise that there shall be comfortable weather at all seasons of the year, and are very certain that their route will never be blocked with snow. They assert that collisions are impossible, because their mode of propulsion is such that two cars cannot approach or go from each other on the same track at the same time. One of the great troubles of operating a line of railway by steam is the impossibility of making two trains pass each other on a single track. Many a railway engine-driver has attempted it, but on every occasion he has come to grief, and has generally brought some of his passengers to an unhappy end. On an atmospheric railway the attempt to make such a meeting and passage is, from the nature of things, impossible; consequently accidents from this cause can never occur.

[Sidenote: AN ELEVATED RAILWAY.]

Another atmospheric railway proposed for New York is to be elevated in the air. An iron arch is to be thrown over the streets or avenues, sufficiently high to permit the passage of vehicles beneath it, and sufficiently strong to sustain a great weight. On the top of this archway two large tubes are to be placed, each tube nine or ten feet in diameter, and having a railway track inside, where car-wheels can run. The pneumatic system is to be applied to the propulsion of these cars, very much as it is used to propel the cars on the underground line already described. It would possess most of the advantages of the underground system, and there is no good reason to predict the failure of a line constructed in this way.

Another elevated railway has an iron arch, similar to the one just mentioned; but the roadway is open, and the cars are propelled by steam. Its advocates are sanguine of success, and its opponents say that it would frighten all the horses that come anywhere in sight of it when its trains are in motion. But if the horses choose to get frightened, that is their affair; and the probability is, that they would soon become accustomed to the strange noise, and behave themselves properly. Horses can be accustomed to anything. All that is wanted is proper training.

Somebody has proposed a three-tier railway, having one line or track under ground, another at the surface, and another elevated high in the air. His scheme is a magnificent one, and has a good many advocates; but the probability is, that some of the rival enterprises will be completed before this is adopted, mainly for the reason that the cost of their construction is much less.

Several years ago an underground railway company was chartered, and set about the construction of a line. A little work had been done, and only a little. The route was surveyed and laid out, and the managers of the company set about raising the needed capital. Somehow the desired money was not forthcoming, and up to this time the railway has existed more on paper and in the minds of its advocates than in the locality where it was to be constructed.

[Sidenote: THE VIADUCT RAILWAY.]

A year or so after this line was chartered, another scheme was proposed for making a railway on brick arches, to be known as the Viaduct Railway. It was in the hands of men then in power in New York, and soon after the organization of the company it was announced that a large amount of stock had been taken. The route was surveyed, and maps were published, showing the proposed line of travel. There were many real estate speculations growing out of it, and the supposition is, that the managers of the Viaduct Railway pocketed handsome amounts of money out of these speculations; but somehow the public did not grasp with any confidence the enterprise, which was in the hands of the magnates of the Tammany Ring, and the Viaduct Railroad, at the time I write, exists only on paper.

After this failure to meet the much felt want, the genius of Vanderbilt was brought into action. The commodore, as he was called, was able, by the influence he could bring to bear on the legislature, to secure a charter for an underground railway from City Hall to the upper end of the island. He went at it in a business-like way, and promised that in a few years one could ride under ground from the City Hall to Harlem in twenty minutes.

If Vanderbilt had lived to the age of Methuselah, and continued in vigorous health, he would doubtless have done something for rapid transit whenever he found that it would carry business to his railway. But his grand scheme of several years ago amounted to nothing, and shrewd people suspected that he was satisfied with the existing surface roads.

[Sidenote: SPHERICAL TRANSPORTATION.]

Among the schemes that have been proposed for rapid travel and transportation of freight, there is one which purposes to make use of tubes, either under ground or on the surface, in which spheres or globes shall be placed, and propelled by means of a rapid current of air. The inventor claims that a sphere will move through a tube with very little friction, and can be driven with great rapidity. He would make a tube several feet in diameter, and have his spheres so arranged that they could be opened and filled with freight, then closed, properly fastened, placed in the tube, and started. I believe that he proposes to propel them one or two hundred miles an hour, at comparatively slight expense. For certain kinds of freight this mode of transportation and propulsion might be well enough, but there are things for which it would not answer. Imagine, for example, one of the spheres filled with fresh strawberries in Virginia for transportation to New York. The strawberries would be constantly rolled against each other, so that by the time they reached New York they would be in a condition of jelly.

As a passenger route this line would have great disadvantages. Imagine a man enclosed in a sphere, either doubled or laid out horizontally, to make a journey from New York to Washington. He would be standing alternately on his head and on his feet about one hundred times a minute, and if he went through alive it would be a wonder, and he would be likely to be very much confused; especially if he were not packed tightly in his travelling-box, he would have a rough time of it. Every square inch of his body would be covered with bruises, and, besides, he would have a hard time to breathe, as the supply of air would be exceedingly limited.

I believe the inventor proposes that all parcels going by his route should be tightly packed; consequently, it would be necessary to wrap the passengers and secure them somewhat after the style of an Egyptian mummy, and stow them in their places by means of an hydraulic press. None of this mode of travel for me, if you please.

[Sidenote: PROPULSION BY GUNPOWDER.]

I have heard of a scheme of locomotion in which the inventor proposed to load his passengers into a large cannon, having a bore of three or four yards, and then shoot them to their destination. The journey could be made fast enough, but such a mode of travel is liable to accidents, both on starting and stopping. If one could get off and be well under way without being singed by the powder, he would run a great risk of being somewhat injured when reaching his stopping-place. “It was not the falling,” said a hod-carrier one day, speaking of a tumble of twenty or thirty feet,—“it was not the falling that hurt me, darling, but the stopping so quick at the end.”

XLV.

THE TUNNELS, AND THE UNDERGROUND RAILROAD IN LONDON.

DESCRIPTION OF THE LONDON HARBORS—THE CATHARINE DOCK—ENORMOUS STORE-HOUSES—HOW THE TUNNEL WAS BUILT—PLAN OF THE FRENCH ENGINEER, ISAMBERT BRUNEL—HOW THE WORK WAS CHECKED BY A BREAK IN THE BED OF THE THAMES—SIX LIVES LOST—REMARKABLE RESCUE OF THE SON OF MR. BRUNEL—ENORMOUS LABOR AND STRUGGLE AGAINST THE ELEMENTS—TRIUMPH AT LAST—THE MOST REMARKABLE RAILROAD IN THE WORLD—LONDON CROSSED UNDERGROUND BY A SERIES OF TUNNELS—HOW LIGHT AND AIR IS PRODUCED—THE NEWEST IMPROVEMENTS OF THE ROAD—THE CARS PASSING UNDER THE DWELLING OF THE DEAD.

[Sidenote: THE DOCKS OF LONDON.]

The London harbor belongs to the grandest and most interesting ones in the world. Here in vivid writing the history of the English commerce is recorded; from this point, a gigantic net of navigation is spread all over the globe. Voices from all parts of the world, of animals and men; all human races, of every color, from the deepest black to the palest white of the inhabitants on the shores of the White Sea, are met with. Merchandise is taken in here, which has undergone an uninterrupted travel of three-quarters of a year, until at last it found here a preliminary object, and the statistics alone can give an idea of the immense amount of products of all lands, which are unloaded in this harbor, and stored in the enormous magazines. The harbor-basins, where those store-houses are situated, are crowded with boats for unloading the wares, give a refuge to colossi of ships; here the steam-whistles resound; columns of smoke rise to the sky; chains are rattling and cranes are creaking. In those long, extended buildings, which are almost as large as a country town, the merchandise is stored, free of duty until it is put in the market. Oil, wine, tobacco, silk, wood, flour, etc., etc., are stored in innumerable vaults, in the six stories of the monstrous buildings. Steam is in operation to unload the ships, and small railroads allow the wares to be easily transported. The principal of these store-houses are the Catharine-docks, which are easily to be reached from the Tower. It is only separated from this gloomy witness of the reign of tyranny of the Middle Ages, by a street, and here one is astonished at the hubbub which is going on. These docks were opened to the traffic in 1828; in former times, one thousand two hundred and fifty houses, with eleven thousand three hundred inhabitants were found there. The flood-gates which lead to the basin are so deep that, at the time of tide, ships of seven hundred tons (one ton equals forty-two cubic feet) can easily enter and leave. The store-houses have a capacity of one hundred and ten thousand tons. The Catharine steamboat-wharf is especially used as pier for the steamers which come from the continent. A whole series of docks is connected with the Catharine-docks. Among them are the London-docks, with room for two hundred and twenty thousand tons of goods, and a cellar with a capacity of eight million two hundred and twenty-five thousand gallons. The tunnel of the Thames leads from that part of the city which is south of the London-docks, two miles below London Bridge, to Rotherhithe, which lies on the right shore of the Thames.

[Sidenote: HOW THE EXCAVATIONS WERE MADE.]

The Thames flows through the city of London, and divides it into two parts. Many bridges span the river, but they are insufficient in number for the great traffic, and the idea was entertained of constructing a new bridge. It must be so constructed, however, that the largest vessels could pass under it. In order to avoid this, Vesey commenced, at the beginning of this century, to build a tunnel under the Thames, which plan, although it was nearly executed, had to be relinquished in 1809, on account of too many obstacles. In the year 1823, the idea was revived. The French engineer, Isambert Brunel, looking at the keel of a ship, saw how the worms hollowed out their single passages into the ship, by corridors closely adjoining each other, and conceived the idea that a great tunnel might be constructed by proceeding in the same way. He had twelve boxes made without bottom, such as are used for a foundation for water-works. These frames he placed perpendicularly, the one next to the other, and divided each in three parts, by means of traverses, so that he had, in all, thirty-six divisions, which served as points of commencement for the excavations of so many single shafts.

Each one of these divisions was designed for one laborer; it was open in the back and in front, supported by many planks, which were movable. All the frames together were called the shield. This shield was placed before the portions of ground to be excavated; the laborer removed one of the planks, and commenced digging, placed the plank, afterwards, against the sides of the shaft, which had been digged, and supported it in this position by heavy poles; the work was continued in the same way. As soon as the laborer had advanced to the same length in all the three divisions of a frame, it was pushed forward by two dummies, one of which worked at the top, the other at the bottom, into the excavated space.

As soon as the frame had advanced, masons commenced vaulting immediately behind the laborers; the shield, however, protected the earth until the vaults were ready, and the rolls, which now had been built, in their turn served as support for the dummies, by which the single frames were pushed forward. To this so simple means of excavating, London owes her underground railroad, which had long been considered as a work impossible of achievement.

In the year 1824, an action-company was formed for the restoration of the tunnel, and soon the only point where such a work could be commenced, was found. It was between Rotherhithe and Wapping, between London and Greenwich.

[Sidenote: SINKING THE CYLINDERS.]

At this point, the shores of the Thames are one thousand one hundred and forty-four feet apart. The construction was commenced, in 1825, by building a cylinder of brick on the side of Rotherhithe, at a distance from the water of one hundred and fifty-five feet. This cylinder was forty-three feet high, half a foot thick, and had a diameter of fifty-three feet. Over the upper opening, Brunel placed an engine of thirty horse-power, which took the earth and the water from the interior, until, in that way, the cylinder had sunk sixty-six feet deep into the earth. Now he placed a second cylinder within the first, which had a diameter of only sixteen and one-half feet, and sunk it, in the same manner, eighty-two and one-half feet deep. The tunnel now commences from the first cylinder, at a depth of sixty-two and one-half feet; its breadth is thirty-nine and one-half, and its height twenty-three feet, the wall inclusive. The section is formed by two ovals, which touch each other; in that way, two vaulted corridors are made, each of which is almost sixteen and one-half feet high, and has a road for carriages, and one for pedestrians, the one next to the other. Both corridors are united by openings, in which are gas-lights, which lighten them both.

At the beginning of 1826, they commenced the horizontal labor for the tunnel proper, from the bottom of this shaft. They soon came, from a firm, clay soil, to a loose, moist layer of sand, but, some time afterwards, clay was met with again. The construction progressed slowly but steadily; every day two feet were accomplished. On the 80th of June, 1826, the construction reached the bed of the river, and on the 2d of March of the following year, they had advanced four hundred and seventy-five feet, or almost one-third of the length of the tunnel had been completed.

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