the inhabitants of the north of Europe generally
are not classed under that title. They
are too saving, too steady, and possibly too
clannish; for, though he does become an
American citizen as soon as he arrives, this is
with no view to any political principles he
entertains, but solely to facilitate the
preemption of land, the acquisition of a lager-
beer brewery, or the opening of a corner
grocery.

Cañon Creek, as the locality was named, had
once, I was told, been a " bully old diggin',"
but the stream having been pretty well washed
out, the miners had decamped to parts
unknown, leaving no address behind them. Like
the Arabs, they folded their tents, and silently
moved away. Here was a half-ruined building,
choked up with weeds, bearing record that
it had been once the El Dorado Saloon—in
other words, a gambling hell, or worse—and
around it were a few cabins. This had been
the town site, and the projectors no doubt
imagined that it was to be " the right smart
chance of a city." However, fate had decided
otherwise, and the only traces of former greatness
to be seen, were piles of stones and gravel,
and long trenches, and half-ruined ditches,
which gave the spot the appearance of a place
where some great engineering operations had
been left half finished. Here and there, a
solitary Chinese slunk about, intent on his own
business, and, if my companion were to be
believed, in pursuit of stray cats. As we turned
a corner of the rough trail, we suddenly emerged
in front of the store; by the door were sitting
half a dozen of the old habitués of the creek,
lazily talking. My friend was delighted.

"There they are!" he cried, " loafing about,
chawin' baccy, jest as nat'ral as anythin'!"

He seemed to be a popular man among
them. As his friend (friendships are quickly
made in the West) I was received with
vociferations of welcome, and the choice of half a
dozen shanties to " spread a blanket in." In
this way I saw a good deal of the honest miner
of Cañon Creek, and learned not a little of
his ways of life .and thought, in this lonely
little dell in the Californian mountains. Of
course, we have all read about the miner in
California, British Columbia, or Australia;
about his extravagance, his boisterousness, and
his conduct generally; and we are all too apt
to think of him only as the roystering blade
in the palmy days of 1849 or 1853, when gold
could be had for the picking up. The typical
miner in 1869 is a very different man from that
of 1849, even though he be the same individual.
No longer do you, as a rule, see the many
fine-looking handsome fellows of the early days
of California, fifteen or twenty years ago.
They were all young then, but hardship has told
upon them; for, in many cases they have
pursued, with varying luck, that business of gold-
digging ever since. The 'forty-niners are the
"blue blood" of the coast, but they are
proverbially poor. Accordingly, these men, among
whom I associated on Cañon Creek, were very
different from our usual notion of the gold-
miner, but were yet at the same time very
characteristic types of what is well known on
the Rocky Mountain slopes as the " honest
miner." He is a peculiar individual, and differs
in many respects from the settler of late years.
Enter his cabin, and there is always indubitable
evidence of a miserable life of single
blessedness. The gold-digger is almost
universally unmarried. The rough blanket-spread
cot; the axe-hewn table, with its scanty
array of crockery; the old battered stove, or
fire-place built of clay and stones; the inevitable
sack of flour, half sack of potatoes and
junk of pork; the old clothes and old boots,
and a few books and newspapers; go far in
making out the extent of the miner's worldly
possessions. A little patch of cultivated ground
enclosed by old "sluice-box" lumber, is sometimes
an accompaniment, as well as a dog, a
cat, or a few fowls. The inhabitant of this
cabin is often rough, grey, and grizzly. He
came out twenty years ago, and his residence
has, with few exceptions, always been on the
gulch where we now find him. Probably it
rejoices in the euphonious name of Horse-beef
Bar, Bull Dog Point, Jackass Gulch, or Ground
Hogs Glory; by these names it may or may
not be found on the surveyor-general's map,
but at all events it goes by no other. He
"does his trading," at a store at Diggerburgh.
Credit he calls "jaw-bone," and talks about
"running his face" for "grub," but some-times
this is objected to by the storekeeper,
as the gulch is not "paying" well, and
behind the counter you may see a mule's " jaw-
bone" significantly suspended, and below the
words "played out!" Here, the honest miner
purchases a few pounds of flour, a little tea,
coffee, and brown sugar, and as much as he can
buy of whisky.

He can tell where all the rich spots have
been in the rivers, bars, gulches, and flats;
but that was in the glorious, wicked, cutting,
shouting, fortune-making, times of yore. He
can't tell where there are any rich spots now.
He is certain there is a rich quartz ledge in the
mountain yonder, and, if he could get water on
the flat, he is sure it would pay good wages.
Excess of fortune spoiled him in 'forty-nine.
Economy is a myth with him, and he cheerfully
entertains half a dozen friends, though his
magazine of provisions, as well as of money, be in
an advanced state of exhaustion. His supper
cooked, he thinks of home—that is, the home
of twenty years ago. In reality he has no
home. Mentally, he sees the faces of his youth,
fresh and blooming; but they are getting old
and withered now. He sees the peach orchard
and the farm-house, from which he wandered,
a young rover, when first the news of golden
California burst upon the astonished ears of
the world. That home is now in the hands of
strangers. AVere he to " go East," as he calls
it, he would find himself a stranger in a
strange land. He thinks he'll go back " some
time or other." Fortune occasionally favours
him a trifle more than usual; and then he may
make a trip to " the Bay," as he calls San