John Stanley To S.Chapman, Cr.
To board from April 1st, to April 30 $25 75"" " May lst, to 3rd...2 0027 75
Where is John Stanley mining now? Where is S.Chapman, within whose hospitable walls we were to lodge? The date was but five years old, but in that time the world had changed for Silverado; like Palmyra in the desert, it had outlived its people and its purpose; we camped, like Layard, amid ruins, and these names spoke to us of prehistoric time.Aboot-jack, a pair of boots, a dog-hutch, and these bills of Mr.Chapman's were the only speaking relics that we disinterred from all that vast Silverado rubbish-heap; but what would I not have given to unearth a letter, a pocket-book, a diary, only a ledger, or a roll of names, to take me back, in a more personal manner, to the past? It pleases me, besides, to fancy that Stanley or Chapman, or one of their companions, may light upon this chronicle, and be struck by the name, and read some news of their anterior home, coming, as it were, out of a subsequent epoch of history in that quarter of the world.
As we were tumbling the mingled rubbish on the floor, kicking it with our feet, and groping for these written evidences of the past, Sam, with a somewhat whitened face, produced a paper bag."What's this?" said he.It contained a granulated powder, something the colour of Gregory's Mixture, but rosier; and as there were several of the bags, and each more or less broken, the powder was spread widely on the floor.Had any of us ever seen giant powder? No, nobody had; and instantly there grew up in my mind a shadowy belief, verging with every moment nearer to certitude, that I had somewhere heard somebody describe it as just such a powder as the one around us.I have learnt since that it is a substance not unlike tallow, and is made up in rolls for all the world like tallow candles.
Fanny, to add to our happiness, told us a story of a gentleman who had camped one night, like ourselves, by a deserted mine.He was a handy, thrifty fellow, and looked right and left for plunder, but all he could lay his hands on was a can of oil.After dark he had to see to the horses with a lantern; and not to miss an opportunity, filled up his lamp from the oil can.Thus equipped, he set forth into the forest.A little while after, his friends heard a loud explosion; the mountain echoes bellowed, and then all was still.On examination, the can proved to contain oil, with the trifling addition of nitro-glycerine; but no research disclosed a trace of either man or lantern.
It was a pretty sight, after this anecdote, to see us sweeping out the giant powder.It seemed never to be far enough away.And, after all, it was only some rock pounded for assay.
So much for the lower room.We scraped some of the rougher dirt off the floor, and left it.That was our sitting-room and kitchen, though there was nothing to sit upon but the table, and no provision for a fire except a hole in the roof of the room above, which had once contained the chimney of a stove.
To that upper room we now proceeded.There were the eighteen bunks in a double tier, nine on either hand, where from eighteen to thirty-six miners had once snored together all night long, John Stanley, perhaps, snoring loudest.There was the roof, with a hole in it through which the sun now shot an arrow.There was the floor, in much the same state as the one below, though, perhaps, there was more hay, and certainly there was the added ingredient of broken glass, the man who stole the window-frames having apparently made a miscarriage with this one.Without a broom, without hay or bedding, we could but look about us with a beginning of despair.The one bright arrow of day, in that gaunt and shattered barrack, made the rest look dirtier and darker, and the sight drove us at last into the open.
Here, also, the handiwork of man lay ruined: but the plants were all alive and thriving; the view below was fresh with the colours of nature; and we had exchanged a dim, human garret for a corner, even although it were untidy, of the blue hall of heaven.Not a bird, not a beast, not a reptile.
There was no noise in that part of the world, save when we passed beside the staging, and heard the water musically falling in the shaft.
We wandered to and fro.We searched among that drift of lumber-wood and iron, nails and rails, and sleepers and the wheels of tracks.We gazed up the cleft into the bosom of the mountain.We sat by the margin of the dump and saw, far below us, the green treetops standing still in the clear air.
Beautiful perfumes, breaths of bay, resin, and nutmeg, came to us more often and grew sweeter and sharper as the afternoon declined.But still there was no word of Hanson.
I set to with pick and shovel, and deepened the pool behind the shaft, till we were sure of sufficient water for the morning; and by the time I had finished, the sun had begun to go down behind the mountain shoulder, the platform was plunged in quiet shadow, and a chill descended from the sky.
