Page:California Inter Pocula.djvu/240



228" EL  DORADO,

what  may  we  not  look  for  in  the  book  of  human follies ?

The miseries  of  a  miner  might  fill  a  chapter  of  woes. Digging and  delving  with  eager  anxiety  day  after  day, up to  the  waist  in  water,  exposed  now  to  the  rays  of the  burning  sun,  and  now  to  cold,  pitiless  rains,  with liberal potations  of  whisk e}^  during  the  day,  and  mad carousals at  night,  flush  with  great  buckskin  bags  of gold-dust,  or  toiling  throughout  the  long  summer without a  dollar,  indebted  to  the  butcher,  baker,  and grocer, heart  and  brain  throbbing  and  bounding  with success, or  prostrate  under  accumulated  disappoint- ments, it was  more  than  a  man  with  even  an  iron frame could  endure. When disease  made  him  its prey, there  was  no  gentle  hand  to  minister  to  his wants, no  soft  voice  to  whisper  words  of  love  and  com- fort, no woman's  heart  on  which  to  rest  his  aching head. Lying on  the  hard  earth,  or  rolling  in  feverish agony on  the  shelf-bed  of  his  cabin,  often  alone  and unattended throughout  the  livelong  day,  while  the night was  made  hideous  by  the  shouts  and  curses  of rioters,  the  dying  miner,  with  thoughts  of  home,  of parents,  wife,  and  sister,  and  curses  on  his  folly,  passed away. That was  the  last  of  him  in  this  world,  name- less, graveless, never  heard  from ! Meanwhile, and for years  after,  those  he  left  at  the  old  home  despair- ingly dwell upon  his  fate. Such cases  were  sad enough, but  there  were  others  still  more  melancholy. The patient,  devoted  wife,  waiting  and  watching  for the husband's  return,  toiling  early  and  late  for  the support of  their  children,  ever  faithful,  ever  having him in  her  thoughts,  and  so  passing  her  life  away, until hope  became  charred  and  black,  while  the  object of all  this  love,  of  this  devotion,  was,  maybe,  spending his substance  with  harlots,  writhing  under  the  delirium of drunkenness,  without  at  any  time  bestowing  even a thought  upon  that  devoted  wife  and  those  abandoned