Term to conveying
to the mind of a person unfamiliar with Amador its present condition.
One becomes acutely sensitive to the "atmosphere" of these places, after
a few days upon the road, for each has a distinctive individuality. in
spite of the fact that it was mid-day in midsummer, gloom seemed to
pervade the streets and to be characteristic of its inhabitants. With
the exception of an attempt to get into telephonic communication with a
friend at Placerville, I lost not a moment in the town.
On reaching Drytown, three miles north of Amador, I noted the
thermometer stood at 110 degrees in the shade on the watered porch of
the hotel, and deciding there was a certain risk attendant on walking in
such heat, determined to make the best of what was anything but a
pleasant situation, and go no farther. Drytown, in the modern
application of the first syllable, is a misnomer, the "town" consisting
chiefly of the hotel with accompanying bar, and a saloon across the way!
Drytown was in existence as early as 1849, and was visited in October of
that year by Bayard Taylor. He says: "I found a population of from two
to three hundred, established for the winter. The village was laid out
with some regularity and had taverns, stores, butchers' shops and monte
tables." One cannot but smile at the idea of "monte tables" in
connection with the Drytown of to-day; pitiful as is the reflection that
men had braved the hardships of the desert and toiled to the waist in
water for gold, only to throw it recklessly in the laps of professional
gamblers.
The Exchange Hotel, a wooden building dating back to 1858, stands on the
site of the original hotel, built in 1851 and burned in 1857. Upon the
front porch is a well furnishing cold, pure water. I found this to be
the most acceptable feature of several of the old hostelries. The well
and the swinging sign over the entrance suggested the wayside inn of
rural England; more especially as the surrounding country carries out
the idea, being gently undulating and well timbered.
The following evening I put up at Nashville, on the North Fork of the
Cosumnes River and well over the borders of El Dorado county, passing
Plymouth en route. Plymouth, on the map, appeared to be a place of some
importance, but a closer inspection proved that - in spite of its breezy
name - it would take the spirits of a Mark Tapley to withstand its
discouraging surroundings. Plymouth is "living in hopes," an English
syndicate having an option on certain mining properties in the vicinity;
but Nashville is frankly "out of business."
At Nashville, in fact, I had some difficulty in securing "bed and
lodging." There appeared to be only three families in this once
flourishing camp.
