At the hotel bar,
you drink a glass of beer with the local celebrity and thus come into
immediate touch with, the oldest inhabitant." After dinner, seated on a
bench on the sidewalk, you smoke a pipe and discuss the affairs of the
nation or of the town - usually the latter - with the man who in the
morning offered to give you a lift and never will understand why you
declined. Invariably you receive courteous replies and in kindly
interest are met more than half way.
The early romances, the prototypes of the modern novel, from "Don
Quixote" to "Tom Jones" and "Joseph Andrews," were little more than
narratives of adventures on the road. "Joseph Andrews" in particular -
perhaps Fielding's masterpiece - is simply the story of a journey from
London to a place in the country some hundred and fifty miles distant.
In these books all the adventures are associated with inns and the
various characters, thrown together by chance, there assembled. Dickens
unquestionably derived inspiration from Smollett and Fielding; nor is
there any doubt but that Harte made a close study of Dickens.
From which preamble we come to the statement; if you would study human
nature on the road, you must simply go where men congregate and exchange
ideas. The plots of nearly all Bret Harte's mining stories are thus
closely associated with the bar-rooms and taverns of the mining towns of
his day. What would remain of any of Phillpott's charming stories of
rural England, if you eliminated the bar-room of the village inn? In
hospitality and generous living, the inns of the mining towns still keep
up the old traditions. The card room and bar-room are places where men
meet; to altogether avoid them from any pharisaical assumption of moral
superiority is to lose the chance of coming in contact with the leading
citizen, philanthropist, or eccentric character.
In the old romances it must be admitted there is much brawling and heavy
drinking, as well as unseemliness of conduct. Yet in spite of the fact
that hotel bars and saloons abound in all the old mining towns, the
writer throughout his travels and notwithstanding the intense heat, not
only saw no person under the influence of liquor, but also never heard a
voice raised in angry dispute. Moderation, decency and a kindly
consideration for the rights of others seem habitual with these people.
It is fifteen miles from Grass Valley to Smartsville, and I arrived at
the SmartsviIle Hotel in time for the midday meal. Smartsville has "seen
better days," but still maintains a cheerful outlook on life. The
population has dwindled from several thousand to about three hundred. It
is, however, the central point for quite an extensive agricultural and
pastoral country surrounding it.
The swinging sign over the hotel bears the legend, "Smartsville Hotel,
John Peardon, Propr." The present proprietor is named "Peardon," but
everyone addressed him as "Jim." Having established a friendly footing,
I said:
