Democratic Sentinel, Volume 3, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 November 1879 — DOWN IN THE BONANZA MINE. [ARTICLE]

DOWN IN THE BONANZA MINE.

Gen. and Mrs. Grant, in Miner's Garb, Go Down and Inspect the Wonderful Bullion Lode. [Letter f om Virginia City, Nev.] After breakfast at the Savage mansion the party were driven over the high bluffs of the town and down to the immense building covering the “C” and “D” shaft. Here, after being shown, by Mackey and Fair, the pump which throws eighty gallons at every stroke, and which alone cost $500,000, and the hoisting works, with their gigantic wheels and iron cables, we were sent to onr apartments, the ladies in one and the gentlemen in another. Here we were ordered to remove every shred of onr clothing, and then attire ourselves in coarse stockings, cowhide boots, a pair of blue flannel pants and jacket. And that was all. When the General appeared outside in the miner’s suit, with his pantstucked in his stocking tops, and with the oldest slouched hat in the building on his head, the party greeted him with “bravos” and a hearty laugh, and Grant, looking with amused astonishment on himself, declared he was ready for Flannigan’s ball. When the ladies appeared in men’s suits the laughter was turned upon them. Mrs. Fair had been down before, and Gov. Kinkead declared significantly that we all knew the reason why, for in her jaunty sailor’s suit she made a pretty picture. The General saw the point, and, stepping np, cigar in hand, he said: “ I want to offer this young gentleman a cigar.” Who has said that Grant is reserved and silent ? On the summit of the Sierras and sailing over the blue depths of Tahoe, he was always appreciative and asking all sorts of questions, and to-day, in his miner’s suit, and when sure he had escaped curious crowds, 2,100 feet under the ground, he was chatty as a boy, and with a dry humor which did not need Grant behind it to make it good. He was sure that Mrs. Grant would not go down the mine until finally Mackey offered to bet SI,OOO that she would go. In the same joking way the bet was taken by the General, but he did not have the money. It would be useless to apply to a newspaper man for money, he said, and no one else would loan it to him; so, offering some old Japanese coins for security, we started down. But Mrs. Grant did go; and, descending swiftly in the iron cage, wo commiserated the General on his loss. “Well,” he said, “a thousand dollars is a good deal of money to lose, but I guess it will stop Mrs. Grant’s shopping a while, and it is the first bet I ever heard of where both sides were winners.” Down we glide as smoothly as in one of your hotel elevators, to the first level, 1,800 feet below. Here wo leave our ovorcoats, which we had put on for the cold ride down the shaft. As the General starts off he calls back to his son: “Bud, bring some cigars.” “You caunot smoke here,” says Mrs. Grant.

“Well, I’ll try,” answers the General in so emphatic a tone that some one raises a laugh by adding, “If it takes all summer.” Through subterranean and devious paths we follow Mr. Hugh Lamb, the obliging foreman. We examine the vast bodies of ore which we encouuter, and Gen. Grant splashes through the water, knocks pieces of the ore off with a pick, and is full of curious questions about the cost of mining and milling, the character of the rock, the yield per month, etc., etc. We are getting so far down now that the natural heat of the earth is becoming unpleasant, and Mrs. Grant does not seem to enjoy it. Mrs. Grant wants to go back to the surface, but the General says she must not put them to that trouble, and, as all good wives should, she yields, and we leave the ladies in the cleanest place we can find, and go on down. We are soon where the thermometer marks 95 deg. Fahrenheit, and the sweat pours off us. We examine the immense system of timbering, and learn that it has required over $2,000,000 to put this gigantic mine of gold in shape for work. We examine the pumps, and the steamdrills with their noisy clatter are stopped and run so that the General may see how they work. Mr. Mackey, who has been through this many times, says it is not warm, but the rest of us sweat and gasp. The General is delighted w r ith the “good sweat” he is having; and, getting the attention of the crowd, he says to Mr. Fair: “ There are two newspaper men here and plenty near at hand. Find the hottest place you can and let us leave them there and let them get used to what they must come to.”

The newspaper men say never a word. Again we take the cage, where it seems cold as a winter’s day, and down 200 feet deeper into the earth we go. Here it is 120 Fahrenheit. Workmen, bare to the waist, come forward, saying: “General, we have got you here, and you will have to shake.” “I like to shake a healthy man’s hand,” the General says, as he looks at their muscular development. The water coming froiA* the, earth is so hot here that you can not bear your hand in it, and men can only work a few minutes, when they are cooled off with ice. The General thinks it would be a good plan to sentence convicts to work eight hours a day down here. “Anyhow,” he says, red in the face from heat, and mopping his face with the sleeve of his blouse, “this is the place to leave the newspaper men.” “Would you not leave the politicians, too?” asks Gov. Kinkead. “Yes, but there ain’t room for all that ought to be put here,” the General replies, without a smile, and maybe he meant it.

Poor Caesar’s Fall. Caosar is the name of a large dog that belongs to Henry Armbruster, of Forest City, in the county of Sierra, in tho State of Nevada. Caesar was a fat dog —a very fat fellow—until about one month ago. At that time he disappeared. One week passed away and Caesar was still missing. One week and three days—ten days in all—went by. Then, as Mr. Armbruster stood near the mouth of a shaft, or a deep hole made by miners in their search for gold, he heard a whine, a low, piteous whine, come up the shaft. “ Caesar! ” called Mr. Armbruster, stooping down, “ heiglio! ho, ho, ho, Caesar, old boy ! ” Caesar answered with a faint bark. He was 125 feet under ground, in a dark, damp place, 'indeed. Mr. Ambruster

4»n borne, got a rope and fixing a noose as one end, dropped it down. Before long he had fished Ciesar out. Ciesar had fallen into the shaft and remained there ten days without so much as a bone. He was as poor as Job’s turkey, and many times poorer than a church mouse, but he is now gaining flesh nicely.