While here in Sacramento I was sufficiently prompted by curiosity to go around to the place on J street where the Legislature was in session.  I stood sometime outside the enclosure listening to the members who were in earnest debate over a question concerning the size of mining claims.  They wanted them uniform in size all over the state, but there was some opposition, and the debate on this occasion was between the members from the mining counties on one side and the “cow” counties on the other.  The miners took the ground that the claims were of different richness in the different mining localities and that the miners themselves were the best judges of the proper size of claims, and were abundantly able to make their own laws as they had done under the present mining customs, and their laws had always been respected, making any further legislative action unnecessary.

While this wrangle was going on.  Capt.  Hunt, of San Bernardino (our guide from Salt Lake in 1849), came along and stopped where I stood, shaking me heartily by the hand, inquiring where I was from, and when I told him I was from the mines he said he thought the cow county fellows were trying to make the miners some trouble.  I told him the present mining regulations suited us very well, and after he had talked with me a little he went inside and whispered to some of the silent members that the miners wanted no change, for he had just consulted a miner to that effect.  When occasion offered he called for a vote which resulted in the defeat of the cow counties and a postponement of the measure indefinitely.

My next move was to try to find a dryer place so I took a boat for Benicia, then for Stockton, where I found a sea of mud, so that a man needed stilts or a boat to cross the street.

Here in a livery stable I found my old Platte River boss, Chas. Dallas, for whom I drove in 1849, but he did not seem to know me and took no notice of me, but talked “horse” and horse-racing to the bystanders very loudly.  I suppose that Dallas had made money and did not care for a poor ox driver, and on my part I did not care very much for his friendship, so I walked away and left him without a word.

Every way I looked was a sea of black, sticky mud; dogs mired in the streets and died, and teams and animals had forsaken the usual route of travel.  The gambling houses and saloons were crowded, gum boots in demand, and the only way to get out of town was by water.  I took this way out, and on the same boat by which I came, going to San Francisco.  This was high and dry enough to be above the highest floods of Yuba, Sacramento or San Joaquin, but all business except the saloons was dull.  Fronting on Portsmouth Square was the Hall of Corruption.  Inside was a magnificently furnished bar, more than one keeper and various gambling tables, most of them with soiled doves in attendance.  The room was thronged with players and spectators, and coin and dust were plenty.  The dealers drew off their cards carefully, and seemed to have the largest pile of coin on their side.