Of the four famous rivers — the Stanislaus, Mokelumne, American and Cosumnes — which I crossed on this trip, the Mokelumne appealed to me the most.  Whatever the meaning of the Indian name, one may rest assured it stands for some form of beauty.  Jackson, the county seat of Amador County, is but six miles from Mokelumne Hill and a town of considerable importance, being the terminus of a branch line of the Southern Pacific Railway.  It is situated in an open country where the hills are at some distance, and presents a certain up-to-date appearance.  About a mile from Jackson the Kennedy mine, running a hundred stamps, is one of the greatest gold producers in the State.

Sutter Creek, erroneously supposed by many to be the spot where gold was first discovered in California, four miles north of Jackson, is picturesque and rendered attractive by reason of the vivid green of the lawns surrounding the little cottages on its outskirts.  This town, too, has a flourishing look, accounted for by the operation of the South Eureka and Central Eureka mines.  A gentleman whom I met on the street imparted this information, and asked me if I remembered Mark Twain’s definition of a gold mine.  I had to confess I did not.  “Well,” said he, “Mark Twain defined a gold mine as ’a hole in the ground at one end, and a d — d fool at the other!’” The appreciative twinkle in his eye suggested the possibility that this definition met with his approval.

Amador, two miles beyond Sutter Creek, did not appeal to me.  “Stagnation” would probably come nearer than any other 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.