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.  Strange as it may seem, money appears to be no object to people in these sequestered places.  You have “to make good,” and in this instance it required not a little tact and diplomacy.

I arrived at Placerville the following day.  Due to taking a road not shown on my map, I went several miles astray and for some few hours was immersed in wild, chaparral-covered mountains, with evidences on all hands of deserted mines; finally crossing a divide at an elevation of two thousand feet and descending into the valley where slumbers the little town of El Dorado, formerly bearing the less attractive designation “Mud Springs.”  This title, though lacking in euphony, was more in keeping with actual conditions, since the valley is noted for its springs, and Diamond Springs, a mile or two north, is quite a summer resort.  Nor is there any indication of the precious metal anywhere in the immediate vicinity.

In Placerville — known as “Hangtown” in the Bret Harte days — I registered at the Cary House, which once had the honor of entertaining no less a personage than Horace Greeley.  It was here he terminated his celebrated stage ride with Hank Monk.  I found that my friend Harold Edward Smith had gone to Coloma, eight miles on the road to Auburn, and had left a note saying he would wait for me there the following morning.

Chapter IV

J. H. Bradley and the Cary House.  Ruins of Coloma.  James W. Marshall and His Pathetic End.

More than any other town, Placerville gave a suggestion of the olden times.  “John Oakhurst” and “Jack Hamlin” would still be in their element, as witness the following scene: