CHAPTER XX.

One bright morning, toward the latter part of the month of September, I left Marysville for a drive to General Sutler’s residence, situated about eight miles below Marysville. You cross Feather River at Yuba city, and follow the banks of this lovely stream, the scene varied and beautified by nature’s incomparable adornments, until the picturesque mansion of the affable and dignified general greets the eye. The road leads to the back entrance of the spacious, square court-yard, which is surrounded by a range of buildings on three sides. Several large and stately trees rear their umbrageous branches far above the roofs of the adobe buildings, which, from their sylvan retreat, peep out a ready welcome to the tired stranger. The grounds around the dwelling are tastefully and beautifully adorned with numerous parterres, some of which are inclosed with hedges of cactus. Here I saw the first cultivated rose that had greeted my eye since leaving New England. How the sight of those roses carried me back to the neat New England homes, embowered with honey-suckle and roses! It was actually fragrant with home, and home associations. On one side of the gardens extended a flourishing vineyard, the products of which amply repaid the labor expended thereon.

We were invited by the general to enter his pleasant-looking domicile, which invitation we cheerfully accepted. We were regaled with grapes, as luscious, I dare say, as the forbidden fruit which tempted the occupants of paradise. The wines proffered,—the produce of the vines of California,—having attained age, were pronounced of an excellent quality in substance and flavor. Sweet music, discoursed by one of the general’s sons, enhanced the pleasure of this often-remembered visit.

The Indians in the immediate vicinity are devoted to the general’s service; while the only remuneration they ask or expect is their food. His house servants are all the female Diggers. The general’s family carriage is drawn by two sleek-looking mules; and the driver’s box is occupied by a Digger Indian, in costume á la fancy. Mrs. Sutter generally denies herself to all visitors; but the regret generated by her absence speedily vanishes in the presence of the affable, courteous general, who ever welcomes his visitors with a cordiality inseparable from the man, whose integrity never bent to wrong or pusillanimous expediency, and who, armed intellectually with the panoply of justice, has courage to sustain it, under all and any circumstances.

We arrived back to Marysville just as the red orb of day touched the rim of the western horizon, covering it all with crimson and gold, and filling the world with a flood of evening glory.

I was often amused, while sojourning at the Tremont, by witnessing the transformations effected by a change of apparel on the inhabitants of the mountains, when they made temporary visits to the valleys. One day, a weary and care-worn-looking miner entered the bar-room of the hotel. Nought of his countenance was visible save his eyes and nose; for over his brow was drawn a soiled Kossuth hat; while the lower part of his face was entirely concealed by an abundant growth of hair. He deposited his blankets upon the floor, advanced to the bar-keeper, and inquired for the proprietor of the house. To him this soiled and travelled-stained miner delivered up thousands for safe keeping. He seated himself in the gentlemen’s parlor, eyeing intently for some moments an open piano. Upon his advancing toward it, and seating himself upon the music-stool, a smile, bordering on derision, involuntarily passed from one to another of the occupants of the room. The smile, however, was speedily changed to looks of astonishment, when, after running his fingers hastily over the keys, music such as we sometimes hear in our dreams, but very seldom in every-day life, gushed upon their astonished senses. The air was “Sweet Home.” He accompanied the instrument with a voice of surpassing melody, which penetrated to the ladies’ rooms, and brought them en masse to the stairs, where they remained almost spell-bound, while he played and sang piece after piece, seemingly engrossed by heart-awakening memories of other days and other lands, and wholly unconscious of the presence of listeners who had gathered around him. As he was about midway in the execution of that plaintive song, “Katy Darling,” he suddenly ceased, became aware of the attention he was attracting, caught up his old, greasy hat, and vamosed.

When next he appeared in their midst, the metamorphosis was so complete as to utterly prevent recognition, had he not again seated himself at the piano. He remained several weeks at the hotel, and often delighted us with specimens of his musical talent. He was considered by connoisseurs as the greatest performer upon the piano in all California.

I never saw a miner without thinking how little one could judge, by the present appearance, of his origin or past life, for there were those laboring in the gold mines of California who had held important offices of trust in the Atlantic states. The sons of wealthy southern planters, too, were there, laboring as hard as their fathers’ slaves at home, but reaping a far richer harvest of gold. People who at home never performed any manual labor, there would not hesitate to stand in water up to their knees for days and weeks together, if, by so doing, they could heap high their coffers.

The good fortune of a lady in California, which came under my especial observation, I will here record. Upon the arrival at Marysville of one of the up-river boats, a fine-looking lady, whose age might perhaps be thirty or thereabouts, came to the Tremont Hotel, and desired an interview with the proprietor. She informed him she was entirely destitute of funds, as the journey from New York had been more expensive than she had expected, and begged, as a favor, the loan of twenty dollars. Could she obtain that amount, she intended to pursue her way to Downieville, where she hoped and expected to find a friend and relative. The proprietor accordingly proffered the required sum, although somewhat doubtful of receiving it again, or even of seeing the recipient. The next morning she resumed her journey; and the remembrance of this fine-looking widow was obliterated by the occurrence of other and more important affairs. Five or six weeks had elapsed, when, one day, she astonished us all by appearing in our midst. Upon meeting the proprietor, “Oh,” said she, “I have been so successful! and now I have come to liquidate old debts.” The nature of the success was this: She arrived at Downieville, found the one of whom she was in pursuit, and he built her a canvas house, procured her a cooking-stove, a long board table, and some wooden benches, and she commenced keeping a boarding-house. She soon had thirty or forty boarders, for each of which she received twelve dollars per week. One day, as she was sweeping her floor,—which, by the way, was nothing but the earth,—she saw something glitter. Upon examination, it proved to be a lump of gold. She searched farther, and found the earth was full of particles of gold. She instantly summoned to her presence the friend who had assisted her in locating herself in such rich diggings. They removed the table, benches, and stove. Upon the last-named utensil a dinner was in progress; but who would think of preparing a dinner, even if it were near the dinner hour, should they suddenly find themselves in possession of such rich diggings. This land, which she had appropriated to her own use, was situated in a central part of the town of Downieville. It had never been prospected, for the very reason that its appearance betokened nought to impress the beholder with the idea that gold existed there in such quantities.

That day they two took from the kitchen floor, as she termed it, five hundred dollars, mostly in lumps. Every day witnessed similar success. As soon as she could think of leaving her treasures for two days, she hastened to Marysville to cancel her debts. Afterwards she became a frequent visitor at the house. I became very well acquainted with her; and one day she related the cause of her leaving home alone, to seek a home in California. She was married very young, and in opposition to the wishes of her parents. Unfortunately, her married life proved miserable in the extreme. After a lapse of years, she returned penniless, with one child, to the home of her youth, where she received a hearty welcome from her father; but the gentle, loving mother, whom she had forsaken, had gone long since to the spirit-land, and her place in the family circle was occupied by another. That other regretted the daughter’s return, and manifested her disapproval by unkindness to the child. At one time, when the child was suffering intensely from sickness, child-like he refused to take his medicine, whereupon the grandmother struck him. In twenty-four hours after that, the boy was a corpse. After the burial of her boy, the daughter never looked upon the step-mother again. She told her father, that, if he would furnish her with means, she would seek her fortune in California; and she did, in the manner above related. She acquired a fortune; but the recollection of her boy, at times, would come floating over the ocean of memory, overshadowing all the bright hopes and sunny feelings of her heart.

It was a novel sight to me to watch the emigrant wagons, as they passed through Marysville to their different destinations. How dusty and travel-stained they appeared, after a four and five months’ journey across those almost boundless prairies, after fording those mighty streams, whose waters had been navigated by nought save the red man’s canoe, effecting a passage through lonely cañons and over towering mountains, enduring almost every hardship the human frame is capable of sustaining, and finally had reached the desired goal!

How emaciated the cattle looked; and no wonder, for how many long and weary miles they had travelled! I almost fancied those old oxen actually smiled for joy at arriving at their destination; yet many of their number had given out on the way, and their bones lay bleaching in the sun.

A lady who had travelled across the plains told me how sad it made her feel when she saw the cattle giving out on the way. Said she, “Those dumb beasts would express so much sorrow in their faces when they began to falter in their pace, they would look so wishfully into the face of the teamster, and low so mournfully, I knew they understood their situation.”

Notwithstanding the sufferings and hardships those emigrants endure while on their “winding way,” all is forgotten when they reach the settlements. Their swarthy, sun-burned faces are radiant with joy as they pass along.

It is astonishing how much one of those wagons will hold. I saw one passing with eight holes cut in the canvas on one side, and a child’s face peeping out at every one of these holes. Besides the children it contained, there were cats, dogs, beds and bedding, cooking-stove, tin pans, and kettles.

Two emigrant wagons passed through town one day, each driven by two beautiful-looking girls—beautiful, although browned by exposure to the weather. In their hands they carried one of those tremendous, long ox-whips, which, by great exertion, they flourished, to the evident admiration of all beholders. Their surpassing beauty gained for them the appellation of the “belles of the plains.” In two weeks from the time they attracted so much attention, driving each three yoke of oxen through town, they were married to gentlemen whom they had never seen until they arrived in California, and who had never seen them until they beheld them as teamsters.

I often saw ladies at the hotel who had resided eight and twelve months at different bars far up in the mountains, where they were the only females, and during all this time would not see a lady to speak to. You can imagine how fast they would talk, upon getting where there were plenty of their own sex.

I was quite amused at an incident related by one of those ladies, who had been for eight months thus isolated from all society. Her husband kept a boarding-house, where he accommodated about thirty miners, which were all that worked at that place. A short time previous to the occurrence of the scene here related, these miners had had some trouble with a tribe of Indians whose rancheria was not far distant. They had heard several times that they meditated an attack upon all the whites in their vicinity, and for some time they had been upon their guard; but, as they heard nothing from them, they had relaxed their watchfulness. One day, when they were all at work in the mines, and this lady alone in the house, instantaneously a deafening war-whoop rang in her ears. She ran to the door, and saw, at a little distance from the house, about two hundred painted Indians, armed with bows, arrows, and hatchets, advancing at a rapid pace. She rushed from the house, frightened half to death, (as she expressed her feelings,) and ran, screaming, to the spot where the men were at work. They, hearing the war-whoop and her screams, and seeing the whole tribe making such a rapid descent, naturally supposed they were coming to exterminate them; and if so, flight was out of the question. There was no alternative but to meet the foe, and fight with picks and shovels; for their fire-arms were in the house, and the Indians were between the house and where they were. They directed Mrs.—— to flee across the river and into the woods on the opposite side, and secrete herself as quickly as possible. The river was so deep, the water so wild and dark-looking, and spanned by so narrow a timber, that, upon any ordinary occasion, she would have hesitated a long time before venturing across; but now, with the velocity of the wind almost, she crossed the timber, and rushed with headlong speed for the woods. Before reaching it, however, she passed several large excavations in the earth; and, thinking one of these would afford her a grand hiding-place, she jumped into it, and crouched down to await her fate. Said she, “It would be impossible to describe my feelings while in this hole. I expected every moment to see a dozen dark-skinned savages, glaring at me with their murderous, blood-thirsty eyes. I could endure it no longer: I must crawl out, and rush on. After great exertion, I got out, and, not once daring to look around, made all haste for the woods.

“Reaching it, I would hide myself for a few moments, and then think, ‘They will surely find me here; I must find a better place than this;’ and then leave it in search of another. In this way I hid myself a dozen times. Finally, I climbed up into the branches of a large tree, and there remained, for how long I could not tell—the time seemed interminable. Then I heard some one shouting. I was so terrified, I could scarcely retain my seat. Soon I heard my own name called, and recognized my husband’s voice. He was alive, then, and all the others were murdered! When he appeared in sight, he was laughing. I thought him insane. Said he, “Come down from the tree; it is all right. I thought I should never find you. I have been hunting these two hours.”

It seemed these Indians had started, in honor of some great occasion, to visit a neighboring tribe. They had painted and armed themselves, as they ever do when they start upon a journey to celebrate any great event. Their object in raising such a war-whoop was, doubtless, a sportive one; for they passed the miners with their countenances illumined with a broad grin.

The lady, who was from the New England States, returned to her house with some idea of the sufferings of the early New England settlers. It was days before she recovered her usual equanimity.

Another lady told me that she was the first who arrived at Cañon Creek, situated a hundred miles from Marysville, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains; and that, when she arrived at the top of the mountain which overlooked the ravine in which the miners were at work, they desisted from their labors, gave three hearty cheers, and came to the place where she was seated on a mule. Their delight was so great at seeing a live woman in their midst, that they actually lifted the mule upon which she was riding from his feet, and carried them both down the mountain. Those miners, who had lived so long in their little cabins, secluded from the world, deprived of the cheering presence of woman, knew then, if they had never before known, how to appreciate the opposite sex.

As a specimen of the sort of accommodations a traveller is likely to meet with in a journey through the more unsettled parts of the mountains, I will describe a public-house on the trail (as it was called) that I once had occasion to stop at. It was a little log shanty, kept by a woman—of what color I was unable to determine, on account of the dirt upon her person. She hailed from out West, somewhere. I think it must have been far West, where the cleansing properties of soap and water were not often tested. There was no floor in this shanty but the earth, and even that looked as if it had never been swept. How could I stay, and eat, and sleep in so much dirt? There was no alternative; night was close at hand, and no other public-house within many miles. She prepared us a good supper, as she termed it, in which, I presume, there was a good supply of dirt, although I did not stop to scrutinize it very closely. After we had partaken of the cheer set before us, she washed the dishes, turned round, and dashed the dish-water up in one corner of the apartment, wiped her hands upon her dirty apology for a dress, and sat down for a smoke. For sleeping accommodations, there were berths built up against the side of this shanty. I wrapped my own blankets around me, and crawled into one of them, where I remained until daylight. Right glad was I when it appeared, and I hoped to leave her domicile without being encumbered with any of her live stock; but in this I was disappointed.

At one time there came down from the mountains the most comical-looking old couple I ever beheld. They were English, and had emigrated to the Western States ten years previous to the date of my story. They had been in California two years, during which time they had never left the mines. She worked mining with her husband. It was the commencement of the rainy season when they left the mines; and all she had on, to protect her from the weather, was a thin, faded calico gown—one which she had brought from England ten years before; and it was the best garment she possessed. Over her shoulders she wore a calico jacket, and on her head an apology for a sun-bonnet. Her husband wore a Mackintosh, which reached to his heels, and on his head an old hat, and oh, what a hat! Altogether, they were the most forlorn-looking couple one would wish to see. They carried penury in their very countenances. I pitied her so, I gave her a gentleman’s dressing-gown, which had been left at the hotel. It was rather soiled, to be sure; but then it was better than anything which she had. When she went away, she wore it off. They had started home to England, by the way of New York. When the bar-keeper requested him to register his name, he made a cross; and she was as ignorant as he. At night she asked me if I would give her a room with good fastenings to the doors and windows, as they had a good deal of gold dust with them. I inquired to know where it was, as they brought no baggage with them, except a little bag, which she carried on her arm. She said it was in belts around their waists. I told her, if it were much, she had better deliver it up to the proprietor of the house for safe keeping. Said she, “Oh, no, I would not lose sight of it for anything! I have five thousand dollars in my belt, and my husband has the same.” I advised her to send it by express to New York, as they might be robbed on the way. She said they could not afford to pay the percentage for its transportation, when they could carry it, and save that money. So they started for New York by the way of Nicaragua.

I often thought of them after they left, and felt assured in my own mind that they would lose their money before they arrived home. They were two very simple people, and betrayed by their looks evident signs of fear of robbery. The next news I heard of them was, that they were both drowned at Virgin Bay, while going from the shore in a boat to get on board the steamer. The particulars were these: The boat was loaded with passengers; and, it being rather rough, they became frightened, and all rushed to one side, and capsized her. This old couple, having so much gold about their persons, sank immediately; while those who were not burdened with gold were quickly picked up by other boats. Thus these two old people, who had lived in poverty all their days, died rich, clutching the treasures for which they had toiled so hard, and to obtain which, they had denied themselves the comforts of life. The school of poverty in which they had passed the greater part of their lives, had fostered the spirit of covetousness to such a degree, that it was finally the means of their losing their lives.

CHAPTER XXI.

When she commenced burning, the father hoped to save his family from the flames by swimming with them to the shore. Being an expert swimmer, he thought that, by taking one at a time, he might succeed in bringing them all to the land. He suspended his wife over the ship’s side farthest from the flames, wrapped the babe of ten months in a shawl, and consigned it to the care of a passenger until his return, took the little girl of four years in his arms, lowered himself into the water, and commenced swimming for the shore. He clasped her little arms about his neck, told her to hold on, shut her eyes and mouth, and she would soon be on the land, and then he would return for mother and the baby.

Long before they reached the land, she was senseless. In the meantime, the flames were increasing with such rapidity that it behooved the father to hasten back, in order to save his wife from the devouring element. He left the little girl senseless upon the beach, dove into the foaming surf, and was several times borne back to the shore before he could get beyond it. As he neared the burning wreck, the flames burst out afresh, forcing the frightened passengers to leap into the angry waters. The gentleman who held the babe threw it into the ocean to save himself. In its descent, the shawl became detached from it, and the child fell into the water a short distance from the mother, but beyond her reach. In one of its little hands it held a toy; and, as it was borne off on the top of a receding wave, its little plump arms were raised, and the mother saw the white, dimpled hand firmly grasping the toy. She could look no longer. Her babe was hastening on to swell the angel-band in the courts of the blessed!

When her husband reached her, the flames were close around; her dress had even been scorched. With her he started back to the shore. But very few could have breasted the angry waters as he did; but he was impelled by a motive which seemed to lend strength to his well-nigh exhausted frame. He reached the shore with his wife. Some one had found the little girl senseless, and had succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. The body of the infant was afterwards washed ashore, with the toy grasped in its hand. They made its little grave on the lonely beach, and placed it therein.

For three or four days these shipwrecked passengers remained upon the beach, their only nourishment being molasses and vinegar. They were then taken on board a vessel, and carried to San Francisco.

The mother, weakened by exposure, and suffering from a hurt which she received in her side while being suspended from the ship, breathed her last just as she was nearing their destined port.

Little Rosa (her name was Rosa Taylor) often told me the sad story in her artless, baby way. How impressive was her manner, when, seated in a little chair by my side, her dimpled face upturned, her large, dark, mournful eyes raised to mine, her rosy lips parted, to tell of the dreadful shipwreck; of the baby brother being drowned; of her being so hungry and cold on the beach; of her dear mother dying, and clasping her so closely in her arms, when she said, “Be a good girl, Rosa, and love your father; for he is all the one left to love you.” Then the dying mother said, “Raise me up, and let me look upon the land once more.” Then she lay back, and died.

Rosa staid with me three months, while her father was at the mines. Then he came, and took her away to Oregon.

I must not forget to mention the delights of stage-coaching in California. In the first place, the coaches are built of the strongest materials to be obtained, and are sufficiently large to carry from twenty to thirty persons. They are drawn by six large, beautiful horses. In the dry season, when the rivers are low, large boats do not run to Marysville, and most of the travel is effected by stages. I once rode to Sacramento and back in one of those six-horse coaches, when the passengers, inside and out, numbered twenty-eight. The thermometer stood at 110 deg., and the dust was so dense as to almost suffocate one. We were all obliged to unpack ourselves, and walk over all the bridges on the way; and then, so frail were these structures, that they trembled and swayed as the empty coach was being drawn over.

By the time you arrive at the end of your journey, your eyes, nose, and mouth are filled with dust, as well as your clothes. One day’s ride ruins the clothes; but, if a person is blessed with a strong constitution, he may possibly survive several consecutive days’ riding in those crowded coaches. The roads between Marysville and Sacramento are very level, it being a vast plain the whole way.

Journeying through the mountainous sections of the country in coaches, is perfectly awful. The passengers are obliged to alight, and push behind the vehicle, to assist the horses up every hill, and, when they arrive at the summit, chain the wheels, all get in, and ride to the base of the next mountain, in danger every moment of being overturned, and having their necks broken. For thus working their passages they have to pay exorbitant fares.

One night, about eleven o’clock, a lady came into the hotel, looking more dead than alive. She was leading a little girl, of about seven years of age, who was in the same plight as the mother. They were both covered with bruises, scratches, and blood, with their garments soiled and torn. They were coming from Bidwell’s Bar, a place about forty miles above Marysville, in a stage-coach, in which were nine Chinamen. The coach was all closed, as it was rather cool in the mountains in the evening. All at once, they found themselves turning somersets. The coach was overturned down a steep bank.

All the Chinamen, with their long cues reaching to their heels, were rolling and tumbling about in the most ungraceful manner imaginable. They were vociferating at the top of their voices in a language which, if spoken calmly, and with the greatest mellifluence, is harsh and disagreeable in the extreme. “And,” said she, “such a horrid din of voices as rang in my ears, it was scarcely possible to conceive of; which, together with the fright, was almost sufficient to deprive me of reason.” The driver was seriously hurt, and so were some of the horses; but the inside passengers escaped without having any limbs broken, but their cues were awfully disarranged.

In the dry season, there were as many as a dozen coaches which left Marysville every morning, and as many would arrive every evening. Generally, they were all loaded to their utmost capacity.

In California, two-thirds of the population seem to be constantly travelling (in search of new and rich diggins, I suppose). It was quite amusing to listen to the rigmarole which each driver had over, as they reined in their horses in front of the different hotels. The names of the different localities along their routes, which they would sometimes work into laughable doggerel, the cracking of their whips, and the jokes cracked upon one another, were quite diverting.

At the time I was in Marysville, it was not safe to walk around in the suburbs of the town, in a dark evening, unless armed. Late one evening, as myself and husband were riding into town, we distinctly heard the click of a revolver, and two reports followed in quick succession. The balls whizzed past our ears, giving us no very agreeable sensation, I assure you. There was no moon, but it was starlight. Whether we were taken for people for whom some one was lying in wait, with the view of plunder or murder, or for what those shots were fired, ever remained a mystery to us. At any rate, it gave us such a fright, I never was caught out there again after dark.

There was one house in Marysville which had been in process of erection four years, and was not then completed. It was owned by a wealthy Spaniard, originally from South America. I went, one day, to view this curious structure. Under it were two regular dungeons, with heavy iron doors, which could be doubly locked and barred. People conjectured they were made for the purpose of holding his treasures, of which he was reputed to possess hoards. The whole building was the most massive, curious, complicated piece of architecture I ever beheld; and such an air of mystery and gloom as pervaded the whole place! It was impossible to elucidate the feelings one was sure to have, as they traversed those dismal-looking rooms. The sight of so much solid masonry seemed generative of the darkest designs. In one room were two very large, deep wells. Some of the floors were constructed of stone. The grounds were to be inclosed by a high wall. There were complicated wings, and high, gloomy-looking turrets, projecting in every direction from the main building. After being completed, it will present more the appearance of a prison than a private residence.

Now, I will relate one hen story; not about a renowned Shanghai, but a genuine, old-fashioned, yellow hen. Hens at that time, in California, were among the things to be coveted: the meanest specimens were sold at five dollars apiece. Some of the Spanish population kept quite a number of fowl. A lady told me she wanted to purchase a male hen; that an old Spaniard came to her house one day, who, she knew, had fowl to sell. She could not speak Spanish; neither could he English. She was very much perplexed how to make him know that she wanted a crower. She used every Spanish word she could think of with no success at all. Finally, she sprang up in a chair, flapped her arms, and crowed with all her might. That crow enlightened the Spaniard more than all her Spanish vocabulary had done.

When I lived in the canvas shanty, a partition of cloth ran across the centre of the building. On one side of the partition stood my bed, and on the other my brother’s. An outer door opened into this room. One day, an old yellow hen walked in very unceremoniously, hopped upon the bed, and prepared to lay. Soon she jumped off, and left an egg. She conducted the whole affair with the greatest secrecy, not even indulging in that greatest luxury of all, cackling. Of course, I fed her, very glad indeed of her egg, as they were fifty cents apiece. The next day, she came again, and left another; and so she kept on, until she had laid twelve; when she evinced symptoms of a desire to sit upon the nest. My brother took her eggs, carried them out to a ranch, and exchanged them for those that would be sure to hatch. He then placed them in a half barrel in the corner of the room, and set the hen upon them. In due time she brought out twelve little chicks. When they were about a month old, I sold them for a dollar apiece. She then laid another litter of eggs, and was as successful in raising another brood of chickens. Then, as we were going to leave the shanty, I sold her, chickens and all, for twenty dollars.

After I had been living at the Tremont some time, I went to my room one day, and there, on the window-seat, was perched the identical old hen that I had sold. My window was open, and she had flown in. She appeared delighted to see me, and evinced her delight by singing quite merrily. She seemed determined to room with me, and I allowed her to remain until I could go and find the one to whom I sold her. He had moved, and was not to be found. Of course, the hen was mine again; but, situated as I now was, I could not accommodate her with a room in the house, and for which she seemed to have a decided predilection. I therefore placed her to board out on a ranch. She continued to lay eggs and raise chickens, until I realized, from the sale of them, forty-five dollars. I then sold her again for five dollars, as she was getting rather old. In one week after I sold her, she died, from grief, I suppose, at being sold. From that old yellow hen I made quite a pile, as they say in California.

CHAPTER XXII.

I recollect the execution of one man in Marysville, which created quite an excitement in town. One day my ears were assailed with the most piercing shrieks. Upon inquiry, I learned that a man had been arrested by the Vigilance Committee for stealing. A great crowd had collected in the street in front of the committee’s rooms, among whom was the wife of the man arrested; and hers were the shrieks which rent the air. Two little children were following her, crying, “You shall not hang my father! you must not kill him!” Finally the committee rendered him up into the hands of the law. He had his trial, was condemned, and sentenced to be hung. While he was in jail, awaiting his execution, a lady in town gave a little party for her children. While they were taking tea, she saw the two children of the doomed man going past. Pity for the children, so soon to be left fatherless, incited her to call them in, and seat them at the table spread with delicacies. After they had partaken of the treat, and gone out to play, the girl who was clearing the table missed one of the silver spoons. Something prompted her to go to those two children to inquire for it. She thought the boy betrayed signs of guilt. She took hold of his arm, and felt the spoon in his jacket-sleeve. He cried bitterly, and said he did not want to steal, but his mother told him if he did not, whenever he had an opportunity, she would whip him severely. Perhaps the father had been stimulated to commit thefts by similar threats from his wife; and certainly, if her evil propensities had so far gained the ascendency as to cause her to instil such principles into the minds of her children, to what evils would she not resort, to gain her object?

The night previous to the day upon which he was to be executed, she made an attempt to fire the city, in the hope, doubtless, that her accomplices in guilt would effect his liberation while the attention of the citizens would be directed to the fire. She was, however, unsuccessful. Had the stable burnt which she attempted to fire, the whole city would probably have been destroyed. The owner of the stable had just returned from a journey, and was throwing some hay into the rack for his horse. In, the meantime, she approached, ignited a bunch of matches, and thrust them under the side of the building, directly against this hayrack. It blazed up, which the man no sooner saw than he caught a large blanket, threw it into the rack, and jumped down upon it. By this means, the flames were extinguished, but not, however, without quite severely scorching the man. She was carefully guarded after this.

The next day, she begged permission to visit her husband in his cell. She was allowed to go, but not alone; but, somehow or other, she managed (they supposed) to slip something into his hand, for, a short time after the interview, when they went to take him to the gallows, they found him insensible, whether from fear, or from something which he had taken, they could not ascertain.

He was taken to the gallows, and the forms of execution enacted, although he manifested no appearance of life whatever. While this last act was being performed, it required six or seven women to hold the wife. She was perfectly frantic.

Every day, for some time after, might be seen this woman, dressed in a garb of the deepest mourning, holding each of her children by the hand, and traversing the streets, apparently in great distress. It was thought she made this public display of grief to excite sympathy. Soon after this, she disappeared from the city.

It often made me feel sad, during my residence in California, to see the people recently from the Atlantic states so hopeful and buoyant in spirits, anticipating such rich harvests of gold, with which they would return to their homes and families, I knew so well the sufferings and hardships they would be likely to endure before they could return, if they ever did. But I ever refrained from casting a shade of melancholy over the bright future in prospective by prophetic warnings. I recollect one gentleman in particular, who was so sanguine of success.

He departed for the mines, and, in three months from that time, was brought back, crippled for life! While blasting rocks, he had one arm so shattered that he was obliged to have it amputated above the elbow. Both eyes were rendered sightless for life, and the other hand and arm very much injured. What a pitiable-looking object he was! and how he begged of the doctors to use every endeavor to save the remaining hand and arm! He had a wife and three little children in the state of Maine, dependent on him for a support. It was in vain the doctors tried, by extracting piece after piece of splintered rock, to save the last hand. It was amputated at the wrist. How philosophically he bore his sufferings! Not a groan escaped his lips; but, by the workings of his countenance, one could perceive his agony was extreme. Money was raised in Marysville sufficient to defray his expenses home; and a fellow-townsman of the sufferer volunteered to accompany him as nurse. I never heard aught concerning him again.

I often amused myself for hours, studying, not human nature, but mule nature. It is really astonishing to witness those pack-mules, and see the wonderful knowledge they display by their manœuvres. In packing them for a trip to the mountains, the Mexicans load them unmercifully. They make them carry loads weighing from three hundred to three hundred and fifty pounds, and strap the articles on so tightly that I should think it would stop their breaths. The poor creatures will tremble under such an unmerciful load, and sometimes I have seen them, after going a little way, fall from exhaustion, and the weight of their load. Then those cruel Mexicans would beat them, until the blood would run from their noses; and, if they were very much reduced from previous hard usage, they would die, with that heavy pack strapped to them. These pack-mules have such a horror of going with their loads to the mountains, that, after they are packed, and are waiting for the remainder of the train, (these trains sometimes consist of fifty and sixty mules,) they will endeavor to secrete themselves away behind some building or wagon, and keep so very still and quiet, seemingly listening and hoping they may not be found. By and by, when the old, cruel Mexican warns them of his presence by a heavy slap with the piece of untanned hide he invariably carries in his hand, accompanied with the expression of hippa, mula! one can almost see a shade of the deepest despair cross the poor mule’s countenance, as he joins the train, which is going to travel many weary, tedious miles, over rough mountains, and through deep ravines.

These trains are led by a horse, with a bell attached to his neck. He is designated the bellhorse; and these mules have such an affection for him, that they will follow anywhere he goes. Generally, three or four Mexicans accompany each train. When night overtakes them, they unpack the animals, and form a sort of corral of the pack-saddles, which they place in a circle around the goods, which they lay in piles, each load beside the saddle upon which it belongs. The mules are turned out to graze. In the morning, after giving them their breakfasts, at a signal from the Mexicans, each mule places himself in a position to be packed beside his own saddle; and, what is very singular, each mule knows his own saddle, and never makes a mistake by placing himself beside his neighbor’s.

When they return to the valley again, they are so delighted, that when they get to within a mile or two of the town, they commence running, and braying at the top of their voices. And then look out for the dust! Such clouds of it as they will raise in passing a house, is almost suffocating. You must hasten, and close the doors and windows, otherwise the house will be filled.

“As stubborn as a mule,” is an old adage; and I have seen this maxim verified oftentimes. I have seen them so obstinate, you might kill, but never conquer. Perhaps it is this stubborn nature which some of them (not all) possess, that causes the Mexicans to be so ugly to them. In order to pack some of them, they are obliged to be chained and blinded. What struggles I have seen between the Mexican and his mule! I have heard them say, that a real malicious one would purposely run, so that he could dash with great violence his pack against a rock or tree, and smash it to pieces; then, if it contained ought eatable, devour it with all haste before the driver could reach him. And many such “ugly capers” are imputed to his muleship.

At one time, there was great excitement in the mountains respecting the mysterious disappearance of a man named Dunbar, who kept a public-house on the trail leading from Marysville to Onion Valley, on Slate Creek. These public-houses, by the way, were nothing more than little shanties; and the only servant generally employed about them was a cook. Travellers who passed and repassed Dunbar’s house, and found no one there but his cook, (a young man formerly from Lowell, Massachusetts,) naturally inquired for Dunbar, and was told that he had gone to San Francisco. Finally, the house was closed. Then suspicions were rife that there had been foul play. About that time, as a hunter was passing the deserted house, his dog ran into the corral, and began scratching in the snow, and howling incessantly. His master in vain tried to call him away. He then went to the spot, dug away the snow, and discovered a man’s hand and arm protruding from the earth. He dug away the earth, and there was the body of Dunbar, bent double, thus tied with a rope, and stamped into that slight excavation.

The cook, very naturally, was the first person suspected of perpetrating this horrid murder. He was traced to San Francisco and arrested, just as he was stepping on board a steamer bound to Panama. He was accused of the murder, appeared very much agitated, and finally confessed what he knew about the affair. One night, two people came from a mining locality near by to Dunbar’s house, and requested a night’s lodging. They frequently came there, and passed the night. That evening, they played cards with Dunbar; and, in the course of the evening, he had occasion to go to a chest which stood in the room, and deposit some money. In this chest was about five thousand dollars. Whether they saw it, or whether he told them he had it, he (the cook) did not know.

One of the men came to him in the kitchen, and disclosed their intentions of murdering Dunbar that night, and securing his money, which they would share with him, if he would take an oath of eternal secrecy; if not, his life would pay the forfeit. Fear compelled him to agree to this proposal. Just then, Dunbar and the other villain came into the kitchen, and advanced to the outer door; whereupon the other one caught up an axe near by, and struck Dunbar a blow on the back of the head, causing him to fall. Then followed another blow, which completed the work of death. He was then buried as above described, and the money taken possession of by the murderers. Said he, “They offered me a share of their ill-gotten treasures; but no—I would not pollute my fingers by receiving one dollar of their blood-stained gold. Dunbar was a friend to me, and gladly would I have saved him from the horrid death which awaited him, had it been in my power so to do; but I was paralyzed with terror at the horrid revelation to which I had just listened. When they departed, I should have hastened to some authority, and made instant disclosure of the whole transaction; but was deterred from so doing by the fear of being murdered by those fiends in human shape.

“I then determined to leave the country; which determination I was in the act of putting into execution when arrested.

“I declare to you, I am innocent of all or any participation whatever in the horrid affair.”

The two murderers were at once arrested. They had changed their place of residence, but were soon ferreted out; and all three were sentenced to be hung at Slate Creek. My brother was present at the execution. The two murderers died as they had lived—hardened sinners—profaning and blaspheming until the last.

The cook declared his innocence to the latest moment, and begged, even after the rope was adjusted about his neck, to be allowed to write to his wife. This boon was granted him. He then asked if he might make a few remarks. He commenced; and so eloquently did he plead for pardon, so heart-softening were his remarks, that, had not the mob been so exasperated by previous horrid disclosures made by the two murderers, he would and ought to have been pardoned. They had gone so far as to say, “All who are in favor of hanging this man, go down the hill; and all who are not, go up;” and, as the majority started to go down the hill, some of the more ferocious ones caught the rope, and ran with it, jerking him from the ground, and consummating a murder equally as cold-blooded as the one for which that innocent man had been arraigned.

One more story of blood and murder I will relate, and then close the calendar of murders. As I was sitting in the parlor, one day, I saw the people in the street all running towards the front of the hotel. I stepped out upon the balcony to ascertain the cause of this unusual excitement, and beheld a sight that almost curdled the blood in my veins. There lay the form of a man, dead. His clothes were saturated with blood; his ghastly face upturned; and upon his death-stamped features rested a look of mortal agony. It was the body of one well known in our midst. He was coming from one of the mining bars above Marysville, driving a mule-team, when he was accosted by a man whom he overtook on the road with a request to give him a ride; which request he accordingly granted. The stranger jumped into the wagon, and took a seat behind the teamster. They conversed as they rode along, until they came to an unfrequented part of the road, when the stranger suddenly plunged a knife into the body of the teamster. It was a murderous blow, and carried death in its unerring aim. He robbed the dying man of four hundred dollars, which he had in his pocket, and then decamped. The man was not instantly killed, but, before he breathed his last, was found by a traveller, to whom he told the story, and also gave a description of the murderer, who was afterwards taken and executed. The murdered man left a wife and family to mourn his loss.

Many more murders, equally revolting, I might recount; but I have told enough to give one an idea of the crime existing at that time in California. I need not say, at that time; it still exists, and, I fear, ever will. Vigilance committees may, for a while, intimidate the blood-thirsty villains; but they can never rid the country of all those pests of society who have there congregated to feast their evil propensities upon the lives and property of the unwary and unsuspecting.

Early in the year 1849, an enterprising, energetic young man, left the town of D——, situated in one of the Western States, to seek his fortune in California. He was already in possession of a sum sufficient to defray his expenses to those golden shores, which held forth so many charms to an adventurous spirit, leaving but little remaining in his purse upon his arrival.

Glittering visions of lumps of gold haunted his waking, as well as sleeping, moments. He was restless and impatient, until he found himself bounding gayly over the wild, heaving billows of the broad Atlantic. Being an orphan, deprived, at an early age, of the watchful tenderness of a mother’s love, the judicious precepts and examples of a father, he had learned early in life the salutary lesson of self-reliance. No sad yearnings filled his heart, as he paced the steamer’s deck on the eve of departure. The delights and social joys of a pleasant home left behind, the remembrance of a loving mother’s tearful farewell, rose not in his mind, to cause the tear of affection and regret to bedew his cheek. He was leaving none behind to mourn his departure. To him the future looked bright and beautiful, as it ever does to the young, hopeful, and aspiring heart, over which the chilling waves and bitter disappointments of the cold, selfish world has never rolled.

There was one passenger on board, who, from his taciturn, repulsive manner, had made no friends, and formed no acquaintances. A few days before their arrival at Chagres, he was missed from his accustomed seat at table. He no more paced the deck with that quick, uncertain tread, ever accompanied with those nervous, stealthy glances bestowed on all around, and which had occasioned so many remarks at his expense, by no means flattering or complimentary. He was confined to his berth from sickness.

They reached the isthmus of Panama. All were hastening to secure their passage upon the steamer then waiting at Panama to convey them to their destined port. Each and all were struggling for themselves. The party to which the hero of my story had attached himself were toiling on their “winding way,” when their attention was attracted to a hammock, suspended between two trees, in which, to all appearance, lay a man in the agonies of death. They hastened to his side, and discovered, to their surprise, the repulsive stranger of steamer memory. In a feeble voice, he besought them, in mercy, to take him along, and not leave him to die alone! It appeared he had employed some natives to take him across the isthmus. They had quarrelled among themselves, purloined the last dollar from the sick man, (Mr. B——,) and vamosed, leaving him to the fate which was inevitable, unless he was assisted and provided for immediately. The hot fever-blood was coursing wildly through his swollen veins; yet there was but one, in that company of men, whose heart was touched by the appealing looks of the apparently dying man, or whose eye moistened as the half-articulate words were gasped, “Oh! in God’s name, leave me not here, to die alone!”

As some extenuation for the apparently heartless course pursued by all that company of emigrants, (all except one,) I will state their relative circumstances. They had purchased their tickets at an exorbitant price, with perhaps the last dollar at their command. The steamer was waiting; time was pressing; at such a day she was going to leave Panama, and, if not there, they lost their passage. Panama was crowded with people, waiting to get even a foothold upon the deck of any floating craft that would bear them to the desired haven. The delay that must necessarily accrue from assisting that suffering person would, in all probability, cost them their passage, and they would be left penniless in a foreign land.

The call of suffering humanity was counterbalanced by the whisperings of self. They soliloquized, and hushed the breathings of conscience with thoughts like these: “I must look to my own interest. No one would lend a helping hand to raise me, if I were sinking. He did not make friends with us when in health and prosperity; but now, when he is dying, he calls for succor from those he formerly shunned. I cannot assist him. He will probably die before night. I must hurry on.” So they did hurry on, all except Mr. W——. His heart was boiling over with the “milk of human kindness.” Said he, “If I go on, and leave this man to die alone, the image of his pale, sad face will be ever by my side. The memory of my heartless conduct will cast a dark shade over my whole future existence. I cannot and I will not be so soulless.”

In a softened voice he addressed the now nearly unconscious man, and, taking the feverish hand in his, said he, “Cease your anxiety. I will stay with you, and take care of you.” One by one, he saw all his company depart; and he was alone with the sick one, in the unbroken solitudes of a Granadian forest. He held a flask of water to the lips of the sufferer, and bathed his fevered brow. This somewhat revived him. Hours passed on, and they were still alone. Finally, two Carthaginians came along, and were induced, by the promise of a liberal reward, to carry the sick man to Panama. After a toilsome journey, which well-nigh proved fatal to Mr. B——, they arrived at Panama, but were too late for the steamer: she had been gone nearly a day. There was no alternative but to wait until they could secure a passage upon another. Mr. W——’s funds were fast dwindling away before the exorbitant demands of the Panama “land-sharks.” Who, among those who were compelled to remain there days and weeks, when the tide of emigration was rushing irresistibly on towards the far-famed gold placers of California, can ever forget the merciless drain upon their purses?

When able to converse, the invalid informed Mr. W—— that he had a valuable cargo on board a vessel then on her way around Cape Horn; and that, upon her arrival at San Francisco, in part payment of the debt of gratitude he owed to him, he (Mr. W——) should receive a share of the profits derived from the sale thereof. He also spoke of a failure in business which had occurred a short time previous to his departure; but omitted to mention, however, the fact that he had acted very dishonestly as regarded that failure, and also that he had been very unceremoniously smuggled on board the steamer, to elude the vigilance of officers of justice. He expected his wife to join him soon in California: perhaps she might come on the next steamer.

They were detained in Panama four weeks, during which time he was carefully nursed by Mr. W——. In the meantime, his wife arrived, with money sufficient to purchase a ticket for her husband. Mr. W—— had not the wherewithal to purchase one; therefore, he procured a situation as waiter on board. Upon their arrival at San Francisco, as the ship was not due for some two months, Mr. W—— concluded to proceed at once to the mines.

Every day, at that time, might have been seen little companies of men, with their blankets and tin pans strapped to their backs, commencing their toilsome march into the interior. Far up those mighty streams they wandered, and penetrated far into the solitary fastnesses of those mountain gorges, where the foot of white man never trod before. Forming one of a party of miners who followed the course of the American River, was our friend W——. For three weary months they prospected in those dreary wilds, camping out, rolling themselves in their blankets, with no roof to shelter them from the night air. The twinkling stars, far, far above them, peeping out a gentle good-night from the azure dome, were like messengers of hope to those poor wayfarers. Sickness overtook them, and death thinned their numbers. Out of a company of ten, but three returned to San Francisco. One of those three was Mr. W——. Sick, disheartened, and so emaciated he could scarcely support his feeble frame, he dragged himself to the door of the only hospital in San Francisco, and begged for admittance.

For many weeks he lay hovering at the portal of death’s mysterious door. Finally, a strong constitution triumphed: this once, the destroying angel was cheated of its prey. He recovered slowly, and, at the expiration of many weeks, found himself treading the streets of San Francisco, weak, penniless, and alone—alone, in a land of strangers. He bethought himself of Mr. B——, made inquiries concerning him, and ascertained that the ship had arrived which had contained his property; that he had disposed of it at an immense profit, and had gone to reside in Sacramento city. Slowly and painfully he dragged his weakened frame to one of the piers from whence departed the up-river boats, and gained a hearing with one of the captains, to whom he stated his situation. He very kindly gave him a passage to “Sac’ city.” When landed upon the Levee, it was mid-day. So weak was he that it was late in the afternoon before he reached the residence of Mr. B——. Upon inquiring for that gentleman, Mrs. B—— made her appearance. She did not recognize him at first, so changed was he by sickness and poverty. Then, in cold, heartless words, she expressed her sorrow at his unfortunate condition, hoped he would get along without any more sickness, and coolly closed the door in his face.

Imagine his feelings as he turned from that door, sick in body, and sicker far at heart at this display of sordid selfishness and heartless ingratitude. He crawled back again to the Levee, where he remained that night, supperless, shelterless, and penniless. He again solicited a passage to Marysville, where resided an acquaintance of his who kept a hotel. To him he applied for a situation to work; for, sick as he was, his independent spirit spurned the idea of begging. He was at once engaged to wash dishes; for which service he received seventy-five dollars per month. After serving awhile in this capacity, he was promoted to steward, with an increase of salary. From this post he was admitted as a partner; and, from that day, “Dame Fortune” lavished upon him her richest gifts.

Just three years from the time he composed his wearied limbs for a night’s rest, in the open air, on the banks of the Sacramento, he was standing again upon the same spot, but under what different auspices! Had prosperity changed his noble heart, that, a little more than three years ago, listened and “wept for others’ woes”? Ah, no! the same generous impulses governed his every action. His upright, honest principles grew and strengthened with his fortune, instead of deteriorating, as is oftentimes the case.

Curiosity prompted him to inquire after the welfare of Mr. B——. He learned he was a houseless vagabond around the streets of San Francisco. From affluence, he was reduced to a state of beggary. His wife had proved faithless, and decamped with all the money she could get. In endeavoring to drown his sorrow in the intoxicating cup, he had lost, dollar by dollar, the remainder of his fortune. That for which he had sacrificed honor, principle, and every trait which ennobles and exalts man, had “taken to itself wings,” and the misguided man was bereft of all which renders life a blessing. From this “ower true” tale may be deduced a moral.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Fifty miles of the route they had traversed over snow, which lay to the depth of ten and fifteen feet, and part of the time sinking, at every step, up to their arm-pits in it. Two or three of their number had given out and died on the way. The reports they brought were dismal in the extreme. They said the entire male population would be obliged to leave Downieville, and get to Marysville, if possible, or die in the attempt, as there were only provisions enough in town when they left to supply the women and children.

What anxiety I felt on my brother’s account, knowing that he must depend upon Downieville for his supplies! No tidings whatever could I obtain of him, and did not for four months. During this time, remnants of parties were arriving, completely exhausted, and reporting great distress in the mountains. At the expiration of that time, the express-men opened for themselves a passage through the snow. Then I received a letter, stating the following particulars:

He had made every preparation for leaving his log cabin as soon as there was any appearance of snow, when one of his partners (he had two) was violently seized with the mountain fever. Then came the first fall of snow. What could they do? They could not leave him to die alone, and it was impossible to move him. For one month he was constantly delirious. He had no physician to attend him, and there he lay, day and night, talking to his mother and friends at home, in happy unconsciousness of his deplorable situation. The snow fell until it lay to the depth of fifteen feet.

Downieville was twenty miles distant, and thither one of them must go to obtain provisions; for they were entirely destitute of everything in the eatable line, and almost destitute of money. They had sent their gold to Marysville the day before the partner was taken sick, reserving only sufficient to defray their expenses down.

My brother started to go to Downieville, previously assisting his partner to tie the sick man on to his pallet of straw; for, in moments of violent delirium, one person could not compete with him in strength.

In an exhausted state he reached Downieville, and found provisions very scarce, and dear as gold dust. For ham he paid eighty cents per pound; for flour, one dollar and a half per pound; and everything in a like proportion. For one ten pounds of flour, which he bought during the winter, he paid twenty-five dollars. He wanted to get some corn meal to make gruel for the sick man, and succeeded in getting one pound, for which he paid the exorbitant sum of two dollars.

With a back-load of provisions—which weighed sixty-one pounds, and cost one hundred dollars—he started back. Several times, on the way, he felt as if he should never live to reach the little cabin; but he finally arrived there. “Oh,” said he, “what dreary days and nights we passed in that log cabin, listening to the moanings of the sick man, whom we were hourly expecting to breathe his last, surrounded and hemmed in by impassable barriers of snow! We could not wile away the time evenings by reading, for we had no oil or candles: a little grease in a tin plate, with a rag in it, was all we had to light in case of emergency. Our cabin was completely covered with snow. We kept a hole open from the door up to the surface. Mornings, upon going out, the foot-prints of large grisly bears would be all around in the snow, over the top of the cabin. When we had consumed all the provisions which I had taken up, we both started again for more, leaving the sick man alone; but he was wholly unconscious, and never knew of our absence. What little we could get this time was even higher than before; and the climate had a tendency to give us such good appetites. We boiled those ham bones until they were as white as polished ivory. For two or three days we subsisted upon water-gruel.

“I then started again for Downieville, so hungry and faint, I thought I should never reach there. I had no money; but a trader in Downieville, who was acquainted with my circumstances, kindly offered to furnish me with provisions, upon credit. As I was passing a hotel, I smelled the dinner, and stepped upon the stoop, wishing—oh, how earnestly!—that I had the wherewithal to procure a dinner. But I was ‘flat broke,’ as the saying is there, when one is out of funds. Presently I was accosted by a fellow who once mined with me in the country. Said he, ‘What is the matter, Bryant? What makes you look so down-hearted? Are you flat broke?’—‘Yes,’ said I, ‘and starving, besides.’—Not while I have the color,’ said he, and put five dollars into my hand. With this I bought myself a good dinner; and it was a wonder I survived it, for I assure you I did eat some.

“Thus we lived on for four long, weary months. The fever settled in the sick man’s toes, and they all decayed. Finally, he began to convalesce; but it was six months from the time he was taken with the fever before he was able to walk. How grateful he felt to us, who had almost sacrificed our lives to stay by and nurse him! He would cry, and say, ‘If I am ever worth a fortune, you shall share it with me.’ Before I left the country, he had been able to earn a little money. He came to see me, and proffered the whole, as he said, to compensate, in a measure, for my kindness to him. Of course, I refused to accept of one dollar; for he then looked too feeble to work.

“During all these winter months, we never shot but one deer; and then we feasted! The snow lay to such a depth, we could not go hunting; and game was very scarce, too.

“The provisions which we consumed during three months amounted to five hundred dollars, and then never had as much as would satisfy our appetites at any one meal.”

My brother described the snow-slides in the mountains as grand and frightful. A body of snow would commence rolling at the summit of a mountain, collecting and increasing in size as it rolled, until it came with such velocity, and in such a mass, that it would snap off large trees in its descent as easily as if they had been whip-sticks. One could hear the rushing, roaring sound it made, for miles. It is necessary to build their cabins in such a position that they will not be in danger of annihilation from these slides. Cabins have been swept away, and the inmates killed, by snow-slides.

As soon as the rocks around the cabin began to get bare, they began to crevice for gold. One night, while his partner was preparing supper, my brother took out seventeen dollars (in little lumps) with a crevicing-spoon.

A lady once told me, who had lived in the mountains, that every day, after her housework was done up, she would take her crevicing-spoon, and go out among the rocks searching for gold. She resided there one year, and, during that time, had collected five hundred dollars in that way.

When the spring opened, my brother concluded to remain through the dry season, and for eighteen months he was a dweller in those mountain solitudes, and not once during that time visiting the valley. In his rambles, one day, he found the skeleton of a human being. What sad reflections the sight of those bones called up! He dug a grave, and buried them.

The grisly bears were quite plenty around them; and one day, while they were out mining, “Old Bruin” made a descent into their cabin, helping himself to everything the place contained, and overturning tin pans, pots, and kettles, and everything within his reach. He swallowed all their butter, for which they had paid one dollar and a half per pound, and marched off, no doubt delighted with the feast he had enjoyed at the expense of the poor miners. When they returned, tired and hungry, to their shanty, to prepare their frugal meal, they were struck with the utmost consternation at beholding the havoc made within,—by whom, they readily conjectured, for there were his large footprints, very conspicuous. Then there was no alternative but to go, tired as they were, to Downieville, (twenty miles,) and back up more provisions. Then they baited old Bruin with a piece of meat, loaded their guns, and lay in wait for him all day and night; but he never came again. Whether his digestive organs were incapable of performing the necessary functions after such an expensive feast, or whether he was so cunning as to suspect they would watch for his return, they never knew.

At one time an old hunter came to their cabin with his dog, and reported himself to be very expert at killing grislys. They took their guns, and accompanied him. They soon routed an enormously large bear, whose roar seemed to shake the earth. He first turned his attention to the dog, which appeared terribly frightened, and ran away as fast as his legs would carry him. Then he turned upon the brave hunters, who quickly followed the example of the dog. They fled to some tall trees, upon which there was not a limb for twenty or thirty feet from the base. They exerted every faculty to shin up those naked trunks. My brother, who was not a little frightened, thought that, at least, he was twenty feet from the ground, when, upon looking down, he found he was not more than five. How he redoubled his efforts! for the bear was making after them at a furious rate. After clearing the field of his antagonists, and giving two or three tremendous roars in honor of victory, he marched off into the surrounding forest. After this, they were engaged in several more successful bear-hunts.

At one time, he was mining on Cañon Creek, and had occasion to cross the mountains to Slate Range. Many of these mountains are perennially covered with snow. When travelling in the mountains, clothes more than you have on your back are burdensome and unnecessary.