Essex County herald. [volume] (Guildhall, Vt.) 1873-1964, 1877-09-22

hate him mildly, when at one OF those
reappearances he drew up to my side, and
asked me how 1 liked Dickens
Had he asked my opinion of Huxley
or Darwin, could not have been more
astonished. Thinking it were possible
that he referred to some local celebrity
of LAGRANGE, 1 said, hesitatingly:
You mean-?
"Charles Dickens. OF course you've
read him? Which of his books do you
like best ?"
1 replied with considerable embarrass-
ment that liked them alias 1 certain
ly did.
He grasped my hand for moment
with a fervor quite unlike his usual
phlegm, and said: "That's me, old
man. Dickens amt no slouch. You
can count on him pretty much all the
time"
With this rough preface, he launched
into criticism of the novelist, which
for intelligent sympathy and hearty ap-
probation I had rarely heard equaled.
Not only did he dwell upon the exuber-
ance of his humor, but upon the power
of his pathos and, the all pervading ele-
ment of his poetry: looked at the man
in astonishment. L had considered my
self rather diligent student of the great
master of fiction, but the strangers
felicity of quotation and illustration
staggered me- 1t is true that his thought
was not always clothed in the best
language, and often appeared in the
slouching, slangy undress of the place
and period, yet it never was rustic nor
homespun, and sometimes struck me
with its precision and fitness. Consid-
erably softened toward him, I tried him
with other literature. But vainly.
Beyond few of lyrical and emotional
poets, he knew nothing. Under the in
fiuence and enthusiasm of his own
speech, he himself had softened consid-
erably; offered to change horses with
me, readiusted my saddle with profess
sional skill, transferred my pack to his
own horse, insisted upon my sharing
the contents of his whisky flask, and
noticing that I was unarmed, pressed
upon me a silver mounted Derringer,
which he assured me he could "war-
rant. These various offices of good
will and the diversion of his talk be-
guiled me from noticing the fact that
the trail was beginning to become OBJ.
scure and unrecognizable. We were
evidently pursuing a route unknown
before to me. Ipointed out the fact to
my companion little impatiently. He
instantly resumed his old manner and
dialect.
"Well, 1 reckon one trails as good
as another, and what hev we got to say
about it ?"
pointed out, with some dignity, that
preferred the old trail.
"Mebbee you did But you're iiss
now takin' pasedr with me. This yer
trail will bring you right into Indian
Spring, and onnoticed, and no questions
asked. Don't you mind now, I'll see
you through"
1t was necessary here to make some
stand against my strange companion. l
said firmly, yet as politely as I could,
that had proposed stopping over night
with friend.
"Whar ?"
I hesitated. The friend was an eccen-
trio Eastern man, we'll known i'll the
locality for his fastidiousness and his
habits as a recluse. A misanthrope of
ample family and ample means he had
chosen a secluded but picturesque valley
in the Sierras where he could rail
against the world without opposition.
clone Valley" or Boston Ranch, " as
it was more familiarly called, was the
one spot that the average miner both
respected and feared. Mr.. Sylvester,
it's proprietor, had never affiliated with
" the boys" nor had he ever lost their
respect by any active opposition to their
ideas. If seclusion had been his object
he certainly was gratifed. Neverthe-
less, in the darkening shadows of the
night, and on a lonely and unknown
trail, 1 hesitated little at repeating his
name to stranger of whom / knew SO
little. But my mysterious companion
took the matter out of my hands.
"Look yar," he said, suddenly, "thar
amt but one place twixt yer and Indian
Spring whar ye can stop, and that's
Sylvester's.
assented, little sullenly.
WELL" said the stranger. quietly,
and with slight suggestion of comforting
a favor on me, "Ef you're pointed for
Sylvester I don't mind stopping
thar with ye. It's little off the road
I'll lose some time-but taking it by and
large I don't much mind.
I stated, as rapidly and as strongly as
I could, that my acquaintance with Mr..
Sylvester did not justify the introduc-
tion of a stranger to his hospitality
that he was unlike most of the people
herein short, that he was a queer
man, etc.
To my surprise my companion an.
swered quietly "Oh, that's all right.
I've heerd of him. Ef you don't feel
like checking me through, or if you'd
rather put &c. o. D.. on my back, why
it's all the same to me. I'll play il
alone. Only you just count me in
Say Sylvester all the time. That's
me |"
!. What could I oppose to this mans
quiet assurance felt myself growing
red with anger and nervous with embar
rassment. What would the correct Syl.
vester say to- me? What would tht
girls-I was young man then, and hat
won an e1atree to their domestic circl,
by my reserve-known by a less com
plimentary adjective among the "boys
what would they say to my new ac
quaintance Yet certainly could no
object to his assuming all risk on hi
own personal recognizances, nor could
resist certain feeling of shame at m,
embarrassment.
We were beginning to descend. Il
, the distance below us already twinkle,
, the lights in the solitary rancho of Lon
!. Valley. l turned to my companion
"But you have forgotten that 1 don
even know your name. What am 1 t
1 call you ?"
"Thats so," he said musingly
&c Noxr lntyc COO tKoar,,a.-I .z....II L