The Beaufort tribune and Port Royal commercial. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1877-1879, 1877-09-20


asked me how I liked Dickens
Had he asked my opinion of Huxley
or Darwin, I could not have been more
astonished. Thinking it were possible
that he referred to some local celebrity
of LAGRANGE, I said, hesitatingly:
You mean
"Charles Dickens. OF course you've
read him? Which'of his books do you
like best ?"
Irephed with considerable embarrass.
ment that I liked them alias I certain.
ly did.
He grasped my hand for moment
with q 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 a 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. I locked at the man
in astonishment. I 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
fuence and enthusiasm of his own
speech, he himself had softened consid-
erably offered to change horses with
me, readjusted my saddle with Profes-
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 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. pointed out the fact to
my companion little impatiently. He
Instantly resumed his old manner and
dialecS.
"Well, I reckon one trails as good
as another, and what hey ye got to say
about it ?"
pointed out, with some dignity, that
I preferred the old trail.
"Mebbee you did. But you're jiss
now takin' 1'osear 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"
It was necessary here to make some
stand against my strange companion. l
said firmly, yet as politely as [ could,
that I had proposed stopping over night
with friend.
"Whar ?"
hesitated. The friend was an eccen-
trio Eastern man, we'll known III the
locality for his fastidiousness and his
habits as a recluse. A misanthrope of
ample family and ample means he had
chosen secluded but picturesque valley
in the Sierras, where he could rail
against the world without opposition.
I" Lone Valley" or Boston Ranch, as
it was more familiarly called, was the
one spot that the average miner both
and feared. Mr.. Sylvester,
it's proprietor, had never affiliated with
sc 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 gratfed. Neverthe-
less, in the darkening shadows Of the
night, and on a lonely and unknown
trail, hesitated little at repeating his
name to stranger of whom knew so
little. But my mysterious companion
took the matter out of my hands.
"Iook yar," he said, suddenly, "thar
ain't but one place twixt yer and Indian
Spring whar ye can stop, and that's
Sylvester's."
I assented, little sullenly.
Well" said the stranger. quietly,
and with slight suggestion of comforting
\ favor on me, "Ef you're pointed for
Sylvester 4 don't mind stopping
thar with ye. It's little off the road
I'll lose some time-but taking it by and
.arge I don't much mind"
I stated, as rapidly and as strongly as
could, that my acquaintance with MIR.
Sylvester did not justify the introduce
ion Of a stranger to his hospitality
hat he was unlike most of the people
herein short, that he was a queer
man, etc.
To my surprise my companion an
swered quietly: ooh, that's all right.
I've heerd of him. Eff you don't feel
ike 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 it
alone. Only you just count me in.
Say Sylvester all the time. That's
me!
What could I oppose to this mans
quiet assurance? I felt myself growing
red with anger and nervous with embar-
rassment. What would the correct Syl-
yester say to me? What would the
yirls-I was young man then, and had
won an entree to their domestic circle
by my reserve-known by less COM
adjective among the "boys"
what would they say to my new ac-
quaintance? Yet I certainly could not
object to his assuming all risk on his
own personal recognizances, nor could 1
resist certain feeling of shame at my
oyo barro ssmpnt