death cause such general
mourning. It is no exaggeration to say that this whole country is
stricken with grief . . ." Nor was evidence then wanting, that far beyond
the limits of society on that vast continent the English writer's
influence had penetrated. Of this, very touching illustration was given
in my first volume; and proof even more striking has since been afforded
to me, that not merely in wild or rude communities, but in life the most
savage and solitary, his genius had helped to while time away.

"Like all Americans who read," writes an American gentleman, "and that
takes in nearly all our people, I am an admirer and student of
Dickens. . . . Its perusal" (that of my second volume) "has recalled an
incident which may interest you. Twelve or thirteen years ago I crossed
the Sierra Nevada mountains as a Government surveyor under a famous
frontiersman and civil engineer--Colonel Lander. We were too early by a
month, and became snow-bound just on the very summit. Under these
circumstances it was necessary to abandon the wagons for a time, and
drive the stock (mules) down the mountains to the valleys where there
was pasturage and running water. This was a long and difficult task,
occupying several days. On the second day, in a spot where we expected
to find nothing more human than a grizzly bear or an elk, we found a
little hut, built of pine boughs and a few rough boards clumsily hewn
out of small trees with an axe. The hut was covered with snow many feet
deep, excepting only the hole in the roof which served for a chimney,
and a small pit-like place in front to permit egress. The occupant came
forth to hail us and solicit whisky and tobacco. He was dressed in a
suit made entirely of flour-sacks, and was curiously labelled on various
parts of his person _Best Family Flour_. _Extra._ His head was covered
by a wolf's skin drawn from the brute's head--with the ears standing
erect in a fierce alert manner. He was a most extraordinary object, and
told us he had not seen a human being in four months. He lived on bear
and elk meat and flour laid in during his short summer. Emigrants in
the season paid him a kind of ferry-toll. I asked him how he passed his
time, and he went to a barrel and produced _Nicholas Nickleby_ and
_Pickwick_. I found he knew them almost by heart. He did not know, or
seem to care, about the author; but he gloried in Sam Weller, despised
Squeers, and would probably have taken the latter's scalp wi