no more in my dream." I confess
to a feeling of depression after his departure, for however enjoyable
the experiences of the road, they are rendered doubly so by the
sympathetic companionship of a man endowed not only with a keen sense of
humor but also with an unusual perception of human nature.

After registering at the Holbrooke--a substantial survival of the old
times--I called by appointment on Mr. Ben Taylor, a much respected
citizen of Grass Valley and probably the oldest inhabitant of Nevada
County, having reached the patriarchal age of eighty-six.

Mr. Taylor has a charming home with extensive grounds overlooking the
town and surrounding country. In his garden is a spruce he planted
himself forty-five years ago, and apple trees of the same age. The
spruce now has the appearance of a forest tree and shades the whole
front of the house. His present home was built in 1864 and from
all appearances should last the century out. He said the lumber was
carefully selected, the boards being heavier than usual, and all
the important timbers, instead of being nailed, were morticed and
dove-tailed. This thoroughness of workmanship accounts for the excellent
condition of the wooden buildings in these towns, many of which were
constructed over fifty years ago.

Mr. Taylor came to Grass Valley September 22, 1849, and has lived there
almost continuously ever since. He crossed the plains one of twenty-five
men, the last of his companions dying in 1905. The little band suffered
many hardships, having to be constantly on watch for Indians, though
he said they were more fearful of the Mormons. They came over the old
emigrant trail across the Sierra Nevada. When they reached Grass Valley,
their Captain, a man named Broughton, exclaimed: "Boys! here's the gold;
this is good enough for us!" And there they stayed, the twenty-five of
them!

Mr. Taylor had frequently met Mark Twain, but never to his knowledge,
Bret Harte. In common with other men who had known the Great American
Humorist, Mr. Taylor smiled at the bare mention of his name. Twain's
breezy, hail-fellow-well-met manner, combined with his dry humor,
insured him a welcome at all the camps; he was a man who would "pass
the time of day" and take a friendly drink with any man upon the road.
Twain, he told me, and a man with whom he was traveling on one occasion,
lost their mules. They tracked them to a creek and concluding the mules
had crossed it, Twain said to his companio