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In a country of which they knew nothing, with a scanty supply of food, and no means by which they might obtain more, besides the prospect of a long and tedious winter, their situation was far from encouraging, and the tempting fortune, in full view before them, turned to a dreary, blank uncertainty.

There was no possibility of escape. The soft snow lay many feet deep, and was many miles in extent between them and their sunny land of promise. Day by day they saw their stock diminish, until at last there was nothing left; even the faithful beast, who had brought them thus far on their journey, had gone to sustain the lives of those who remained. When hunger commenced its fearful cravings, and the hope of relief had entirely faded out, the youngest child, by mutual consent of the parents, was rudely torn from its mother's breast, and given up, a bloody, horrible sacrifice to the fiendish hunger of the survivors. Want drove them to madness, and madness to desperation. Of the whole family-four in number, if I recollect rightly-only one came forth alive from that fatal encampment. One. after another they fell victims to the dread enemy, each time the stronger overpowering the weaker, until the last remaining one trod over the bones of his own murdered family.

For only a few weeks in midsummer is the lake free from ice. Then it is the sportsman's paradise; and Donner Lake trout are counted among the delicacies which the mountaineer's table affords, while the pretty California quail, pinemartens, and occasionally a shuffling grizzly, resort to its banks to quench their thirst or bathe in its cool waters. It will take first rank among the grandest and most attractive spots in the world; stark, rugged mountains enclose it and are reflected in its extraordinarily glassy surface, while the giant pines on its shores fringe it through the long winter with unfading green.

To-day its natural beauties remain undisturbed; to-morrow its ages of solitude will be broken by the echoing howl of the locomotive whistle, as it

hurries its onward way toward either

ocean.

A little more to the left we see Castle Peak-which we have before noticed -crowned by turreted rocks, which, viewed from the distance, resemble a ruined castle, with its towers, battlements, and ivy-grown windows.

Upon this mountain, in the autumn of 1861, a hardy mountaineer and trapper-Harry Hartley by name-built himself a cabin wherein to winter and follow his adventurous occupation. Previous to Hartley's advent few, if any, white men had set foot upon this desolate spot; indeed, there was little to attract them to such a cheerless place; but Hartley was of a solitary disposition: years of self-sacrifice had inured him to almost any deprivation. From a counting-house in the Empire City he had hurried away in search of that greatest boon of human life-good health; and the object of his search had become swallowed up, but not lost, in his ambition as a path-breaker for civilization. There is a peculiar fascination in pioneer-life. It enslaves some men; not that they love it so well, but because of the perfect freedom which it grants to them-a freedom which can be found in no other occupation.

To be a pioneer in the Sierra Nevada is no menial service, nor is it without attendance of professional dignity, for it calls into play all the nobler instincts of true manliness. With energy, and patience, and confidence, the pioneer must be a man of nerve and decision, else his long and tedious labor will prove fruitless. Almost all pioneers possess strongly-developed reasoning powers; their mode of life renders logical conclusions almost imperative, and the care with which this faculty is exercised is particularly noticeable when they are journeying in rough, unknown places. In small things as well as great they carefully study cause and effect, where others would dash forward without a thought.

Hartley possessed these endowments in a remarkable degree; and they ultimately proved his success. Fifteen

lonely and unfrequented miles lay in one billowy and desolate stretch between his cabin and the nearest habitation of white men-impassable miles, withal; but in that lonely cabin he lived for four long months without seeing the face of a human being or holding converse with any one. This is but one of the many deprivations of frontier-life. It requires a stout heart to take that one step which carries a man beyond the assistance and association of his fellow-beings, and that, too, when the reward is comparatively small. Yet, this patient labor is, to the world at large, of inestimable value, for it hews the way for more important projects which will surely follow.

Hartley, during his stay on Castle Mountain, discovered, in one of the valleys, several valuable gold-bearing quartz veins. Knowing their value, he claimed them, and five years later—in 1866-within sight of his isolated cabin, there sprung up the town of Meadow Lake; and his solitary four months in the Sierra paid him with a life-long competence.

Side by side with Castle Peak stands its compeer, Fremont's Peak, urging its proud, treeless top far among the clouds. Through all the balmy Sierra summer they bear aloft the relic of departed winter, and while the grass is rich and green in the deep-sheltered valleys which surround them, the snow flurries and wreaths about their tops, bidding defiance to the sunlight and awaiting another season of storms.

Looking to the north, the rugged mountains, with their pine-forests, again confront us-unnamed, unknown, vast recesses, which have never been explored by civilized eyes-broad arenas, where civilized man has never set foot; all waiting for the time when their centuries of silence shall be disturbed by the activity of a fast-advancing and busy population.

At last we turn our eyes to the west; and here our sight sweeps the mighty plain of the Sacramento, with its continuation to the south, the San Joaquin -so far off and far below us that ob

jects are undiscernible. We are sur rounded by snow, but in the valley upon which we look the golden grain and rich green grass flourish beneath the sun of early summer. With scarcely more than a leap we are transported from icy mid-winter to strawberries and

cream.

The Sacramento and San Joaquin valleys lie in a great bowl, as it were; for if we urge our sight off in the distance, we find a distinct blue line, crowned with white, against the horizon, and losing itself on either hand. This is the coast-range, situated more than one hundred miles from the spot on which we stand, the snow still crowning their tops, though they be but playthings in comparison with the Sierra. Here our range of vision extends over a section of country exceeding in area the whole State of Connecticut. Of course, we cannot distinguish the fields and houses, but we can see the steamboatsmoke on the Sacramento River-some seventy miles away-and dark patches over the surface of the plain, which mark either the wooded or the tiled lands.

It is indeed a wonderful sight. The eye at a glance sweeps over one of the largest and most fertile valleys of our whole land, and a journey from our stand-point to the extreme limit of our observation would cost us at least thirtysix hours of travel.

As we stand, facing toward the west, a stone tossed from the hand will fall a distance of fifteen hundred feet, striking upon the ice-covered, snow-bound bosom of French Lake, which, in the course of a month or so from this time, will be transformed to a placid, dark, picturesque sheet of water some twenty acres in extent. The mountains seem to have split apart and formed the crevice in which it rests, for its other side is backed up by a correspondingly precip itous mountain-face.

We have now taken a fair view of the country, as seen from Prospect Peak—a place which, I doubt not, will, in years to come, become famous as one of the sublimest points of observation which

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Mounting our snow-shoes, a few moments of very rapid sliding brings us within the limits of the town of Meadow Lake.

This town, in point of elevation, ranks thi d or fourth among the permanent habitations of man in the known world. It rests on a sheltered plain, which caps a high ridge, and is surrounded by rolling hills on every side; its buildings are those rudely-finished structures which one so often meets with in these mountains-crazy affairs, whose thin boards prove scarcely a sufficient protection against the severe storms which assail them.

It may not be out of place here to mention the fact that during the long winters which prevail in this section, the chief and only method of locomotion, for pedestrians, is by snow-shoes; and as neither horses nor mules can be used, owing to the depth of the snow, all journeys in the unfrequented districts must be accomplished with their aid.

The unwieldy raw-hide network, known as the "Canadian shoe," is seldom used, the Norwegian pattern having proved more acceptable and less cumbersome. The latter are very simple in their construction, consisting of two long, narrow, and flat strips of wood slightly curved at the forward ends, and confined to the feet by strips of leather, which are placed at their balancing point, and pass over the instep. The traveller is not to fatigue himself by raising them, but simply slides along over the surface of the snow. The shoes vary in length from nine to twelve feet, the longer shoes being preferable for swift running. The wearer must necessarily become skilled in their use before venturing into difficult or dangerous places, for the speed attained in descending the steep moun

tain-sides is fearful. In such places I

have seen the measured mile accomplished in fifty seconds, and have myself slid, repeatedly, one mile in less than seventy seconds.

Snow-shoe racing is a favorite pastime among the mountain-people, both sexes participating in the sport, and many of the women challenging the best and most expert runners.* With their snow-shoes thoroughly "doped," the crowd resort to some suitable place for the contest, which begins with a grand dash, all participating. Woe to the inexperienced ones, for they are generally left sitting in the snow while they see their shoes shooting away in the exciting race, riderless, or else, owing to their uncertain footing, they are shot, arrow-like, head-first into the soft snow, from which they must extricate themselves and spend the rest of the day in hunting up their untrustworthy conveyance. Experts dash on regardless of circumstances, with the swiftness of the wind, until they come to a halt in the deep valley to which they have descended, which may be two or three miles from their starting-point.

The rider stands erect on the shoes, allowing them to slide, or rather plunge, in the direction intended, at the same time steadying himself with the stout snow-pole, which he grasps in his hands. The only mode by which he can retard his swift progress is by falling from the shoes, at the risk of a roll in the snow, and detaining them as he falls-a feat which requires some dexterity. To lose the shoes is a serious matter, for fatigue, exhaustion, and perhaps more serious mishaps, may overtake him ere he reaches his journey's end.

All through the long winter-season the snow upon the Sierra Nevada, at any elevation above five thousand feet, lies at a depth averaging from ten to twenty feet, while drifts pile themselves up to enormous and incredible proportions.

Snow-slides are frequent, and

I have known a party of ladies to start out in the morning, on their snow-shoes, travel eight miles to visit and spend the night with theit friends, and return on the following day.

vast areas of snow sometimes move down the mountain-sides, wrecking every thing in their way, and often proving fatal to the unfortunate living beings whom it may overtake. Scarcely a year passes that does not record a number of deaths from this cause.

I have seen the waters of Phoenix Lake rise six feet, and then rapidly subside, when one of these vast bodies of snow has plunged into it from the steep sides of Old-Man Mountain.

During the month of March, 1866, there was a snow-storm in the Sierra of seventeen days' duration. Day after day, for a week, I shovelled the snow from my doorway, in the vain hope that the storm would soon cease. When it did cease, my cabin-the extreme height of which was twelve feet-was entirely covered with snow, in such a way that I was obliged to cut a hole in the roof, and shovel a passage through in order to obtain light, air, and an entranceway.

The mountains were visited by a still severer storm in February, 1867. One of the county-papers, in speaking of it, stated: "The snow in some places lics thirty feet deep, and a two-story house on the Plaza of Meadow Lake is entirely out of sight. The average depth of the snow is twenty-one feet, and drifts form to a depth of twenty feet in a single night." This storm continued for thirty days.

The atmosphere of the mountains is dry, and seldom intensely cold, but the winters are very long, commencing in

the latter part of November, and fairly terminating about the first of July. Be it in any season, I know of no climate so eminently calculated to benefit sufferers from bronchial or pulmonary difficulties; and of all climates which I have had the good fortune to visit, I know of none more beautiful than the Sierra Nevada spring and summer. In the former season, though the ground be covered with snow, the sun is warm and invigorating, while the great pine wilderness echoes with countless birdsongs.

Right through this temple of Nature, this region of grandeur and snow, the. great enterprise pushes itself for a distance of sixty miles or more; now plunging into a ravine, shadowed and darkened by the rocky heaps which rise thousands of feet above it, now stretching off on the open plain, and guarded on either side by huge, gaunt pines, which stand stiff and listless by the way.

Lounging upon the steps of the rudely-finished but comfortable house known as Polley's Station, at Crystal Lake, we can hear the clear, ringing sound of hammer and drill; now and then a thundering blast rolls away, echoing up and down the great valleys. This is the steady, onward march of civilization, breaking the pathway through forests, and mountains, and solid granite, for the most magnificent enterprise which has prompted mankind for centuries past-the Pacific Railroad.

BARON

LOOKED at from one point of view, these two thick volumes contain the record of a life that was a tragedy. Yet few biographies narrate the story of a career so uninterruptedly fortunate in externals. Bunsen's life began under a thatched roof, but it was passed in the splendid society of scholars and statesmen, of cardinals and kings. He lived to within one year of the allotted term of human life, and through that long period he enjoyed the most splendid health, and unquenchable good spirits, enabling him to work to an extent remarkable even in Germany, that land of intellectual bees and beavers. He married at an early age the woman he loved, and his wedded life was an undisturbed course of happiness, surrounded as he was by a family of nine intelligent, affectionate children, and sustained by the devotion and appreciating sympathy of his excellent English wife. He enjoyed, to a degree rarely experienced by a subject, the intimate personal friendship of three kings of his own country, the present king of Prussia, William I., his brother and predecessor, Frederic William IV., and their father, Frederic William III.; and in the family of Queen Victoria his position was more like that of an elder brother, than that of Minister of Prussia. On one occasion, when he was absent from Prussia, Frederic William IV. issued these extraordinary words: "I hunger and thirst after Bunsen," and in asking him to Berlin, in 1857, to be present at the Meeting of the Members of the Evangelical Alliance, he ended his letter with these words: "You surely will not refuse to be the guest of an old friend in his own house?" and when the king, on entering the hall, saw Bunsen, he came straight up to him, embraced him once, and then again, saying aloud, "I thank you from my heart, dear Bunsen, that you have fulfilled my request and come so quickly-God reward you!" No wonder that, as Humboldt afterward told

* A Memoir of Baron Bunsen, late Minister Plen

ipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary of his Majesty Frederic William IV., at the Court of St. James. Drawn chiefly from family papers, by his widow, Frances Baroness Bunsen. In two volumes. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. London: Longmans & Co. 1868.

BUNSEN.*

Bunsen, the scene was observed with aston ishment. In 1846 he writes, "I was invited to Windsor Castle to spend the birthday of the Prince of Wales for the first time, as it is not usual with the Queen to have foreign guests on that occasion. * * *. I had brought with me German books for the children. * * * The Prince wanted to have the pictures explained, and I sat on the floor in the midst of the group; we all spoke German," etc. These volumes are full of similar evidences of the affectionate familiarity that existed between Bunsen and persons of high station, and not only with such persons, but with men distinguished in literature, in science, in art, and in politics. Truly has his widow written of him: "Wherever his lot had been cast,-whether in his native fatherland, or in his beautiful Italy, or in that no less beloved England, the fatherland of his wife, there he attracted all with whom he came into contact by his sympathy and benevolence, by the brilliancy of his wonderful mind, no less than by the depth of his genu ine humility." And yet, in spite of all this outward prosperity, Bunsen's life reads like a tragedy; for, what hope that he lived for was fulfilled? what dream of his youth was accomplished? and what substantial result remains as the fruit of this life, passed in more than Herculean labors? If we look at the vast extent of his personal influence; at the good his example did; at the moral effect of his pure and manly life, with its perpetual sacrifice of inclination to duty and its never dampened enthusiasm for truth, with his unconquerable belief in the future triumph of the right; we must, perhaps, allow that a life of which these are the striking traits, cannot rightly be called a tragedy. It is only when we ask for the outward material results of such splendid opportunities; for the proofs which future time will demand of this man's right to influence his age and to be remembered, that our feeling, on closing these volumes, is explained. He resided in Rome during twenty-two years, and during nearly the whole of that time he was in the service of Prussia; yet, politically, his diplomatical labors were of no advantage to eithe: Prussia or Rome; and if it ought not to be said that

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