creeping across Owens Valley over to the Inyo range, up higher and higher, and then night; with the darkness every sound seemed intensified, and one fancied he heard strange noises. Only one man lived anywhere near, and he a mile down the mountain. The nearest village was eight miles below, and above and all around us arose the great jagged peaks and gloomy cañons of the giant Sierras. Plenty of rattlesnakes were all about us, under the house, among the stones that made the foundation, under all the large boulders, and in the scrub. It was trying to the nerves when, tramping with a gun through the brush, the sound of the rattle would break the stillness of the wilderness. Once my partner on going out to the creek with the tea kettle, found a big rattler before him also taking his evening drink.

Trout of small size but fine flavor were plentiful. Our chief difficulty was in getting bait. The ground was so hard and dried up there that worms were only to be got in one or two places in all the cañon. The largest trout I ever killed, strange to say, I shot in some shallow water away up at an altitude of 10,000 or 11,000 feet. In the lakes above us a very large description of salmon trout was to be found. My chief work was in keeping the fryingpan supplied with "cotton tail" rabbits, mountain and valley quail. Hard, hot work it was, carrying a shot-gun over those ragged rocks and loose gravel and brush in that blazing sun. We had a dog, but he was almost useless; the heat was too much for him, and he was always looking for the shadow of a great rock in that weary land. Lovely views were to be had, too, of Owens Lake and the mountains beyond. Beautiful pictures did those mountains give, clothed as they were in purple, dark blue, deep brown, yellow. How far away from home it seemed to us two

Britishers in that lonely cañon; and yet we liked it as a change from the monotonous life of the little settlements of the valley, where the saloon is the club and the general store the "stamping-ground" of the entire community! How a man values the magazines and papers of civilization in an isolated region such as that! Twelve miles or so across the range from us lay King's River Cañon, considered to be, if anything, grander than the far-famed Yosemite. The latter is seven miles long by a mile wide, with perpendicular walls rising to about 4,000 feet, while King's River Cañon is ten miles long by half a mile wide, with straight cliffs, 5,000 feet high. It has no such rock as El Capitan for massiveness, but has rocks higher, sharper, and more sculptured in appearance than anything in the Yosemite. Of the grandeur of its position and the magnificence of its scenery the ranchers and miners of Inyo, who visit it, never speak; they only talk of the size and number of the fish they have caught, and the ferocity of the mosquitoes and gnats which inhabit it.

Up in the snow above us one old Englishman lived for years, and worked at his mine at an altitude of over 11,000 feet. Almost every other miner had given up the Sierra Nevada side, and had changed over to the more accessible Inyos, but "old man" Ward still stayed with his first love, and dug a precarious living out of that mighty mass of quartz. He stayed too long. One winter, after the snows began to melt, it was noticed in Independence that the old man had not come down. A search party went up and found that he had been a corpse for months away up in the eternal snow. The search party had to resolve itself into a coroner's jury, and then into an undertaking establishment before all was fin ished. Such is life in the "High Sierra."-Gentleman's Magazine.

thought. It is true that they form a class of mendicants distinct from any other, and that they are all persons of blood-sucking propensities and preda

tory habits.

But there our definition must end, for their modes of operation are very various; they are drawn from every rank in life, and they prey on all classes of society from a shopkeeper to a Prince of the Blood.

It is thought by many that the Begging Letter Writer picks his intended victim from the most guileless of philanthropists. This is a delusion. It is within our personal knowledge, for instance, that more than one of the tribe reaps a good harvest by appealing to some of the most eminent administrators of the law; though, of course, only passed masters in the art need hope to succeed in such ambitious flights. We once made the acquaintance of a man who did an extensive business in this way. His plan was to send printed slips of poetry, professing to be of his own composition, of little value indeed in his own estimation, as he declared with engaging modesty, but which had been approved by writers of taste and judgment when the lines were written many years ago. Now, he said, he was an old man, ground down with misfortunes and the miseries of extreme poverty, only just able to keep the wolf from the door by addressing envelopes and such like drudgery. Life was very hard, and should the enclosed sonnet merit approbation from his Lordship, a trifle in recognition of the same would honor, as well as comfort, an humble, destitute member of his Lordship's own profession.

This gentleman lived in a dreary quarter of the East End, in a street mostly inhabited by mechanics and laborers of the better class. A dirty slipshod woman came to the door and answered with an abrupt emphatic negative our question as to whether Mr. D. was at home. We told her then from whom we came, and at the sound of one of the best-known names in England she became as obsequious as she had before been surly, and with many apologies ushered us down some filthy stairs into a basement room, nearly dark, though the time was but three o'clock in the afternoon. Here she lit a lamp, and left us to inform Mr. D. of the honor awaiting him.

The room was mouldy, malodorous, and bare, yet there was something

about it we had never before seen in a room in this neighborhood. It contained two pieces of furniture: one, a table covered with green baize much bespattered with ink, on which was a writing-case, pens, and paper in good preservation; the other, an arm-chair very old and worn, but still bearing the outward form of such a chair as might be found in the study of a literary man. On the chimney-piece was a meerschaum pipe of good quality and richly colored; and lastly, on the wall behind, was a small book-shelf, containing three calf-bound tomes on law more than half a century old, and two yellow-backed French novels of the most extreme type.

The door now opened, and a figure, in keeping with the room, entered with the stealthy tread of a cat, and bowed politely. Mr. D. was a man about seventy years of age, tall and stooping. He wore a dressing-gown which looked as old as himself, and slippers in the last stage of decay. His head was small, round, and quite bald; his face a mass of tiny wrinkles, with bright, cunning, shifty eyes. His manners were those of one who in his time had been accustomed to good society.

His first action was to relate without being asked what he called the history of his life. It was a picturesque narrative told with infinite ingenuity. Yet that it was true in the main we have little doubt; Mr. D. was far too clever a man to waste his breath in telling unprofitable lies. He was born, he said, to a good position, bis father being a prosperous professional man. He had taken his degree at Cambridge, had read for the bar, and then-fallen. His father died about this time, and the son wasted his share of the money, married a servant, and lost caste altogether. For many years, however, he had been a reformed character and lived by law-writing and copying. Now he was nearly starving.

So far, so good; the case was well put, and no attempt made to excite pity by any obvious exaggerations. But a touchstone had to be applied, to be followed by inquiry and verification.

Have you children?" "Yes." " Any sons?" He frowned: "Yes, but not at home; they have nothing to do with

06

me, sir, nor I with them." "Excuse the question; are they married?" "No." "They are of an age to earn their own living?" "Certainly." "Do they assist you?" They do not." At this point we looked at one another steadily. Then we asked for the name of one of those sons that we might ascertain why they did not help their father. Mr. D. stared for a moment with an air of great surprise, then, with a sudden change of countenance, moved toward the door. "No, sir!" he said, his voice trembling with righteous anger, "No! I could not tell you that. It is enough. I trouble his Lordship no further; I see your motive as clearly as possible, and I make no terms with you. Here he drew himself up and clenched his hauds. "I much regret that I should have confided to you the story of my life. Such confidences are only for the ears of a friend. And what is your reply to them? Have you any sympathy with a poor old man? Do you offer me a gift, however small, to make the grinding poverty less terrible for a little while? No! You only ask questions about my family affairs and commit unwarrantable intrusion within the sacred precincts of my home. I refuse, I say, to answer any further questions. If the condition of this room, and my poor person, is not enough to convince you of the truth of my story, leave me to starve; leave me to linger, withering slowly, until in the desperation of want I creep to the workhouse doorand die."

After this there was no more to be said, and with a few words of polite regret we took our leave. From a working man of our acquaintance who lived in the same street, we subsequently learned that the postman groaned daily over the enormous budget of letters he had to carry to Mr. D., that the sons were respectable young men who had been brought up by an aunt, their father having turned them out of doors when children, and that Mr. D. himself bore the unenviable reputation of being the most drunken, disreputable old reprobate in the neighborhood.

But the writers of begging letters are by no means all reprobates. There was a man of a very different stamp,

an immense number of whose letters fell into our hands, and with whose daily life we were intimately acquainted for several months. He was a person who, though very poor, wore scrupulously clean linen, a well-brushed frock-coat, a silk hat, and black kid gloves. He allowed every inquiry to be made, professing that he had nothing to conceal. As it happened in course of time a queer fact or two did come to light, connected with a sum of money received yearly by him for a certain specific purpose to which it was not applied, and which speedily came to an end when the donor knew how matters stood. But, on the whole, it was proved that he had a most respectable record, and further, that were his appeals to the benevolent to cease to bear fruit and he to be forced to depend upon himself, he might morally recover. It is satisfactory to note that in the end this actually happened. For a long while he was entirely convinced that it was the business of the public to support his family until work which precisely suited his fancy came to hand. But finally, finding that neither the public, nor his own children, took this view of the matter, he managed to procure some regular work, and turned his back, we will trust forever, upon a mendicant's life. This happened more than six years ago. The latest accounts of him are that, with most of his family about him, he is living an honest life as a hard-working London citizen; and that, though he still bears some grudge to those candid friends who succeeded in spoiling the harvest of his begging letters, he owned to one of them not long ago that it was this action, and this only, which weaned him from a precarious existence of discontented idleness to a healthy life of work and independence.

But, after all, it must be owned that such a man is an exception in the craft. Those whose duty it is to examine these matters are usually faced with the worst side of human nature; whether it be the small fry of the trade, or the accomplished master, every case is marked with the stain of deceit and prevarication.

Take, for example, the following delectable epistle, containing a dirty

pawn-ticket. "Dear maam, I hop you will excause this letter from a poor woman today is Christmas day-my husband as been laid up 10 weeks with Rheumatic Fever-I have not a bit of bread or fireing. I was reading today of the Queen haveing 300 pounds of meat roasted in a lump and I thought if she only new how I was placed she would send us something my husband as got a little work to do now to start at once if he could get is tools out of pledge they will cost 15/9 I have sent one of them so that you can see I am speaking the truth-my husband can begin work on Friday morning," etc. When a visit was made at the writer's house a few days later there was plenty of food in the place and a big fire. The man was at home, a strong fellow with no signs of rheumatism or any other ailment about him. He refused inquiry with abusive language. Afterward it was discovered that the aforesaid tools had been redeemed the week before with money procured from some other source, and promptly pledged again within three days. In fact these tools were a valuable article of commerce. Within three months no less than five letters from the man or his wife, all addressed to different people, fell into our hands. In most instances help had been sent to the writer before inquiry into his condition was thought

of.

But there are lower depths of mendicancy even than this. A well-known doctor sent in the following letter for inquiry with the comment that he remembered the name of the man mentioned in the appeal, and would gladly send money to his widow. We give the letter verbatim. "In addressing you I trust that I am not presuming too much upon your kindness, but my poor dear Edgar so often spoke of you (he was house-surgeon and resident accoucheur under you at Hos

pital) that in my utter friendlessness I am impelled to trespass on your generosity and ask your assistance for a poor widow left in destitute circumstances. My dear Edgar, who was in practise at in the county of died suddenly about three months ago and his affairs were found so involved that scarcely anything was left. For my

children's sake I must endeavor at once to do something, and as I know a little of dress-making I could with trifling assistance open a small shop in the neighborhood. Am I wrong in trusting that you will help the widow of one of your old housesurgeons? I have no near relations to whom I can apply, and the prayers of a grateful woman that God's blessing may rest upon you and yours will be ever offered by, sincerely yours, C E-- C."

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This was an appeal to touch a good man's heart. The address given was visited at once; in answer to the visitor's knock a man mending boots at a window invited him to enter. This man shook his head vaguely at first when asked for Mrs. C., then grinned and nodded. Oh, I know who you mean; it's those parties who has their letters left here. I don't know where they live, but they call twice a week to see if anything has come. It's a man and a woman, husband and wife, I suppose. They says they lives lower down the street at No. 151, and that as this house is 15, letters might come here by mistake, and might they call now and then to see if any did come. They was here yesterday, or he was. Do you know him? A stoutish chap with red hair, well-dressed for this neighborhood. No, I don't know nothing more about them than that. It was you mentioning the name; that was what he called himself. You go to 151, and likely enough you'll find 'em." The cobbler's advice was taken. At No. 151 we found a milk-shop with a stout, decent-looking woman handling the cans. No, the people did not live there, she said; they had asked if they might have their letters addressed here as they had only just come to London, and were moving about a great deal. Their story, she said, seemed straightforward, and several letters had been received and taken away by Mr. C., as he called himself. It was believed that they lived in some buildings near, but they seemed mysterious people. The buildings were searched in vain, and then a report was sent to the benevolent doctor concerning the "widow" which must have surprised him. A few days later a letter in the same

hand, and couched much in the same terms, was received by another doctor from another part of London. In this instance a blunder had been made, for this doctor happened to be acquainted with "my poor dear Edgar's" real widow and knew her to be in comfortable circumstances, and not to be living in London at all.

Here was a case of direct fraud. We have since been informed that the appeals have been successfully stopped by the police.

Another large class of begging letters come from workhouses and poor-law infirmaries. The writers send eloquent narratives of their past lives, asking for the smallest trifle to alleviate their present woes, and to enable them to start afresh in life. Sometimes they represent themselves to be broken-down clergymen or missionaries; more often they are discharged soldiers, who give startling accounts of their heroism in defence of their country, but, on inquiry, cannot produce their discharges or be traced at the War-Office. When they receive assistance (which, alas! they often do) they disappear from the workhouse to drink up the proceeds of their eloquent pleadings, invariably returning after no long absence to that unfailing asylum and to the work of composing further appeals.

Women are quite as active as men, even when working single-handed. One day there came to us a woman, who was severely and uncompromisingly respectable in appearance. She had been referred for inquiry by a gentleman in the north of England to whom she had written claiming relationship (a claim he entirely repudiated) and begging for money to procure food.

The manner of Mrs. G. was very austere. It passed her comprehension, she said, why she had been sent for to such a place as this. Inquiry, was that it? Well, she was afraid of nothing; she lived a virtuous life. A lady of this description was not easy to deal with, for she sat down to be questioned with the air of a martyr bound to the stake. At the first question she rose with an indignant sweep of her skirts, and announced her intention of leaving at once. Yet it was a simple question; where had she lived three months

ago before coming to her present address? but it was too much for Mrs. G., and after relieving her mind by some severe strictures upon the "charity which gave nothing but crushed the poor with impertinent inquiry," she went away.

A few weeks later a letter (from which the following is an extract) was sent by Mrs. G. to a gentleman in the City, and forwarded to us for verification. "I am in arrears with my rent and have no means of paying any, we have not tasted meat for four weeks only bread and tea, and sometimes only prison fare, bread and cold water. I am entirely helpless and alone, not one friend in this great City of wealth and plenty, will you help me or inform me where I can apply for help to save me from starvation, I am weak and ill from want of common food. I live a quiet virtuous life." We called upon the woman early in the afternoon and contrived, for reasons of our own, to enter her room without more notice than a tap at the door. It was a fairsized apartment, carpeted and furnished with a sofa, four cushioned chairs, a good table, two beds, and a chest of drawers. A large fire was in the grate though it was summer-time, and on the table, neatly laid on a white cloth, were the remains of a mutton chop, baked potatoes, a glass containing the dregs of half-a-pint of stout, tea, bread, and butter.

Mrs. G.'s face, as she saw our eyes wandering over these signs of starvation, was an interesting study; but she was not in the least abashed. A friend, she said, had just sent in the food, a certain Mrs. Smith; but the name was not given without some hesitation. Where did Mrs. Smith live? That was a question which no one on earth should compel her to answer. was useless to ask her such questions. Those people who refused to help her unless she endured insult might leave her to starve if they pleased. Others there were, thank God, whose hearts were touched by reading the appeal of a

It

virtuous woman, and who required no other proof of her needs than her word. Upon those truly charitable souls she depended. No one need trouble to call again; and no one ever has.