stoicism—­said to be an inheritance from his maternal ancestor—­stood him in good service, until the rolling wheels rattled upon the river gravel at Scott’s Ferry, and the stage drew up at the International Hotel for dinner.  The legal gentleman and a member of Congress leaped out, and stood ready to assist the descending goddess, while Colonel Starbottle, of Siskiyou, took charge of her parasol and shawl.  In this multiplicity of attention there was a momentary confusion and delay.  Jack Hamlin quietly opened the opposite door of the coach, took the lady’s hand—­with that decision and positiveness which a hesitating and undecided sex know how to admire—­and in an instant had dexterously and gracefully swung her to the ground, and again lifted her to the platform.  An audible chuckle on the box, I fear, came from that other cynic, “Yuba Bill,” the driver.  “Look keerfully arter that baggage, Kernel,” said the expressman, with affected concern, as he looked after Colonel Starbottle, gloomily bringing up the rear of the triumphant procession to the waiting-room.

Mr. Hamlin did not stay for dinner.  His horse was already saddled, and awaiting him.  He dashed over the ford, up the gravelly hill, and out into the dusty perspective of the Wingdam road, like one leaving pleasant fancy behind him.  The inmates of dusty cabins by the roadside shaded their eyes with their hands and looked after him, recognizing the man by his horse, and speculating what “was up with Comanche Jack.”  Yet much of this interest centered in the horse, in a community where the time made by “French Pete’s” mare in his run from the Sheriff of Calaveras eclipsed all concern in the ultimate fate of that worthy.

The sweating flanks of his gray at length recalled him to himself.  He checked his speed, and, turning into a by-road, sometimes used as a cutoff, trotted leisurely along, the reins hanging listlessly from his fingers.  As he rode on, the character of the landscape changed and became more pastoral.  Openings in groves of pine and sycamore disclosed some rude attempts at cultivation—­a flowering vine trailed over the porch of one cabin, and a woman rocked her cradled babe under the roses of another.  A little farther on Mr. Hamlin came upon some barelegged children wading in the willowy creek, and so wrought upon them with a badinage peculiar to himself that they were emboldened to climb up his horse’s legs and over his saddle, until he was fain to develop an exaggerated ferocity of demeanor, and to escape, leaving behind some kisses and coin.  And then, advancing deeper into the woods, where all signs of habitation failed, he began to sing—­uplifting a tenor so singularly sweet, and shaded by a pathos so subduing and tender, that I wot the robins and linnets stopped to listen.  Mr. Hamlin’s voice was not cultivated; the subject of his song was some sentimental lunacy borrowed from the Negro minstrels; but there thrilled through all some occult quality of tone and expression that was unspeakably