“What would you do, Jim,” said Hazen, “if we were surrounded by Indians?”

Jim Beckwourth was our guide—­a life-long frontiersman, an old man “beated and chopped with tanned antiquity.”  He had at one time been a chief of the Crows.

“I’d spit on that fire,” said Jim Beckwourth.

The old man has gone, I hope, where there is no fire to be quenched.  And Hazen, and the chap with whom I shared my blanket that winter night on the plains—­both gone.  One might suppose that I would feel something of the natural exultation of a Sole Survivor; but as Byron found that

    our thoughts take wildest flight
  Even at the moment when they should array
  Themselves in pensive order,

so I find that they sometimes array themselves in pensive order, even at the moment when they ought to be most hilarious.

* * * * *

Of reminiscences there is no end.  I have a vast store of them laid up, wherewith to wile away the tedious years of my anecdotage—­whenever it shall please Heaven to make me old.  Some years that I passed in London as a working journalist are particularly rich in them.  Ah! “we were a gallant company” in those days.

I am told that the English are heavy thinkers and dull talkers.  My recollection is different; speaking from that, I should say they are no end clever with their tongues.  Certainly I have not elsewhere heard such brilliant talk as among the artists and writers of London.  Of course they were a picked lot; some of them had attained to some eminence in the world of intellect; others have achieved it since.  But they were not all English by many.  London draws the best brains of Ireland and Scotland, and there is always a small American contingent, mostly correspondents of the big New York journals.

The typical London journalist is a gentleman.  He is usually a graduate of one or the other of the great universities.  He is well paid and holds his position, whatever it may be, by a less precarious tenure than his American congener.  He rather moves than “dabbles” in literature, and not uncommonly takes a hand at some of the many forms of art.  On the whole, he is a good fellow, too, with a skeptical mind, a cynical tongue, and a warm heart.  I found these men agreeable, hospitable, intelligent, amusing.  We worked too hard, dined too well, frequented too many clubs, and went to bed too late in the forenoon.  We were overmuch addicted to shedding the blood of the grape.  In short, we diligently, conscientiously, and with a perverse satisfaction burned the candle of life at both ends and in the middle.

This was many a year ago.  To-day a list of these men’s names with a cross against that of each one whom I know to be dead would look like a Roman Catholic cemetery.  I could dine all the survivors at the table on which I write, and I should like to do so.  But the dead ones, I must say, were the best diners.