I SAID we were hungry on arriving at Oro City, but the word gives no description of our sensations. After climbing over a crest only a few hundred feet lower than the Swiss Jungfrau, we descended to the level of human life with a profound interest in the signs of "Boarding" and "Miners’ Homes," which greeted us on entering the place. Even the "Saloon," with its cubicular bottles of Plantation Bitters, suggested smoked herring and crackers; and these in our condition would have been welcome luxuries. Before we had dismounted, a gentleman of most cheery and hospitable face threw open his door, disclosing arm-chairs and rocking-chairs, a long table, and a dim vision of beds in the background. We entered, and there were presently sounds of dulcet hissing and sizzling in the rear; grateful, but ah! most tantalizing odors in the atmosphere; and then the trout were set before us — us, who would have rejoiced over raw pork! It was a meal worth pining for, and I do less than my duty in recording the name of our host, Mr. Wolf Londoner, who not only fed but lodged the whole party, with the most generous disregard of his own and his wife’s comfort. I consider that hospitality perfect which does not allow you to feel the sacrifices it imposes; and such was the kind we received in Oro City.

We passed the afternoon in a state of luxurious and commendable idleness. There was no work going on in the gulch, — every one was enjoying the national holiday; Major De Mary came across the valley with a kind invitation to his ranche and mineral springs, and joined our club of idlers. We not only learned that gulch mining is still profitable in this region, — one company producing one hundred dollars per day per man, — but were presented by our unparalleled host with evidences of the fact, in the shape of nuggets. A lump, found the day before our arrival, weighed three ounces. Promising lodes have been struck, but none are worked as yet.

In the evening one of our party lectured in the Recorder’s office, which was draped with flags, and temporarily fitted up as an auditorium. A number of ladies were present, and the new type of face which I have described in a previous letter reappeared again. The question returned to me, — whence is it produced? From the climate of our central regions, the circumstances of life, or the mingling of blood? Possibly a mixture of all three. Whatever it may be, here is the beginning of a splendid race of men. I remembered having been very much puzzled a year ago by the face of a waiter on one of the Mississippi steamers. I fancied I saw both the Irish and the German characteristics, which is such an unusual cross, that I ascertained the man’s parentage, and found it to be Scotch and German. The Celtic and Saxon elements seem to supply each other’s deficiencies, and to improve the American breed of men more than any other mixture. The handsome Colorado type may be partly derived from this source.

After the lecture there was a ball, which all the ladies of the Upper Arkansas Valley — hardly a baker’s dozen —attended. The sound of music and dancing, and the assurance that we would be acceptable in our flannel shirts and scarlet "Matthews ties," could not, however, overcome the seductions of Mr. Londoner’s beds. To cross the Rocky Mountains two days in succession, speak to the multitude in the evening, and dance afterward, is beyond my powers. "Fatigue," as Mr. Beard truly remarks, when laying aside a half-finished sketch, "demoralizes." Our host and hostess very properly resolved not to be cheated out of their holiday; and after all the labor our advent had caused, they enjoyed the ball until three in the morning, and then arose at five to make ready for our breakfast.

Our proposed route was down the Arkansas to Cañon City, a distance of a hundred miles, which we hoped to accomplish in three days. The head-waters of the river are at the western foot of Mount Lincoln, the dividing ridge making a horseshoe curve around them. The pass at the head of the Arkansas Valley is probably the lowest between the South Pass and Santa Fe, but on each side of it the ranges rise rapidly above the line of perpetual snow. That on the east, which we had just crossed, is merely a long spur of the Rocky Mountains, dividing the South Park from the Arkansas Valley. It gradually diminishes in height, and finally terminates altogether at Cañon City, where the river issues upon the plains. The range on the west, called the Sahwatch, is at first the dividing ridge of the continent, lifting its serrated crest of snow to the height of fourteen thousand feet. In the course of fifty or sixty miles, however, it divides; the eastern branch uniting with the Sangre de Christo and Raton Mountains, while the western becomes merged in the Sierra Madre of New Mexico, dividing the waters of the Gila from those of the Rio del Norte. The Sahwatch Range is one of the most beautiful of the various divisions of the Rocky Mountains. Its forms are even finer than those seen from Denver. The succession of tints is enchanting, as the eye travels upward from the wonderful sage-gray of the Arkansas bottom, over the misty sea-gray of the slopes of buffalo-grass, the dark purplish green of fir forests, the red of rocky walls, scored with thousand-fold lines of shadow, and rests at last on snows that dazzle with their cool whiteness on the opposite peaks, but stretch into rosy dimness far to the south.

Counting the gradual lower slopes of the mountains on either side, the Arkansas Valley is here five or six miles in breadth; and you may therefore imagine the splendid morning landscape in pearly shadow, the Sahwatch illuminated from capes of timber, and sage-plains spangled not less with flowers than with dew, as we rode southward toward the Twin Lakes. Major De Mary and Mr. Londoner accompanied us. Our business was first to find Messrs. Beard and Sumner, who had started with the mule-team from Buckskin Joe, and were expected to camp at a deserted ranche eight or ten miles down the valley; then to accept the invitation of Mr. Leonhardy of the Twin Lakes, and dine with him before proceeding further. On reaching the crossing of the Arkansas, a good field-glass showed us the artist a mile away in pursuit of a mule; whereupon two gentlemen set off on a gallop to his assistance. The rest of us forded the river, and pushed forward with wet legs down the western bank.

There are very few lakes in Colorado, hence these belong to the shows of the Territory. They lie at the foot of the Sahwatch Range, about fifteen miles south of Oro City. The day was hot and sultry, and we experienced not a little relief when the road, leaving the treeless bed of the valley, mounted to a hilly region covered with clumps of pine. It was miserable to see how many trees had been barked on one side or completely girdled; and I was on the point of anathematizing the settlers, when one of the party charged the outrage upon the elks. The destruction of this noble game is now a matter of less regret. I don’t think, however, that the wanton burning of the Rocky Mountain forests can be attributed to these animals.

Nothing could have been more refreshing than the sudden flash of a sheet of green crystal through an opening in the grove. A cool, delightful wind blew across the water, and far down in its depths we saw the reflected images of snow-peaks which were still hidden from us by the trees. The lower lake is nearly four miles in length by one and a half in breadth, and its softly undulating, quiet shores, form a singular contrast to the rugged mountains beyond. A straight, narrow terrace, twenty feet in height — a natural dam — separates it from the upper lake, which is a mile and a half in length, lying, as it were, between the knees of the mountains. A triangular tract of meadow land slopes upward from the farther end of this lake, and is gradually squeezed into a deep, wild cañon, out of which the lake-stream issues. On this meadow there is the commencement of a town which is called Dayton. The people, with singular perversity, have selected the only spot where a view of the beautiful lake is shut out from them.

Mr. Leonhardy had tempted us with descriptions of six and eight-pound trout; so, when we reached his cottage and were informed by Mrs. L. that he was upon the lake, Mr. Byers, whose love of trout would lead him to fish even in Bitter Creek, at once set off across the meadows. We followed, leaving him to embark in the shaky little craft, while we sought good pasturage for our jaded beasts. The meadow turf was beautifully smooth and green, but before we had ridden twenty yards my pony sunk suddenly to his belly, and I found myself standing a-straddle over him. Looking ahead, I saw Mr. McC. similarly posed over his mule, while the others were making rapid detours to avoid our company. My pony extricated himself by a violent effort, and, taught by instinct, gained safe ground as rapidly as possible; but the mule, being a hybrid, and therefore deficient in moral character, settled on his side, stretched out his neck, and yielded himself to despair. Neither encouragement nor blows produced the least effect; he was an abject fatalist, and nothing but a lariat around his body, with a horse as motive power at the other end, prevailed upon him to stir. The lariat proved efficient. When his hind feet had thus been painfully dragged out of the mire, he pulled out his fore feet and walked away with an air of reproach.

The large specimens of trout did not bite, — they never do when there is a special reason for desiring it, — but we had no right to complain. Mr. Leonhardy’s dinner was a thing to be remembered — a banquet, not for the gods, but (much better than that) for men. There came upon my plate a slice of dark fragrant meat, the taste whereof was a new sensation. It was not elk — at least of this earth —nor venison, nor antelope, nor bear, nor beaver; none of these ever possessed such a rich, succulent, delicate, and yet virile, blood-invigorating flavor. It was mountain sheep — the wild, big-horned American ibex — and to my individual taste it is the finest meat in the world. The trout followed; and the bread, butter, and milk, could not be surpassed in Sw~tzer1and. Lastly came a pudding, stuffed with mountain berries, to crown what already seemed complete. The perfection of the dinner was not in the materials, excellent as they were, but in the refined, cultivated mind which directed their preparation.

The degree of refinement which I have found in the remote mining districts of Colorado has been a great surprise. California, after ten years’ settlement, retained a proportion of the rough, original mining element; but Montana has acted as a social strainer to Colorado; or, rather, as a miner’s pan, shaking out a vast deal of’ dirt and leaving the gold behind. Mr. Leonhardy and his neighbors live in rude cabins, but they do not therefore relinquish the graces of life. It is only the half-cultivated who, under such circumstances, relapse toward barbarism. Mountain life soon rubs off the veneering, and we know of what wood men are made.

Some miles up the cañon behind the lakes is Red Mountain, which is said to be streaked through and through with the richest gold and silver lodes. The specimens I saw give the greatest promise, and I regretted that we could not have visited the spot whence they were taken. This region, like the others, is waiting for the best and cheapest method of reducing the ores. It is a vast treasure-house, lacking only the true key to open it.

We took leave of our generous hosts immediately after dinner, and pushed on down the Arkansas Valley, still accompanied by Mr. Londoner. The road led along the banks of both lakes, close to their deep, dark waters, yet unsounded; and over their cool floor the dry, lilac-tinted mountains in the distance shone as if swept with fire. We had received particular directions in regard to fording the creek by which the lakes overflow into the Arkansas. It was so swollen that the usual ford was impracticable; and, on reaching its banks, Mr. Byers judged it prudent to make a platform of drift-wood upon the wagon-bed, in order to lift our baggage and provisions above the water. When all was ready for the trial, he remounted his horse and led the way.

Plunging into an eddy where the water, though above the horse’s belly, was tolerably still, he skirted a little island of willow bushes, beyond which the main current raced by with a very perceptible slant, indicating both depth and force. We followed in single file, slowly and cautiously, and did not attempt the current until we saw that he had fairly reached the opposite bank. When my turn came, I fully expected to be carried away. The water rushed over the saddle, the horse lost his footing, and nothing but a plucky heart in the beast carried him through. Then came the mule-team, Mr. Sumner driving and Mr. Beard perched upon the platform, with the precious box of colors in his lap. I watched them creeping along under the lee of the island, slowly venturing out into the swift, strong flood — then the mules began to give way, and presently the whole team started down stream, with one mule under water.

Mr. Sumner succeeded in getting a little out of the current, and two horsemen went to his assistance. The wagon and mules were half urged, half dragged into stiller water, and there they stuck. The nose and ears of the drowning mule were held up by main force; he was unharnessed, and free to rise. But he, too, had already given up hope; he lay passive, and every effort to inspire him to make an effort was fruitless. More than half an hour passed anxiously, four of the gentlemen working hard in the ice-cold water, when an application of the lariat, drawn by horses, brought the wretched beast to his legs. The baggage was then carried across, piece by piece, on horseback ; the mule hauled over and contemptuously turned to graze; another mule harnessed in his place; the lariats made fast to each other and attached to the wagon-tongue; and finally, the wet and chilly horsemen crossed, to be ready to take their places in hauling. Again the wagon started; the artist clasped his color-box (and my carpet-bag I gratefully add) with renewed energy; the mules entered the current, wavered again, and were swept away. Six of us, pulling at the lariats with all our strength, held the team and wagon floating for a moment, then the current swung them to the bank, foothold was gained, and we hauled them out with a shout of triumph. The adventure lasted forty minutes, by the watch. Those who had been loudest in their praises of savage nature up to this point, now began to admit the beauty of bridges.

The summits of the Sahwatch were veiled in clouds, and the sky became overcast, as we resumed our journey; our animals were all fatigued and chilled, and our progress for the next six or eight miles was slow. My pony had never been shod, and the hard mountain travel began to tell on his feet ; so when we reached Cache Creek, where there — are three taverns, a store, a saloon, and some gulch mining, my first inquiry was for the blacksmith. At Buckskin Joe I had failed; at Oro the shop had been burned; and now at Cache Creek the blacksmith, when found, proposed that I should wait a day. This was impossible, although three taverns, a landlord with a bunged eye, and an enterprising landlady, offered accommodation enough. We had already waited an hour before the blacksmith could be found ; and now, a little dispirited, we set out in a drizzling rain.

A little below Cache Creek the Valley of the Arkansas contracts. The road winds through rocky hills, covered with scattered timber,—sometimes following the river down narrow winding glens, sometimes forced over steep heights to avoid an impassable cañon. We travelled some four or five miles through this scenery, and encamped in a meadow, at the foot of a huge gray precipice. A bonfire of dead pine trunks dried our half-drowned adventurers, and two stately trees made shelter for our beds.  NEXT