My friends in Central City will not take offence when I say that I left — not them, but the place — with a cheerful sense of relief. I had been for four days jammed down among the torn and barren hills, and yearned mightily for a freer out-look and more attractive scenery. As the stage left the narrow ravine, through which the wind draws the dust as through a funnel, and climbed around the steep toward Russell’s Gulch, the air seemed to become at once gentler and purer. The mountains, though still for the most part bare or gray, with burned forests, swept broadly into the distance; and between their gaps, to the eastward, shimmered the hot blink of the Plains. There were specks of snow near their summits, but the dividing range to the west of us was still invisible.

Russell’s Gulch, from top to bottom, — a distance, apparently, of two or three miles, — and all its branches, show the traces of gold-washing. The soil has been turned upside down, hollowed out and burrowed into, in every direction. Around the edges of this desolation stand the deserted cabins of the former miners, a chance one still occupied. I noticed, here and there, some feeble attempts at gulch mining, but the large new mill near the head of the glen was a better sign of enterprise. The stamp-mills, all of primitive pattern, were mostly idle; yet every vein in this region is covered by claims, and the specimens they show are of great richness. Here, as elsewhere, the owners are waiting for the new process.

Our road led southward, across several shoulders or undulations of the range, gradually ascending, until we reached the divide between the waters of North and South Clear Creeks, at an elevation of more than nine thousand feet. Two or three peaks of dazzling snow came in sight, apparently very near us, so sharply were they relieved against the hard, dark blue of the sky. Segments of the Plains — scarcely to be distinguished from the sea — appeared to the eastward; while directly in front of us rose the three picturesque summits, which have been named the Chief, the Pappoose, and the Squaw. The first of these reaches a height of more than twelve thousand feet, its bare pyramidal summit shooting far above the timber line. It has several times been ascended.

The height from which one looks upon these mountains greatly lessens their apparent altitude, and thus diminishes the effect of the scenery. When you have penetrated so far within the Rocky Mountains that all view of the great Plains is shut out, you naturally measure the elevation of the ranges from the beds of the valleys. But these beds rise very rapidly as you advance, and you are constantly brought nearer the line where forests cease and snow begins. The thin air and deeper color of the sky indicate the level you have reached, but the mountains seem no higher than before.

After crossing the divide, the road descends to South Clear Creek, through a long, winding glen. I here noticed a bush-maple, a variety of the alder-tree, and great quantities of wild currants and gooseberries. Far and near, all over the steep sides and flanks of the mountains, were the traces of prospectors. In some places "blossom rock" had been found and abandoned, probably making a poor assay; in others, holes had been quarried to the depth of six or eight feet without any perceptible result. In the narrowest part of the glen, however, we came upon a pile of fresh ore, which showed a strong "color," and was said to yield from two hundred to one thousand dollars per ton. One of the owners, at least, was very enthusiastic, and it was plainly to be seen that the vein was being actively worked.

While I was admiring the bold, grand outlines of the Chief, which became more and more striking as we descended, the glen suddenly opened, and we found ourselves in the valley of the South Clear. "Ah, this begins to be Alpine!" I exclaimed. Here, at last, there was a little breadth and space, — a floor from an eighth to a quarter of a mile in width, bordered by mountains, which towered up, up, behind their huge escarpments of rock, into the region of snow. Here the ranges were more detached, allowing something of form to be traced; the forests were not all burned or levelled; glimpses of green meadows shone down from the higher slopes; and the cold, clear stream, fed from the fields of melting snow, foamed and flashed in the sun.

We came at once upon a straggling village of log-huts, which, after having outlived a variety of names, is now called "Idaho," — the inhabitants fondly supposing that this word means "the gem of the mountains." [I need hardly say that the Indians have no such phrase. Idaho is believed to mean "rocks."]  I here left the stage, Mr. Sisty having kindly offered to take me on to Empire in the afternoon. In this queer, almost aboriginal village, with its charming situation, there is the best hotel in Colorado. It has just been completed; the opening ball occurred after I reached Central City. The astonished stranger here finds a parlor with carpets as showy, horse-hair sofas as shiny and slippery, looking-glasses with as much gilding, tables as marbled-topped, and everything else as radiant with varnish or gypsum, as the laws of American taste in such things could require. The bedrooms are so fresh —so unsuggestive of a thousand unwashed previous occupants — that I regretted not being able to enjoy the luxury for one night.

While I was preparing to accompany Mr. Sisty to the soda springs of Idaho, I was accosted by an old Norwegian, a native of Drammen. The kindly feeling which all Scandinavians have for any one who has ever visited their country is remarkable. In Kansas, I bought a pair of blankets from a Swede, who instantly abated one dollar of the price, when I addressed him in his native tongue. Although my Norsk is very halting, from long disuse, the old fellow borrowed a fishing-rod, and in an hour presented me with seven mountain-trout for my dinner. And such trout! Admirable as was the hotel-dinner, over which Mrs. Beebe presided, I was obliged to slight it for the special dish she prepared and placed before me. I hope to fall in with many more Norwegians before I leave the mountains.

The soda springs are already turned to service. Two bath-houses have been built for summer guests. In one of these the water is so regulated, that the bather may choose whatever temperature he prefers, the hot spring being about ninety-five degrees as it issues from the earth. It has a deliciously refreshing and exhilarating quality, as I found after taking it warm. The taste resembles a weak and rather flat citrate of magnesia; but, as the water has not yet been analyzed, I cannot give the ingredients. The hot and cold springs come up so close together, that one may dip a hand in either at the same time.

But neither these springs nor the gold mines comprise all the riches of Idaho. Further down the valley, somewhere, there is a vein of rough opal eighteen inches thick. I have a piece of it in my pocket at this moment, and it is undoubtedly opal, though of faint, imperfect fire, as if its quality were faded by long exposure to the weather. Small specimens of a similar variety, from Montana, are frequent in Colorado; but I have seen nothing yet with the infinite sparkle of the Hungarian or the prismatic lustre of the Honduras opal. It is unreasonable, however, to ask for the precious gems, where so much other wealth has been given.

After dinner, Mr. Sisty produced a buggy and a pair of fast horses, and we set out up the valley. The road was smooth, as if macadamized; the cold, pale-green creek roared beside us, sweeping around pine-clad capes or under the shadow of mighty cliffs, and the snows of the higher summits brightened in the sunshine. This was inspiring travel, reminding me (dimly, I must confess) of the Upper Valley of the Rhine, between Splügen and the Via Mala. After two or three miles the valley contracted, becoming a mere cañon, walled in by overhanging precipices; a stream, which we crossed on a toll-bridge, came down through a gorge on the right. Beyond the bridge there was a hotel, commanding a view of the wonderful "Notch." I noticed that one of the upper windows of this hotel had been removed; then I saw the end of a mahlstick moving about in the open place; then a mass of flowing locks, an easel, and an absorbed countenance. It was Mr. Beard, working with might and main to catch the lovely, fleeting effects of light and shade on the rocks and pines. On the veranda below sat General Pierce, his companion, more patient than Science usually is, when it must wait for Art.

We halted an hour, and I made a wretched attempt at a sketch of the place. You cannot cram this scenery into the compass of a block-book; it requires a large canvas, and the boldest and broadest handling. The eye is continually cheated, the actual being so much more than the apparent dimensions of all objects. Though so familiar with the effect of extraordinarily pure, thin air, and great clearness of outline, I am still frequently at fault. What one sees small, is always small in the drawing. Even photographs here have the same dwarfed, diminished expression. I can now see how naturally Bierstadt was led to a large canvas.

Leaving the artist at his work, we drove through the gorge into another open stretch of the valley. Westward, directly in front, a peak of the central snowy range towered over all the intermediate heights; while on the left Mount Douglas, throwing its own shadow over a thousand feet of vertical precipice, guarded the entrance to Georgetown Valley. Three or four miles up this valley lies the little village of that name, with promising leads and lodes; while beyond it, among the snowy tangle of mountains at the southeastern corner of the Middle Park, is the famous silver district, recently discovered, and now known by the name of" Argentine." The mineral is there said to be of fabulous richness, but more than ten thousand feet above the sea. Assays, I am informed, give between three and four thousand dollars to the ton.

In ascending the South Clear, the rise averages about one hundred feet to the mile, and the estimated elevation of Empire is nine thousand feet. Take the altitude of the Catskill Mountain House above the Hudson, and place that on the top of Mount Washington, and you will have the elevation of this place, where people live, work, and carry on business; where, in the Rocky Mountains, cattle have excellent pasture, and potatoes are raised! More than this, the little mining village of North Empire, a mile from this place, is one thousand four hundred feet higher; yet even there the inhabitants pass the winter with less discomfort than one would suppose. On the table-lands of the Andes, under the equator, we find towns at an equal height, but nowhere else in the world. Among the Alps, at an elevation of nine thousand feet, there is not a blade of grass; even moss and lichens disappear.

Empire enjoys a very picturesque situation. The population may possibly be three hundred; the houses are mostly cabins of hewn logs, but their inhabitants are men of intelligence and enterprise. On reaching the White House (kept by Mr. White), I found Mr. Byers, editor of "The Rocky Mountain News," who is to be our pilot and companion through the Parks. Mr. Beard has since arrived, and the other two gentlemen of our party (Messrs. M’Candless and Davis, of Pittsburg) were already awaiting us. Here, therefore, we shall take leave of such civilization as gold-mining carries with it, and strike into the wilder regions beyond. Our preparations are few and easily made. The horses and mules, belonging to Charley Utter, the famous trapper and trader of the Middle Park, will be in charge of Mr. White’s son. Mr. Byers has superintended the laying in of supplies (consisting chiefly of biscuit, fat pork, ham, coffee, and sugar), and our blankets and overcoats will furnish the necessary bedding. Luxuries we discard except, in my single case, a few cigars of doubtful quality. No cases of bottles, or boxes of tin cans, accompany us; we have no forks, nor plates, but one tin cup apiece, and a single spoon for the whole company. The culinary utensils consist of a frying-pan and a coffee-pot. To be sure, we have visions of mountain-trout, and of elk-steak, broiled on skewers; but these may be fairly permitted, without branding us as epicureans. The whole outfit is of the Robinson Crusoe character, and necessarily so, for pack animals must be lightly burdened on the trails which we are to follow.

— I have just been lecturing in the Methodist church (the same in which the Colorado Conference has been held this week) to an audience of more than a hundred persons. The effect of speaking, at an altitude of nine thousand feet, is not attended with the fatigue which I had anticipated during the act; but it is followed by a sense of complete exhaustion. The audience, for calm, steady attention, might have belonged to New York or New England. No one went out for a drink, as is the custom in the mining communities of California. I missed — and to my regret — a type of face which I have found in every Colorado audience, until this evening. In fact, I came to look for the face naturally; it struck my fancy in Denver, the first evening, and I found it, slightly varied, for eight nights in succession. It represents a type unique among civilized races, and only to be found (and that only of late years) in the United States — a type expressing the precise point where the elements of the rowdy begin to disappear, and those of the gentleman manifest themselves. The square of the face rounds into the oval; the forehead is good, the eyebrows straight and dark, the hair generally dark also; the eye is remarkably beautiful; the nose would be good, but for the least bit of tendency to turn up at the end; there is generally a mustache, full yet firm lips, a strong, manly chin, and (here the rowdy mark remains!) a square animal jaw. The face expresses a fine and noble quality of manhood, not yet wholly detached from a coarse, rude basis. This type so interested me, that I found myself involuntarily singling out the best specimen and addressing myself specially to him — and always with a sense that it was right to do so. I should be glad to think that this face represents a general fact.   NEXT