In the morning there was a delicious breeze from the mountains, which
rendered strolling about the town a pleasure. According to custom, we
went our several ways, each drawn by what appealed to him the most at
the moment. When ready to depart, finding no trace of my companion at
the hotel, I left word that I had returned to Grass Valley; where an
hour or two later, he rejoined me.
More fortunate than I, my friend by chance encountered Mr. Morrison M.
Green, on the street in front of his home upon the hill which looks down
upon the town. This gentleman, who is in his eighty-third year, related
an almost incredible incident in connection with the fire in 1857, which
wiped out the town, with the exception of one house. Three prominent
citizens who chanced to have met in a saloon when the fire broke out,
having the utmost confidence in the safety of a certain building, on
account of its massive walls and iron door, made a vow to lock
themselves in it, and actually did so. They might perhaps have withstood
the ordeal, had not the roof been broken in by the fall of the walls of
the adjoining building. The iron door having been warped with the heat,
it was impossible to open it; when last seen, they were standing with
their arms around one another in the center of the store.
At Grass Valley, my friend - greatly to my regret and I think also to
his own - received word which rendered his return to San Francisco
imperative. After a farewell dinner at the restaurant before mentioned,
I accompanied him to the railway station, and in the words of Christian
in "The Pilgrim's Progress," "I saw him no more in my dream." I confess
to a feeling of depression after his departure, for however enjoyable
the experiences of the road, they are rendered doubly so by the
sympathetic companionship of a man endowed not only with a keen sense of
humor but also with an unusual perception of human nature.
After registering at the Holbrooke - a substantial survival of the old
times - I called by appointment on Mr. Ben Taylor, a much respected
citizen of Grass Valley and probably the oldest inhabitant of Nevada
County, having reached the patriarchal age of eighty-six.
Mr. Taylor has a charming home with extensive grounds overlooking the
town and surrounding country. In his garden is a spruce he planted
himself forty-five years ago, and apple trees of the same age. The
spruce now has the appearance of a forest tree and shades the whole
front of the house. His present home was built in 1864 and from all
appearances should last the century out. He said the lumber was
carefully selected, the boards being heavier than usual, and all the
important timbers, instead of being nailed, were morticed and
dove-tailed. This thoroughness of workmanship accounts for the excellent
condition of the wooden buildings in these towns, many of which were
constructed over fifty years ago.
Mr. Taylor came to Grass Valley September 22, 1849, and has lived there
almost continuously ever since. He crossed the plains one of twenty-five
men, the last of his companions dying in 1905. The little band suffered
many hardships, having to be constantly on watch for Indians, though he
said they were more fearful of the Mormons. They came over the old
emigrant trail across the Sierra Nevada. When they reached Grass Valley,
their Captain, a man named Broughton, exclaimed: "Boys! here's the gold;
this is good enough for us!" And there they stayed, the twenty-five of
them!
Mr. Taylor had frequently met Mark Twain, but never to his knowledge,
Bret Harte. In common with other men who had known the Great American
Humorist, Mr. Taylor smiled at the bare mention of his name. Twain's
breezy, hail-fellow-well-met manner, combined with his dry humor,
insured him a welcome at all the camps; he was a man who would "pass the
time of day" and take a friendly drink with any man upon the road.
Twain, he told me, and a man with whom he was traveling on one occasion,
lost their mules. They tracked them to a creek and concluding the mules
had crossed it, Twain said to his companion: "What's the use of both of
us getting wet? I'll carry you!" The other complying, Twain reached in
safety the deepest part of the creek and, purposely or not, dropped him.
A man, to play such pranks as this, must be sure of his standing in a
primitive community.
Mr. Taylor is known to everyone in Nevada County as "Ben." His genial
manner and kindly nature are apparent at a glance. But while Ben Taylor
was on friendly terms with Mark Twain, he was never so intimate with him
as with Bayard Taylor, whom, it seems, he much resembled. This
accidental likeness, combined with the similarity of names, caused many
more or less amusing but embarrassing complications, since they were
frequently taken for each other and received each other's
correspondence.
I asked Ben Taylor - he rightly dislikes "Mister," perhaps the ugliest
and most inappropriate word in the English language - if the shootings
and hangings which figure so prominently in the stories of the romancers
were not exaggerations. He said he certainly was of that opinion. I
said: "As a matter of fact, did you ever see a man either shot or hung
for a crime?" "I never did," he replied with emphasis. "But I once came
across the bodies of several men who had been strung up for
horse-stealing; that, however, was not in Grass Valley."
Ben Taylor was present when Lola Montez horsewhipped Henry Shibley,
editor of the Grass Valley National, for what she considered derogatory
reflections on herself, published in his paper.
