the noise of the picks through the thin layer of rock. It was a very curious and impressive scene on our side; and doubtless was equally so on the other. The whole available space was not over six or eight feet in width by the same in height, and what range there might be through the adjoining tunnels or drifts which were wrapt in darkness. A faint flickering halo from sundry candles, pasted with sticky mud against the rocks, dimly lighted the walls and casings of the mine, and shed a ghastly hue over the faces of our fighting men, to whom I was personally introduced by the Superintendent. Their features were in admirable keeping with the place and the occasion. One man had the end of his nose bitten off; another was ornamented with a magnificent scar across his cheek; a third had lost three fingers; a fourth was pitted with buckshot; and so on. All men of mark; all notoriously crack fellows in their way, which was evidently, from the variety of pistols and knives with which they were garnished, a very bloody way. I was especially pleased with a wax-faced gentleman, with a square chin, a pig-eye, and a stove-pipe hat. He was "on it" or I greatly misjudged his countenance. "Gentlemen," said I, with all the deference due to such famous characters, "I see you're on it." THE "ROUGHS." I ventured to inquire. "Oh, any time, when they bust through that there wall. Guess they ain't eager for it. Likely as not they'll fizzle." I made no comment upon this suggestion; but personally had no objection to the fizzle. It was not a pleasant place to be caught in a bloody affray. Balls fired through a tunnel only six or eight feet square, or into a drift with a solid bank of rock at the end, would be likely to hit something. I was not interested to the extent of a leg or an arm, much less a foot. "You bet," was the answer. and minerals on general principles, and, like "When do you expect the fight to come off?" him, they despise an inferior race. They hate the Chinese because "Chinaman squaw; no kill Injun like Melican man!" They seem to look upon the Celestials as a base imitation of the Indian race, without the redeeming quality of bravery. Hence the Diggers are singularly bitter in their hostility to these miserable interlopers, and tax them without mercy, or kill them whenever they get a chance. One Indian chief and his band made several thousand dollars last summer by following up the Chinese and compelling them, by force of arms, to pay taxes for the privilege of working the mines. Poor John is taxed by the State, by the Government, by every white pilgrim who jogs along with pick and shovel, by his own people, and finally, by the Digger Indians. Sometimes he rouses himself up to a spirit of resistance against the exorbitant claims of the latter, and then ensues a scene to which no pencil save that of Hogarth could do justice. As if to keep up a pleasant state of expectancy, blasts were let off now and then, causing a startling concussion of the air and a perceptible tremor of the earth. It is due to the cause of humanity to say that the rival factions always notified each other by certain signals when they were about to let off a blast, having no desire to take a snap judgment upon their enemies. Between the picking and blasting, darkness and gunpowder, pistols, knives, and bloody conversation, unkempt miners and ferocious roughs, with a sprinkling of grit from overhead and the plashing of water underfoot, I think the most rigid casuist will hold me blameless for whispering to the Superintendent, "This is a devil of a queer place; let's get out of it. Don't you smell brimstone?" Unfortunately for the interest of my sketch the fight did not come off. The difficulty, I believe, was referred to one of those honest gentlemen in whom every body has confidence until his decision is made known. He may be a member of the bar or a member of the church; his character stands unimpeached before he makes his report. As a referee he is bound to decide according to the law and the evidence. But his report makes an explosion. Law and evidence suit some people and don't suit others, and referees have different modes of interpretation. It is a thankless, though it may be a profitable business. I will not say that the decision in the present case was not according to the law and the evidence; but it surprised me nevertheless. A friend of mine, who claimed to be in the Legitimate, sold out after he heard the decision. He would have made money had he sold out before. The American is not the only race subject to trouble in the various operations of mining. Even the Celestials, who occupy the neglected nooks and corners of the mineral regions, have their share of adversity and disaster in the pursuit of wealth. Whenever they strike a good claim it belongs to some white man. He may never have seen or heard of it, or may have abandoned it and gone elsewhere; but if "John Chinaman" strikes it rich he comes back or sends his partner to take possession. The Digger Indians are learning the great lesson of civilization from their American benefactors. Driven from gulch to cañon in their own country, they see that "Melican man" claims mines The aboriginal tax-collectors come along stealthily-one, two, or three at a time, till ten or a dozen of them are gathered about the camp of the Celestials. Their arms consist of a bow and arrow, and a rude club or a spear; and their costume is seldom more than a deer-skin, or a ragged old blanket, with the merest pretense of a cincture round the loins. A wretched tatterdemalion set they are-poor, thriftless, and dirty; in no respect like the warrior chiefs of Mr. Fenimore Cooper, or the braves of the Hon. Augustus Murray. Still there is fight in them if pushed to the bank. Their contempt for the Chinese is sublime. Having no knowledge of the Mongolian language, it becomes necessary that they should speak English, which is the available means of communication with the trespassers. "Say, John!" says the Digger Chief, "what you do here?" Who you?" "Me workee. Me kill plenty Meli- "Fifty dollar." Melican "No got fifty dollar-velly poor. man he catchee Chinaman; he makee Chinaman pay; no got fifty dollar. Melican man—” "D-n Melican man! me no sabbe Melican man! Me Piute Cappen. S'pose you no payee me fifty dollar me killee you!" Generally the money is paid, after many protests and various lamentations; but where the Digger force is small, and the Celestials numerous, the cry of battle is raised, and then comes the tug of war. When Greek meets Greek the spectacle may be very impressive; when Chinaman meets Digger it is absolutely gorgeous! Negotiation has been prolonged without issue; the English language has been exhausted; the fight is inevitable. From every hole in the earth the valiant Celestials rush forth, armed with picks and shovels, tin pans, platters, gongs, | and kettles-every thing that can be made available for warlike purposes in the emergency of the moment. They beat their pans, blow their wind instruments, shriek, shout, laugh, make horrible faces, and perform the most frightful antics, in the hope of striking terror into the ranks of the foe. In every conceivable way they tax invention to make themselves hideous; poke their tongues out; double themselves up; hop on one leg; squat on the ground like frogs; rush furiously toward the enemy, and furiously retire. The hills and forests resound with their barbarous cries and the deafening clatter of their tin kettles and gongs. Meantime the Diggers are not idle. Adepts in the artifices of barbarian war, they are in no degree intimidated by the ferocious demonstrations of the enemy. A pistol or a shot-gun has its terrors, but they are up to the flimsy substitute of loud noises and empty threats. While the foe is thus wasting his vital powers upon the air, Digger goes in with his clubs, spears, or bows and arrows. A few pricks of the barbed instruments generally ends the battle-save when the Celestial party can muster up an old shot-gun or a DIGGERS COLLECTING TAXES. At an pistol, in which case they fight with heroic des- | ality of the remark which startled me. other time it might have seemed very trite. It I have mainly confined myself in the foregoing sketches to a delineation of the characteristic features of Virginia City and its surroundings, during the excitement which prevailed in the latter part of 1863; reserving for another and more serious paper a detailed account of the mines and mills. The progress of Washoe has been unexampled in the history of mining. No country of which I have any knowledge has made so rapid an advance, and with so little benefit to capitalists or individuals. That there is great wealth of mineral in the country is beyond question, that a very bad use has been made of it, so far, is equally undeniable. In 1860, the amount of bullion shipped from Virginia City was $40,000; in '61, $130,000; in '62, $220,000; in '63, $7,000,000, and in '64 the shipments probably reached $10,000,000; yet San Francisco is nearly bankrupt by its Washoe investments, and Virginia City is no better off, save in this-that what is lost there falls upon outside speculators. Allow me now, as the result of careful observation and grave deliberation, to whisper a word in your ear, gentle reader. Do you own stocks in the Ophir, the Savage, the Chollar, the Gould and Curry, the Potosi, the Yellow Jacket, or other prominent leads, and would you like to know what you had better do with them--whether sell them or hold on to them? I will tell you candidly; if the stocks were mine, I'd-think about it! Are you the possessor of a few thousand dollars which you'd like to invest to good advantage, and would it be a promising speculation to invest in one of the three companies on the Comstock ledge, that pays dividends at the present writing? Now, I'll tell you candidly what I would do if I had a few thousand dollars to spare-I'd start on a foot tour through Tartary, and wind up with a camel-ride through Persia! FACES. I said it startled me; but more startling was the train of thought it suggested. In an instant my feelings of deep love and sympathy were changed to profound admiration and a sort of awe. It frightened as well as humbled me to think of the giant soul which had looked forth its passion, sorrow, and joy from eyes like mine, and of the lips which had uttered such bold, brave words before a host of enemies; lips human as mine own, yet seeming hardly human when touched with divine inspiration. Ah!-thought I-between us, Luther, what a great, deep gulf is fixed! Only in one point can I approach you; but that one point will soon be broad enough to conceal all differences. In the day when we bow before the throne both faces, yours and mine, will look equally dim before the brightness of the Father's glory! And Dante-I crept away from Luther to look up to him. Then I could not fear. Infinitely above me in intellect, his soul was too intensely human to leave me very far below. Again I said, Poor Dante! The proud, passionate features are softened by much suffering, but the lines of doubt and weary longing Faith alone can take away! You and I have much more in common. You could not quite penetrate within the veil. Just in the act of tearing it away, you heard, "Touch not with hands unclean!" You were too earthly yet to grasp the mysteries of the Beyond; your eyes too weak to bear the dazzling splendor of heavenly revelations! What a leap! to come from features marked with soul-beauty almost superhuman, down to features marked not even by positive ugliness; features plain, plain beyond all dispute! What a leap, to come from Luther and Dante down to myself! And yet one can not always walk in the clouds. The descent to the commonplace will and must be sudden and jarring, however carefully one may let himself down. Therefore, omitting all intermediate steps, passing by wondrous beauty and faces endowed with minor gifts, I come at once into the valley-not the valley of humiliation-I spare myself and the mirror opposite that trial; but into the valley I WAS standing between the two when I heard where I find the generality of faces-nothing re markable in the eyes of the great world. I went into a school-room one day filled with strange girls. That story of grace and beauty being impersonated in maidenhood, and reaching their climax in a group of maidens, I im it; between the two faces of my two ideals; between two types of what a mighty human life could be. On my right was the shadow, but faintly streaked with light; on my left, the steady radiance of one emerged victorious from the cloud. Involuntarily I was saying to my-mediately set down as fabulous-a mere myth. self, "Poor Dante!" "Great, grand Luther!" looking meanwhile from the one to the other, hardly knowing which pleased me better. "The face is the index of the soul"-this is what I heard. It certainly was not the origin At the first glance I should have imagined them all fashioned in the same mould, enough difference being allowed in the coloring to distinguish them. I cast in my lot with the group. A year aft ter, comparing my first and present impressions, I analyzed one of the unnoticed, common faces. How could I ever have called it common! To be sure, the eyes were gray, but the soul behind them was loving, trustful, brave. Nor were the less important features either those of a Venus or a Hebe; yet to me they were radiant with beauty. Ah, how I loved that face! I loved it far, far too well. I remember when Death set his seal upon it, and froze to stillness the last, holiest expression of her featThat-thought I-is the face that she will rise with! Looking upon it, the angels themselves will smile as they fling the gate a little wider open, and Christ the Lord will murmur, "Thou art mine!" ures. And it was not merely faces dear to me which assumed new aspects as I learned to know them. The whole school-room had become a little busy world alive with the passions that come up upon the surface of life. Sometimes, daring to dive through the billows, I had even caught the glimmer of the pearls below. Truly Carlyle was wiser than I when he said, that in the commonest human face there lies more than Raphael will take away with him. If Raphael, that wonderful soul-painter, must leave something behind in his search for the minutest beauties, how can I, with coarse, unpracticed eyes, hope to discern these hidden things? Therefore, fearing to lose myself immediately in such a delicate maze of expressions, I will attempt to touch only upon several phases of the human countenance universally acknowledged to be true pictures of the soul. care. And yet we have to thank God that sorrow is not without its complement; that, on the whole, the scales are pretty nearly balanced. To be sure we, wayward, selfish children that we are, hardly notice the measure of joy when full to overflowing, and when the superabundance is the other way wonder why Our Father fills it so very, very full. I think the picture of the most perfect, unalloyed joy is found in the face of a little child. Indeed I think that childhood is the only period of life in which one can feel, I am perfectly happy; where there is not the lurking shadow of a sorrow or a dread. Not that children are without their troubles. I have not got so far beyond "Where the brook and river meet," that I can say that and think that I speak truth. But their cares are light and transient. It is possible to fling them off entirely. Analyze a child's face. Round, fat, fair. No wrinkles; none of those deep, ugly lines that mark an inward warfare. No weariness or languor either, as if one had lived his happiness away and wanted only to get through. Nothing is seen but little shadows, appearing and vanishing as quickly, to break the monotony. With this lack of keen and heavy sorrow, which they are so blessed in, comes also another lack. Human nature certainly is capable of a higher enjoyment than mere freedom from care and suffering. This negative happiness is not suited to an earnest, fighting man. There can be nothing in a child's countenance to thrill or charm you. It wants the look "Such as soul gives soul at length, When, by work and wail of years, It winneth a solemn strength." The strength and peace interspersed with and crowning the life-struggle are proportioned to this "work and wail of years.” bodying the advanced joys of earth. Grand they are of their kind indeed; feeble only when compared with the joy of him who "seeth the invisible." Perhaps sorrow is the most familiar. I, with the rest of mankind, have received and seen my portion. I remember when the terrible news came. I was sitting by the window, alternately looking at the sunshine without and within. They were chatting-my brothers and sisters- The steps are many and steep which lead from in that pleasant undertone which accompanies pure to intense happiness-up from the blank only pleasant talk. Very fair they looked to joy of a baby's face to the expression of that joy me; young, innocent, untouched with grief or which "passeth understanding." Between these You could have told it from the sweet-the baby's and the saint's-we find faces emlines about the mouths, and the bright lustre of their happy eyes. Even a stranger would have known that life had been as yet an easy, pleasant thing. I was sitting thinking thus,,when, glancing opposite, I saw a face which I had never seen before; the same features, but that which makes the face, the whole expression, was one entirely foreign to our walls. It was not agony. Even that would have been better. I thought of a dark cloud-dark with the fiercest, blackest rains-and I knew that it was soon to break, that duty was forcing out the storm. I waited and he spoke. He told it. Not a groan, not a cry. Our tears and hearts alike were frozen. Only our eyes seemed to dilate with the new, strange terror as we looked at one another, and white rings to shape themselves about our lips. It was more than common grief; that would have poured forth in words its bitterness; this bound itself all up into our faces. What little, little faces to contain a world of woe! Love, it is said, irradiates every feature, banishes other intruding expressions, and reigns supreme over the entire countenance. My little experience certainly confirms this truth. Wisdom and sense usually take flight very willingly, I believe-that is, if the simpering smile of gratified vanity and the complacent smile of a petty ambition are granted to belong to true love. If not, and the word be used in a restricted sense, there is very little to be said upon the subject, as the eye of the public is seldom permitted to behold the transfiguration. The various expressions of Affection are more common, and if less exquisite, are not without rare beauty. Among the family affections, perhaps that of a mother manifested toward her little helpless |