AFTER BRET HARTE.

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume XI, Issue 105, 22 April 1876, Page 4

AFTER BRET HARTE.

(From the Sonora (Cai.) Democrat]) ■ We are about to relate an incident which would, in our opinion, form a first class basis for '* a story of Californian life," as portrayed by the thousand and one amateur imitators of Francis Bret Harte. First describe the surroundings. An alkali village in the heart of the Mono country, where the "•first low wash of civilisation" is indicated by battered oyster cans and empty Bourbon bottles; the village itself a conglomeration of adobe and canvas, saloons and cabins, vice and virtue, reckless independence and supernatural idiocy; the occupation of the inhabitants anything appropriate to that section of the country — at present we are at a loss to suggest any ocoupation suitable to tbe surroundings, but have no doubt tbat the fertile brain of the amateur will readily find something for bis heroes to earn their diurnal sustenance by. As for a name for tbis dilapidated, out of the way place, Satan's Boost will perhaps do as well as any other. It is not at all necessary that all should be prominent; but their remarks (in dialect of course) must be judiciously selected and crammed in wherever the writer is at loss for a paragraph. Let the broken down bum* mer play tbe male hero. It may be as well to call him a man of superb education and classical parts, formerly a placer miner in the southern mines. The woman who is to lend tbe grace to the story, must be the only female in the "camp." Don't picture , her ai pretty or over virtuous, for that would be entirely unorthodox, and not at all after the style of the master Bohemian. Around these two the incidents of the story must cluster. The man drinks like a fisb, and tho woman is " unconventional" — takes in washing for a living, and is idolised by the community in which she lives, all of which may be entirely inconsistent with the truth; but no matter — you are writing a Californian romance, and inconsistency must be your ground plan. The man's name is " Sandy," or " Scotty," or "Pete," or "Jim," or any Buggestive title. The woman'; may be " The Pride of Mono," or "Cherokee Sal," or " Chiquita," it matters not which. And now; for tha incident. "Sandy," or whatever hia name is, falls in love with the "Pride of Mono." His passion is reciprocated. A gambler called "Short Card Bill" (classical cognomen), is also in love with the heroine. Deadly animosity exists between the bummer and gambler in consequence, and they plot, each other's ruin. Finally tbe women tells the gambler tbat she cannot loye him. " He raves around for a while, and at last comes to tbe conclusion that he will decide the whole matter by an appeal to chance. He throws dice to see whether he shall kill the bummer "| Sandy " and marry " Cherokee Sal," or whether he ehali mount his splendid thoroughbred and depart in the early dawn : just as a few drowsy Cbinamen are wending their way down the rocky ravine to their daily labor. The dice decide that " Sandy " must die. The scene changes to the " Howling Wilderness "saloon. At this point the amateur may display his powers of description and his knowledge of perverted dialect. Enter "Sandy." Enter "Short Card Bill." Enter other cadaverous monstrosities designated citizens of Satan's Roost. Tbe gambler provokes a. quarrel with the meek eyed bummer. A pistol fight ensues Here the amateur can literally " throw himself." He can get a scene of confusion and carnage that might rival the great fight at G.ilgal, "where they piled the dead outside the door by cords," and in. which the "short sharp bark of the Derringer " was heard "sounding tbe knell of departing souls." The gambler is victorious: and "Sandy" stretches himself but on the floor preparatory'to dying in orthodox Californian romaatic style. . " Short Card Bill" mounts his horse and in company with ," Cherokee Sai," who has relented, departs from that vicinity for ever. In the meantime the life blood . slowly obzes from the left side of " Sandy." Apparently the bummer's minutes are numbered. The only physician in the pjace is called, and the following " realistic" conversation. ensuas: — |".Doo, old : pard, what's the chances?" '1 " Slim, Sandy, precious slim." I "Has she g-onp, Doc?" A world of pathos burdens these Words of the dyiug man. "Yes, Sandy, she's gone." Tears swell up in the eyes of the bystanders — eyes that had not known

tears since they last gazed npon the well worn strap that hung beside the paternal fireplace, "Gone and left me; gone, gone, gone." A pause and a silence in the Howling Wilderness that was tomblike in its solemnity. " How much longer, Doo, ken I hang on?" ' Just two minutes and three quarters aaid the dootor grasping the band of the dying man. A convulsive shudder passes through tbe frame of the almost defunct bummer. Then raising himself on his elbow with a mighty effort, he throws one arm round the neck of the doctor, and in pathetic tones exolaims— " Kiss me, Doc, kiss me. I've nothing more to live for now Sal's gone. Kiss me, Doc, kiss me." Another pause. "Time up, doc?" continues the dying man. " Time's up," replies the doctor. "About time yon were dead." More questions. The bummer tries to die, but does not succeed. Finally he gets up, and going to the bar senten tiously remarks— " Come boys, lei's licker." The " boys " licker. The mystery being explained, it appears that the bullet glanced round Sandy's riba. and came out near his vertebrae instead of going straight through him: as it should have done. The man lives, much to the physician's disappointment. This magnificent plot is offered to tbe aspiring amatenr free of charge.