But my pets were doomed to a tragical end, which it pains me record. Two old men, who had no fondness for beautiful things in animated nature, nor a taste for any thing else but whiskey and tobacco, got charmingly drunk one day, and being bent on mischief, they broke into my room during my absence, and seized my snakes, took them into the street where they had kindled a fire for the occasion, and with much ceremony and mock solemnity, offered them up to their god, whoever he might be, as a burnt sacrifice. The loss of those snakes was a source of great annoyance and vexation to me, and I earnestly and devoutly prayed that in every fit of delirium-tremens which those old sinners should bring upon themselves during the remainder of their worthless lives, they might be haunted by the ghosts of those murdered innocents.
April 18, 1860. Mr. Van Wee was one of the queerest compounds of oddity, with whom it was my fortune to meet in my travels. He kept a hotel at Oak Bottom, ten miles from Shasta. Two Irish women, sisters, were his housekeepers and servants. Many a lively scene was enacted about his establishment, and scarcely a day passed without bringing some extraordinary excitement. One day there was a great uproar in and around the house occasioned by the arrival of a skunk on a visit to the chickens. The dogs barked, the hens cackled, the women screamed, and Van Wee flew round wild with excitement, his gun was brought to him, the intruder chased into the stable and shot, and quiet was restored.
Next day two valuable dogs, very useful for barking at travelers and eating superfluous food, which would otherwise be thrown to the pigs and lost, strayed away or were stolen. A boy and an Irish woman were sent off on horseback after them, and great was the rejoicing in the afternoon on the safe return of dogs, horses, boy and woman.
On the morning of the third day I was surprised to learn that there had been a wedding in the house, and that Mr. Van Wee, in obedience to a sudden impulse had married one of his housekeepers. The wedding had been very private, so much so, that the sister of the bride was not aware that such an event was in contemplation until the hour before its consummation.
This Van Wee, as I have said before, is a queer fellow. He hates the liquor business, but keeps a bar, drinks with all his friends—and they are numerous—and gets mellow every day. He is, or rather was, a Know-Nothing in politics, and hates all foreigners of whatever nation, although his father and mother are Dutch, and his wife is Irish. An infidel in religion, he read me a chapter from Tom Paine's Age of Reason. He contributes freely to churches, and is hospitable to clergymen of whatever creed. He receives a great many rudely expressed, but hearty congratulations from his friends, whom he treats, drinks with, swears at, blackguards, and invites to see "the gal," who receives her friends in the kitchen, while attending to her duties over the stove, with her gown pinned up in true Irish style. His affection for his wife continues unabated, notwithstanding he has been married three days,—this was when I last saw him,—and he betrays it in many acts of coarse kindness; calls her Biddy, ridicules her nation and her religion, damns her priests and feeds them all.
He has sent invitations to all his friends, far and near, men, women and children, to assemble at his house, next week for a grand jollification in commemoration of his wedding. Long may he flourish.