Though tempted to pass the night in Grass Valley, impelled by curiosity, we pushed on four miles farther, to Nevada City.  It is useless to attempt to convey in words the fascination of Nevada City.  My friend, who is familiar with the country, said it reminded him of Italy.  Houses rise one above the other on the hillside; while down below, the winding streets with their quaint old-time stores and balconied windows, are equally attractive.  The horrors of the previous night at Colfax made the quiet peacefulness of Nevada City the more refreshing.  At the National Hotel I enjoyed the soundest sleep since leaving home.

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.