s I
have nothing to write about, and do not possess the skill to make that
nothing graceful, and as you will fret yourself into a scold if you do
not receive the usual amount of inked pages at the usual time, why, of
course I am bound to act (my first appearance on _any_ stage, I flatter
myself in _that_ character) the very original part of the _bore_, and
you must prepare to be bored with what philosophy you may.

But, without further preface, I will begin with one of the nothings. A
few days after the death of the unfortunate Spaniard, related in my
last letter, a large log, felled by some wickedly careless woodman,
rolled down from one of the hills, and so completely extinguished the
little ramada in which our poor friend lay at the time of his death
that you would never have imagined from the heap of broken branches
that remain that it had once been a local habitation with such a pretty
name. Providentially, at the time of the accident, none of those who
had been in the habit of staying there were within. If Senor Pizarro
had survived the amputation of his leg, it would only have been to
suffer a still more terrible death,--an accident which would have
deepened, if possible, the gloom which we have suffered during the
melancholy summer.

There has been another murder committed within a few miles of this
place, which has given us something to gossip about, for the committee
of vigilance had the good nature, purely for our amusement I conclude,
to apprehend a lucky individual (I call him _lucky_ advisedly, for he
had all his expenses paid at the Humboldt, was remunerated for his lost
time, enjoyed a holiday from hard work, had a sort of guard of honor
composed of the most respectable men on the river, and was of more
consequence for four days than ever he had been in the whole of his
insignificant little life before) whom somebody fancied bore a faint
resemblance to the description of the murderer. This interesting
lion--I was so fortunate as to catch a glimpse of him one morning, and
am convinced that he would "roar you as gently as any sucking
dove"--was fully cleared from the suspected crime; and if, before his
acquittal, one might have fancied from the descriptions of his
countenance that none but that of Mephistopheles in the celebrated
picture of the Game of Life could equal its terrific malignity,
after-accounts drew it a very Saint John's for sweet serenity of
expression. What was then called sullenness now