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is the very latest and liveliest of those mushroom civilizations which so often gather around a "find "of the precious metals. They live at a headlong pace; draw to them wild and lawless spirits; confer great fortunes here, the grave of the drunkard, the suicide, or the victim of violence elsewhere. A school of literature, with Bret Harte as its exponent, has arisen to celebrate their doings. At the present rate of advance of population and conventional usages westward they must shortly disappear as effectually as the dodo of tradition. While things go well with them the prices of commodities are hardly considered. Nobody haggles. The most expensive of everything is what is most wanted. "Diamonds—two-hundred-dollar watches and chains—Lord! we couldn't hand 'em out fast enough," says an ex-jeweller, describing his experience at one of the camps in its palmy days. "Champagne wasn't good enough for me then," says a seedy customer, recalling his doings after the discovery and sale of a rich mine. He sighed for a repetition of the event, not to make provision for his old age, which sadly needed it, but that he might have "one more glorious spree" before he died.

Oftentimes this rush of life departs as quickly as it came. Some fine day the "lead" is exhausted, there is