We elected one member of the Legislature from Swett’s. When he left the Bar he distributed his cabin, blankets, and household effects among the remaining miners. He confidently thought never to need these articles again. That was as great a miscalculation as when a Swett’s Bar or any other bar miner would resolve and swear violently that never again would he “strike a pick” in the river. We came to regard such an oath with a superstitious credulity that he certainly would strike such pick again, for never did such a case occur in my recollection but that the mad resolver was back next season, ignoring his vow and striking his pick on some claim generally poorer than the one he worked the season previous. So at the end of four months, after cumbering the law books of the State of California with statutes, whose very existence was forgotten eight months after their passage, our Swett’s Bar legislator was seen one evening coming down the hill, bearing in one hand two whiskey bottles tied together by one string--one being empty and the other full. “Silver and gold have I none,” said he, as he came to my cabin door, “but what I have give I unto thee,” which he did. Next day came his trunk. The principal accession to the legislative wardrobe were three new shirts and a blue coat with brass buttons. That, the session I think of 1859, was known as the “Legislature of ten thousand drinks.” Our law-maker said it had been the “Star Winter” of his existence, and he never expected to see such another. Three days after his arrival at the Bar he borrowed a pair of blankets, “cabined” with a chum and contentedly resumed his pick and shovel. Did Cincinattus do more when he buckled once more to the plough? But our Swett’s Bar Cincinattus was never hunted for to save his country. There were too many other country savers on hand, even in our immediate locality.