When Lola Montez--for all that she had a wedding-ring on her finger, she still stuck to the name--arrived there with her new husband, the conditions of life in Grass Valley were a little primitive. A telegraph service did not exist; and letters were collected and delivered irregularly. Transport with the outer world was by stage coach and mule and pony express. Whisky had to come round by Cape Horn; sugar from China; and meat and vegetables from Australia. The fact was, the early settlers were much too busily employed extracting nuggets and gold dust to concern themselves with the production of any other commodity.
Mrs. Dora Knapp, a neighbour of Lola Montez in Grass Valley at this period, has contributed some reminiscences of her life there: "We, who knew of her gay career among the royalty and nabobs, were astonished that she should have gone to the camp. She frequently had letters from titled gentlemen in Europe, begging her to come back and live on their rich bounty. It was simply because she was weary of splendour and fast living that the Countess turned with such fondness to life in a mining camp."
To Patrick Hull, however, the attractions of the district were not so obvious. Ink was in his blood. He wanted to get back to his editorial desk, preferring the throbbing of printing presses to the rattle of spades and picks and the clanking of drills. Nor did "love in a cottage" appeal to him. When Lola refused to give up Grass Valley, he developed a fit of sulks and turned to the whisky bottle for consolation.
Under the circumstances, matrimonial bliss was impossible. Such a life was a cat and dog one. Its end arrived very soon.
"Lola Montez and her new husband," says the knowledgeable Mrs. Knapp, "had not lived together more than a few months before trouble began. When two such spirits came together, there was bound to be a clash. The upshot was that one day Lola pushed Patrick down the stairs, heaved his grip out of the window and ordered him to quit."
Mr. Hull, who could take a hint as well as any man, did "quit." He did more. He took to his bed and expired. "In his native state," says a tearful obituary, "he was respected and loved by a large circle. The family of Manuel Guillen (in whose house he lay), inspired by a sentiment of genuine benevolence, bestowed upon him all the tender watchfulness due to a beloved son and brother; and nothing was omitted that promised cure or promoted comfort."