Incidents on land and water

Oh, how happy I felt when I could walk out once more! Distinctly do I recollect the first day I left the shanty for a walk. I went the distance of a square to visit my kind friend Mrs. S——. Upon my return, I found a dear brother whom I had not seen for two years and more. Oh, the joy of that meeting! Words would inadequately express my feelings. Only one month had elapsed since he bade adieu to home and friends, laden with so many messages of love; and now here he was, beside me, repeating what father, mother, brothers, sister, had said such a short time ago. It seemed as if I had been transported to the dear old home; had met the family assembled around the hearth-stone, and together we had spoken sweet words of counsel and of love. The night succeeding his arrival, we sat and conversed together until daylight began to dawn, we had so much to say—I so many questions to ask; he so much to relate. He was very much shocked to see me looking so much like a wreck of my former self. Sickness and trouble—yes, such trouble as rankles deepest in the heart of a wife, compared with which, death would have been joy—was fast doing its work.

CHAPTER XV.

Soon after my brother’s arrival, I received a visit from my esteemed friends, Mr. and Mrs. B—— and Nelly. During their stay, we visited Yuba city, situated about half a mile from Marysville, on the opposite bank of Feather River. It may not be amiss to state, that Yuba city, with the exception of three or four houses, has been removed to Marysville. There is, however, an Indian rancheria existing there, which draws many visitors to the spot. We started, one bright morning, in a two-horse team, to visit the rancheria. It was proposed to ford the stream. Accordingly, we started for the ford. The banks of the river are quite precipitous; and, as we descended the steep slope, and saw the wide, rolling river below, we felt (Mrs. B—— and myself) as though we would rather never see an Indian rancheria than stem the swiftly rushing current; but soon down we went with such a rush, we could not tell where we were until the water around our feet caused us to suspect we were really sinking. The river proved to be higher than our driver anticipated, or the wagon not as high, and by the means we reached the opposite bank a wetter, if not a wiser party.

An Indian rancheria consists of a number of huts, constructed of a rib-work or frame of small poles, or saplings of a conical shape, covered with grass, straw, or tule, a species of rush, which grows to the height of five or six feet. The huts are sometimes fifteen feet in diameter at their bases, and the number of them grouped together vary according to the number of the tribe which inhabit them. The Indians are generally well made, and of good stature, varying from five feet four inches to five feet ten, with strong muscular developments. Their hair is long, black, and coarse; and their skin is a shade lighter than that of a mulatto. It is universally conceded that the California Indians possess but few, if any, of those nobly daring traits of character which have distinguished the savage tribes of the Atlantic States, from the days of King Philip down to the notorious Billy Bowlegs.

The extreme indolence of their nature, the squalid condition in which they live, the pusilanimity of their sports, and the general imbecility of their intellects, render them rather objects of contempt than admiration. They are deficient in all those manly arts which have given measurable immortality to the Cherokees. They have none of the invention of the Sioux, Pottawatamies, or other north-western Indians, and are outwitted by the cunning even of the “Tontos,” whose own self-applied vernacular assigns no higher rank in aboriginal tradition than that of fools.

They place entire dependence on nature’s bounty for support. If the crop of acorns fails, or the mountain streams send not forth their usual schools of fish,—snails, worms, roots, and insects, furnish food with which they appease the gnawings of hunger. There is a kind of grass in the valleys the Indians eat, that is pleasant to the taste and nutritious. In the season of this grass, I have seen numbers of them all out feeding like cattle. The children all go naked. This grass has a tendency to increase their ordinary dimensions; and you will often hear it remarked, as one makes his appearance, “There comes a little grass-fed.” We saw them making their acorn bread (parn they call bread). To render it short and rich, they mashed up angle-worms, and put in it. After baking it,—which they did by making an excavation in the earth, and building a fire therein; when the earth was sufficiently heated, they scraped out the ashes, put in the bread, and covered it over with hot ashes,—they generously insisted upon our eating a piece. The keenness of our appetites was considerably repressed, however, by witnessing the several employments of the tribe. One old squaw was relieving her husband’s head of a score of vermin, which she ate with an apparent relish. She practised, however, the principle of self-abnegation to perfection, by occasionally tossing some of the finest-looking ones down his throat, for which he smacked his thanks with apparent zest. The hair on the heads of the chiefs is all drawn up, and tied in a knot on the top of the head, and ornamented with feathers. The squaws’ heads look like pitchmops; the hair is very thick, coarse, and black, and cut square round the head. No part of the forehead is visible; the hair falls to the eye-brows. They have jet-black eyes; and some of them have a decidedly pleasant expression with the eye. The little babies are beauties. Their mothers learn them to swim, as soon as an old duck does her young. They build little pens at the brink of the river, so that the current cannot carry them down stream, put them in, and keep them there half the time. They are really amphibious. They have a cruel custom of piercing the ears of their infants, and inserting sticks the size of the little finger. During the process of thus beautifying their infants, the whole side of the head and face is terribly swollen, and the child must suffer inconceivably; but better for them to die in the operation than to live in opposition to the prevailing mode.

The longevity of the race is proverbial. We saw some who looked more like mummies than living beings. They bring them out of the huts, and set them in the sun, days; and there we saw them sitting, their eyelids drooping so you could not perceive the eyeball, limbs perfectly motionless, and so shrivelled and black as to be absolutely repulsive to the sight. Some of their limbs are affected with a loathsome cutaneous disease.

When one of their number dies, they consume the body by fire, grind the bones to ashes; then the near relations mix these ashes with pitch, and daub their heads and faces with it, as a badge of mourning. During this process, and for several consecutive days and nights, they keep up a loud hooting and howling, and render night hideous with their mournful lamentations. They have large gatherings sometimes at their rancherias, to celebrate some event; then dancing and singing, loud shouting and howling, is continued without intermission the whole night. During these orgies, the noise made by them is such as to prevent sleep, although a quarter of a mile distant. Their council-chamber is of sufficient capacity to accommodate three hundred persons; the entrance to which is an aperture of just sufficient size to admit a man’s body when bent double. In the centre of the roof is another small aperture; and, except by these two openings, no air or light can be admitted. They perform their singular dances in this place. Often Americans go there to witness these sports; but a few moments’ confinement in such a close place generally suffices. From their burrowing propensities, these Indians have derived the name of “Diggers.”

Their mode of costume almost defies description, it is so omnifarious. Sometimes they imitate the style adopted by our first parents in Paradise. The women are especially delighted to get on a man’s shirt, in which they will parade the streets apparently as pleased with themselves as any fashionable belle when sporting the most costly fabric. I was once exceedingly amused at the sight of an Indian and his squaw promenading the street, dressed à la mode. He sported a pair of boots, and an old, faded piece of calico over his shoulders, as an apology for a serape. She was dressed in a red flannel shirt, over which she had drawn an old black satin sack, which some one had given her, or which she had stolen. Over their black heads was elevated a shattered umbrella, and her arm was placed within his. Immediately in advance of them were walking a very fashionably dressed gentleman and lady. The countenances of the “Digger” and his mehala (an appellation given to the squaws) were illuminated with a grin expressive of much delight, entertaining, no doubt, the satisfactory belief that they were equally as much admired by observers as those in advance of them, whose motions and walk they were vainly endeavoring to imitate. They are inveterate gamblers; but I think it would puzzle wiser heads than mine to understand their games. They appear to place some value upon money, with which they gratify their gambling propensities. They flock in numbers into the back yards of hotels, and greedily devour all the offal destined to be thrown to the hogs. Sometimes you can induce them to cut a few sticks of wood; but, as a general thing, they are too indolent to exert themselves much.

The rivers abound in excellent salmon, which the Indians spear in great numbers, and dispose of in the towns. They are the finest I ever tasted. Some of them are three and four feet long, and weigh fifty pounds or more. It is amusing to see the Indians spearing them. They stand in the river on rocks or shoal places, looking intently into the water with the spear elevated, waiting, perfectly motionless, for a sight at one. Instantly the spear descends, and, as sure as it does, it buries itself in the body of the fish. Their aim is unerring.

CHAPTER XVI.

At this time my husband was engaged in transporting goods to the towns above Marysville. He kept his horses in a shed at the rear of our dwelling. One night we were aroused by the cry of “Fire!” Upon opening my eyes, the room was as light as day. It appeared as if the whole city was in a blaze. The flames were rapidly spreading. Those light wood and canvas buildings offered but slight resistance to the fiery element. Our first thought was of the horses and wagon, as they were of more value than the house, or all it contained. They were given into my charge, with instructions to lead them away out on the plains, and hold them there, while they remained to throw what few things we possessed into the wagon, and drag it off. The most valuable article in the house was my side-saddle, for which was paid the sum of sixty-five dollars. That, in their haste, was forgotten, and left in the house. I had petted those horses so much, they would follow me anywhere. They stood perfectly quiet beside me, apparently watching with me the progress of the fire. I expected, of course, our little shanty had shared the fate of half the buildings of the place. After the fire had subsided, we returned to town; and there, sure enough, stood the little house unharmed, while all on the opposite side of the street lay a heap of ruins. In one week from that time, very nearly the same scene was enacted over again.

This time, too, the canvas shanty welcomed us back again to town. Had it been of any value, perhaps it would have shared the fate of its neighbors; but, valueless as it was, it looked better to me upon my return than a mass of smoking ruins in lieu. What oversights a person will commit when alarmed, or agitated by the cry of “Fire!” One of these nights I dressed myself hastily, put on my dress (which fastened in front) hind-side before, and fastened every hook securely. Of course, I never discovered my mistake until I returned to the house. Soon after this, my brother left for the mines. When the rainy season commenced, our house was a poor protection from the rain. It ran through the canvas roof as through an old sieve. We soon vacated it, and went to the Oriental Hotel. This building my husband rented for the sum of six hundred dollars per month, furniture included. It was a spacious new building, at that time the finest in the place. Our expenses were eighteen hundred dollars per month. We employed three cooks. To our head cook we gave three hundred per month, and all the other domestics in a like proportion. To one little boy, not much higher than the table, who was employed to wait upon the cooks, clean knives and forks, bring in wood, etc., we paid the exorbitant sum of sixty-five dollars per month. Notwithstanding our expenses were so much, the net profits were ample. We had twenty and twenty-five dollars per week for board. The house was always crowded. While we were at the Oriental Hotel, the city was inundated. Oh, that was indeed a gloomy time! A vast amount of property was destroyed, and some lives lost. The sudden melting of the snow in the mountains swelled the mountain streams to rushing torrents. The most intense excitement prevailed in Marysville, as the Yuba River, swollen to its utmost capacity, was still rapidly rising. What a wildly rushing, roaring, foaming mass of water came thundering on! Higher and yet higher it came, until the plaza was fairly submerged. Trucks were rushing to and fro, laden with merchandise being conveyed to the upper part of the city. Many objected to leaving their houses, thinking the water would abate, until they were obliged to make their egress through the windows, and in boats were taken to dry land. The Oriental fronted on quite high land. At the back was a large basement, where was situated the culinary department, also the servants’ apartments. All this part of the building was entirely submerged, and the water lacked but a few inches of being to the first floor. Night was coming on, and the water was still rising. Fear and anxiety sat enthroned upon the countenances of all. A short time previous to this, there had been erected on the plaza two brick blocks. The water undermined the foundation of these buildings, and that night they fell with a terrible crash. It is almost impossible to convey to the minds of those not present any correct idea of the gloomy aspect of affairs during the inundation. Towards morning, the waters ceased to rise any higher, yet did not subside in the least. A man residing on a ranch about five miles above Marysville, in attempting to save some cattle from drowning, was swept from his horse by the force of the current, and was borne down stream with astonishing rapidity. He managed to keep his head above water, but was unable to clutch at anything whereby he might save himself. As he neared the landing at Marysville, all the latent energy of his being was aroused to save his life, as that would be his last chance. There was a large steamer lying there, made fast to the big tree on the plaza. Any one who has visited Marysville will recollect this venerable tree. Some of the earliest pioneers to this place recognize it as an old friend, under whose protecting arms they have for many nights sought a shelter. With almost superhuman exertions, he caught hold of one of the paddle-wheels of the steamer, and maintained his position until rescued by some people who had seen him struggling in the water.

Feather River, too, overflowed her banks, and, in a south and westerly direction from Marysville, nothing could be seen but one unbroken sheet of water. Many of the smaller houses were washed down stream. One couple, living on a ranch twenty miles from Marysville, on the bank of Feather River, and far from any other habitation, were driven for safety to the top of a table. As the water rose higher, they were obliged to rise higher. It was a little bit of a shanty. They knocked a hole through the roof, and crept out thereon. They soon found they must vamos from there; so they embarked in some sort of a craft (tub or barrel), and paddled off to a little island. After congratulating themselves upon their miraculous escape, they found they were not the only occupants of this island retreat: a big grisly bear had preceded them. Not relishing such close companionship as he seemed inclined to offer, they quickly beat a retreat to a large tree, and, seated in its topmost branches, carefully guarded by “Old Bruin,” they passed twenty-four gloomy hours. When assistance arrived from a neighboring ranch, in the shape of a boat well manned, it was Bruin’s turn to beat a retreat, which he did. The frightened, hungry couple were released from their perilous situation.

My brother had returned from the mines, and was living upon a ranch on the banks of the Yuba. He swam his horse quite a distance to save a woman and child. When he arrived at the shanty, they were perched upon a table, calmly awaiting their fate.

The boats were sailing in every direction about the city; and all through the night could be heard the shrill cry of “Boat, ahoy!” resounding far over the waters. All night long, on the opposite side of the Yuba, sat a Spaniard on the ridge-pole of his house, at one end, while, at the other end, was a big rat, each anxiously expecting relief.

Very gradually the waters began to subside; but it was a week before the city was passable at all. One small house which was washed down stream, and lodged some distance below, the owner afterwards recovered; and, after placing it upon its original site, he corralled it, for fear of a similar accident.

We kept the Oriental four or five months; but the numerous cares devolving upon me were too wearing for my constitution. Could I have been relieved from so much anxious solicitude, we should have remained in the house longer. Now the rainy season was nearly over, we returned to our little shanty.

CHAPTER XVII.

About this time, in company with my brother, I took a journey a distance of eighty miles up the Sacramento River. The whole distance, the route lay through the most beautiful valley of which imagination can conceive. It was the season for flowers, and in every direction the most beautiful floral blossoms met the eye. Oh, the beautiful ranches (farms we should call them) that were situated on the banks of this magnificent stream! We passed some fields of wheat, containing five hundred acres in one inclosure. We forded numerous streams which intercepted our course. We saw herds of antelope bounding gracefully from our path. To some we got sufficiently near to see their clear, bright, shining eyes. Their graceful symmetry of form, their agile, sylph-like motions, all combine to render them one of the most beautiful animals in the country. The fawn of the American deer, if captured before the pretty white spots upon its sides have disappeared, will follow its captor anywhere, if he will first carry it a little while in his arms. They are the perfection of grace, innocence, and confidence. Probably there is no wild animal more susceptible of domestication, when taken young, than the American deer.

We saw, too, the elk, in large numbers. Once, as we were approaching a stream, there were several drinking therefrom. As soon as they perceived us, they reared aloft their heads, surmounted by huge and stately antlers, and dashed away with the velocity of the wind. As we neared a ranch belonging to Mr. N——, everything bespoke the wealth and prosperity of the ranchholder. He possessed a herd of one thousand horses. That day they were corralled, for the purpose of branding those not already bearing the owner’s mark. This seems to me a cruel process, yet an unavoidable one there, where so many different people’s stock are running together over the plains. They blindfold the beast, and chain it to a post deeply imbedded in the earth. Then the blacksmith takes the branding-iron, bearing the owner’s stamp, heats it red hot, and applies it quickly to the shoulder or haunch of the animal. How the seared hair and hide smoke! and how the poor creature plunges and rears with fright and pain! I have too much sympathy for the poor brutes ever to be a ranchholder, or the wife of one. We dined at the ranch of Mr. L——, whose waving fields of grain, with other appurtenances, revealed in a measure the extent of his wealth.

We travelled on through elysian valleys, until we reached our destination. The only objection a person could have to a residence in these sunny vales is the annoyance one is subjected to from myriads of musquetoes, which, at certain seasons, swarm the country. I have seen laborers at work in the fields with green veils tied to their hats, and drawn down over their faces, and fastened about their necks. When we reached our destination (the ranch of Mr. S——), I was very much fatigued; but that, in a measure, was dispelled by the hearty welcome I received from Mrs. B—— (Mr. S——’s daughter), an interesting lady from New York, who arrived in the country at the time I did. Her father was a very wealthy ranchholder.

Their dwelling-house was constructed of adobe brick. It was only one story high, but more than sixty feet long. Mr. S—— employed a host of Indians upon his ranch. The beautiful gardens and extensive fields of grain furnished convincing proofs of the enterprise, industry, and energy of the proprietor. Nineteen years’ salutary training had, in a measure, eradicated the indolent propensities inherent to the Digger race. Mr. S—— had been a resident in California, and on that ranch, for nineteen long years. What caused him to leave his family and native land, to seek a home in the wilds of California, is unknown to me. But so he did. When he left his home, Mrs. B——, the daughter then with him, was a babe scarcely six months old. During those long years of separation, the wife knew not the whereabouts of her husband, or of his existence even. His little children grew to man’s and woman’s estate in the interim, never dreaming they had a father in California. Some were old enough to recollect him before his self-banishment from their presence; but they soon learned to speak of him as one gone to the spirit-land.

One chill autumn eve in 1850, might have been seen a man a little past the meridian of life, whose silvered locks and furrowed cheeks gave evidence of past griefs, of sufferings that had roughly stirred the deep fountains within,—else the surface would not have been so deeply channelled,—standing irresolutely before the door of a neat mansion in New York city. Conflicting emotions of pleasure and of pain were rapidly crossing each other upon his countenance; and well they might, for he was standing, after an absence of nineteen years, at the door of his own house, desiring, yet scarcely daring, to enter. He summoned courage to ring; the door opened, and he crossed the threshold of his home,—confronted his wife—how changed from the young and blooming woman he left so long ago! yet, the instant their eyes met, the recognition was mutual. The little Bessy he left a babe, was all the child remaining at home. He remained with his wife and child that winter; but there existed a yearning for his home in California, that he vainly endeavored to conquer. He must return. Would his wife and child go with him? The daughter would, for she manifested unusual affection for her father, so recently found. The wife preferred to remain behind. In the spring, father and daughter left New York for the home in California. They were unavoidably detained at Panama. While there, the daughter became acquainted with a young gentleman from her native city. He proposed, was accepted, and they were united at Panama, before proceeding on their voyage. And here they were domesticated, away in the interior of California. They appeared to be enjoying as much happiness as ever falls to the lot of mortals. How pleasant it seemed to enter that adobe building, and find everything arranged with a neatness and regularity eliciting admiration. Mrs. B—— performed no household duties herself. She had five or six well-trained Indian women for house servants, who labored hard for no other remuneration than their food and raiment. The last-mentioned stipulation, however, was easily complied with, as they require but very little clothing—just as much as decency requires, and no more.

Mrs. B—— is a lovely woman, well qualified to grace the most refined and intelligent society. There was a novelty and charm connected with their residence in that remote place, which rendered life peculiarly pleasant. The extensive tract of land which Mr. S. possessed (since the confirmation of the ranch titles) has rendered him immensely wealthy. Immediately upon our arrival, our horses were allowed to revel in the luxuries of wild oats. They were actually up to their eyes in acres of the nutritious grain. After the business which had led us to that remote place had been ratified; we started on our homeward journey, with much more extended views of the agricultural resources of California than we had hitherto enjoyed. Soon after this, my brother left for distant mines.

CHAPTER XVIII

But what would be called a good wagon-road there, would be considered utterly impassable here. Neither my husband nor myself had ever travelled in the mountains; if we had ever done so, no doubt we should have possessed wisdom enough to have taken the journey upon mules—decidedly the best mode of conveyance in the Sierra Nevada region. Early one morn in the month of June, we left the town of Marysville, long before the inhabitants had awakened from their drowsy slumbers, and pursued our course in a north-easterly direction, following the course of the Yuba, crossing and recrossing it several times during the day. About twenty miles from town, we struck the low hills (as they are termed) of the vast and gigantic Sierra Nevada range. Low hills! thought I. I should call them mountains, and higher ones, too, than I had ever dreamed of travelling over. Recollect, kind reader, I had been reared away down on Cape Cod, where there are only a few slight elevations, justly denominated sand-banks. After reaching the top of a high hill, (I suppose I must call it so, but it would suit my ideas better to say mountain,) the wheels were chained, preparatory to a descent. How my heart beat, and how I wished myself back again, before we reached the base! It was one of my pet horses that drew us, and I knew he was perfectly gentle; but oh, how I pitied him!

How entirely different was the scenery now from that enjoyed when traversing the beautiful valley of the Sacramento a short time previous! and yet in what close proximity these different sections lay! I could scarcely realize that I had not travelled thousands of miles, to reach a country so very dissimilar. After one becomes accustomed to mountain travel, I know not to which of these decidedly dissimilar landscapes the lover of nature would yield the palm. After overcoming in part the emotions of fear, I was perfectly entranced at beholding the lofty mountains towering far above us, their sides and summits timbered with large pines, firs, and cedars. And then how quiet and lovely looked those little valleys, so hidden and enclosed from the world, completely hemmed in by the grand and sublime elevations of nature’s most magnificent handiwork! Oh, what dark and gloomy-looking defiles were disclosed to view!—fit rendezvous for the sanguinary assassin, or the dark-skinned treacherous savage. An involuntary shudder ran through my frame, as we wended our way through these silent mountain recesses.

I half-expected, every moment, to hear the whizzing of an Indian arrow past my ear, or the sharp click of the murderer’s revolver. We were well armed, for it was dangerous to travel in those mountains unarmed. But I very much doubted my ability, so far as regarded courage, to use any weapon, (except woman’s weapon,) even in self-defence. Often, as you enter one of these little valleys, your eyes will be greeted with the sight of a little shanty. Sometimes they call these mountain-glens corrals; and certainly they are corralled in by almost impervious barriers. One, in particular, arrested my attention. This valley was of an emerald green. Through it ran a clear, gurgling mountain-stream, the music of its waters inviting the weary wayfarer to sip of the health-promoting beverage. (I regret to add, at that time in California the health-inspiring properties of pure, unadulterated cold water were seldom tested.) Several cattle and mules were nibbling the green grass. But the prettiest feature of all, in my estimation, was an intelligent, bright-eyed little woman, seated just outside the door, under the shade of a magnolia, with a smiling, rosy little baby in her arms. I was out of the buggy in an instant, and had the little darling in my arms. There we obtained refreshments. There was quite a history connected with this bright-eyed woman, which I afterwards learned, and will relate, if my readers will pardon the episode. It may perhaps interest them as much in the recital as it did me.

We will now glance back through many years to the innocent days of childhood—to this lady’s pleasant home on the banks of the lovely Connecticut. Not far from the shores of the Sound, which receives its limpid waters, stood a quaint, old-fashioned farm-house; and there she passed the spring-time of youth. On an adjacent farm dwelt another happy family. Not a day passed but the children of these respective families had met, and raced and tumbled about, in all the wild joy of freedom and of health; now paddling on the smooth surface of the glassy river, or scrambling among thorns and briers in those old woods, after violets and nuts knowing no restraint, or recognizing none, save their parents’ love. When she was about twelve years of age, her father conceived the idea of emigrating to the Western wilds.

Then those children, who had lived, and loved, and played together so long, must separate. The heroine of my story, and a lad a few years her senior, belonging to the other family, had, almost unconsciously, as it were, conceived and cherished an almost undying friendship for each other; the strength and ardor of which the parents little suspected. After an interchange of many little love-tokens, the lad placed a hair ring, of curious workmanship, upon the girl’s finger, with the solemn injunction never to part with it, and that, when he grew to be a man, he would seek her for his bride; and so they parted. Upon their arrival in the Western country, the father located himself, with his family, at or near Nauvoo city. Subsequently, he joined the Mormons, and resided many years at this place. About the time the tide of emigration commenced flowing to the golden shores of the Pacific, he put in execution the secretly cherished plan of removing with his family to Great Salt Lake city.

In vain our heroine—now grown to a lovely and interesting woman—sought to deter her father from consummating this long-cherished plan of removal to the city of Zion. We can conjecture how much she was influenced in adopting such a course by the knowledge which she had recently obtained that the lover of her youth, to whom she had, in defiance of oft-repeated solicitations to the contrary, ever proved faithful, was about to seek her for a fulfilment of his boyish pledge. Her father was inexorable: he was determined upon going, and his favorite daughter must accompany them. The mother’s pleadings, too, could not be resisted. They started. The mother’s health, previously enervated, after six weeks’ toilsome travel across the plains, began visibly to decline. With intense anxiety, each succeeding day, they watched the paling cheek and tremulous motions of the wife and mother. Their worst fears were realized. One calm, still, moonlight eve, they consigned to a lonely grave the remains of the loved one. She had emigrated to her last peaceful home. Never more would she be called upon to resume her toilsome march across the plains of this sublunary sphere. The family now consisted of the widowed husband, the daughter, and a little girl, the offspring of a younger daughter, who had deceased several years previous to this last emigration, and, being a widow, had bequeathed her only child to its grand-parents. Little Rosa was a joyous, light-hearted child, possessed of strong affections. The rich wealth of love she had bestowed upon the grandmother had often caused the tears of that fond parent to flow at the thought of the bitter sorrow in store for the little darling, when she should have departed to her long home.

The grief of the child under this affliction was deep and lasting. Never more was her sweet voice heard in unison with the feathered songsters, carolling her sweetest songs all the live-long day. Whenever they encamped, she would wander forth, and gather the prairie-roses, of which she begged her aunt to make for her a pillow. Upon this little pillow of roses every night she rested her tired head, covered with flaxen curls. One night, she complained of being unusually tired, and said, “Oh, aunty, where is my rosy pillow? That will cure me.” In the morning, they found her in a raging fever, from which she never recovered. In two weeks from the time, she wept inconsolably at the grave of her grandmother; she had gone to join her in the spirit-land. They laid her in her little grave, with the pillow of roses under her head, and resumed their gloomy march.

In less than one week from this second bereavement, while fording a river, the father lost his life. Thus was the daughter left alone, the last of her family. She continued her journey with the company, and arrived safely at Salt Lake city. Here another trial awaited her. She had not been long there, before the great prophet, Brigham Young, selected her to swell the list of his spiritual wives, of whom at that time there were about thirty. Her heart revolted at the idea of such a destiny, and she resolved upon speedy flight. A company of emigrants, bound to California, were encamped a short distance from the city. Thither she secretly directed her steps, told her story, was admitted into the company, and conveyed to California. Upon her arrival there, she was engaged as an assistant in a hotel, where she remained nearly a year.

One night, the occupants of this hotel were aroused by the appalling cry of “Fire!” in their midst. The building was in a blaze. Every one was rushing to obtain egress. At such a time, woe to those prostrated upon a bed of sickness! The shrieks of a sick man arrested the rapid steps of this woman, flying for safety from the devouring element. Many had rushed past, unmindful of his call for succor, intent only on self-preservation; but the kind heart of woman could not resist this touching appeal to her sympathies. She caught him in her arms, (for he was reduced to a mere skeleton, from intense suffering,) and rushed forth, just in time to escape the falling timbers. By the assistance of another person, the sick man was conveyed to comfortable quarters, where every attention was rendered him by the lady who had preserved his life on that eventful night. Owing to extreme excitement in his then weak state, a violent delirium ensued, which continued for many days. None knew the sufferer, or from whence he came. Upon his restoration to reason, as his kind nurse was proffering to him a glass of water, he suddenly sank back upon his pillow in a fainting fit. When consciousness was once more restored, he could only point to a hair ring upon the lady’s finger, and articulate her name. Thus these lovers met, after a separation of nearly eighteen years. An explanation ensued, by which she learned that he had traced and followed her across the plains to Salt Lake city. There he lost all clue to her whereabouts. Disappointed and sick at heart, he pursued his way to California; went to the mines, and worked awhile, and was there taken sick. He managed to get to the hotel the day preceding the fire. The rest may be imagined by the situation in which I described her, as first seen by me upon entering that lovely valley. Truly, truth is stranger than fiction; and romance dwindles into insignificance, when contrasted with thrilling realities.

Now I will proceed on our journey. I regretted to leave that beautiful spot, so rural, so retired, so far from the busy haunts of man. It had such a serene aspect, it seemed to me to be one of the sweetest havens of rest that God ever provided for life’s weary pilgrim. We travelled on until we reached another valley, equally as rich in nature’s adornments; but its verdant soil had been recently saturated with the blood of three prospecting miners. Their bodies had been found pierced with arrows, besides being cut and mangled in a horrible manner. Some Indians near by were suspected of committing the murder. Consequently a number of miners had assembled, and, in order to intimidate the tribe, had taken three Indians, and hung them on the limb of a tree near by the scene of the murder. As we approached, we noticed with some anxiety the unusual collection of so many miners. Very soon the occasion of such an assemblage became apparent. There, on a single limb, were suspended the dead bodies of three Indians. One glimpse was sufficient. I can see them now, their swarthy, distorted visages emblematic of revenge and treachery.

Finally we came to a little mountain town called Bridgeport. It consisted of three little shanties and a toll-bridge, which spanned the Yuba River. The setting sun was just gilding the tops of the surrounding mountains, as we halted in front of one of the dwellings to inquire the distance to French Corral. They informed us it was about five miles. They told us there was a pretty high mountain just beyond, and advised us to discontinue our journey for that night. They seemed so particularly solicitous for us to remain all night, their shanty was so filthily dirty, and they themselves were such savage, hirsute-looking objects, that I entreated my husband to go on. I thought, out of two evils, we were choosing the least by proceeding. I came to a different conclusion, however, before we reached our destination. My husband paid one dollar and a half toll, and we crossed a high bridge, under which rolled the Yuba. At this place, it was a rapidly rushing stream. It went foaming and dashing over innumerable rocks which intercepted its progress, overleaping every barrier, acknowledging no superior power. Unceasingly it rolled on its course, its waters mingling with those of her sister rivers, and all tending to one point, viz., the broad Pacific.

Directly after crossing the Yuba, we commenced the toilsome ascent of the highest mountain we had yet encountered. At the commencement of the ascent, my husband alighted to walk up the mountain, and I was to drive up. The poor horse started with all the energy he possessed, in the hope, I suppose, of speedily gaining the top. I quickly lost sight of my husband, who was trudging on in the vain hope of overtaking me. Soon I began to perceive evident signs of exhaustion in the horse. I tried to stop him, but could not. The buggy drew back so, that, if he attempted to stop, it drew him back too. And oh, what an awful road it was! Deep gullies worn by streams of water, which had flowed down when the snow had melted, deep enough to hide myself in! I tried several times to get the carriage crosswise the road, but could not, on account of those gullies and huge rocks.

I was fearful, every moment, the horse would fall, from utter exhaustion. He was covered with white foam, and his tongue was extended from his mouth. I screamed for my husband at the top of my voice; but he was puffing and blowing far down the mountain. I finally contrived to get the carriage wedged in between two rocks. I then got out, and went to the relief of the horse. Poor fellow! I thought he was dying, for some time. When my husband appeared in sight, his appearance betokened about as great exhaustion as the horse. After a good rest, we all proceeded up, I on foot too. Three or four times I threw myself on the ground in utter exhaustion. We could not proceed as leisurely as we would, had night not been so close upon us. The summit was reached; and what a magnificent view greeted my wondering vision! The road wound round the mountain near the top. The sides of the mountain had been cut down, and a very good level road formed, of just sufficient width for only one carriage to pass round at a time. A horn, which is found at each termination of this narrow pass, is loudly sounded by travellers, before entering on the road, as a warning of their approach. The distance from this road down an almost perpendicular descent was one thousand feet; and at the base of the mountain rolled the foaming waters of the Yuba River. Yet from that dizzy height it had the appearance of a white ribbon no wider than your hand. The outside wheels of the buggy ran within three feet of the edge of the precipice. Nothing could induce me to ride (even with our gentle horse) in such close proximity to the frightful chasm. My husband jumped in and rode around, while I went plodding along, almost ankle-deep in the red sand. Presently I heard voices behind. I turned to look, and there, a few paces behind me, were two dark, swarthy, bewhiskered individuals, each mounted on a fine mule, and one of them was leading a spare mule. What to do I did not know. There I was, alone, wallowing in the sand, my bonnet off, hair dishevelled, face the color of vermilion, and dress the color of the sand. Who or what I was, or how I came there on foot, I suppose was beyond their comprehension.

When they overtook me, one said, “Good evening, madam; this is a hard road to travel over Jordan.” To this I made no reply. Said the other, “Wont you ride? you look tired.” I told him there was a carriage waiting for me just round the mountain. So they rode on. Soon I found my husband waiting for me. I quickly accepted his invitation to ride, for I feared meeting with other adventures, which might not terminate so pleasantly. We travelled on, expecting to reach the corral every moment. There were no more such high elevations on our route as the last we had surmounted; but there were a plenty high enough, I assure you.

But for the brilliant rays of the queen of night, we should have been compelled to encamp in the mountains. Nothing could exceed the grandeur and sublimity of these mountain-glens and cañons, walled in by those grand and lofty mountains, and lighted by the brilliant and powerful rays of the moon, and the sparkling radiance of the starry host, glittering like so many diamonds in the deep-blue canopy of the heavens. Their desolation is mellowed; an air of purity and holiness seems to pervade those silent places, which leads the imagination to picture them as grand saloons of nature, fashioned by the hand of the Almighty for the residence of pure and uncontaminating substances, and not for the doomed children of passion, want, care, and sorrow.

About ten in the evening, we made our descent into the valley bearing the name of French Corral. We were perfectly astonished at beholding such a collection of canvas houses—large frame boarding-houses and hotels, brilliantly lighted gambling-saloons without number, and Spanish dance-houses, French cafés, drinking-saloons, etc., etc.

It may not be amiss to state here the manner of building frame-houses, when the time occupied in building was two days for a private dwelling, four days for a hotel, and six days for a church. The last mentioned, however, was not often raised. A building would boast of a very slight frame, not boarded, but split clapboard nailed on to the frame, and the outside was finished. Upon the inside, in lieu of laths and plastering, bleached or unbleached cotton cloth is stretched smoothly and tightly, and fastened to the frame. This cloth is then papered over, and it looks as nice as paper upon plastering. The ceiling overhead is nice bleached cloth, sewed together neatly, and stretched so tightly there is not a wrinkle observable. For partitions a frame is raised, and each side of this frame is cloth and paper, leaving a hollow space between the two partitions of cloth, about three or four inches in width. These partitions look as firm and solid as they do made the usual way; but they afford but a slight hindrance to the passage of sounds. These deceptive partitions have been accessory to the diffusion of many a momentous secret.

Begging pardon for this digression, I will proceed with the description of this speedily-rushed-into-existence mining town. We were directed to the California Hotel, as one capable of rendering the best accommodations. Thither we accordingly went, and received a hearty reception. Every attention benighted, tired travellers could reasonably require, was cheerfully conferred. Next morning, we rose from our couches of straw, rather lame, to be sure, but anxious, nevertheless, to reconnoitre the town. We first repaired to the mines. There were over one thousand miners at work in a gulch surrounded by towering mountains, which shot up almost perpendicularly over their heads. The frosts of spring tarry latest in those gulches, and the genial rays of the winter sun penetrate but occasionally to cheer the miner in his arduous toil.

It is difficult, after all the descriptions he may read, for any one who has not been in the mines to obtain any correct idea of the manner in which they are worked, or of the difficulties and singular vicissitudes in life to which the miner is exposed. If the miner be dependent upon others for his water by paying for it weekly, success demands that he should be an early riser. Before the first dawn of light breaks upon the sky above him, he opens his eyes, rolls over on his hard bed, stretches his stiffened limbs, and, feeling about for his boots, places his hand upon something resembling an icicle, into which his feet are thrust, and the labors of the day commenced. He kindles his fire, (that is, if he boards himself,) fills and sets on the coffeepot, fries his “flap-jacks” and his pork, or warms up his beans, and the morning repast is prepared. It is then quickly eaten; and, by the time it is daylight, the miner is beside his tom. The water is let on, and in half an hour’s time he is standing ankle-deep in it, while, every few minutes, a dash of it is accidentally sprinkled upon his back. A hard day’s work of this kind is not unfrequently closed by the paltry reward of one, two, or three dollars, to be divided between the last named number of men. And this approximates, more nearly than all other histories, to the truth of mining. The “big strikes” are always heard of first, because the good news is published, while the bad is deemed worthy of no such distinction. From this cause thousands of people meet with disappointment, and write back to their Atlantic friends, reviling a country the noblest for its climate, soil, and business advantages, of any under the broad canopy of heaven.

The success of the miner depends a great deal upon luck. He may be industrious, economical, possessed of good morals, labor perseveringly for months, and sometimes years, and still be poor, as far as the acquisition of gold is concerned; while, perhaps, an unprincipled spendthrift in a few months may realize a fortune. A claim, too, may prospect rich, and yet, upon working it, yield scarcely sufficient to defray the expenses. Sometimes, also, adjoining claims which prospect alike may prove, one rich, and the other poor. I knew one fellow who had worked three weeks upon his claim, and had not realized enough to pay his board. He became disheartened, and sold out to a “green-horn,” who, in the interval of six weeks, took out over three thousand dollars’ worth of the yellow metal. I knew another, too, who labored hard three years in the country, without any more than defraying his expenses, when he was fortunate enough to strike a “pocket,” from which he took out twenty thousand dollars. But here I am digressing again.

We found, upon walking about the town, that nearly every other building was a boarding-house. So much competition had reduced board to twelve dollars per week, which would not pay, considering the fact of having to pay six cents per pound freight for the transportation of provisions from Marysville; so my husband relinquished the idea of opening a house there, and decided to return to Marysville on the following day. That night, there was to be a grand ball at the Corral; and Mrs. R——, the wife of the gentleman who kept the house where we stopped, was very anxious for me to accompany her to witness the proceedings. Accordingly, in the course of the evening, we stepped in, as silent spectators of the festive scene. I was rather surprised at beholding such a recherché assemblage. By the appearance of the company, I should not have suspected that we were, figuratively speaking, in the bowels of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. A long artificial bower had been constructed, under which were spread the tables, loaded with delicious viands. There were turkeys, which at that period could not be purchased for less than twenty-five dollars apiece; and pigs, too, which were equally as scarce in the market. There were jellies and East India preserves temptingly displayed, also the refreshing ice-cream. Beautiful bouquets graced the tables. These flowers had been gathered in close proximity to snow. Sixteen miles distant, farther up in the mountains, was plenty of ice then; and there was a Frenchman at the Corral—from whom the place derived its name—who kept quite a number of cows; so that ice and cream were very easily obtained.

Here, fifty miles from the settlements, were convened a collection of gentlemen and ladies, who had come, some ten, some twenty, and some thirty miles, to join in the merry dance. I saw two Bostonians there. It was a select company: all gamblers were excluded.

After having regaled ourselves with some refreshments, which the polite and gentlemanly host insisted upon our partaking, we took our leave, as, the ensuing morning early, we were to start on our homeward journey.

It is a peculiar feature of the climate in California, that, as soon as the snow disappears from the earth, the flowers spring up spontaneously. There is no frost in the ground, and the heavy body of snow lying thereon serves to keep it warm. While at the Corral, I was presented with an elegant bouquet, which a gentleman told me he gathered between two snow-banks, in such close proximity to each other, that, with his arms extended, he could reach the snow on either side. The rising sun, next morning, found us at the top of that high mountain, very near the spot where he bade us adieu on our journey up.

Neither ourselves nor the horse were as fatigued as when we made the ascent; therefore, it did not appear half as formidable; yet I preferred being upon my feet. It was really frightful to look at the horse and buggy. The wheels were both chained: yet how the poor horse had to brace his feet at every step! It was on this same mountain, the following August, as a party of emigrants, who travelled across the plains, were descending in an ox-team, the wagon pitch-poled, distributing the contents (which consisted of a woman and two or three children, cooking-stove, and many other household utensils) in every direction.

When we reached Bridgeport, we were accosted by the toll-gatherer with “Well, I reckon as how you had a right smart heap of trouble that night, afore you reached the top of the mountain. I allowed you would be for turning back; but I have always heard say, them Yankee women never would give up beat.” How he knew I was a Yankee, was beyond my comprehension; for he did not hear me speak, as I recollect of. Must be my countenance was the index of the nation to which I belonged; and I believe it does speak Yankee as well as my tongue; for I was never taken for anything else, except once——.

We met with no adventure particularly worth relating on our homeward journey. When we descended again to the foot of the hills, they really seemed clipped of nearly one-half their altitude since I had passed over them. I was also surprised at the wonderful amount of courage I had acquired during the trip. Now I laughed at travelling over those hills I before had cried at. That night, the little canvas house received within its walls a tired couple. Not long after this did it afford us a home. My husband sold it, and we went to the Tremont Hotel, where I remained during the remainder of my stay in Marysville.

CHAPTER XIX.

A gentleman of the company related an incident which occurred, as a friend of his was once travelling this particular locality. He was driving a mule-team very leisurely along, in close communion with his thoughts, when, all at once, he was startled from his reverie by the sudden halting of his mules. Upon looking up, there, close in advance of the mules, were two huge grisly bears, amusing themselves with their cubs. His heart was in his mouth in an instant. How could he compete with two such formidable antagonists, should they simultaneously attack him? His mules betrayed the terror they were suffering by one long, continuous bray, in which they were speedily joined by their no less frightened driver. This horrid din, suddenly bursting upon this bruin coterie, had the desired effect. They instantly disappeared in the surrounding chaparell; while the teamster pursued his way with all possible dispatch, congratulating himself upon having escaped, at least, a very feeling embrace. While speaking of this graminivorous animal, allow me to add, that I was acquainted with a family who had in their possession a cub, so tame that he used to play about the floor with the children as harmlessly as a pet-kitten. He was prized so highly, they had declined several tempting offers to part with him. Some hunters had shot his mother, and were dragging her off, when this little cub ran after them, sprang upon its dead mother, and evinced the strongest symptoms of affection. Thus it was easily captured.

About mid-day, we arrived at our destination—quite a little town, picturesquely situated upon the banks of the Yuba. Those little mountain towns are, to me, invested with a charm, a novelty, that is perfectly bewitching. After refreshing ourselves at a hotel in the vicinity, we repaired to the mining ground, as we laughingly remarked, to prospect. Some of the miners were so very gallant as to offer us the use of their pans, at the same time assuring us that they would allow us all the gold dust we were lucky enough to pan out. It was considered rich diggins at this spot; therefore, the vision of a heap of gold dust incited us at once to doff our lace sleeves and fancy fixings, and enter zealously upon this to us novel method of obtaining that coveted metal. Oh, it was back-aching work, I assure you!

Since that one half hour’s work in the mines, how much sympathy I have felt for the gold-digger! The thought at once obtruded itself, that if some of the wives of these poor miners whom I had known could but realize one half of the toil and hardships their husbands endure in the acquisition of wealth, or of even a competency, by the use of the pan and shovel, they would not be half so lavish in their expenditures. It was excessively warm; there was not a breath of air stirring; the sun was shining down with more than tropical fervor, while its rays were reflected in ten thousand directions from the sides of the hills, until the atmosphere glowed and glimmered like the air in a furnace.

Although the earth was yielding at the rate of ten cents to the panful, we very soon came to the conclusion, that we had rather suffer the privations incident to poverty than toil longer in that burning heat; so, wiping the perspiration from our vermilion countenances, we repaired to the hotel; from whence, after a short rest, I sallied forth to visit several female acquaintances of mine who resided at the Bar. They were ladies who, upon their first arrival in the country, had boarded with us awhile, until their husbands could provide a suitable abode for them in the mines.

I found one of them, a Mrs. Q——, suffering excessively from a terrible fright she had received the night previous. The facts were these: They kept a boarding-house, where they accommodated about forty persons. In the night, they were both awakened by a noise in their room. Before they could move, and even before her husband could grasp a revolver which lay loaded under his pillow, the figure of a man, masked, and holding a sharp, glittering knife in his hand, was standing over them. The knife was held within an inch of her throat, while the threat was uttered, that if her husband moved so much as an inch, his wife’s life would pay the penalty. Such a threat was, of course, effective. There they lay, while three other burglars entered the room, and commenced pilfering. A trunk was opened, from whence they abstracted one thousand dollars in gold dust. Next followed her jewelry, and her gold watch, a parting present from her mother. Her husband’s watch, and several other articles of value, was seized upon; with all of which they decamped. The sentinel still stood over the wife, while she had fainted from fright. After waiting until his co-workers in villany were fairly off, he told him, if he raised the alarm until the lapse of so many minutes after his departure, that a ball, from an unseen and unerring hand, would be the forfeiture. He then vamosed. The alarm, however, was instantly given; every inmate in the house were aroused; but no trace of the robbers was ever discovered. It was weeks, and even months, before Mrs. Q—— recovered from the shock she that night received.

I felt in hopes the party would conclude to remain over night at the bar; but, as there was a bright moon, they decided upon a moonlight drive to Marysville. I must confess myself so much of a coward that I liked not to travel through those gloomy-looking cañons and ravines at night, even were the way illumined by brilliant Luna’s beams. I fancied the shadows of the trees assumed the form of the lurking assassin, ready for a spring. We met with no adventure on the way home, and our ears were assailed with no more horrible sounds than the bark of the cayotes that prowled along on our track. These animals partake of the nature of the wolf, and are very cowardly. They are a great pest in California. The burial-ground, situated about a mile from Marysville, was often frequented by these animals; bodies were often found exhumed and partially devoured by them.

During my residence in California, situated as I was most of the time in a hotel, I had ample opportunity to study human nature in all its varied phases. Scenes of misery, too, I witnessed, enough to fill a volume, were they all recorded. Scenes of gayety and splendor also diversified the way. I attended one wedding in Marysville, the cost of which was currently estimated at two thousand dollars. The bride was a fair widow of thirty, (and wealthy withal,) whose husband had deceased five months previously.

People in our staid, matter-of-fact, puritanical towns, can have but a faint conception of the ever-varying, ever-changing scenes, pertaining to a life in California, where fortunes are made and lost in a day; friends die, and are forgotten soon, in the constant whirl of excitement which surrounds one. People who, when I first arrived in California, were considered immensely rich in this world’s goods, long before I left were reduced to penury. The motto there is, “Nothing risked, nothing gained.” They will perhaps invest all they possess in some great speculation, (always bound to succeed,) and lose the whole. Then, again, vice versa.

What shocked me more than all else in California was, to see the poor, sick, and often penniless people, brought to the hotels (there were no hospitals in Marysville at that time) to die; and then, when the soul had taken its flight to the spirit-land, to see the hearse drive to the door, take the body, which had been deposited in a rough box without the usual apparelling for the grave, and start off to the place of interment alone! Not one solitary mourner to follow the remains, or drop the tear of affection at the grave of one who, perhaps, in some far-distant home, had many “loving friends, and true,” who were anxiously waiting and watching for his return.

One day there were two brothers, brought by their father to the Tremont Hotel. They were sick with a fever. After a week of intense suffering, they died, and the lone father followed them to their last resting-place. A few days subsequent to this event, he was attacked with the same fever which had proved fatal to his sons. He soon felt convinced that he, too, must die. When the proprietor of the house asked him if he had friends in the Atlantic states, to whom he wished word to be conveyed, “No,” said he; “I am the last of my race. I have no friend living to mourn for me.” He even declined naming the place of his birth. In a few days after that, he lay beside his boys.

At another time, the mangled form of a young and intelligent-looking man was brought to a hotel. He had been crushed in a horrible manner by the falling of a large rock where he was at work. His head and chest alone remained uninjured. A younger brother accompanied him to the hotel, and remained as his nurse. Every night he used to slip quietly from his suffering brother’s room, and repair to the gambling-houses, and there stake and lose large sums, which had been obtained at the price of his brother’s life. The poor sick man, unable to raise a finger, his back turned towards the door, and therefore not knowing his brother was absent, would call repeatedly the brother’s name, begging him for a glass of water. After a while, all would be still. No one suspected he was dying there alone nights.

One night, I heard the call so long continued, and so plaintively uttered, I could endure it no longer. I rose, dressed myself, and repaired to the sufferer’s room. I found him all alone. “I wish, madam,” he said, “you would waken Jack. He sleeps so soundly, I never can arouse him in the night. I call until I am fearful of awakening the occupants of the surrounding rooms, and then I desist. But now I think I am dying.” I told him his brother’s bed was vacant. He seemed very much distressed at his brother’s absence. Search was immediately instituted. He was found at a gambling-table, betting. He was summoned to the bedside of his brother. After a while, the sick man revived. He lingered through the next day. At night, his physician enjoined his brother to remain constantly with him, as it was not probable he would survive until morning. The passion for gambling had gained such an ascendency over the young brother’s better feelings, that, some time during the silent watches of the night, he had deserted his dying brother! In the morning, the poor sufferer was found a corpse. He had died alone! What struggles, what agonizing thoughts, were his, what words passed his dying lips, none save his Maker knew.

The brother had passed the night in one of the many dens of infamy that abounded, and which shed, and still do, a withering blight over the fair and sunny valleys of the richest country the sun ever shone upon. See, in this case, what a pernicious influence those gilded saloons of vice have upon the unstable mind of youth. Here were two brothers, who had been reared by fond parents in the fear and admonition of the Lord. Through their childhood they had loved one another; and together they had repaired to a distant land to seek their fortunes. The younger, whose mind was more vacillating, had by degrees yielded to the song of that siren, Vice, until she had lured him to her haunts, causing him to forget home, friends, and even a dying brother, to follow in the train of the tempter.

My prayers are, and ever have been, with the vigilance committees of California. May the blessing of God attend them, and prosper all their undertakings and endeavors to uproot and exterminate those hot-beds of vice, those quick-sands in the ocean of life, upon which the bark of many a promising youth, of many a young husband, and of many a middle-aged father, has been irrecoverably wrecked.

Go into the villages and towns throughout the Atlantic States, and in how many will you not find one, at least, who has been a heart-sufferer from the effects of those dens of sin and iniquity, which, until the organization of the vigilance committee, threw open their gilded doors, even in the glare of noon-day, to allure the weak-minded and unsuspecting! And even the strong-minded have sometimes fallen a prey to their seductive wiles. How many homes have been rendered desolate, how many families disunited and severed, how many hearts as well as fortunes broken, by the prevalence of that one great sin, gambling! and it has been an almost universal vice in California.

How many enterprising and ambitious men have I known who emigrated with their happy wives to California, their hearts buoyant with bright anticipations of the future! Success for awhile crowned all their undertakings; but, alas! those gorgeously furnished drinking-saloons which meet the eye at every turn proved too enticing for frail human nature to resist. The first temptation yielded to, and how easily the downward course is pursued, which terminates in total depravity!

The young wife, neglected by her husband, her brilliant hopes crushed,—unless she be possessed of a strong mind, and has friends there to guide and guard her,—rather than return alone to the home of her childhood, gradually loses her self-respect, and finally swells the list of those we blush to name.

Those upon whom the sun of prosperity has ever shone, know not how bitterly painful is the first clouding over of youth’s sweet visions—the first crushing blight of confidence and love—the first consciousness that life is not so fair and bright, nor friends so kind and true, as we have pictured them. Not from observation wholly do I asseverate these statements—by sad experience have these sentiments become deeply imbedded in my heart. I have known, and felt, and suffered all, in my short life. But, when the wife’s cup of misery is full to overflowing, and she returns to the home of her youth, expecting to receive the sympathy she so justly deserves, and which is so readily proffered by those encircling her own hearth-stone, how poignant to her sensitive and lacerated feelings are the baneful, whispered slanders which are borne to her ears! and emanating, too, from the lips of those she once considered friends, and who, had adversity not overtaken her, would still have been fawning sycophants for favor.

Oh, ye slanderers! pause in your career; for it is one of the most heinous sins that the instigator of all evil ever conceived, and from which every pure heart will turn with loathing and disgust. If the professed slanderer ever has any moments of serious reflection, how severe must be the accusations of that faithful monitor within; for to how many, in the course of their life-time, have they cast their poisoned arrows, dipped in the foul extract of their own hearts, which, while it kills not those to whom it is aimed, rankles deeply in a sensitive heart, causing tears of agony to flow! Then there are always plenty of the lovers of gossip abroad to catch and retail slander; plenty ready to believe an evil report, without taking the trouble to investigate. Thus many an innocent heart has palpitated keenly, upon receiving manifest slights from a source whence they had a right to expect nought but kindness.