twittered among the trees; and on every side, wherever we walked or rode, the wild strawberries were ripening in the grass, and perfuming the breeze.

Here and there, plunging over the lofty walls, were waterfalls of surpassing beauty, some a mere line of mist, tossed hither and yon by the passing wind, like a veil of gauze, and others thundering down with a voice approaching even Niagara's. Later in the season, when the snows measurably disappear, these falls of course become much shrunken in size, and visitors behold them then shorn in part of their beauty and sublimity. But just then, so early in the season, they gave one full greeting, and I counted a score or more from different points thundering in chorus. We rode to the foot of the Bridal Veil, usually a sheet of misty gauze, but now a roaring cataract, and gazed up nine hundred feet, to where it leaped from the southern wall. Then we crossed to El Capitan, a massive bastion or angle in the northern wall, of solid granite, rising sheer into the air for three-quarters of a mile without a break, except a niche one-third of the way up, where a tall fir has gained a foothold, and will never be molested by hand of man. Thence, we turned and rode up the valley, to where the Yosemite Fall plunged boldly out from the northern wall, like a thing of life, and thundered headlong down twenty-six hundred feet, or fifteen times the height of Niagara. Above, where it leaped from the cliff, and afterwards, it seemed a goodly river; but long before it reached the bottom, it became a column of mist, which the wind swayed to and fro at will, but whose thunder yet shook the valley. From there, we rode back to Hutchings'; and that night, when the moon rose and from a cloudless sky flooded the valley with her silver light, Nature seemed to be endeavoring to out-do herself in our behalf.

The next day, we rode up the Merced River, which winds through the valley and drains it—a stream ten or twelve feet deep by twice as many yards in width, so pure and clear you may everywhere count the pebbles at the bottom—to the Lake, and Domes. The former is a small sheet of water, of wonderful clearness, that reflects the surrounding mountains and falls, like a mirror; the latter are dome-like masses of naked rock, peculiar to the Coast scenery, crowning the Sierras just there. Of the South Dome, I have already spoken; the North Dome is inferior in size and height, but is complete as a dome, and wonderful to behold. A dozen such domes as crown the capitol at Washington could readily be put inside of it, and there would be room for several more. From here, turning an angle of the South Dome, we caught a superb view of the South Fork of the Merced, as it came tumbling over the mountain wall, a mile or more away, an unbroken mass of foam. At that distance, it seemed a sheet of fleecy whiteness—purest lamb's wool—hundreds of feet in height, and the rocks and trees framed it in as a picture. Returning, we rode again to the grand Yosemite Fall, and tying our horses, started to climb to the foot of the fall, which seemed not very far above us; but again California air deceived us, and after toiling for two or three hours up the mountain-side, from bush to bush and rock to rock, without reaching it, we were forced to retrace our steps by the approach of evening.

The next morning, we saw a thin smoke curling above the trees in the lower part of the valley, and after breakfast had the pleasure of greeting Professor Whitney and party, of the State Geological Survey. They had been out for weeks, geologizing along the Sierras south of the Yosemite, and had entered the valley the evening before by the Mariposa trail, to repeat some triangulations and surveys they were not quite certain of. They reported the Mariposa route as rather rough, but practicable, and this was good news, as they were the pioneers of the season that way. There were five or six in the party, all active, athletic men, as keen to walk and climb as to analyze and cipher. They travelled with a pack-train, and "camped out" invariably, and their Bedouin habits had made them all as brown as berries. Greetings over, our horses were soon at the door, and presently, we all set off together for the Vernal and Nevada Falls. A mile or so above Hutchings', we struck the main branch of the Merced, and turning up its bank soon found the ascent too difficult for horses. Dismounting and turning our animals loose to graze, we proceeded on foot by a narrow trail, that wound along beneath umbrageous pines and firs, just on the margin of the river, which here foamed and roared at our feet a rushing cascade for a mile or more. Rounding a shoulder of the cañon, the spray from the Vernal Fall suddenly wet us to the skin; but exquisite rainbows, perfect in form and color, began to flame and circle around us, until it almost seemed as if you could put their many-colored ends in your pockets. Rainbows—quadrants and semi-circles—may often be seen elsewhere; but these were perfect circles, whirling around and about us, and most intense in color. Moist as we were, we all stopped to enjoy the scene, and were reluctant to move onward.

Here, at the Vernal Fall, the whole mass of the Merced drops 350 feet, without a break, and the volume of water just then was very great. Stairways and ladders carry you to the top, and here a natural wall or breast-work of solid granite enables you to lean out and overlook the Fall, and Cascades, and wild cañon beyond, without a tremor. Above, the river comes shooting like an arrow, over half a mile of polished granite, from the base of the upper or Nevada Fall. There the Merced makes another leap, of seven hundred feet in all; but half-way down, the rock shelves just sufficiently to keep the water on the flow, whence it pours in hurrying sheets of lace-like foam to the bottom. The water here seemed really instinct with life and motion; the long lines of gauzy foam circled ever downward and onward; and the whole seemed like one vast drapery of living lace, which Nature was here ever weaving to deck the Yosemite. Valenciennes and point-lace capes and collars, were never so airy and exquisite; but here they fell, and flowed, and circled, in snowiest tracery, by the million.

Returning by Mt. Broderick, we rode down to Sentinel Peak and Cathedral Rock, with Prof. Whitney and party, having much interesting and delightful talk by the way, and reached Hutchings' again at nightfall. The day had been a fatiguing one, so much of the route was wild and rocky; and I retired early, foot-sore and leg-weary. Altogether, however, the day was very rich and enjoyable; and I look back upon it now, as one of the noblest and best I spent on the Coast. The views of the Yosemite were everywhere sublime and picturesque; and at sunset, we beheld "parting day" still playing among the Sierras, while the Merced and meadows down below were already in shadowy twilight. In fact, down in the valley, looking up, you never see but a mere ribbon-like line of sky at best, flanked on either side by mountains; and in winter, for half the morning and half the afternoon, the sun is never visible from Hutchings' at all. The Yosemite is simply an open tunnel, so to speak, half a mile or more deep, in the heart of the Sierras, and in winter-time the sunlight cannot have much chance there, except about mid-day. Doubtless the snow and ice there then must be something gorgeous, and sublime—glaciers trailing from the walls, and avalanches now and then thundering from the heights above, to the far depths below.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE YOSEMITE TO SAN FRANCISCO.

The next morning (May 31st), I bade good-bye to Mr. Hutchings, most hospitable of hosts and gracious of guides, and started to return via Mariposa. In addition to Capt. Coulter, I now had Mr. Galen Clark also, who had piloted Prof. Whitney in from the Mariposa Grove of Big Trees. Trotting down through the meadow-like valley, we reached the Professor's camp, and found them just packing up, for their return via Coulterville. With a hearty hand-shake all around and mutual promises to meet again at Stockton, if possible, we parted, and continued on down the valley, past El Capitan, sublimest of mountains, the Three Brothers, and Bridal Veil Fall; and, at length, turning to the left, struck the Mariposa trail. One would naturally suppose, that an exit might be found by following the river down; but the Merced passes out between perpendicular walls of vast height, miles in extent, so that the only way into or out of the valley then was by the old Indian trails to Coulterville or Mariposa.[28]

The Mariposa trail runs by sharp zigzags up the southern wall, taking advantage of every rock and bush where an Indian could find a foot-hold, and we found it a long and toilsome climb, before we got to the top. We were over an hour by the watch; but when, at last, we rounded the last bend, and stood perspiring and breathless on the jutting ledge of Inspiration Point, what a view opened before us! From here, you get, perhaps, the best general view of the Yosemite, as a whole, that can be had; and as the eye sweeps over its peaks and domes, its battlement and towers—its massive walls, its flashing streams, its foaming cataracts—its fragrant groves and sleeping meadows—the soul swells with unutterable joy; or, rather, your whole being bows down in reverence and awe. To the right, the exquisitely beautiful Bridal Veil Fall descends, wreathed in mists and rainbows. Beyond, the Three Brothers and Sentinel Peak pierce the heavens. To the left, in solemn and awful grandeur, stands El Capitan, severe and self-centred—monarch of the vale—dominating all. Beyond, the incomparable Yosemite Fall, as if pouring from the clouds, leaps and sways and thunders—its mist at times streaming like a gorgeous pennon, its deep-toned base a perpetual Te Deum. While farther still, towering above all, clear cut and distinct against the sapphire sky, the great South Dome rears its awful front, as if the visage of the Almighty, and bids the universe bow down and worship. Clinging to a gnarled and stunted tree, out-grown from the very granite, we crept far out upon the rocky ledge, and there seemed literally enfolded by the Infinite.

The overwhelming sublimity, the awful loneliness and desolation of the scene—its solemn beauty and grandeur—were simply unutterable. It was a place to make one feel the littleness of all human achievements, and to lead a man out of himself up to God. It was the confrontal of God, face to face, as in moments of great danger, or in solemn and sudden death. It was the perilous edge of battle. It was storm and shipwreck. It was Niagara, many times magnified. It was Switzerland, condensed into a coup d'œil. I had stood on the Rocky Mountains; I had descended the Columbia; I had crossed the Sierras. But the Yosemite was all of these, and more, compressed into one view; and, surely, our planet has not its equal. Most fittingly has Congress set the Yosemite apart from the public domain, and consecrated it to mankind, as a National Park and pleasure-ground forever. Let it never be degraded to lower uses. So far it was yet free from debasing associations, and California, as its natural guardian, must keep it so. Beyond the necessary paths and bridges, it had so far escaped our so-called "improvements;" and hereafter, as heretofore, it is to be hoped, Nature will be allowed to work her own sweet will there, unchecked by the hand of man.

But our stay there was over, and lifting our hats we bade the Yosemite a reverent good-bye, and mounting our horses, turned our faces towards Mariposa. A short ride along the well-defined trail, over crackling pine leaves and gigantic cones, brought us to the Hermitage—a huge sugar-pine, ten or twelve feet in diameter, hollow in the centre, where a Californian aforetime had made his home, closing the entrance with a rude door. It afforded him a goodly-sized room, much better than many of the border cabins; and here, in the midst of the gigantic pines, miles away from any human habitation, as he swung his axe or boiled his pot, he must have had Solitude to his heart's content.

Passing on, we soon struck the snow, and for five or six miles again, as when coming into the valley, we again had a decidedly "hard road to travel." To plunge and flounder along so, through snow-field after snow-field, was tedious and toilsome in the extreme; but there was no help for us, and we struggled on. A mile or so from Inspiration Point, in crossing an open glade, where the snow had melted into a pool, we caught sight of grouse and deer; but they were off before Clark, an experienced hunter, could get a shot at them. Some two miles farther on, we came out into a larger opening, and as we lifted our eyes from the blinding snow saw, right across our trail, a hundred yards or so ahead, a huge she-grizzly and two young cubs. We were all on foot, leading our horses over the snow the best we could—Capt. Coulter behind, Clark and I some yards ahead abreast of each other—our only weapons our trusty revolvers, and a long single-barrelled rifle of Clark's. My own good Spencer carbine (seven-shooter), that I had carried so faithfully across the continent, and through Arizona, without occasion to use it, I had left in San Francisco, not thinking it necessary in California. How I wished for it now, with its seven good balls ready for instant use!

Simultaneously with our sight of her, Madame Grizzly also descried us, and Clark at once frankly said we were in great danger, if she showed fight. For a minute or two, she stood with her head raised, snuffing the air, as if calculating the chances, and then deliberately wheeling in her tracks, shuffled off into the forest—her cubs gambolling by her side, like clumsy kittens. Clark instantly threw me his bridle, and decided to try a shot, if he could sight her heart; but she kept herself well under cover, as she moved off, and he was afraid to fire, unless certain of killing her. He said if he missed or only wounded her, we would have to take to the trees, as the attack would make her savage and ferocious; and also, that if her cubs happened to turn and run toward us in play, as they often did, we would have to run or climb for it, as she would take this also for a hostile movement, and assault us fiercely. Under the circumstances, clearly discretion was the better part of valor; nevertheless, Clark wanted the brace of cubs, and when she waddled off through the slush and snow, he followed cautiously after, resolved to try his luck, if she gave him a decent chance. From bush to bush, and tree to tree, for quite a considerable distance, he dodged along after her; but presently returned, without firing, declaring the risk was too great for such a venture, and we were not sorry to be well rid of her. She was, in truth, as big as a small cow, and altogether would have been an ugly customer to deal with, if not killed at the first shot.

Clark said, grizzlies were now rare on this route, although formerly frequently encountered. And indeed on both routes, and in all our travel among the Sierra Nevadas, I was struck with the general absence of animal life—as I had also been among the Rocky Mountains. I doubt whether in either of these ranges, there is anywhere such variety and extent of animal life, as we always find East, in unfrequented forests and mountains. The solemn stillness, the glad silence, the perfect peace and rest of the Sierras, seemed everywhere profound; and nowhere and never more so, than during this day's ride in general.

Once well out of the snow, we remounted our gamey little steeds, and the rest of the day the trail led down and over the ranges—through magnificent forests of pine and spruce, cedar and fir—where to ride along was itself a luxury and delight. The prevailing tree was the California sugar-pine, so called because the Indians obtain a rude sugar from boiling down its sap. These sugar-pines frequently grow ten and twelve feet in diameter, and shoot up two hundred and fifty, and three hundred feet in height. They bear a gigantic cone, four inches in diameter, by sixteen inches in length usually; and lest this may seem like a "California story," perhaps I should add, I myself picked up one, as we rode along, measuring over eighteen inches in length, and have it now in my private cabinet. Their dead leaves carpeted the ground thickly under foot, and often our horses ambled almost noiselessly along. Overhead, their dense shade excluded the sun, which hourly became more uncomfortable, as we descended the range; while the mountain air was everywhere resinous with their perfume.

Late in the afternoon, we crossed the last ridge, and, descending into the valley of the South Merced, halted at "Clark's," the house of our new guide. We had come twenty-two miles since leaving Hutchings'; and here found excellent accommodations for the night. Mr. Clark himself was from the East, I believe Pennsylvania, but was now an enthusiastic Californian. He said he had come to California years before, a confirmed consumptive; but once among the Sierras, inhaling their resinous breath, his lungs soon healed, and here now he meant to abide the remainder of his days. He could not live in San Francisco at all, the air was so raw and sharp there; but here among the Sierras, he was well and strong, and he looked indeed as rugged as the mountains themselves. His house contained several comfortable rooms, and already the tide of Yosemite travel was setting that way, and paying him well.

Six miles from Clark's, on the border of Mariposa and Fresno Counties, is the Mariposa grove of Big Trees. We visited them next morning (June 1st), under the guidance of Clark himself, who regards them as his special wards. They number in all some five or six hundred, scattered over perhaps a mile square, but usually in clumps together. You ride up to them, through an open forest of huge sugar-pines and cedars, that would be regarded as sylvan monsters elsewhere—ten and twelve feet over; but these Big Trees dwarf even such giants, into pigmies. Many of them, indeed, measure twenty-five and thirty feet in diameter, and run up three hundred feet or more in height—the first hundred feet or so without a limb, and scarcely diminishing in size. Six of them are over thirty feet in diameter, and from ninety to a hundred feet in circumference; fifty are over sixteen feet in diameter; and two hundred over twelve feet. The "Grizzly Giant," the largest, is thirty-three feet in diameter, and its first limb—ninety feet from the ground—is itself six feet through. Another, still standing erect and vigorous, but hollowed out by fire, three of us rode into on horseback, one behind the other, and there was still room for more. Another, prone on the ground, and with its heart eaten out by fire—reduced to a huge shell—we rode through on horseback, for a hundred feet or more, and then passed out—by a small knot-hole!

Among them were some young trees, still coming forward, mere saplings; but as a rule, these Big Trees (Sequoia Gigantea, I believe the botanists call them) impress you with their great age, and hoary venerability. With many the mountain-fires in other years have made sad havoc, scarring and half-consuming some of them; but these are now stopped, the Mariposa Grove being also included in the Congressional grant, which sets apart the Yosemite as a National Park and pleasure-ground forever. Their bark, often eighteen and twenty inches thick, is of a pure cinnamon-color, and fluted up and down like a Corinthian column. Their wood is of a deep red, and much resembles that of the great red-wood trees, that are found everywhere in the Coast Range. Their foliage and cones are much like those of our ordinary yellow-pines East, though their leaves are somewhat smaller.

Truly marvels in themselves, in one sense these Big Trees of California are the greatest natural curiosity in the world, because no other country possesses any trees like them. If not really sui generis, their like, at least, I believe, has not yet been found. California, at her own request, has been appointed their lawful guardian; and the nation and mankind expect, that she will watch them well. It would seem like sacrilege, indeed, to raise one's hand against them; and the penitentiary, surely, would be small punishment, for such a miscreant.

Returning to Clark's, we left there at noon, and the same evening reached Mariposa, twenty-five miles distant. The scenery most of the way was superb, vista after vista opening constantly before us, as we descended the mountains; but the sun had already acquired a June fierceness, and the heat seemed doubly oppressive to one just fresh from the snows of the Sierras. We rode up to the Mariposa House, dusty and jaded, travel-stained and weary; but it was now Saturday night, and the most inveterate cynic will concede, the week had been well spent.

We found Mariposa to be a straggling village, of a few hundred inhabitants, with uncertain prospects. It is the centre of what was once Gen. Fremont's magnificent estate—seventy miles square, in the heart of Mariposa County—and formerly was much noted for its mining operations. But its placer-mines were now mostly abandoned, except by John Chinaman; and its famous quartz-mill, that cost over one hundred thousand dollars—perhaps the finest in California—was standing idle. The Mariposans, however, had great faith in their mining resources still, and were expecting their fine mill to resume operations soon. In the interim, the town dozed along, in the Micawberish way common to stagnant mining centres; and welcomed my arrival, as the advance guard of the Yosemite travel, for that summer.

Here, I bade good-bye to Punty, ever-faithful pony, and kindly Capt. Coulter, my companions for a week (good luck to them both!), and took the stage for Stockton again, via Honitos. This was a ride of a hundred miles, through varying landscapes—across the divides and down the valleys of the Merced, Tuolomne, Stanislaus, and San Joaquin rivers—and, though hot and dusty, was yet thoroughly enjoyable. In crossing the ridge at Bear Valley, you catch a superb view of the Coast Range and Mt. Diabolo, a hundred miles away; and for the rest of the ride, Diabolo's lofty crest is almost always in view. Much of the way was barren and uncultivated, but the ranches and settlements were yearly pushing farther and farther into the foot-hills; and as we neared Stockton again, the illimitable wheat-fields were everywhere about us.

At Stockton, I had the pleasure of again meeting Prof. Whitney and party, and further comparing notes about California and the Coast generally. Thence, taking the steamer together for San Francisco, we reached there again June 4th—myself somewhat jaded and dilapidated, indeed, but richly repaid for all my toil and fatigue in going to the Yosemite. Kind friends welcomed my arrival, and the fine fare and downy beds of the Occidental seemed doubly luxurious. Its proprietor, of course, was a Leland—one of that family of brothers, who beyond all other Americans, know excellently well "how to keep a hotel;" and his thoughtful attentions, his genuine kindness and courtesy to everybody, were the constant remark of strangers on the Coast.

CHAPTER XXXI.

SAN FRANCISCO TO NEW YORK.

A ride down the bay (June 8th), through San Mateo and Menlo Park, some fifty miles to San Josè, completed my wanderings on the Pacific Coast. The air at San Francisco, fresh from the ocean, was raw and rasping; but at San Josè, sheltered by the Coast Range, the thermometer measured over twenty degrees warmer, and the valley there seemed sleeping in summer. The whole ride by railroad is through farms and gardens, and San Josè itself we found embowered in roses and foliage. Here are old Spanish convents and churches, with their surroundings of vineyards, fig-trees, orange-groves, etc., as at Santa Barbara and Los Angelos—only better preserved—and the ride thither is a favorite excursion for San Franciscans and strangers. The sleepy old town is in vivid contrast, with the rush and whirl of the Golden Gate; and its soft and delicious air proves a soothing balm, to the invalid and the weak. A fair hotel furnished good entertainment, and the place seemed indeed like a haven of rest, after "roughing it" so in the interior.

Returning to San Francisco, the last farewells were said, and June 10th, at 11 a. m., the good steamer Constitution bore us away for Panama. We had spent six months on the Coast, and would fain have remained longer, especially to visit the "Geysers." But my official work was ended; and besides, I was in receipt of private letters, that required my presence East. The 10th was "steamer-day"—still a recognized event in San Francisco. All business ended then; and from then, began again. There was a bustle about the hotels, and an air of importance everywhere. Hundreds thronged the vessel and wharf, to see their friends off, and tarried till the last moment. But, prompt to the minute, the Constitution cast loose, and rounding into the stream, was soon heading down the bay, for the Golden Gate and the Pacific. Past Alcatraz and Angel Island, past Fort San Josè and Fort Point, we reached the bar, and crossed it in a chopping sea, that soon sent most of the passengers to their berths.

In San Francisco, the sun shone bright as we steamed away, but the air was raw and chilly like our later autumn;[29] and once out at sea, we found an overhanging mist, that often deepened into a winter fog. This uncomfortable weather continued for a day or two, keeping most of the passengers below deck—many of them sea-sick; but as we passed down the coast, the weather gradually moderated, and soon we were sailing beneath perfect skies, over, indeed, "summer seas." The rest of the way down, what a superb voyage it really was! Looking back on it now, it seems rather a grand picnic excursion, than a bona fide journey by sea. The ocean, in the main, proved itself truly Pacific. We were very seldom out of sight of land by day. The purple, and crimson, and golden hues of the Coast Range, were a perpetual wonder and delight. Schools of porpoises, and now and then a vagrant whale enlivened the day; and the phosphorescent waves, wide-spreading from our wake, made our track a blaze of fire by night.

And what skies those were! By day, "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue;" by night, one blaze of flaming stars. It was the very luxury of travel—the very poetry of locomotion. Sometimes I would lie for hours on deck, breathing in the balmy air, watching the gulls and frigate-birds as they hovered in our wake, or gazing on far-off hill and mountain, as the shore opened up before us—losing all sense of thought and action, content solely with being. Even novel-reading sometimes seemed a task, and writing a great burden. And when evening came, we would sit and talk far into the night; or, leaning over the guards, would watch the stream as of liquid fire, that boiled, and curled, and rippled away beneath us.

As we got farther down the coast, the climate became warmer; but blue-flannels and white-linens in place of winter-woolens, rendered this endurable, and indeed the change from temperate to tropic—from latitude 38° to 7°—did not seem so great after all, barring the first day or two out from San Francisco. Some, however, who had not provided themselves with such changes of clothing, complained bitterly of the heat and lassitude, though most of us got on very well. We had a thunderstorm one night, and a stiff rain next day, when well down the Mexican coast; but otherwise were favored with uninterruptedly fine weather.

From San Francisco to Panama is somewhat over three thousand miles, and we were fifteen days in making it. Our steamer was a fine specimen of her class, with a burden of 3,500 tons, and a carrying capacity of eleven hundred passengers, besides freight. She measured three hundred and forty feet in length, by forty-five feet in beam, and her great deck morning and evening was a rare promenade. Of passengers, we had only about four hundred; so that all had state-rooms, and to spare. We carried our own beef, and mutton, and poultry, to be slaughtered as wanted; and our fare, as a whole, was excellent and generous. Our company, it must be confessed, was rather heterogeneous, but altogether was social and enjoyable. We had army officers and their wives, going east, on leave or transfer; a U. S. Consul from the Sandwich Islands, en route to Washington, on public business; Englishmen from Hong Kong, bound for New York or London; merchants, bankers, and gamblers from San Francisco; red-shirted miners from Nevada and Arizona; and women of all sorts, from fine ladies and true mothers, to dulcineas of dubious character. The general decorum, however, was above criticism; and on Sundays, when a San Francisco divine held service, all were attentive listeners, notwithstanding his High-Church absurdities. The morning promenade on deck, and the evening smoke on the guards, were the great occasions for conversation, and all enjoyed them to the full.

Our first stopping-place was at Cape St. Lucas, the extreme point of Southern California, where we put off two passengers, and took on none. Thence, we crossed the mouth of the Gulf of California, and halted at Manzanillo, Mexico—a little hamlet of two or three hundred souls, the sea-port of the fine town of Colima, some seventy-five miles inland. Here we put off a hundred tons of freight, intended for the interior, and spent several hours. Eight days out, we reached Acapulco, the chief Mexican port on the Pacific Coast, and world-famous in other days, when Spain bore rule here. The harbor is perfectly land-locked, with bold islands off the mouth and deep water close in shore, and here ought to be a great and puissant city. From San Francisco down, not counting San Diego, this is the first really good harbor; and here is the great route for trade and travel, across Mexico, via the capital and Vera Cruz, to the Atlantic. Yet we found only a squalid town of two or three thousand inhabitants, mostly half-negro and half-Indian, with a trace of the Spaniard here and there mixed in. A handful of Americans and Germans controlled the business of the town; and as for the rest—they seemed to be a lotus-eating, inert race, not inaptly denominated "greasers." A general look of decadence prevailed everywhere; and if this be a sample of Mexican civilization, after a trial of two centuries, or more, alas for its future! Not a single wagon-road led from the town inland, in any direction; and the only means of transit, to or from the interior, was by horse or mule-back, over winding mountain-trails, the same as in the days of Cortez.

We reached there June 18th, soon after breakfast; and had scarcely rounded to, before the Philistines were—not exactly upon, but—around us. They swarmed about our vessel in bum-boats and dug-outs, of all shapes and sizes, tendering oranges, limes, bananas, shells, etc., for a consideration—sending them up the ship's sides by a cord and tiny basket, trusting us to return the agreed-for coin. When these failed to please, they paraded their skill as swimmers and divers, plunging under like ducks when a coin was tossed overboard, and sure to catch it before it reached the bottom. With little or no clothing, except about the loins, and often not that, they seemed to be an amphibious sort of creatures—equally at home on land, or sea.

As we were to spend several hours here, taking in coal and water to last to Panama, many of us embraced the opportunity to go ashore and see something of the town. When we touched the beach, comely maidens of coffee-colored complexion met us, with baskets and strings of shells, to any of which we were heartily welcome, provided we paid well for them. They always tender their wares as a "gift," a trick of Acapulco's, as also of Manzanillo's and Panama's; but they invariably expect more than their real value, in return. Passing on, we found the town to consist of one-story adobes, with streets hardly more spacious than good foot-pavements East, and with little business to speak of, except what the tri-monthly steamers supplied. The stores were chiefly baskets or boxes on the side-walks or street-corners, and even these were in charge of women, while the lazy-looking men "loafed" or lounged in the shade, sipping their aguardiente or whiffing their cigarritos with infinite content. The flocks of children, from infants to half-grown youths, were usually guiltless of raiment, and all seemed supremely happy, if only sucking an orange or munching a banana.

All gazed at Los Americanos with good-natured curiosity, and a score were eager to show us to the U. S. Consulate, which was already well-designated by the Stars and Stripes drooping idly from its staff. The Consul himself, unfortunately, was absent; but his deputy, Mr. Sutter, gave us kindly welcome, and we spent an instructive hour, listening to his stories of Mexican life and manners. From there, we went to the rude church or "cathedral," on the plaza; and found in its tawdry ornaments and doll-like images—its wax-figure Christs, its tissue-paper angels, and pewter amulets—an easy explanation of the ignorance, and squalor, and stagnation of this people. The fat and jolly priest suspended his devotions, to sell us pewter charms (he swore, by the Virgin, they were silver!) that would insure us against fever and shipwreck on the voyage; and afterwards he invited us round to take a sip of aguardiente and see his favorite game-cock. Thence, we strolled down the beach, between rows of palms and bananas, to the old Spanish fort, and found it a solid and substantial structure still, though a century or two old. True, it would not stand long before one of our modern monitors; but it was a fine work in its day, and showed well yet. A company or two of dirty and ragged soldiers constituted the garrison—their uniforms heterogeneous, and their arms really worthless. We sent our compliments to the commanding officer, hoping to gain an entrance; but he was absent, and his pompous subordinate declined to admit such Northern barbarians.

Returning to the Constitution, late in the afternoon we bade good-bye to Acapulco; and thence, following the trend of the continent, across the gulf of Tehuantepec, by Guatemala, by San Salvador, by Nicaragua, by Costa Rica, and finally by New Granada, at last, on the morning of June 25th, we cast anchor at Panama. During all of this week's sail, we were hardly ever out of sight of land, and usually were so near, that we could note the flocks and herds, the houses and trees, and rich luxuriance of this tropical coast generally, as we glided by. Lofty mountain-ranges and cone-shaped peaks—old volcanoes now extinct, rising thirteen thousand and fourteen thousand feet above the sea—were generally in view by day; and at night fitful lightnings, playing apparently from peak to peak, often lit up the whole heavens.

Here at Panama, the key of two continents and two oceans, we again struck the busy currents of modern life, though but little belonged to the natives there. The broad bay itself, with its shapely islands of perpetual green, crowned with the ever-graceful palm and banana, was a delightful scene, tropical thoroughly; but here also were lines of busy steamers, from Chili and Australia, as well as California, and the old harbor gave multiplied signs of life and energy. The railroad to Aspinwall, costly as it was, both in life and treasure, opened up a pathway across the Isthmus to the commerce of the world, and Panama stands at the gate. In another land, or with a better people, she would soon become a mighty metropolis. But we found her much like Acapulco, though with broader streets, better houses, and more population. I believe she claimed four or five thousand inhabitants then; but they were chiefly a mixed race, in which the most of what is really valuable in humanity seemed to be dying out. They had no public schools, and scarcely knew what popular education meant. Their churches, venerable only for their age, but in this dating back to the Spanish conquest, were crumbling to ruins. Their religion was only an ignorant superstition or savage fanaticism. And their government, so-called, was in a state of chronic revolution, so that nobody seemed to know when it was up or down. Of course, the real business of the town was in the hands of foreigners—chiefly Americans, Germans, and English—and these "pushed things," with much of their wonted skill and energy, notwithstanding the climate. The natives, as a rule, contented themselves with driving a petty traffic in parrots and shells, oranges and bananas; and literally swarmed around us, until we were weary alike of their clamor and dirt.

We reached Panama, as I have said, early in the morning, but did not get off for Aspinwall until about noon. All this time was spent in disembarking passengers, with their baggage, and fast freight; but, at last, the impatient locomotive whistled "up brakes," and we moved slowly off. The ride across the Isthmus is fifty miles, and is usually made in two or three hours; but half-way across, a baggage-car broke down, and we were detained four hours in an impenetrable jungle. It had rained that morning at Panama, and the sun was still obscured; but the air was dense with heat and moisture, that hung as if in strata and folds about you, without a breath to disturb them—and to say we steamed and sweltered, during those four long hours there, would only half express our perspiring experience. All along the road, there was a tropical luxuriance and splendor, which no word-painting can describe, and here in this jungle both seemed to culminate. What we in a sterner clime grow in hot-houses and conservatories, as rare exotics, there rioted in the open air, as well they might, and all nature seemed bursting with exuberance and richness. Underneath, grasses and shrubbery so dense, that only the machete could clear the way, or keep them under. Overhead, the lordly palm and gracious banana, with flowering vines, pendent, interlacing, creeping, and twining everywhere. Bread-fruit and bananas hung everywhere, in clusters as big as half-bushel baskets; and here and there, birds of brilliant plumage flitted to and fro, fit denizens with the chattering monkeys, and screaming parrots, of such a wilderness. The whole ride, indeed, through the heart thus of the tropics, after all, was a rare experience; and the transition from the steamer to the railroad, notwithstanding the heat, a welcome change.

The railroad itself seemed well built, and fairly managed. It was said, indeed, to rest literally on human bodies, so many poor fellows perished in the deadly miasmas, while constructing it. The ties and sleepers were of lignum-vitæ, and the telegraph poles of terra-cotta or cement, as nothing else would withstand the insects and moisture of the Isthmus. The stations were well apart, and seemed maintained solely for the convenience of the road, as hardly a passenger got off or on, except employés of the company. We could see the natives, as we passed along, lolling in their hammocks, or stretched out on mats, in their rude huts of poles and palm-leaves; and their herds of children ran everywhere at will, as naked as when born. Sometimes, a few of the inhabitants clustered about a station; but as a rule, this required too much effort, and they preferred to take their dolce far niente in their huts. The taint of the Spaniard seemed to be over them all; or, else, nature was too kindly to them, removing all incentive to exertion, by omitting the necessity for it.

We ran into Aspinwall at 6 p. m., and remained there until 8 p. m. We spent the time in exploring the town, but found little to interest any one. It had no storied past, like Panama; and its future depended on—Pacific Mail. Some found cheap linens, wines, and cigars, as Aspinwall was a free port, and laid in a stock for future consumption, to the damage of our Customs Revenue. But the most of us were sated and weary, with the day's rare experiences, and were glad when the steamer's bell rang "All aboard!" Our High-Church chaplain proved to be our only really useful man, at Aspinwall, after all. He married a couple, while we halted there; and would have married another, had there been time. Both had been waiting several weeks, much-enduring souls—Aspinwall, it seems, not affording a minister.

Our complement of passengers had been swelled, by accessions from Valparaiso and Melbourne; and hence, from Aspinwall to New York, we were rather overcrowded. Our good ship Rising Star was staunch and sea-worthy; but without the roomy accommodations of the Constitution, or her thorough appointments. Her beef and mutton were all brought from New York on ice, to last for a twenty-day's voyage to Aspinwall and back; and, before we reached New York, were not like Cæsar's wife—above suspicion. But, on the whole, there was little to complain of; and the ship's officers certainly did their utmost, to make everybody content and comfortable.

Our route to New York, distant about two thousand miles, lay across the Caribbean Sea, and thence off the eastern terminus of Cuba, through the West Indies, home. We had some rough weather, with continuous thunder and lightning, as it seemed, for a day or two, while crossing the Caribbean. But, once past that, we entered a region of blue skies and balmy breezes, and sighted New York in eight days from Aspinwall. We passed Cuba so near, that her green hills and mountains seemed within a stone's throw; and, threading the West Indies, struck the Gulf Stream, whence both steam and current hurried us forward. We reached Sandy Hook at sundown, July 3d, where they quarantined us till morning, much to our disgust. But the 4th broke gloriously, over city and bay; and amid ringing bells, and firing cannon, and fluttering bunting, we steamed proudly up the harbor—it never seemed so magnificent before—and touching the pier, thus ended our journey.

To land on such a day seemed a fit conclusion, to such a twelve-month's ramble, across the continent and over the seas; and that evening at home, surrounded by loving friends, seemed doubly dear from the long absence and safe return. How much we had seen of the Great Republic—only a little can be told here! How it enlarged, and dignified, one's conception of the Fatherland! What a magnificent country we really have—washed by two oceans, crowned with mountains, and gemmed with lakes; and yet, evidently, it is only a prophecy of that Greater America, when we shall occupy the continent, from the Arctic down to the Isthmus, with teeming millions, and convert the Pacific practically into a Yankee sea. Well might Whittier, our truest seer, melodiously sing:

And, best of all, over all this broad land, there shall then be but one flag and one freedom, one law and one liberty, one Right and one Justice, for us and for all men—wherever born and of whatever faith, however poor or however humble. And to this end, and for this purpose, let us, and all who love the English-speaking race, if not mankind, sincerely pray, God save the Republic!

In conclusion, let me add, to the many friends we met everywhere en route, for their numberless kindnesses and unstinted courtesies, we were much indebted; and I would gratefully record my sense of this here. Nobler souls, more generous spirits, than most of the people we encountered, especially in Colorado and California, never breathed; and here is good fortune to them, one and all, wherever they may chance to be! Surely, they have fought a good fight, in their rough life on the border, preparing the way for civilization, and deserve well of their country and their kind.

But, all things must end—this volume included; and so, O reader, in the vernacular of the Coast, "Adios," and good-bye!

Trenton, N. J., March, 1874.

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

On page 51, I speak of the Plains as the great stock-raising and dairy region of America, in the future. As some evidence of how fast this prophecy is becoming fact, I append the following extracts from an article by Dr. H. Latham, in the Omaha Herald of June 5, 1870:

"Demonstrated Facts.—The season of 1870 has been a memorable one in the stock business on the Plains. It commenced in doubt, but closes with unlimited confidence in the complete practicability and profits of stock-growing and winter grazing.

"Increase of Cattle in the West.—The number of cattle in the country west of the Missouri River and east of the Snowy Range, is now double, if not four times larger than in 1869. Its present magnitude and future prospects entitle it to a full share of public attention.

"Shipments of Beef to Eastern Markets.—Two years ago our beef and cattle were brought from the East. To-day, cattle-buyers from Chicago and New York are stopping at every station on our railroads, and buying cattle in all our valleys for Eastern consumption. It is safe to predict that 15,000 head of beeves will be shipped from our valleys East the present season. During the past week I have visited some of the great herds on the Plains, and will give your readers an account of them.

"The Great Herds.—The herds of Edward Creighton, Charles Hutton, and Thomas Alsop, are grazed on the Big Laramie, which is a tributary of the North Platte. The Laramie Valley is between the Black Hills and the Medicine-Bow Range. It is about one hundred miles long and thirty miles wide. It is about midway in this valley, and six miles from the railroad station at Laramie, that these gentlemen have located their stock ranches. They have extensive houses, stables, and corrals. As we leave the station on a beautiful August morning (which is characterized by the clearest of blue skies and golden sunlight), you see Mount Agassiz directly in front of you, while Mount Dix and Mount Dodge, with snow-covered tops, are respectively on the right and left.

"We follow up the Laramie on a smooth road, which is like rolling the wheels over a floor. We follow the windings of the stream, which is clear as crystal, and pure as the snow from which its waters have just come. We first come to a herd of 4,000, half and three-quarter, breed cows; that is, there are none more than one-half Texan, and many only one-fourth. They are known among cattle dealers as short-horned Texas cattle. There are 3,600 calves in this herd, that are from three-eighths to one-half Durham. These cows have been here on the Plains one winter and two summers. All the dry cows are exceedingly fat, and many of the cows, with calves by their sides, are good beef. In this herd are many two-year-olds and yearlings, all fat for the butcher, so far as their condition is concerned. In all this herd there are as many as 9,000 head of cattle—4,000 cows, 3,600 calves, 1,000 two-year-olds, and 500 yearlings.

"Their Habits.—They range over a country fifteen by twenty miles. The cows and calves run together the year around, and, in fact, are never separated, but run in families of four, generally, cow, calf, yearling, and two-year-old. They are to be found on the river bottoms in the middle of the day, where they had come about 11 o'clock for water. They return about 4 o'clock in the afternoon to the high grounds, where the rich bunch and the nutritious gramma grasses are abundant, and feed till night, and lie down on the warm sandy soil till next morning, when they feed till the heat of the day. It is interesting to see the habits of these cattle when unrestrained by herders. They travel back and forth to the water and grazing-ground in families and little herds, in single file, like their predecessors of the soil, the buffalo, forming deep paths, or trails, like them. After having spent three or four hours looking at this herd, we pass up the river to the beef herd, which consists of 3,500 fat Texas cattle, in the very highest order at which grass-fed cattle arrive in this world. These cattle have been here one or two seasons, and will weigh, upon an average, live weight, 1,300 pounds. They could all be sold to-day for Eastern markets at good figures. They have yet three months of good weather to fatten this season, when, with 5,000 more, bought by these enterprising men, and on their way here, they will be sold East, or slaughtered and sent East in the quarter.

"There is, still higher up the stream, and nearer the mountains, a stock herd of yearlings and two-year-olds, that occupy our time for an hour or two.

"Blooded Stock Cattle.—Then we cross over to Sand Creek, a small branch of the Laramie, and see the herd of American cattle, which, including Hutton's and Alsop's, numbers 400, mostly cows. They are as fine stock as can be found anywhere. Among this herd are several fine-graded Durham bulls, and two thoroughbreds that were bought in Ohio at high prices. These parties are owners of 300 blooded bulls, from which the finest calves are being raised by the cross between them and the graded Texan cow. It is interesting for the stock man to see these calves, which show the Durham so clearly in every instance—another proof of the general law that the stronger and better blooded of the two races will give form and impress to the progeny. This fact is remarkably illustrated in these herds—the second and third crosses leaving no trace of the Texan blood.

"Here, on this ranch, are 300 brood mares, and some young stock, yearling and two-year-old colts, which have been raised here, and have never been fed nor sheltered. They are as large and fine colts as are raised anywhere. These brood mares and colts are herded, but never stabled nor fed winters.

"Sheep.—We next proceed to these flocks of sheep, which in all number more than 10,000 head, besides the lambs—of these there are 3,000—making in all 13,000. Some of these are from New Mexico, but the great majority are from Iowa, and are fine Merino sheep. They will average fully five pounds of wool per head. Ample shelters have been provided them in case of storm. Much the larger number of these flocks are ewes. The owners expect to raise 6,000 lambs, and to shear 65,000 pounds of wool next year.

"These parties have about five miles of fence, inclosing hay grounds, pastures for riding stock, and other purposes. They have, in all, more than $300,000 invested here, which is a sufficient commentary upon their enterprise, foresight, and courage. They are the great stock princes of the mountains. Of all living men they have done most to solve this question of winter grazing.

"We next proceed to the Little Laramie, where Messrs. Mautle & Bath have 400 head of American and half-breed stock; they are at the old stage-road crossing, and have some fine blooded stock. Above them, behind Sheep Mountain, directly under the white top of Mount Dodge, named after General Dodge, on the head of the Little Laramie, is a valley twenty miles long and ten miles wide, divided about equally by the north, middle, and south forks of that stream. These are rapid running streams that never freeze in winter. They have groves of timber on their banks and bottom lands furnishing shade in summer and shelter in winter. This valley is a pocket in the mountains, having only one point of ingress, and no egress but by the same way. Here are 2,900 cattle owned by Lambard & Gray, of New York, Captain Coates of the Army, and the subscriber. Three men are able to herd them, from the nature of the valley, and it is certainly a cattle paradise. Of this herd, 1,200 are cows, 700 two-year-olds, 300 yearlings, and 700 calves. This stock is short-horned Texan, and a good lot of stock cattle.

"Iliff's Herds on Crow Greek.—After leaving this herd, we take a three-hours' run on the railroad, which takes us across the Black Hills to Cheyenne, which is the headquarters of J. W. Iliff. His cattle range is down Crow Creek to the Platte, twenty to thirty miles. On this grazing ground he has 6,700 cattle, classed as follows: 3,500 beeves, 2,000 cows, and 1,200 calves. The stock cattle are half-breeds, except yearlings and calves, which he has raised, and which show the Durham cross. The beeves are heavy, fat cattle, ranging in live weight from 1,200 to 1,400 pounds. This whole range down Crow Creek, from Cheyenne to the Platte, affords the best of grasses, and the creek bluffs shelter the stock completely from storms. Mr. Iliff has been the owner of great herds of cattle in the last twelve years, and is firm in the faith that this is the place to raise beef for Eastern markets. His cattle have sold in Chicago market from five to six cents per pound, live weight, this season. The whole 3,500 head of beeves will be shipped East this fall. Mr. Iliff is another of those who have demonstrated to the world that we have winter grazing, and in so doing he has made a fortune. Long may such men live to enjoy their fortunes!

"On the other side of the Platte, on the Bijou, are the herds of the Patterson Brothers, Reynolds, and John Hitson. These herds number 8,000 head of cattle, 6,000 of them being beef-cattle. The Patterson Brothers are great cattle-raisers and dealers. They own ranches on the Arkansas River, at Bent's Old Fort, and on the Pecos River, below Fort Sumner, in New Mexico. They have handled hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of cattle in the last five years.

"John Hitson is another of the great cattle-raisers and dealers in New Mexico. His herds are numbered by the thousands. His operations are transferred to Colorado now, and so are those of the Patterson Brothers. On Box-Elder Creek, which is a branch of the Caché la Poudre, is the ranch and stock range of Mr. Whitcombe, an old settler of Colorado. He has 2,000 stock cattle and some fine blooded bulls. This range and shelter are perfect.

"Reed & Wyatt, on the Platte, nearer Denver, have 1,000 head of stock and beef cattle. They are about adding largely to their number.

"Farwell Brothers, Greeley, have 200 head of fine American cattle.

"Baily, on the south side of the Platte from Greeley, has 400 head of Durham and Devon stock, and 2,000 sheep.

"Geary, on the Platte, has 300 head of American cattle.

"The Lemons, at Greeley, have 400 head of American stock. In this neighborhood, Ashcraft has 400 head of American cattle; Munson has 800 head of cattle and 3,000 sheep. Up the Caché la Poudre are twenty large stock-raisers.

"On the Big and Little Thompson's there are some five herds of blooded stock.

"After you leave Evans and go south towards Denver, the whole country seems one pasture covered with stock. I travelled over this same ground in 1869, and I am sure there are fully three times as many cattle here now as then. There are hundreds of farmers on the Lone-Tree Creek, Caché la Poudre, Big and Little Thompson's Creeks, St. Vrain's, and many other streams which flow from the mountains to the Platte, who have from one hundred to one thousand head of cattle, a description of whose herds and grazing grounds would take too much space in an article of this kind.

"Shipments of Cattle West.—Colorado has sold an immense number of cattle this season to Montana, Idaho, Nevada, and Utah. It is safe to say that Montana will receive twenty thousand head of cattle during the season of 1870, four-fifths of which are from Colorado. Many have gone to Utah, Nevada, and Idaho from the same source, and yet, ten years ago, the commercial and stock-growing people of the East did not know that Colorado contained a thousand acres of grass land. To-day they have no idea of the magnitude of her grazing resources.

"Leaving Colorado, we find some herds along the base of the Black Hills.

"North of Cheyenne.—H. Kelly, on the 'Chug,' has 500 stock cattle. He sold 100 head of American beeves at $70 per head.

"Messrs. Ward & Bullock, at Fort Laramie, have 200 head of American cattle.

"Adolph Cluny, so long a resident on the North Platte, has a herd of 1,000 stock cattle between Forts Laramie and Fetterman.

"Between Cheyenne and Sidney, on the line of the railroad, there are several small herds. At Sidney are the Moore Brothers, who have 12,000 sheep and lambs, and 1,400 cattle; 400 of the latter are American and very fine. The sheep sheared an average of five pounds of wool per head last spring. They are graded Merinos, and are in fine condition. There is no disease among them. The Moore Brothers were ranchmen on the South Platte, prior to the day of railroads, and are about returning to that stream for grazing. Their place is the Valley Station of olden fame on the stage road. Above them, on the Platte, at the old 'Junction,' Mr. Mark Boughton has 2,500 stock cattle. He has as fine a cattle range as there is in the world, not excluding the Pampas of South America nor table-lands of Australia.

"Farther down the Platte, at O'Fallon's Bluffs, on the north side of the South Platte, Creighton & Parks have 3,500 stock cattle, 400 of which are Durhams. They range twenty miles up and down the Platte. Near them, below, is the herd of Mr. Keith, of North Platte Station, who has about 1,000 head.

"Mr. M. H. Brown has 500 head of stock cattle and beeves near the same place.

"Across the Platte, in the neighborhood of Fort McPherson, the Bent Brothers have 1,000 head of stock cattle, and will add another 1,000 the present season.

"Messrs. Carter & Coe have a large herd near there, which numbers near a thousand.

"Mr. Benjamin Gallagher has 1,200 head at the old Gilman ranch, twelve miles from McPherson.

"Progress this Season.—More real progress has been made in stock matters west of the Missouri this season than in all time before. We have not only added to the numbers of our herds and flocks, but we have given confidence to all our stock-growers and to Eastern people in the permanency and profit of grazing in the Trans-Missouri country.

"We are now in easy reach of Eastern markets. The railways are landing the heaviest cattle in Chicago from the Rocky Mountains at $9 and $10 per head; we can sell thousands and tens of thousands annually to the Pacific slope, and there is still an all-absorbing home demand to stock our thousands of valleys.

"The Future.—As every country in the West receives a new emigrant, and his plow turns the grass under, that corn and wheat may grow in its stead, the range of the stock-grower is that much contracted, and the area of grazing lessened. By reason of the high value of lands for grain-growing purposes the people of the country east of the Mississippi River are already coming to us for beef and mutton. Chicago and New York people are enjoying the juicy steaks from cattle fattened on our nutritious grasses that grow in our valleys and on our mountain-sides, close up to the perpetual snows of the Rocky Mountains.

"As immigration takes up more and more of the pastures east of us for grain, drovers will be obliged more and more to come to us for beef. Texas, the great hive of cattle, has received three hundred thousand settlers this season. The grazing area of that State has been lessened at least a million acres thereby. Everywhere events point to this Trans-Missouri country as the future dependence of the East for wool, beef, mutton, and horses."

Page 60.—The following article, clipped from the New-York Times, contains so much valuable information, bearing on the question of Irrigation, as related to the Plains and the great Internal Basin of the Continent, that I venture to insert it here. It seems to be a careful resumé of the facts that were brought before the notable Convention of Governors and others, that met in Denver in the autumn of '73, to consider the question of a general and comprehensive system of irrigation for all that region:

WATER SUPPLY FOR THE GREAT PLAINS REQUIRED.

Correspondence of the New-York Times.

Denver, Colorado, Friday, Oct. 17, 1873.

It is a fact, perhaps not generally considered, that the ninety-ninth meridian of longitude west from Greenwich, the meridian of Fort Kearney on the Platte, and Fort Hays, marks a division line in the physical geography of the continent. Here the prairies merge into the great plains, and the abundant rain-fall of eastern meridians ceases. West of this line lies one-half of the area of the United States, all of which, excepting a small strip on the shores of the Pacific, is without sufficient rain-fall for the cultivation of the soil. This great arid region comprises more than two-thirds of Kansas and Nebraska, a large portion of California, Oregon, Washington, and Texas, and nearly all of Colorado, Wyoming, Utah, New Mexico, Idaho, Montana, Arizona, Nevada, and Dakota. Here are one million square miles of barren country, and the question is, What shall we do with it?

The keen interest felt in this matter has been evident from the large attendance upon this convention, and the mass of information and argument presented. Whatever has been done thus far toward reclaiming any portion of these waste lands has been by individual enterprise, except in Utah and New Mexico a system of irrigation has been enforced by legislative enactments. In New Mexico the acequias are the most important features of the country. The subsistence of the people depends upon them, and the laws protecting them fill many pages of the statute books. An overseer of acequias is selected in every precinct, who fixes the number of laborers to be furnished by each land-owner, apportions their work, and distributes the water. Yet not over 300 square miles is under cultivation in that Territory. In Utah, where there is in operation the most complete and successful system of irrigation in this country, only about 140,000 acres are under cultivation. By legislative enactment the counties have power to build canals just as they build roads. Water commissioners are chosen at regular elections, in each county, and their services are paid out of the general tax levy, and they give bonds for the faithful performance of their duties. Subordinate commissioners, or water masters, are selected by neighborhoods, cities, and towns, and they are paid by assessments on the land. There are now over 1,200 miles of irrigating canals in Utah, with a capacity for watering 100,000 acres. The population of the Territory is upward of 150,000. It has 190 prosperous towns and cities. Its farm products are shipped into the neighboring Territories, and even into the Missouri Valley. In Colorado there has been no general plan of irrigation. Private corporations build canals and sell the water therefrom to the ranchmen. Several of the towns are supplied in this way. The colonies have also done much in this respect. But no general system has been adopted in that Territory, nor has the legislature ever taken cognizance of the situation. The same may be said of the other States and Territories interested in this movement. Irrigation has been limited. The few acres that have been reclaimed in the immediate vicinity of the streams and cañons, near the mountains, bear no comparison to the vast body of plain and desert stretching hundreds of miles in every direction.

The cost of constructing irrigating canals varies according to the character of the country. The average in Colorado has been $7 per acre. It is thought by competent engineers that in a general system of canals for the Plains, east of Denver, the cost must run from $10 to $15 per acre. According to careful estimates, Colorado has a water supply sufficient to irrigate 6,000,000 acres, an arable area which, in Egypt, in the times of the Ptolemies, supplied food for 8,000,000 people. The Plains, extending from the foot-hills of the Rocky Mountains eastward nearly 300 miles, comprise about 25,000,000 acres. Of this vast tract there are 1,500,000 acres belonging to the Kansas Pacific Railway Company, lying south of the Platte River, and which a canal from the Platte Cañon to the headwaters of the Republican will cover. Such a canal, 12 feet wide and 3 feet deep, will cost $1,000 per mile. It will make lands that now go a-begging at $2.50 per acre worth from $10 to $15.

The want of water is the one and only drawback to the settlement of the Trans-Missouri country. Farming along the streams has been carried on enough to show that the soil is not only fertile, but extremely so, insuring, with plenty of water, crops surpassing those of the best farming districts elsewhere. The average yield, year in and year out, through the Rocky Mountain region, whenever irrigation is employed, has been found to be as follows: Wheat, 27 bushels per acre; oats, 55; potatoes, 150 to 200; onions, 250; barley, 33. This is far above the average of Illinois or Ohio. It is believed that the mountain streams, if turned into proper channels, will irrigate the greater part of the Plains, both east and west of the Mountains. This is particularly true of Western Kansas and Nebraska, Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, and New Mexico. The great rivers of the Platte, Arkansas, Rio Grande, and Colorado could be divided at or near their source in the mountains, and made to cover vast quantities of land. In Utah, it is proposed to take out canals from the Jordan, Weber, and Bear rivers, diminishing the supply in Great Salt Lake, and distributing it over other adjacent portions of the territory. And in California, engineers have been sent out to turn the Colorado River into the desert of Arizona, and Southern California.

Page 279.—Her statistics (San Francisco) for 1873 are equally significant, and foot up about as follows: In that year over 70,000 people arrived there, by land and sea, and less than half that number departed. Nearly 4,000 vessels entered her harbor, measuring about 2,000,000 tons. She exported 10,000,000 sacks of wheat, and nearly 1,000,000 barrels of flour; and Californians claimed, it wasn't much of a year for "wheat", either! The total wheat crop of the State, which mostly sought her wharves, was estimated as worth fully $26,000,000, or nearly $10,000,000 more than in 1872—prices being higher; the wool-clip, say, $7,000,000; the wine product, $2,000,000. Her total exports, of all kinds, was estimated at about $80,000,000; and, best of all, while her exports had largely increased, her imports had considerably decreased. Real estate had been dull for a year or two, and yet her sales that year aggregated about $15,000,000; while her mining stocks sold for $150,000,000, and paid dividends about $14,000,000, as against less than half that amount in 1872. The cash value of her property was estimated at $250,000,000 and of the State at about $600,000,000.

California's yield of the precious metals in 1873 was estimated at about $18,000,000, which was some two millions less than in 1872, and was already surpassed by her magnificent wheat crop of $26,000,000. Her total agricultural products for '73 were believed to aggregate $80,000,000; while all her mines and manufactures produced only about $70,000,000, though employing nearly double the number of people. Evidently, with her vast area of 120,000,000 acres of land, of which fully 40,000,000 are fit for the plow, our farmers there have a brilliant future before them, notwithstanding they will have to irrigate to raise some crops.

Page 324.—The following is a table of mean temperature at Santa Barbara for the year 1870-1: