Scenes in Sacramento.

May, 1853. California in early times offered innumerable scenes partaking of the ludicrous and the horrible, and a person in search of either, might have his taste and his curiosity gratified at almost any moment. The Horse Market in Sacramento was the great resort of every imaginable description of characters, and such a scene of uproar and confusion as it presented at a public sale is utterly indescribable. There were some fine sycamores standing there before the Great Fire which destroyed the greater portion of the city. They had been found very useful for suspending thieves and robbers in the days of lynch law. After the fire, the trees were felled, and the stumps afforded excellent stands for the auctioneers. At one of the public sales of horses I saw four auctioneers stationed upon these stumps. The full strength of their lungs was called into exercise, and they were vociferating in their loudest tones, each one striving to outdo the others in noise, and all extolling the various merits of their respective animals with an eloquence peculiar to horse-jockeys, while their assistants, mounted on the horses, were riding around with a speed and a carelessness that threatened death to half the multitude that thronged the streets.

While this scene was enacting, a fight was taking place in a neighboring gambling-house between two combatants who were seen rushing from the house followed by an excited multitude. One of the duelists, bruised and bloody, was retreating from the other, who followed close upon him, dealing repeated blows, which the poor fellow sometimes turned to parry, while hastening to make his escape. The crowd followed on, shouting like demons, and increasing in numbers at every step. "Oh, that is dreadful!" exclaimed a horror-struck young man, who had but recently arrived in California, and had not been initiated in its manners and customs. The throng of excited brutes at length came to a stand; the chase and the battle were ended; the victory was won, and the defeated combatant was taken to a surgeon who seemed to be the only one benefitted by the affray, and who exclaimed in a tone of charming sensibility: "Let them fight to their hearts' content, if they will only employ me to repair their broken heads!"

Scarcely was this affair ended, when a loud shout was heard down the street, and we beheld a stampede of Spanish cattle followed by several herdsmen on horseback, who rushed along with furious speed, swinging their coiled lassos as they went, now striving to turn the drove of wild cattle, and now retreating before them as they pressed forward unchecked by horses or riders; now dashing along side by side with a single ox, whose speed nearly equalled the fleetness of the horse; and now in the midst of the drove, which seemed scarcely to make room for them. However, after much shouting, hallooing, and racing, the cattle were turned back, and the exciting scene was over.

But again another shout, and a team of oxen was seen running away with a wagon in which was seated the teamster. After running a considerable distance, the teamster, watching a favorable opportunity, leaped nimbly from his wagon, and headed his oxen, who, stopping suddenly, broke the rigging attached to the yoke, and letting the tongue of the wagon fall to the ground, brought oxen and wagon together in a heap.

All this for one hour's sport in one locality in Sacramento. What sort of amusements they were enjoying at the same time in other parts of the city I did not learn.

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Cattle Stealing in Contra Costa.

August 17, 1854. My neighbor, Mr. R., has lost an ox. It was stolen; and a horse stolen also. Another neighbor, Mr. A., has lost three valuable oxen in the same way.

The great facilities for concealing oxen, horses, and other property in the innumerable deeply secluded valleys and hiding-places that occur in every direction in the mountainous country, which, commencing at these Redwoods, extend to the valley of the San Joaquin, offer too many inducements to the numerous idlers and vagabonds that prowl about the land to be visited; and consequently theft, robbery, and I may almost add, murder, are but every day occurrences. No man who owns a horse, an ox or swine, can feel secure of them for a moment when out of sight. These thieves are often associated in large gangs, and consist of both Americans and Mexicans; and so great is the number of their accomplices in some of the villages, that when one of their number is detected, means are immediately furnished him to escape. The very officer who is commissioned to secure him, is not unfrequently a party concerned in the thefts. Many of the butchers are supposed to be leagued with the thieves, and, by purchasing their stolen property at low prices, they thus share the profits with them.

August 23. Justice has at last overtaken two of the cattle thieves. Suspicion had for some time past rested on some butchers at San Antonio, and they were watched, and detected in the act of slaughtering in the night some cows and oxen that had just been stolen. Messengers were immediately sent many miles around the country to notify the inhabitants to assemble for the trial of the felons. The people of the Redwoods, who had suffered severely from the depredations of the thieves, turned out almost en masse. The house of the butchers was the place appointed for the trial. Passing by that place at the time, I had the curiosity to stop for a moment, and was surprised to observe a strange hesitation and faltering among the people assembled. A long discussion ensued as to the proper mode of conducting the trial, which ended in turning the thieves over to the legal authorities. This, under the existing state of things, was nearly equivalent to giving them their liberty; and it was resolved by a number of determined fellows, that they should not so easily escape. They were taken before a justice for examination, and their guilt fully proved. But they asked for an adjournment of the trial till the next day, for the alleged purpose of getting some witnesses, but in fact, to give their friends and associates an opportunity to rescue them. The adjournment was granted, and they were taken to a hotel and put under a guard, of which Andrews, from whom they had stolen the oxen, was the head. In the course of the day, a party proceeded to the house and corral of the thieves, and burned them to the ground with all their contents. Not an article was appropriated to their own use by these avengers of their own wrongs. It was justice, not plunder, they sought. Valuable saddles, harnesses and furniture, were all sacrificed.

There was a gathering of the friends of the thieves in the night, but they were driven off by the boys from the Redwoods, who had stationed themselves around the house. These men now began to see that they must act, and act promptly too, or the whole business would prove but a farce, and the guilty villains would escape. They therefore dispatched horsemen to the Redwoods to summon the people again to come and assist in the execution of the two principal criminals. Before morning, a sufficient number had arrived to carry out their plans, and they proceeded to action. A number of them went to the house where the prisoners were confined, and in defiance of the proprietor, who was supposed to be confederate with the thieves, they rushed to the room, and seized one of them, whom they hurried away. It was a scene of great confusion and terror. The guard made a show of resistance, but it was only a show. They fired several shots, but were careful to elevate their revolvers above the heads of their assailants; the balls lodged in the ceiling, and nobody was killed or wounded. The affair had doubtless been preconcerted between Andrews and the assailing party. They hastened the guilty thief to an oak a few rods distant, having at the outset fastened a rope to his neck; and scarcely a moment had elapsed ere he was dangling from a branch. They then returned to the house, and seizing another of the thieves, hurried him away as before. The fellow was in an agony of fear and horror, begged most piteously for his life, protested his innocence, and offered to make important disclosures if they would spare him. All this would not have saved him had it not been discovered by one of the party when they arrived at the tree, that this was not the man they intended to execute. He was therefore led back more dead than alive, having endured far more suffering and horror than his more hardened confederate, whom he saw hanging from the tree, and who had paid the penalty which he so narrowly escaped. The intended victim was then taken to the place of execution, and immediately suspended beside his dead comrade.

While these executions were taking place, many friends of the thieves gathered round, uttering threats and denunciations, but a dozen rifles and revolvers were leveled at them, and they were intimidated into silence.

These executions caused great excitement at the time, and much discussion ensued in the papers respecting them. But the community very generally acquiesced in the necessity of the measure, though every one regretted it. Complaint was made to the grand jury of the county against several of the leaders of the lynching party, but no bill of indictment was found against them for want of evidence. Many of the people of Oakland were highly exasperated at the audacity of the Redwoods boys, and threatened to go and hang them to their own trees. But this served rather to amuse the boys than to frighten them.

A few weeks after these executions, word was brought to the Redwoods that a poor man had been robbed of some oxen in Oakland through the villainy of one of the officials in that city. A company quickly assembled and marched down to the city, determined to have justice done the poor man, and hang the officer if circumstances required it. They had not forgotten the threats of the Oaklanders to hang them, and determined to put their courage to the test. The case was investigated by the mayor of the city, and the mob resolved to await his decision. But much time was occupied in the investigation, and they grew impatient and clamorous. Meanwhile many of them paraded through the streets, uttering defiance to the citizens. "Here is a target," said a brawny, black-bearded Kentuckian, (the same I had encountered in the Redwoods, and who sold me a vulture,) as he strode along with a rusty rifle on his shoulder, and struck his breast. "Here is a target for the Oakland sharp-shooters. Let 'em try it if they dare." "I'm from the Redwoods," roared out another. "Where is your Oakland company to hang me?" "What are you after?" asked a spectator of one of the boys. "Justice," he replied. "But how are you going to obtain it?" "By the halter, if the money isn't paid pretty soon," he replied with an oath.

The affair was approaching a crisis. The mayor's investigation had been protracted, and the clamors and shouts of the mob often reached his ears, when at last he found it necessary to acknowledge that the proceedings of the officer were illegal, that the city was liable for the value of the cattle, and in order to appease the mob, he pledged his individual word for the payment of the money. The party then returned triumphantly to their homes in the Redwoods, and thus the affair ended.

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Felling Trees in the Redwoods.

January 30, 1854. On an excursion to-day I stopped on the way to see two trees felled. When the reader is told that I had passed more than six months in the Redwoods, and had seen the trees fall around me almost every day, he will suppose that such scenes would lose their novelty for me. It is, however, a scene of no ordinary sublimity to behold one of those monster trees, nearly as high as the Bunker Hill Monument, fall to the ground, and it is a sight which I never tire of seeing.

I speak of them as being nearly as high as the Bunker Hill Monument, because I have seen none of the largest and tallest trees, they having been felled before I arrived here. But a comparison with the monument will serve to give a better idea of their great height than a statement in figures. Imagine then one of them, such as have grown here, and such as are still standing in other forests,—imagine one placed beside the monument, and towering fifty or even seventy-five feet above it, and you will have a conception of the grandeur of these magnificent forests.

The two trees whose fall I was about to witness stood side by side half way up a steep acclivity. One of them had been cut off, and stood leaning against the other.

Two men were at work on the latter tree. I seated myself on a stump at the foot of the hill, and awaited the result. Presently a sharp snap or crackle announced that the tree was about yielding to the efforts of the axe-men, and they stopped and looked up. It stood, however, and they continued to ply their axes. Soon there came another loud crackle, and the two trees began to sway in the direction the axe-men had intended. They now retreated to a secure place, while the trees, moving slowly and majestically at first, but with an accelerated motion, came sweeping down, accompanied with a loud and protracted crash as the fibres of the uncut portion were torn asunder, and striking the ground with a force that made it tremble, and with a noise like the booming report of a heavy cannon. Each tree was broken into several pieces, which came rolling like mighty giants down the hill, tumbling over each other, and strewing the ground with large fragments torn from their sides and ends, while every branch was stripped from the trunks. They landed at last at the foot of the hill, and within a rod of the stump on which I sat, and sent forward a thick and suffocating cloud of dust, from which I hastened to make my escape.

"Ah! we would go a great many miles in Massachusetts to see such a sight as this;" said one of the axe-men, a young man from that state, "But we can never see any thing like it there."

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Solitude.

December, 1853. An important change has been in progress for some time past in the Redwoods. Three or four months ago I was surrounded by a deep, dense forest, in which was a busy population at work. But this industry fast swept away the forest, and as the timber grew scarce, they began to remove to other places. They continued to go until our society was reduced to ten men, living in a little cluster of four cabins. But even this colony has taken a sudden resolution to migrate, and this morning the last man went, and I am left alone. So now, nothing remains for me but to go too, which I shall do as soon as I can determine where.

As for a portion of my departed neighbors—brutal, lawless scoundrels—I am heartily glad they are gone. But I had one good friend, whose absence I deeply regret. From the first moment I came into the woods until we shook hands and parted this morning, Mr. Wakefield has stood by me, a kind, benevolent, warm-hearted, steadfast friend. His disinterested kindness, his anxiety for my welfare, and my success in business, his watchfulness of two or three bitter foes, with whom I have had to contend, and his timely warnings of dangers, have entitled him to my warmest gratitude.

Well, here I am in the depths of a California forest, shut up in a lonely cabin on a winter night, scribbling my diary for the amusement of my daughter, rejoicing in the departure of my foes, and deploring the absence of my friends. And while I ponder on the perfect solitude that surrounds me, I find myself almost unconsciously repeating from Kirk White:

I had a cat. She has been with me all day; but now, when the society of any domestic animal would be some relief against the tedium of this deep loneliness, even she has left me and instead of the purring of a gentle house cat, I am for a moment startled by the dismal howling of a wild animal outside of my cabin. I am unfortunately possessed of an unsocial disposition; I love solitude, but I have at last found a solitude more profound than I have a taste for.

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A Collector of Natural Curiosities.

July 30, 1854. In company with a young man in San Francisco, who had been informed of my taste for the odd and curious productions of nature, I visited a man who had made a considerable collection of objects of Natural History. We found him in a small room in a second story, with his boxes and trunks all packed preparatory to a removal. But on announcing the object of our visit, he seemed much pleased, and though I remonstrated with him against the trouble it would cost him, he proceeded at once to unpack his treasures and spread them before us. But before I speak of them let me describe the man. He was a Norwegian, but having resided several years in the United States, he spoke pretty good English. He was about forty years of age, sprightly and active, with a sparkling eye, and a face covered with a very thick red beard that hung down upon his breast. He was naturally intelligent, though his faculties wanted cultivation. He had never studied Natural History, and did not know a single specimen in his collection by its scientific name. He had passed much time at sea, I do not know in what capacity, but it had afforded him time and opportunity to make a valuable collection.

The first curiosity he exhibited was a family of young mice which he had bottled the day before. Next he produced a bottle containing a little shapeless mass apparently folded up in a bleached tobacco-leaf, and challenged me to tell him the name of it. "A young bat," said I. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "you are the first man that has guessed it." Then he set out bottle after bottle of snakes, some of them very rare and beautiful. These reptiles had the greatest attractions for him, and they composed the largest and most valuable portion of his collection. Then a fine variety of lizards, and a considerable collection of coleopterous insects, among which were some very large and brilliant specimens. Next he produced a Bible, whose pages he had embellished with a variety of butterflies; and lastly, several boxes filled with sea-shells and corals, pieces of crystalized quartz, some specimens of gold in quartz, a copper ball nearly an inch in diameter, which he had found in the mountains, and many other specimens in mineralogy, which he had collected in the mines. He gave me several shells and crystals, and in return I promised him some bones and feathers of the California Vulture and other birds from my cabinet.

He had one live snake which he intended to bottle after it had shed its skin, which it was about to do. This snake was kept in a wooden box; and, while we were engaged in examining his preserved congeners, finding the door of his prison open, he resolved to take an airing on the balcony. Here he was accidentally discovered by the next door neighbors, who gave our friend timely notice. He immediately gave chase, and found his snakeship ensconced among some boxes and other rubbish. Seizing him by the tail, he brought him in writhing and twisting about his hand and arm, darting out his red forked tongue, flashing fire from his eyes, and betraying a total absence of those blandishments with which an ancestor of his once induced a pretty woman to sin. Some one present asked the man if he was not afraid the snake would bite him. "No," he answered, "no snake can bite me." I did not ask him if he was a serpent-charmer, but have been told that he was.

The only ornithological specimens he possessed were the skeleton head and a wing bone of an albatross. He had not learned the art of preserving the skins of birds, and I promised to give him a little instruction if I had time and opportunity. I told him how I had been thwarted in my intention to make a collection in my voyage round Cape Horn by the captain of the ship, and he seemed to struggle for words to express his scorn and contempt for such an ignorant and superstitious ship-master.

His principal collection was in Philadelphia. He had been offered a high price for it, but no amount of money would induce him to sell it.

After a visit of more than two hours, which I engaged to repeat soon, we shook hands and parted. I have seldom seen a man display so much enthusiasm in an occupation which he followed solely for his amusement.

I took occasion some weeks after this, while making another visit at San Francisco, to renew my acquaintance with my Norwegian friend. He had recently received a very fine snake, with which he was highly pleased. I admired his enthusiasm. "O," said he in the course of our conversation, "there is nothing in nature so beautiful as a snake." I remarked that this new specimen was certainly a very handsome one. "O it is splendid, it is most magnificent." We passed an hour very pleasantly together, and parted with much reluctance. I have never seen him since.

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A Pair of Rattlesnakes.

September 12, 1854. My account of the Norwegian snake-collector, naturally recalls a little experience of my own in the same line. A fellow in the Redwoods, near which I was then tarrying, brought me at different times, two splendid rattlesnakes, which I bought and placed in a long box with a glass front, through which I could observe all their motions. It may, perhaps, excite a smile, when I state that by constant familiarity with these reptiles, I had acquired a sort of affection for them, that would have prompted me to defend them from harm, though I never saw one of the species at large, but I made no war upon him, except in one instance in which the snake began the battle, and I fought in self-defense, and happily won the victory. An Indian enriches himself with the scalp of his defeated enemy, and I know not but I might have followed his example in this instance had it been possible, but in the absence of a scalp-lock I was obliged to content myself with such a trophy, as his other extremity afforded, his rattle.

These two reptiles became my pets, and afforded me much amusement. I do not think that I was "charmed" by that wonderful power which is often attributed to the serpent family. There was no "fascination in their eyes," though we often sat and gazed at each other during several minutes. But I liked to watch their motions, and study their habits; to see them thrust out their long, dark, forked tongues as I approached their prison, or erect their tails and shake their rattles when disturbed. I liked to behold their spotted bodies, flattened as they lay quietly stretched on the floor of their cage, but swollen and distended when aroused by a sense of danger; or to see their fangs as they sometimes opened their mouths, as if in the act of gaping. I was amused with a habit they had of slowly stretching themselves at full length along the box, and then suddenly drawing themselves back again. And most of all, I was amused to see them on a cold morning folded together into a coil, from the center of which their flattened heads protruded, and rested side by side upon their bodies, looking, despite their venomous natures, the very picture of affection and of innocence, and affording a lesson, which many a rational biped might study with profit.

These reptiles never quarreled. Place two foxes in a cage, and they will fight from day to day, until one or the other is killed. Even two birds of many species will destroy each other, when confined together. But here was an instance of perfect harmony. In truth they had nothing to quarrel about. They seemed to have no wants except that of liberty, the love of which they probably possessed in common with every other animal. They could fast without hunger or thirst. I placed fresh meat and water in their cage, but they never tasted of either. I threw several lizards in to them, but they allowed them to run over the cage, and even over their bodies unmolested. Still they do eat, though individuals have been known to live many months and even years without tasting food. White in his Natural History of Selbourne, says: "The serpent-kind eat, I believe, but once a year, or, rather, but only just at one season of the year."

But my pets were doomed to a tragical end, which it pains me record. Two old men, who had no fondness for beautiful things in animated nature, nor a taste for any thing else but whiskey and tobacco, got charmingly drunk one day, and being bent on mischief, they broke into my room during my absence, and seized my snakes, took them into the street where they had kindled a fire for the occasion, and with much ceremony and mock solemnity, offered them up to their god, whoever he might be, as a burnt sacrifice. The loss of those snakes was a source of great annoyance and vexation to me, and I earnestly and devoutly prayed that in every fit of delirium-tremens which those old sinners should bring upon themselves during the remainder of their worthless lives, they might be haunted by the ghosts of those murdered innocents.

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A Queer Fellow.

April 18, 1860. Mr. Van Wee was one of the queerest compounds of oddity, with whom it was my fortune to meet in my travels. He kept a hotel at Oak Bottom, ten miles from Shasta. Two Irish women, sisters, were his housekeepers and servants. Many a lively scene was enacted about his establishment, and scarcely a day passed without bringing some extraordinary excitement. One day there was a great uproar in and around the house occasioned by the arrival of a skunk on a visit to the chickens. The dogs barked, the hens cackled, the women screamed, and Van Wee flew round wild with excitement, his gun was brought to him, the intruder chased into the stable and shot, and quiet was restored.

Next day two valuable dogs, very useful for barking at travelers and eating superfluous food, which would otherwise be thrown to the pigs and lost, strayed away or were stolen. A boy and an Irish woman were sent off on horseback after them, and great was the rejoicing in the afternoon on the safe return of dogs, horses, boy and woman.

On the morning of the third day I was surprised to learn that there had been a wedding in the house, and that Mr. Van Wee, in obedience to a sudden impulse had married one of his housekeepers. The wedding had been very private, so much so, that the sister of the bride was not aware that such an event was in contemplation until the hour before its consummation.

This Van Wee, as I have said before, is a queer fellow. He hates the liquor business, but keeps a bar, drinks with all his friends—and they are numerous—and gets mellow every day. He is, or rather was, a Know-Nothing in politics, and hates all foreigners of whatever nation, although his father and mother are Dutch, and his wife is Irish. An infidel in religion, he read me a chapter from Tom Paine's Age of Reason. He contributes freely to churches, and is hospitable to clergymen of whatever creed. He receives a great many rudely expressed, but hearty congratulations from his friends, whom he treats, drinks with, swears at, blackguards, and invites to see "the gal," who receives her friends in the kitchen, while attending to her duties over the stove, with her gown pinned up in true Irish style. His affection for his wife continues unabated, notwithstanding he has been married three days,—this was when I last saw him,—and he betrays it in many acts of coarse kindness; calls her Biddy, ridicules her nation and her religion, damns her priests and feeds them all.

He has sent invitations to all his friends, far and near, men, women and children, to assemble at his house, next week for a grand jollification in commemoration of his wedding. Long may he flourish.

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A Sandwich Island Woman

AND HER YANKEE HUSBAND.

Red Woods, Contra Costra, Dec. 16, 1854. I have made acquaintance with a Kanaka woman, the only one I have ever seen. She is known by the name of Hannah, is eighteen years of age, was married five years ago to a Yankee sailor, and left her native island for a home in California. She is short and thick, with a complexion darker than that of our Indians, has a broad nose and wide mouth, her countenance partaking of a mixture of the Indian and the Negro. She is kind and affectionate, lively and excitable, quick and passionate, simple and guileless. Her mind is uncultivated, and she is grossly vulgar and profane in her language, and disgustingly filthy in her person and dress. She is very temperate, drinking no strong liquors, but smokes cigars. She is honest and trusty, faithful to discharge all debts she may contract, and to fulfil all her engagements. She is a simple-minded child of nature, and I am often amused with her child-like talk.

This morning she was very inquisitive, and made many inquiries about my home and family. I showed her a daguerreotype of my daughter. She examined it with much curiosity and in silence for several minutes, when she broke out in a shower of questions, ejaculations and remarks, which could not but amuse me.

"Dat you little gal? Don to see dranfader? Petty woman, brack hair. Dot a rin on her han. (Ring on her finger.) What you gal name? How old you gal? Very petty. You gal, he no come to Californy? You no want to see you gal? Petty dress." And then she asked me about my father, mother, sister, brothers, and every thing relating to them, until she got a pretty full account of my family.

Hannah is a good rider, and often figures on horseback in a very long blue calico riding-dress, a man's straw hat with a narrow brim, and tied with a string under the chin, and a woolen jacket belonging to her husband. Our circus riders might learn some useful lessons from Hannah's equestrian feats.

Mr. Joseph Tracy, or as he is more familiarly called, Kanaka Joe, is a sailor from Maine, has seen much of the world, was on board the Princeton steamship at the time of the explosion of the great gun, by which several gentlemen of John Tyler's cabinet were killed, and has spent considerable time in the Sandwich Islands, whither he intends to return after he shall have made his fortune in California. Joe is a still, quiet, peaceable fellow, though quick to resent an insult, and can fight beautifully when necessary. He has a sailor's high notions of honor and a sailor's deep passion for drink. He is fond of reading withal, has quite a taste for the yellow-covered literature, talks learnedly of books, and often philosophizes very wisely, and has no mean opinion of his own literary taste and scientific attainments. Joe is very fond of his Kanaka wife, though he flogs her occasionally in the heat of passion, repenting of it immediately after. As Joe's improvident habits are not conducive to a rapid accumulation of riches, the time of his return to his island-home may be considered somewhat uncertain.

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A Party.

January, 1855. SeÑor Moraga was one of those land owners, whose domains, over which immense droves of wild cattle roamed, extended over many a league of rich land, until the advent of the Americans, who lawlessly despoiled them of large numbers of their cattle, and who introduced many expensive habits among them, which they were but too ready to adopt; when necessity compelled them to part with large tracts of their lands to the greedy foreigners, and their estates dwindled down to insignificant ranches. SeÑor Moraga, though shorn of many thousand acres, had still a large and exceedingly valuable estate remaining.

I received an invitation to attend a party at his house on New Year's eve, 1855. I set out on foot in the evening, which was lighted up by a moon approaching the full, that often breaking forth from masses of dark clouds, which had been pouring down a plentiful supply of rain during the day, enabled me to follow a trail that led up the valley and over the mountain ridge, on the opposite side of which stood Moraga's residence. It was a fine evening, and I—I scarcely knew why—was in a mood to enjoy it. It may have been the breaking up of the storm and the appearance of the clouds and the sky, which resembled more nearly the moonlight views we have in New England than any thing I had beheld for many a long month; or it may have been the pleasing anticipation of the novelties I was about to witness and enjoy during the evening, though what they were I had not been informed and could hardly imagine. But whatever may have been the cause, my spirits were buoyant, and my thoughts busy and pleasant.

I arrived at Moraga's at an early hour. His house overlooked a beautiful valley, and commanded a fine view of the hills beyond. It was built of adobes, and the walls were several feet thick. A broad piazza extended along the front, affording a pleasant shade in summer. I entered by a broad door-way, a capacious room well finished, and handsomely papered and painted. There was neither stove nor fire-place in it, nor any furniture, with the exception of chairs and a small time-piece. In this room the gentlemen were assembled, and this was the hall in which we were to pass the evening. In a smaller room on the left, I saw two neat-looking beds, one of which was furnished with handsome figured, white muslin curtains. There were also chairs, tables, and a looking-glass in the room. This room I observed was occupied by the family, and the lady guests. The only other room I saw was that in which we took supper, and was like the rest, finished in a style of considerable neatness.

And now for the company. First comes SeÑor Moraga, the father of our host and owner of the estate, an old man of seventy, short, thick, corpulent and coarse-featured, but sprightly, active and polite. Then his sons, JosÉ and Francisco, between thirty and forty years of age, swarthy men with very good features, black hair, whiskers and mustaches. They were very gentlemanly in their deportment. There were several Mexicans, some of whom were tolerably polished in their manners, and others as uncouth as the Indians with whom they associated. But the greater part of the company consisted of Americans, rough men from the Redwoods, who, however, deported themselves with a considerable degree of propriety.

Next come the ladies, who, by all the laws of gallantry, should have been mentioned first. And foremost among them was DoÑa Maria, our hostess, and the lady of JosÉ Moraga. She was a large, corpulent woman with a fairer complexion and better features than most Mexican women I had seen, and she was said to be of pure Castilian blood. Her black, glossy hair was arranged in the usual Spanish style, in two braids that hung down her back. She was dressed in a black silk that fitted well her capacious person. She had several daughters, whose personal attractions I cannot extol, but who were very pretty dancers. There were two old women, very ugly, whose names I did not learn. I observed a considerable number of Indian women in the house, and there was no lack of pappooses among them. I was pleased with the little imps, and they did not reject my overtures for a frolic occasionally, and were not disinclined to be on familiar terms with me. They constituted, indeed, a very amusing part of the evening's entertainment.

Two musicians had been employed for the occasion. Their instruments were a violin and a guitar. Dancing was the principal amusement.

The ladies entered the room and seated themselves without ceremony, the musicians struck up a lively tune, and one of the gentlemen arose and waved his handkerchief towards a lady, whereupon she arose and moved moderately over the floor, and while her feet, hid by her long dress, drummed out almost every note of the music, her body seemed to glide along without any apparent exertion, neither rising nor falling, as if she were carried along by invisible machinery, or was floating over the floor without touching it. While she was thus moving along in this peculiar dance, one of the gentlemen seized his neighbor's hat—all the gentlemen wore their hats except when dancing—and placed it on the young lady's head. She still continued to dance without appearing to pay the slightest attention to this apparently uncivil act. She soon, however, took her seat and displaced the hat, holding it in her hand. Another and another of the ladies were called, or rather motioned up, who each performed the same dance, and each was similarly crowned with a hat or a handkerchief, and sometimes with several of each. DoÑa Maria was also called to the floor. She executed the dance with superior grace, and with greater success than the girls in collecting hats and handkerchiefs. All this was carried on with great merriment on the part of the young fellows, but with the greatest apparent gravity and seriousness on that of the ladies. I was at a loss to know the meaning of this strange performance, or if it had any meaning at all, until my own sombrero was suddenly snatched from my head, and placed on that of a young seÑorita. I was then informed that each article thus seized and appropriated must be redeemed by a payment in money to the fair one on whom it had been bestowed, and that half a dollar was the sum agreed on by general assent. In this way, considerable sums of money are sometimes gathered by the ladies from a company of liberal young men, who enjoy the sport of thus victimizing each other. This amusement was called up repeatedly in the course of the evening, and some of the young men paid a pretty handsome tax for the sport. I saw DoÑa Maria at one time with three hats crowded on her head, and at least half a dozen handkerchiefs on her shoulders. Besides the tax thus collected, an assessment of two dollars each was levied on us to pay for the music.

Besides the singular dance I have just described we had cotillions and waltzes. In the first, the fat DoÑa Maria was the most graceful dancer, but in the waltzes—DoÑa Maria did not waltz—several of the girls performed very prettily. But foremost among them was Francisco's daughter, Juana, and another young lady whose name I did not learn, who waltzed with much ease and grace, and who prided themselves on tiring out, not only the other dancers, but even the musicians. My head grew giddy as I sat and saw those two girls twirling about the room.

Supper was ready at an early hour. My friend, Francisco, did me the unexpected honor to lead me in and seat me at the head of the first table. DoÑa Maria sat at the opposite extremity of the table, and the other ladies, numbering from sixteen to twenty, occupied the sides. Myself was the only male. Our supper consisted of soup, baked meats, boiled chickens and bread, with wine in glass tumblers instead of tea or coffee. We were waited upon by our host, JosÉ, assisted by another gentleman. There was but little conversation among us, but we got along very pleasantly. I proposed a glass of wine with DoÑa Maria by signs, which she readily understood, and she drank her glass with much grace. Perceiving JosÉ to be rather inexpert at carving chickens, I offered my services, which he accepted. We afterwards drank a glass of wine together, and thus ended the ceremony of supper. The table was soon cleared and rearranged for another set of occupants.

Dancing was kept up pretty constantly, I did not join in it, but was for the most part a silent spectator. I found myself frequently, in the course of the evening, seated by the side of our hostess, who was disposed to make herself agreeable, and would, I doubt not, really have been so, had she understood my language, or I hers. As it was, I contrived to ask her a few questions, and found her quick to comprehend my signs. I inquired about her children, knowing that to be the subject, of all others, the most interesting to a mother. She pointed to those who were dancing, and to several that were seated. I asked her how many she had, and she held up her five fingers of one hand, and three of the other. "Ocho," said I. "Si, SeÑor, ocho," she replied with a smile, amused, perhaps, that I had learned one word of Spanish.

Francisco, also, with not a little pride, directed my attention to his daughters, who were dancing so merrily; and I could only express my admiration of them by exclaiming, "bueno; bueno!"

Thus pleasantly passed the evening until eleven o'clock, when giving my friendly entertainers a cordial shake of the hands, I bade them Á Dios, and wended my way back again over the mountains to my lodgings. The company continued dancing till morning.

I have been thus particular in giving the details of this party, believing that whatever is peculiar in the manners and customs of any people may be interesting, and perhaps, not wholly useless to know. And having been myself much interested in the amusements of the evening, I cannot but hope that the reader will find something to please him in this account of them.

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Indians and Their Costumes.

September 23, 1856. There was a company of Indians encamped in the vicinity of Oroville, for the purpose of gathering their harvest of acorns, which grew in great abundance there. They passed my temporary home every morning, men, boys, and women, furnished with sacks made of netting, earned by the men, and conical baskets for the women, and with a pole eight or ten feet long, with which to beat off the acorns. The pole had a short stick fastened to the butt end with strings, by means of which they suspended it to the limb of a tree when they ascended the trunk. The acorn is one of their most valuable articles of food, and they gather large quantities of them.

These Indians were more scantily clad than any I had ever seen, many of them having only a shirt, sometimes but a very ragged one; and in one instance I saw a tall brawny Indian, who was entirely destitute of even this scanty covering.

One day a woman with pretty good features, the wife of the chief, came to our house in company with other Indians. A large portion of her face was besmeared with pitch, and the locks over her forehead were matted with the same substance. I enquired the reason of this disfigurement, and was told that it was the Indian's badge of mourning, and that she had probably lost a relative. A few days after this call, she came again accompanied by her husband, the chief, who was superior in intelligence, as well as in rank, to his companions. He spoke a little English. The squaw had renewed the coat of pitch, and looked more hideously than before. I could see, however, in spite of the pitch, that she was a pretty woman, and in spite of the scantiness of her covering, that she was modest. Some remarks were made by one of the company present, in allusion to her besmeared face. Her husband understood them, and explained the custom in a word or two. "Indian's way," said he. "Lost little boy," pointing to his wife. We all understood him, and the eyes of the poor squaw moistened as she comprehended the subject of our conversation. The Indians are not destitute of natural affection.

Few hearts can witness unmoved the tears of a woman, though she be a wild and filthy Indian; and the feelings of this poor untutored savage were respected by our company, who refrained from any further allusion to the subject that brought painful recollections to her mind.

March 3, 1857. During a long walk to-day, I stopped to sketch some singular hills, consisting of two, and sometimes of three, plateaus or terraces, each terrace being supported by a layer of rock, resting on a stratum of clay, or soft sandstone, which, in many places was worn out a foot or two beneath the rock, and making a distinct dark line in the landscape.

Before sketching one of these hills, I ascended it and clambered up the rock, which varied from six to eight feet in height. Here, among some bushes, I saw a smoke arising, and on one of the shrubs hung an Indian's cap and his lance. I approached the spot, and suddenly found myself in the presence of a large, fat squaw, who lay basking in the sunshine, clad in the habiliments which nature had given her, with the addition of a very slight substitute, for that leafy garment which was once the fashion at a very remote period in the world's history. Two little dusky cherubs sat near her, and the partner of her joys and sorrows lay on the ground at a little distance, enjoying a comfortable siesta. It was a charming picture of contented indolence, and I have seen more than one lazy white man, who would have coveted their enjoyment.

I attempted to enter into conversation with the lady, and asked her if she had some baskets to sell. She made no reply, but, with becoming modesty, though with no affectation of haste, took up her blanket that lay near her, and half veiled her charms from my admiring gaze. Finding her disinclined to talk, I left her, descended the hill, made my sketch, and continued my walk.

March 6, 1875. With an Indian for a guide, I visited a fine water-fall in a solitary place among the mountains. On our return, my guide conducted me to a rancherie, consisting of half a dozen wigwams. As we approached them, the dogs barked, the children screamed, the old women drew on their blankets, and the naked girls retreated behind the cabins. An old man and an old woman sat quietly on their haunches, and a young man lay sick and squalid on the ground beside a bed of embers that were kept alive at his head. My guide sat down beside them without any ceremony, and they all preserved a profound silence during several minutes, as if they were offering up a silent prayer to the Great Spirit for the recovery of the invalid. At the end of this ceremony, they became talkative, the young man ate the remains of a lunch I had brought with me, and the old man begged two bits, (for these Indians, like all others, are inveterate beggars) when we proceeded on our journey.

The Yosemite Falls.

May 29, 1859. A rude dug-out having been brought up the river, I crossed over in it, and walked to the foot of the fall. A dense spray prevents a near approach to the fall, which comes down in a perpendicular descent, until within a hundred feet of the bottom, when it strikes a projecting rock, and dashes off in a shower of spray. I speak of the lower fall only, for the cataract is divided into three portions, the upper portion coming down perpendicularly; the middle portion being a wild rapid, in a deep, dark, and fearful canyon, in which the stream falls four hundred feet, and then drops down six hundred feet further to the base of the great wall, making an aggregate of more than half a mile.

The view upward from the foot of the fall is particularly impressive. The middle fall of four hundred feet, is entirely hid from the sight, and such is the immense height of the whole, that the space occupied by this middle fall seems dwindled to a few feet, and the spectator can scarcely realize that such a fall does, indeed, exist. But the view of the fall from this near approach is more than impressive, it is sublime; and the spectator finds himself overwhelmed with a feeling of intense awe, as he looks upward and beholds the foaming, roaring water pouring down, as it were, from the very depths of heaven,

I have alluded to the influence of the wind upon the upper portion of the fall. It often reminds me of the writhings of an immense serpent, when two or three opposing currents of air are blowing it from side to side. Sometimes a blast of wind sways it wholly out of its accustomed course, with the exception of a few hundred feet of its uppermost portion, and lays bare nearly the whole surface of the rock which it covers in its undisturbed descent, but hiding for a minute another portion. Now large clouds of spray are thrown out from one side, and then from the other, still forever falling; now the whole fall is spread out to twice, or thrice, its usual width, and the next moment, as the wind subsides, it becomes straightened and narrowed to its usual proportions. These continued changes add exceedingly to the beauty, and even grandeur, of the fall, and one never wearies of beholding it as it pours, crashing and roaring, down its enormous wall of rock.

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The Domes.

The rounded summits of many of the mountains of the Yosemite Valley, which gives them a domelike appearance, constitutes one of its peculiarities. The North and South Domes have been often described and painted. Situated on opposite sides of the lower Valley at its eastern extremity, and forming portions of its two great walls, they are not the least of its most prominent objects. Indeed, the South Dome is the highest point around the Valley, and rises to an altitude of nearly five thousand feet above the plain.

A tremendous disruption of this mountain is apparent on its western face, where it has been cleft from its summit, perpendicularly down to a depth of two thousand feet, and the western portion thrown off and hurled down the mountain, at whose base it lies in fragments, a huge heap, a mountain of itself.

What a sublime, a terrifying spectacle would here have presented itself to a spectator standing on the North Dome and looking across the Valley, to behold a part of the mountain before him two thousand feet in depth, starting from its foundation, breaking away from the firmer portion, and falling, rolling, grinding, crashing, down the mountain side, with the roar and shaking of a terrible earthquake, and dashing into millions of fragments, until it reached the plain, three thousand feet below its starting point. I can imagine what overwhelming emotions would seize him as he beheld the mountain falling, and in dread and horror thinking the end of the world was approaching, and that the mountain on which he stood might fall next.

This is a region of wonders. They meet us at every step. The Valley itself is a vast aggregate of wonders. There was a time when it was elevated to a level with the walls that now surround it, when the Merced flowed along at a height of two or three thousand feet above its present bed, and before the Yosemite and all these falls were created.

It is an interesting question, How came the Valley lowered to its present depth? Without a very deep investigation of the subject, I have formed an opinion in opposition to that of many persons, who attribute it to an earthquake; that at some remote period a deluge occurred here, and that the Valley was formed by the torrents that swept through it, carrying away the earth, and leaving the bare walls in their present wild desolation, with the newly created cataracts pouring down their sides.

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Farewell to the Yosemite.

June 30, 1859. Early in the morning and before breakfast, Camerer,—a German friend,—and I, were on our way. As we went down the beautiful Valley, we often stopped to gaze at the stupendous scenes we were about to leave; and never before had they looked so grand, and glorious. Lingering, loitering, talking, and discussing the several points of interest, time passed rapidly, and the sunbeams soon began to gild the summits of the mountains, the lofty rock of Tutocanula catching his first rays. A hundred birds strained their little throats and poured out their sweetest strains of melody, as if to bid us farewell, and cheer us on our way.

As the scenes with which we had been so long familiar, now passed again in review before us; the Yosemite, the Sentinel, the Cathedral Rocks, Tutocanula, the Bridal Veil; each claimed for the hundredth, and last time, our attention and admiration. "O," exclaimed my German friend, when the necessity of hastening our journey occurred to us, "O, it is very hard to get out of this Valley."

We at length arrived at the end of the plain, and began to ascend the mountain. Half way up the height we came to a spot from which we had so fine a view, that we resolved to stop and sketch it. This was a general view of the Valley, and its surrounding walls, and of course, it was my last sketch. Having accomplished this task, we hastened forward, scarcely looking around us, until we reached an elevation whence we were about to take our last look. But we had loitered too long by the way, and had little time to spare. Stopping, therefore, but for a minute, and filled with emotions such as Adam and Eve may be supposed to have felt when,

we cast one sad look at the scene behind us, and bade a sorrowful and final adieu to the wonderful Yosemite Valley.

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The California Vulture.

February 9, 1854. In a walk some days since through the Redwoods, I encountered an old man by the side of the road engaged in making shingles. He was a very coarse-looking fellow with a dark complexion and a black, bushy beard, that more than half covered his face, giving an additional grimness to his rough, harsh features. He was an old Kentucky rifleman, and, as I learned to-day, a first-rate marksman. He had shot a Vulture some time before, and it was lying near his cabin, half decayed. Some quills were scattered over the ground, and I picked up two or three of them, when he ordered me in the rudest manner to leave them. I then offered to buy some of them, but he would neither sell nor give them away. He wanted them for himself.

While I stood there another man joined us, and asked the name of the bird. "A Turkey Buzzard," said the old man. I disputed him, and endeavored to point out the difference between this bird and the Turkey Buzzard. But he would not be convinced. He had seen thousands of them in Kentucky, though he admitted they were smaller there than here. I replied that he might with equal propriety say that a Raven was a large Crow, or a Crow a large Blackbird. But he did not admit the analogy of the two cases, and the bird was a Turkey Buzzard and nothing more. So I left him in the enjoyment of his own opinion.

To-day I passed his cabin again, and he accosted me with considerable civility. A sort of grim smile played over his harsh features, his manners were wonderfully softened, and the gruff old savage seemed to have been suddenly transformed into a half civilized being. He had shot two Vultures yesterday, though one of them, which he had only wing-tipped, and tied to a stake, had escaped. He was willing to sell me the remaining bird, and the payment of five bits made me its owner.

On further conversation with him, I found that he possessed a taste for birds and other natural curiosities, and had some preparations for preserving specimens. He showed me some birds and a horned toad which he had preserved.

I skinned my bird, and left it with the Kentuckian, while I continued my walk. But this walk furnished me with nothing further to record except a word or two concerning the habits of these same Vultures. I saw six or eight of them perched on trees, sitting in perfect idleness and scarcely moving. I believe Audubon says that they are very shy and difficult to approach. But Audubon had never seen one. A man was cutting up a fallen tree near one of the birds, but without disturbing him. Another one sat on a branch of a low tree, which I approached. When I arrived within less than gunshot distance, he half spread his wings and stood up, as if preparing to fly. But after a minute's hesitation he folded his pinions again, and seemed to have come to the conclusion that there was no danger from a man with only a stick in his hand. As I continued to approach the tree on which he stood, he thrust his head down below his body, and turned it about most whimsically, while he kept his keen eye fastened on me as though he were quizzing me; but still he showed no disposition to fly. I now began to shout at him, and to swing my cap, and i' faith, it seemed as if my noise and gesticulations served rather to amuse than to frighten him. Then I threw my cane up in the air towards him, but he only gave his head an extra cant, and continued peering at me with such an impudent, derisive, no-ye-don't sort of a look, that I almost expected to see him raise his thumb to his nose, and shake his fingers at me. Finding him thus firmly resolved not to be driven from his position, I left him, fully believing that if a man wishes to hunt California Vultures, their shyness will be no obstacle to his success.

On returning, I called for the skin of my bird which measured nine feet four inches from tip to tip of the wings, and three feet eleven inches in length.

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My Skill at Rifle Shooting.

March 29, 1854. I went out to try my skill at rifle shooting. Saw a pair of Vultures in a tree on the heights in front of my house. I clambered up the hill and approached within a short distance of the birds, but the trunk of the tree, on the branches of which they stood, hid them from my view, and I made a short circuit, and crept behind a tree that brought me still nearer the Vultures. I now had one of them in full view, and was in a fair way to have him in my possession. I cocked my rifle for the fatal shot, brought it up to my face, and closed my left optic, preparatory to the death-dealing aim, when the foolish bird, as if he were actuated by a spirit of reckless daring, bravado and defiance, sidled out on the branch that held him, stood erect with his breast square before me, half expanded his broad wings, while he cast a glance of his keen eyes upon me, and seemed to say, "Here is your mark; now try your skill." I did so. The report of my rifle reverberated over the hills; the ball sped—I knew not whither—and the birds left their perch with a precipitancy, and flew away with a haste I have seldom witnessed. The smoke of the powder had scarcely cleared away ere they were seen performing their gyrations over a neighboring mountain. I made my way speedily, down the hill, and—sold my rifle.

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Incident at a Camp-meeting.

I accepted an invitation from a friend to attend a Methodist camp-meeting, which was held in a grove about five miles distant from the Contra Costa Redwoods. The services did not vary much from similar services in New England. But a little incident occurred of such a novel character, and so singularly beautiful, that I record it for the benefit of Christians in other portions of the country. When the collection was about to be taken, the Presiding Elder, the Rev. Mr. Fulton, addressed the audience in these words: "At the last Presbyterian camp-meeting, the collection taken for the support of the ministry was, most unexpectedly to me, divided between all of us who had taken part in the services; and I was constrained to share it equally with my Presbyterian brethren. Such an act, the first of the kind I have ever known, was as gratifying as it was unexpected; and most happy am I to say, that we have this day an opportunity to reciprocate the favor, by sharing with the brother of that denomination now present, the collection to which we invite you to contribute."

The effect of this address upon the audience was manifested by the jingling of the coin which was poured into the hats from every quarter of the field.

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With this little anecdote I take leave of the reader, remarking, however, that I passed nine years in California; resided in many of its principal cities; roamed over a large part of the northern portion of the State; visited most of the mines from Mariposa to Yreka; traveled across the State of Oregon and into Washington Territory; sailed up the Columbia River to the Cascades; visited a great number of places remarkable for their scenery; spent five weeks in the wonderful Yosemite Valley; lodged in a hollow of one of the "Big Trees" of Mariposa; listened to the mighty roar of the Geysers; walked round the beautiful Clear Lake, and paddled my canoe round the far-famed Lake Tahoe; clambered up the sides, and stood upon the highest pinnacles of Mount Shasta, and many other mountains of the Sierra Nevada range; and encountered people of all descriptions, characters, and nationalities. Reader, shall I give you a further account of my observations and adventures?

THE END.