 20. The Overland Tide of Immigration 18. In my last epistle, my dear M., I left myself safely ensconced at Greenwood's Rancho, in about as uncomfortable a position as a person could well be, where bored was fourteen dollars a week. Now, you must not think that the proprietors were at all to blame for our miserable condition. They were, I assure you, very gentlemanly and intelligent men, and I owe them a thousand thanks for the many acts of kindness and the friendly efforts which they made to amuse and interest me while I was at their house. They said from the first that they were utterly unprepared to receive ladies, and it was only after some persuasion, and as a favour to me, that they consented to let me come. They intend soon to build a handsome house, for it is thought that this valley will be a favourite summer resort for people from the cities below. The American Valley is one of the most beautiful in all California. It is seven miles long and three or four wide, with the Feather River winding its quiet way through it, unmolested by flumes and undisturbed by wing-dams. It is a superb farming country, everything growing in the richest luxuriance. I saw turnips there which measured larger round than my waist, and all other vegetables in the same proportion. There are beautiful rides in every direction, though I was too unwell during my stay there to explore them as I wished. There is one drawback upon the beauty of these valleys, and it is one particular to all the scenery in this part of California, and that is, the monotonous tone of the foliage, nearly all the trees being furs. One misses that infinite variety of waving forms, and those endless shades of verdure, which make New England forest scenery so exquisitely lovely. And then that gorgeous autumnal phenomenon, witnessed, I believe, nowhere but in the northern states of the Union, one never sees here. How often, in my faraway Yankee home, have I laid me down at Eve, with the whole earth looking so freshly green, to rise in the morning and behold the wilderness blossoming, not only like the rose, but like all other flowers besides, and glittering as if a shower of butterflies had fallen upon it during the silent watches of the night. I have a vague idea that I hooked that butterfly comparison from somebody. If so, I beg the injured persons pardon, and he or she may have a hundred of mine to pay for it. It was at Greenwood's Rancho that the famous Quartz Hoax originated last winter, which so completely gold our good miners on the river. I visited the spot, which has been excavated to some extent. The stone is very beautiful, being lined and streaked and splashed with crimson, purple, green, orange, and black. There was one large white block, veined with stripes of a magnificent blood-red color, and partly covered with a dark mass, which was the handsomest thing of the kind I ever saw. Some of the crystallizations were wonderfully perfect. I had a piece of the bedrock given me, completely covered with natural prisms varying in size from an inch down to those not larger than the head of a pin. Much of the immigration from across the plains, on its way to the cities below, stops here for a while to recruit. I always had a strange fancy for that nomadic way of coming to California, to lie down under starry skies, hundreds of miles from any human habitation, and to rise up on dewy mornings to pursue our way through a strange country, so wildly beautiful, seeing each day something new and wonderful, seemed to me truly enchanting. But cruel reality strips everything of its rose-tints. The poor women arrive looking as haggard as so many endorian witches, burnt to the color of a hazelnut, with their hair cut short, and its gloss entirely destroyed by the alkali, whole plains of which they are compelled to cross on the way. You will hardly find a family that has not left some beloved one buried upon the plains. And they are fearful funerals, though. A person dies, and they stop just long enough to dig his grave and lay him in it as decently as circumstances will permit, and the long train hurries onward, leaving its healthy companion of yesterday, perhaps, in this boundless city of the dead. On this hazardous journey they dare not linger. I was acquainted with a young widow of twenty, whose husband died of cholera when they were but five weeks on their journey. He was a judge in one of the western states and a man of some eminence in his profession. She is a pretty little creature, and all the aspirants to matrimony are candidates for her hand. One day a party of immigrant women came into my room, which was also the parlor of the establishment. Some observation was made, which led me to inquire of one of them if her husband was with her. She ain't got no husband. Fairly chuckled one of her companions. She came with me, and her fella died of cholera on the plains. At this startling and brutal announcement the poor girl herself gave a hysterical giggle, which I at first thought proceeded from heartlessness, but I was told afterward, by the person under whose immediate protection she came out, and who was a sister of her betrothed, that the tender woman's heart received such a fearful shock at the sudden death of her lover that for several weeks her life was desparate of. I spent a great deal of time calling at the different encampments, for nothing enchanted me half so much as to hear about this strange exodus from the states. I never weary of listening to stories of adventure on the plains, and some of the family histories are deeply interesting. I was acquainted with four women, all sisters or sisters in law, who had among them thirty-six children, the entire number of which had arrived thus far in perfect health. They could, of themselves, form quite a respectable village. The immigration this year contained many intelligent and truly elegant persons, who, having caught the fashionable epidemic, had left luxurious homes in the states to come to California. Among others there was a young gentleman of nineteen, the son of a United States senator, who, having just graduated, felt adventurous and determined to cross the plains. Like the rest he arrived in a somewhat dilapidated condition, with elbows out and a hat the very counterpart of Sam Weller's Gossamer Ventilation, which, if you remember, though not a very handsome one to look at, was an astonishing good unto wear. I must confess that he became ragged clothes the best of any one I ever saw, and made me think of the picturesque beggar boys in Mario's paintings of Spanish life. Then there was a person who used to sing in public with Aussie and Dodge. He had a voice of remarkable purity and sweetness, which he was kind enough to permit us to hear now and then. I hardly know of what nation he claimed to be. His father was an Englishman, his mother an Italian. He was born in Poland and had lived nearly all his life in the United States. He was not the only musical genius that we had among us. There was a little girl at one of the tents who had taught herself to play on the accordion on the way out. She was really quite a prodigy, singing very sweetly and accompanying herself with much skill upon the instrument. There was another child, whom I used to go to look at as I would go to examine a picture. She had, without exception, the most beautiful face I ever saw. Even the alkali had not been able to mar the golden glory of the curls which clustered around that splendid little head. She had soft brown eyes which shone from beneath their silken lashes like a tremulous evening star, a mouth which made you think of a string of pearls threaded on scarlet, and a complexion of the wax and purity of the Japonica, with the exception of a band of brownest freckles which, extending from the tip of each cheek straight across the prettiest possible nose, added, I used to fancy, a new beauty to her enchanting face. She was very fond of me, and used to bring me wild cherries which her brothers had gathered for her. Many a morning I have raised my eyes from my book, startled by that vision of infant loveliness, for her step had the still grace of a snowflake, standing in beautiful silence by my side. But the most interesting of all my pets was a widow whom we used to call the Long Woman. When but a few weeks on the journey she had buried her husband, who died of cholera after about six hours' illness. She had come on. For what else could she do? No one was willing to guide her back to her old home in the States, and when I knew her she was living under a large tree a few rods from the rancho, and sleeping out night, with all her family, in her one covered wagon. God only knows where they all stowed themselves away, for she was a modern Mrs. Rogers, with nine small children and one at the breast. Indeed, of this catechismal number the oldest was but fifteen years of age, and the youngest a nursing babe of six months. She had eight sons and one daughter. Just fancy how dreadful! Only one girl to all that boy. People used to wonder what took me so often to her encampment, and at the interest with which I listened to what they called her stupid talk. Certainly there was nothing poetical about the woman. Lee Hunt's friend could not have elevated her commonplace into the sublime. She was immensely tall, and had a hard, weather-beaten face, surmounted by a dreadful horned comb and a heavy twist of hay-coloured hair, which, before it was cut, and its gloss all destroyed by the alkali, must, from its luxurience, have been very handsome. But what really interested me so much in her was the dogged and determined way in which she had set that stern, wrinkled face of hers against poverty. She owned nothing in the world but her team, and yet she planned all sorts of successful ways to get food for her small, or rather large, family. She used to wash shirts and iron them on a chair in the open air, of course, and you can fancy with what success. But the gentlemen were too generous to be critical, and as they paid her three or four times as much as she asked, she accumulated quite a handsome sum in a few days. She made me think of a long-legged, very thin hen, scratching for dear life to feed her never to be satisfied brood. Poor woman! She told me that she was compelled to allowance her young ones, and that she seldom gave them as much as they could eat at any one meal. She was worse off than the old woman who lived in a shoe and had so many children she didn't know what to do, to some she gave butter, to some she gave bread, and to some she gave whippings and sent them to bed. Now, my old woman had no butter, and very little bread. She was so naturally economical that even whippings were sparingly administered. But, after all their privations, they were, with the exception of the eldest hope, as healthy looking a set of ragged little wretches as I ever saw. The aforesaid Hope was the longest, the leanest, and the bobsidedest specimen of a Yankee that it is possible to imagine. He wore a white face, whiter eyes, and whitest hair, and walked about looking as if existence was the nearest burden, and he wished someone would have the goodness to take it off his hands. He seemed always to be in the act of yoking up a pair of oxen, and ringing every change of which the English alphabet is capable upon the one single Yankee execration, Darnation, which he scattered, in all its comical varieties, upon the toe-head of his young brother, a piece of chubby giggle, who was forever trying to hold up a dreadful yoke, which wouldn't stay put in spite of all the efforts of those fat, dirty little hands of his. The long woman, motherlike, excused him by saying that he had been sick, though once, when the darned fools flew thicker than usual, she gently observed that he had forgotten that he was a child himself once. He certainly retained no trace of having enjoyed that delightful state of existence, and though one would not be so rude as to call him an old boy, yet, being always clad in the middle-aged habit, an elderly coat, and adult pantaloons, one would as little fancy him a young man. Perhaps the fact that his wearing his father's wardrobe in all its unaltered amplitude might help to confuse one's ideas on the subject. There was another dear old lady to whom I took the largest kind of a liking. She was so exquisitely neat. Although she too had no floor, her babe always had on a clean white dress and face to match. She was about four feet high, and had a perfect passion for wearing those frightful front pieces of false hair, with which the young women of Elle were once in the habit of covering their abundant tresses. She used to send me little pots of fresh butter, the first that I had tasted since I left the States, beautifully stamped, and looking like ingots of virgin gold. I, of course, made a dead set at the front piece, though I do believe that to this distorted taste, and its accompanying horror of a cap, she owed the preservation of her own beautiful hair. To please me she laid it aside, but I am convinced that it was restored to its proud eminence as soon as I left the valley, for she evidently had a sneaking kindness for it that nothing could destroy. I have sometimes thought that she wore it from religious principle, thinking at her duty to look as old as possible, for she appeared fifteen years younger when she took it off. She told me that in crossing the planes she used to stop on Saturdays, and taking everything out of the wagons, wash them in strong lye, to which precaution she attributed the perfect health which they all enjoyed, the family, not the wagons, during the entire journey. There is one thing for which the immigrants deserve high praise, and that is, for having adopted the bloomer dress, frightful as it is on all other occasions in crossing the planes, for such an excursion it is just the thing. I ought to say a word about the dances which we used to have in the bar room, a place so low that a very tall man could not have stood upright in it. One side was fitted up as a store, and another side with bunks for lodgers. These bunks were elegantly draperied with red calico, through which we caught dim glimpses of blue blankets. If they could only have had sheets, they would have fairly been enveloped in the American colors. By the way, I wonder if there is anything national in this eternal passion for blue blankets and red calico. On ball nights the bar was closed, and everything was very quiet and respectable. To be sure, there was some danger of being swept away in a flood of tobacco juice, but luckily the floor was uneven, and it lay around in puddles, which with care one could avoid, merely running the minor risk of falling prostrate upon the wet boards in the midst of a gallipade. Of course the company was made up principally of the immigrants. Such dancing, such dressing, and such conversation surely was never heard or seen before. The gentlemen generally were compelled to have a regular fight with their fair partners before they could drag them onto the floor. I am happy to say that almost always the stronger vessel won the day, or rather night, except in the case of certain timid youths, who, after one or two attacks, gave up the battle in despair. I thought that I had had some experiences in bad grammar since I came to California, but these good people were the first that I had ever used right royal we instead of us. Do not imagine that all, or even the larger part of the company were of this description. There were many intelligent and well-bred women whose acquaintance I made with extreme pleasure. After reading the description of the inconveniences and discomforts which we suffered in the American Valley, and I can assure you that I have not at all exaggerated them, you may imagine my joy when two of our friends arrived from Indian Bar for the purpose of accompanying us home. We took two days for our return, and thus I was not at all fatigued. The weather was beautiful, our friends amusing, and F. well and happy. We stopped at night at a rancher where they had a tame frog. You cannot think how comic it looked hopping about the bar, quite as much at home as a tame squirrel would have been. I had a bed made up for me at this place on one end of a long dining table. It was very comfortable, with the trifling drawback that I had to rise earlier than I wished, in order that what had been a bed at night might become a table by day. We stopped at the top of the hill and set fire to some fir trees. Oh, how splendidly they looked, with the flames leaping and curling amid the dark green foliage, like a golden snake fiercely beautiful. The shriek which the fire gave as it sprang upon its verdant prey made me think of the hiss of some furious reptile about to wrap in its burning folds, the helpless victim. With what perfect delight did I re-enter my beloved log cabin. One of our good neighbors had swept and put it in order before my arrival, and everything was as clean and neat as possible. How grateful to my feet felt the thick warm carpet, how perfect appeared the floor which I had once reviled. I begged its pardon on the spot, because it was not exactly even. How cosy the old faded calico couch, how thoroughly comfortable the four chairs, two of them had been thoroughly re-bottomed with brown sailcloth, tastefully put on with a border of carpet-tacks, how truly elegant the closet-case toilet-table, with the dolls looking glass hanging above, which showed my face, the first time I had seen it since I left home, some six shades darker than usual. How convenient the trunk, which did duty as a wash stand, with its vegetable dish instead of a bowl, at the rancho I had a pint tin pan when it was not in use in the kitchen. But, above and beyond all, how superbly luxurious the magnificent bedstead with its splendid hair mattress, its clean wide linen sheets, its nice square pillows, and its large generous blankets and quilts, and then the cosy little supper, a raid on a tablecloth, and the long delightful evening afterwards, by a fragrant fire of beach and pine, when we talked over our past sufferings. Oh, it was delicious as a dream, and almost made amends for the three dreadful weeks of pleasuring in the American valley. The Shirley Letters from California Mines in 1851 and 52, by Dame Shirley, Louise Amelia Knapp-Smith Clap. Letter the 23rd. Mining Failures. Departure from Indian Bar. From our log cabin, Indian Bar, November 21, 1852. I suppose, molly dear, at least I flatter myself, that you have been wondering and fretting a good deal for the last few weeks at not hearing from Dame Shirley. The truth is that I have been wondering and fretting myself almost into a fever at the dreadful prospect of being compelled to spend the winter here, which, on every account, is undesirable. To our unbounded surprise we found, on our return from the American valley, that nearly all the fluming companies had failed, contrary to every expectation, on arriving at the bedrock no gold made its appearance, but a short history of the rise, progress, and final fate of one of these associations, given me in writing by its own secretary, conveys a pretty correct idea of the result of the majority of the remainder. The thirteen men, of which the American fluming company consisted, commenced getting out timber in February. On the 5th of July they began to lay the flume. A thousand dollars were paid for lumber which they were compelled to buy. They built a dam six feet high and three hundred feet in length upon which thirty men labored nine days and a half. The cost of said dam was estimated at two thousand dollars. This company left off working on the twenty-fourth day of September, having taken out, in all, gold dust to the amount of forty one dollars and seventy cents. Their lumber and tools sold at auction, brought about two hundred dollars. A very small amount of arithmetical knowledge will enable one to figure up what the American fluming company made by their summer's work. This result was by no means a singular one. Nearly every person on the river received the same stepmother's treatment from Dame Nature in this hermountain workshop. Of course the whole world, our world, was, to use a phrase much in vogue here, dead broke. The shopkeepers, restaurants, and gambling houses, with an amiable confidingness peculiar to such people, had trusted the miners to that degree that they themselves were in the same moneyless condition. Such a batch of woeful faces was never seen before, not the least elongated of which was F's, to whom nearly all the company's owed large sums. Of course with the failure of the golden harvest Othello's occupation was gone. The mass of the unfortunate's laid down the shovel and the hull, and left the river in crowds. It is said that there are not twenty men remaining on Indian bar, although two months ago you could count them up by hundreds. We were to have departed on the fifth of November, and my toilet-table and wash-hand stand, duly packed for that occasion, their occupation also gone, have remained ever since in the humble position of mere trunks. To be sure the expressman called for us at the appointed time, but, unfortunately, F had not returned from the American Valley where he had gone to visit a sixth friend, and Mr. Jones was not willing to wait even one day, so much did he fear being caught in a snowstorm with his mules. It was the general opinion, from unmistakable signs, that the rainy season would set in a month earlier than common, and with unusual severity. Our friends urged me to start on with Mr. Jones and some other acquaintances and leave F to follow on foot, as he could easily overtake us in a few hours. This I decidedly refused to do, preferring to run the fearful risk of being compelled to spend the winter in the mountains, which, as there is not enough flour to last six weeks, and we personally have not laid in a pound of provisions, is not so indifferent a manner as it may at first appear to you. The traders have delayed getting in their winter stock, on account of the high price of flour, and God only knows how fatal may be the result of this selfish delay to the unhappy mountaineers, many of whom, having families here, are unable to escape into the valley. It is the twenty-first day of November, and for the last three weeks it has rained and snowed alternately, with now and then a fair day sandwiched between, for the express purpose, as it has seemed, of aggravating our misery, for, after twelve hours of such sunshine, as only our own California can show, we were sure to be gratified by an exceedingly well-got-up tableau of the Deluge, without that arc of safety, a mule team, which, sister Anna like, we were ever straining our eyes to see descending the hill. There, I hear a mule bell, would be the cry at least a dozen times a day, when away we would all troop to the door, to behold nothing but great brown raindrops rushing merrily downward, as if in a mockery of our sufferings. Five times did the squire, who has lived for some two or three years in the mountains, and is quite weather-wise, solemnly affirm that the rain was over for the present, and five times did the storm torrent of the next morning give our Prophet the lie. In the meanwhile we have been expecting, each day, the advent of a mule-train. Now the rumour goes that Clark's mules have arrived at Pleasant Valley, and now that Bob Lewis' train has reached the Wild Yankees, or that Jones, with any quantity of animals and provisions, has been seen on the brow of the hill, and will probably get in by evening. Thus constantly is alternating light and gloom in a way that nearly drives me mad. The few men that have remained on the bar have amused themselves by prosecuting one another right and left. The squire, bless his honest, lazy, lee-huntish face, comes out strong on these occasions. He has pronounced decisions which, for legal acumen, brilliancy and acuteness, would make Daniel Webster, could he hear them, tear his hair to that extent, from sheer envy, that he would be compelled to have a wig ever after. But, justing apart, the squire's course has been so fair, candid, and sensible, that he has won golden opinions from all, and were it not for his insufferable laziness and good nature he would have made a most excellent justice of the peace. The prosecuting party generally gets judgment, which is about all he does get, though sometimes the constable is more fortunate, as happened to-day to our friend W, who, having been detained at the bar by the rain, got himself sworn into the above office for the fun of the thing. He performs his duties with great delight, and is always accompanied by a guard of honour, consisting of the majority of the men remaining in the place. He entered the cabin about one hour ago, when the following spicy conversation took place between him and F, who happened to be the prosecutor in this day's proceedings. Well, old fellow, did you see Big Bill? eagerly inquired F. Yes, is the short and sullen reply. And what did you get? continued his questioner. I got this! Savagely shouts the amateur constable, at the same time pointing with a grin of rage to a huge swelling on his upper lip, gleaming with all the colours of the rainbow. What did you do then? was the next meek inquiry. Oh, I came away, says our brave young officer of justice, and indeed it would have been madness to have resisted this delightful Big Bill, who stands six feet four inches in his stockings, with a corresponding amount of bone and muscle, and is a star of the first magnitude in boxing circles. F saved the creature's life last winter, having watched with him three nights in succession. He refuses to pay his bill, because he'd given him columny and other pies and doctor stuff. Of course poor W got dreadfully laughed at, though I looked as solemn as possible while I stayed him with cups of coffee, comforted him with beef steaks and onions, and coaxed the wounded upper lip with an infinite succession of little bits of brown paper, drowned in brandy. I wish that you could see me about these times. I am generally found seated on a cigar-box in the chimney corner, my chin on my hand, rocking backwards and forwards, weaving, you used to call it, in a despairing way, and now and then casting a picturesquely hopeless glance about our dilapidated cabin. Such a looking place as it is! Not having been repaired, the rain pouring down the outside of the chimney, which is inside of the house, has liquefied the mud, which now lies in spots all over the splendid ten mantelpiece, and festoons itself in graceful arabesques along the sides thereof. The lining overhead is dreadfully stained, the rose-garlanded hangings are faded and torn, the sofa covering displays picturesque glimpses of hay, and the poor, old, worn-out carpet is not enough to make India-rubbers desirable. Sometimes I lounge forlornly to the window and try to take a bird's eye view of outdoors. First, now a large pile of gravel prevents my seeing anything else, but by dint of standing on tiptoe I catch sight of a hundred other large piles of gravel, pellion upon ossa-like, heaps of gigantic stones, excavations of fearful deepness, innumerable tents, calico hovels, shingle palaces, ramadas, pretty arbor-like places composed of green boughs and baptized with that sweet name, half a dozen blue and red-shirted miners, and one hatless ombre, and garments of the ariest description reclining gracefully at the entrance of the Humboldt in that transcendental state of intoxication when a man is compelled to hold on to the earth for fear of falling off. The whole bar is thickly peppered with empty bottles, oyster cans, sardine boxes, and brandied fruit-jars, the harsher outlines of which are softened off by the thinnest possible coating of radiant snow. The river, freed from its wooden flume prison, rolls gracefully by. The green and purple beauty of these majestic old mountains looks lovelier than ever, through its pearl-like network of foaming streamlets, while, like an immense concave of pure sapphire without spot or speck, the wonderful and never enough to be talked about sky of California drops down upon the whole its fathomless splendor. The day happens to be the inner fold of one of the atmospheric sandwiches alluded to above. Had it been otherwise, I doubt whether I should have had spirit enough to write to you. I have just been called from my letter to look at a wonderfully curious gold specimen. I will try to describe it to you, and to convince you that I do not exaggerate its rare beauty. I must inform you that two friends of ours have each offered a hundred dollars for it, and a blacksmith in the place, a man utterly unimaginative, who would not throw away a red scent on a mere fancy, has tried to purchase it for fifty dollars. I wish most earnestly that you could see it. It is of unmixed gold, weighing about two dollars and a half. Your first idea on looking at it is of an exquisite little basket. There is the graceful cover with its rounded nub at the top, the three finely carved sides, it is triformed, the little stand upon which it sets, and the tiny clasp which fastens it. In detail it is still more beautiful. On one side you see a perfect W, each finely shaded bar of which is fashioned with the nicest exactness. The second surface prevents to view a Grecian profile, whose delicately cut features remind you of the serene beauty of an antique gem. It is surprising how much expression this face contains, which is enriched by an oval setting of delicate beading. A plain triangular space of burnished gold, surrounded with beadwork similar to that which outlines the profile, seems left on purpose for a name. The owner, who is a Frenchman, decidedly refuses to sell this gem, and he will probably never have an opportunity to see that the same being, who has commanded the violet to be beautiful, can fashion the gold, crucible into metallic purity within the earth's dark heart, into shapes as lovely and curious. To my extreme vexation, Ned, that jewel of cooks and fiddlers, departed at the first approach of rain, since when I have been obliged to take up the formal delightful employment myself. Really, everybody ought to go to the mines just to see how little it takes to make people comfortable in the world. My ordinary utensils consist of item, one iron dipper, which holds exactly three pints, item, one brass kettle of the same size, and item, the grid iron made out of an old shovel which I described in a former letter. With these three assistants I perform absolute wonders in the culinary way. Unfortunately, I am generally compelled to get three breakfasts, for sometimes the front stick will break and then down comes the brass kettle of potatoes and the dipper of coffee, extinguishing the fire, spilling the breakfast, wetting the carpet, scalding the dog, waking up F from an eleven o'clock in the day-dream, and compelling poor me to get up a second edition of my morning's work on safer and more scientific principles. At dinner-time some good-natured friend carves the beef at a stove outside, on condition that he may have a plate and knife and four at our table. So when that meal is ready I spread on the said table, which at other times does duty as a china-closet, a quarter of a sheet, which, with its three companion-quarters, was sanctified and set apart when I first arrived here for that sacred purpose. As our guests generally amount to six or eight, we dispense the three teaspoons at the rate of one to every two or three persons. All sorts of outlandish dishes serve as tea-cups. Among others, wine-glasses and tumblers, there are always plenty of these in the mines, figure largely. Last night, how our company being larger than usual, one of our friends was compelled to take his tea out of a soup-plate. The same individual, not being able to find a seat, went outside and brought in an empty gin-cask, upon which he sat, sipping iron-tablespoonfuls of his tea, in great apparent glory and contentment. F has just entered, with the joyful news that the expressman has arrived. He says that it will be impossible for mule trains to get in for some time to come, even if the storm is really over, which he does not believe. In many places on the mountains the snow is already five feet in depth. Although he thinks that, so many people are constantly leaving for the valley, the path will be kept open, so that I can make the journey with comparative ease on his horse, which he has kindly offered to lend me, volunteering to accompany F and some others who will make their exodus at the same time, on foot. Of course I shall be obliged to leave my trunks, merely taking a change of linen in a carpet-bag. We shall leave to-morrow, whether it rain or snow, for it would be madness to linger any longer. My heart is heavy at the thought of departing for ever from this place. I like this wild and barbarous life. I leave it with regret. The solemn fir trees, whose slender tops are close against the sky here, the watching hills, and the calmly beautiful river, seem to gaze sorrowfully at me as I stand in the moonlight at midnight to bid them farewell. Beloved unconventional wood-life, divine nature, and to whose benign eyes I never looked, whose many voices, gay and glad I never heard, in the artificial heart of the busy world, I quit your serene teachings for a restless and troubled future. Yes, Molly, smile if you will at my folly, but I go from the mountains with the deep heart sorrow. I took kindly to this existence, which to you seems so sordid and mean. Here at last I have been contented. The thistle-seed, as you call me, sent abroad its roots right lovingly into this barren soil, and gained an unwanted strength in what seemed to you such unfavorable surroundings. You would hardly recognize the feeble and half-dying invalid who drooped languidly out of sight as night shut down between your straining gaze and the good-ship Manila as she wafted her far away from her Atlantic home in the person of your now perfectly healthy sister. End of LETTER XXIII and End of the Shirley Letters, recorded by Rachel Ellen, near Yosemite California, August 8, 2008