e for the sake of his daughter, a young girl of
fifteen, at present at school in a convent in Chile, whom his death
leaves without any near relative. I saw him several times during his
illness, and it was melancholy indeed to hear him talk of his
motherless girl, who, I have been told, is extremely beautiful,
talented, and accomplished.

The state of society here has never been so bad as since the
appointment of a committee of vigilance. The rowdies have formed
themselves into a company called the "Moguls," and they parade the
streets all night, howling, shouting, breaking into houses, taking
wearied miners out of their beds and throwing them into the river, and,
in short, "murdering sleep" in the most remorseless manner. Nearly
every night they build bonfires fearfully near some rag shanty, thus
endangering the lives (or, I should rather say, the property, for, as
it is impossible to sleep, lives are emphatically safe) of the whole
community. They retire about five o'clock in the morning, previously to
this blessed event posting notices to that effect, and that they will
throw any one who may disturb them into the river. I am nearly worn out
for want of rest, for, truly, they "make night hideous" with their
fearful uproar. Mr. Oxley, who still lies dangerously ill from the
wound received on what we call the "fatal Sunday," complains bitterly
of the disturbances; and when poor Pizarro was dying, and one of his
friends gently requested that they be quiet for half an hour and permit
the soul of the sufferer to pass in peace, they only laughed and yelled
and hooted louder than ever in the presence of the departing spirit,
for the tenement in which he lay, being composed of green boughs only,
could, of course, shut out no sounds. Without doubt, if the Moguls had
been sober, they would never have been guilty of such horrible
barbarity as to compel the thoughts of a dying man to mingle with
curses and blasphemies, but, alas! they were intoxicated, and may God
forgive them, unhappy ones, for they knew not what they did. The poor,
exhausted miners--for even well people cannot sleep in such a
pandemonium--grumble and complain, but they, although far outnumbering
the rioters, are too timid to resist. All say, "It is shameful,"
"Something ought to be done," "Something _must_ be done," etc., and in
the mean time the rioters triumph; You will wonder that the committee
of vigilance does not interfere. It is said that some of that ver