ting constantly on the wonderful
richness of California. Doubtless the strain of his conversation ran
about thus: "Behold, gentlemen, I have brought before you a living
Californian! Notwithstanding the shabbiness of his hat, and the
strange and uncivilized aspect of his clothes, he is the richest man
in that land of gold! Yes, gentlemen, his income can scarcely fall
short of ten millions of rubles per annum. Make way, if you please!"

All things considered, Dominico let me off pretty well at the close
of our acquaintance, upon my explaining to him that a draft for five
hundred thousand rubles which ought to be on the way had failed to
reach me, owing doubtless to some irregularity in the mail service, or
some sudden depression in my Washoe stocks.

In the way of food the hotels are well supplied, and the fare is not
bad in the principal cities. Fish and game are abundant, but veal is
the standard dish. I called for a beefsteak at the hotel in St.
Petersburg, and was furnished with veal. The soup was made of veal.
After salad we had veal cutlets. Then came a veal stew; next in order
was a veal pie; and before the courses were finished I think we had
calf's head baked and stuffed. At a station-house on the way to Moscow
I hurriedly purchased a sandwich. It was made of veal. I asked for
mutton-chops at the hotel in Moscow, and got veal. In fact, I was
surfeited with veal in every possible shape wherever I went.

Now I am not particular in matters of diet. In a case of emergency I
can relish buzzard, but if there is any one kind of food upon earth
that I think never was designed to be eaten, it is veal. No very young
meat is good, to my notion--not even young pig, so temptingly
described by the gentle Elia; nor young dog, so much esteemed by
Chinese and Russian epicures. It has neither the consistency nor the
flavor of the mature animal, and somehow suggests unpleasant images of
flabby innocence. There is something horribly repugnant to one's sense
of humanity in killing and devouring a helpless little calf. Who but a
cannibal can look the innocent creature in the face, with its soft
confiding eyes, its gentle and baby-like manners, and calculate upon
devouring its brains, or satisfying the cravings of hunger upon its
tender ribs? Who can see the butcher, with his murderous knife in such
a connection, without a sting of remorse at the idea of the mother's
grief--her great eyes swimming in tears, her lowing cries haunting