man's activity on earth has moved him to many things--too oft to deeds
of evil--_gold_. Some eighteen months before the Swiss emigrant Sutter,
scouring out his mill-race on a tributary of the Sacramento River,
observes shining particles among the mud. Taking them up, and holding
them in the hollow of his hand, he feels that they are heavy, and sees
them to be of golden sheen. And gold they prove, when submitted to the
test of the alembic.

The son of Helvetia discovered the precious metal in grains, and
nuggets, interspersed with the drift of a fluvial deposit. They were
not the first found in California, but the first coming under the eyes
of European settlers--men imbued with the energy to collect, and carry
them to the far-off outside world.

Less than two years have elapsed since the digging of Sutter's
mill-race. Meantime, the specks that scintillated in its ooze have been
transported over the ocean, and exhibited in great cities--in the
windows of brokers, and bullion merchants. The sight has proved
sufficient to thickly people the banks of the Sacramento--hitherto
sparsely settled--and cover San Francisco Bay with ships from every
quarter of the globe.

Not only is the harbour of Yerba Buena crowded with strange craft, but
its streets with queer characters--adventurers of every race and clime--
among whom may be heard an exchange of tongues, the like never listened
to since the abortive attempt at building the tower of Babel.

The Mexican mud-walled dwellings soon disappear--swallowed up and lost
amidst the modern surrounding of canvas tents, and weather-board houses,
that rise as by magic around them. A like change takes place in their
occupancy. No longer the tranquil interiors--the _tertulia_, with
guests sipping aniseed, curacoa, and Canario--munching sweet cakes and
_confituras_. Instead, the houses inside now ring with boisterous
revelry, with a perfume of mint and Monongahela; and although the guitar
still tinkles, it is almost inaudible amid the louder strains of
clarionet, fiddle, and French horn.

What a change in the traffic of the streets! No more silent, at certain
hours deserted for the _siesta_, at others trodden by sandalled monks
and shovel-hatted priests--both bold of gaze, when passing the dark-eyed
damsels in high shell-combs and black silk mantillas; bolder still,
saluting the brown-skinned daughters of the aboriginal wrapped in their
blue-grey _rebozos_. No more trodden by