competition of titles with the face of a captain going into
battle and his Smith-and-Wesson convenient to his hand.

On the ranche of another of these landholders you may find our old
friend, the truck system, in full operation. Men live there, year in
year out, to cut timber for a nominal wage, which is all consumed in
supplies. The longer they remain in this desirable service the deeper
they will fall in debt--a burlesque injustice in a new country, where
labour should be precious, and one of those typical instances which
explains the prevailing discontent and the success of the demagogue
Kearney.

In a comparison between what was and what is in California, the praisers
of times past will fix upon the Indians of Carmel. The valley drained by
the river so named is a true Californian valley, bare, dotted with
chaparal, overlooked by quaint, unfinished hills. The Carmel runs by
many pleasant farms, a clear and shallow river, loved by wading kine;
and at last, as it is falling towards a quicksand and the great Pacific,
passes a ruined mission on a hill. From the mission church the eye
embraces a great field of ocean, and the ear is filled with a continuous
sound of distant breakers on the shore. But the day of the Jesuit has
gone by, the day of the Yankee has succeeded, and there is no one left
to care for the converted savage. The church is roofless and ruinous,
sea-breezes and sea-fogs, and the alternation of the rain and sunshine,
daily widening the breaches and casting the crockets from the wall. As
an antiquity in this new land, a quaint specimen of missionary
architecture, and a memorial of good deeds, it had a triple claim to
preservation from all thinking people; but neglect and abuse have been
its portion. There is no sign of American interference, save where a
headboard has been torn from a grave to be a mark for pistol bullets.
So it is with the Indians for whom it was erected. Their lands, I was
told, are being yearly encroached upon by the neighbouring American
proprietor, and with that exception no man troubles his head for the
Indians of Carmel. Only one day in the year, the day before our Guy
Fawkes, the _padre_ drives over the hill from Monterey; the little
sacristy, which is the only covered portion of the church, is filled
with seats and decorated for the service; the Indians troop together,
their bright dresses contrasting with their dark and melancholy faces;
and there, among a crowd of somewhat unsy