he
sixth evening.

The reader will discover, as he proceeds, that my adventures are about
to commence from this journey to Monterey; I therefore wish to remind
him that I was at this time not eighteen years old. I had a remembrance
of civilization previous to my arrival among the Indians, and as we
enjoyed every comfort and some luxuries at the settlement, I still had a
remembrance, although vague, of what had passed in Italy and elsewhere.
But I had become an Indian, and until I heard that I was to under-take
this journey, I had recollected the former scenes of my youth only to
despise them.

That this feeling had been much fostered by the idea that I should never
again rejoin them, is more than probable; for from the moment that I
heard that I was to proceed to Monterey, my heart beat tumultuously and
my pulse was doubled in its circulation. I hardly know what it was that
I anticipated, but certainly I had formed the idea of a
terrestrial paradise.

If not exactly a paradise, Monterey is certainly a sweet place; 'tis
even now a fairy spot in my recollection, although sobered down, and, I
trust, a little wiser than I was at that time. There certainly is an air
of happiness spread over this small town. Every one is at their ease,
everybody sings and smiles, and every hour is dedicated to amusement
or repose.

None of your dirty streets and sharp pavements; no manufactories with
their eternal smoke; no policemen looking like so many knaves of clubs;
no cabs or omnibuses splashing the mud to the right and to the left;
and, above all, none of your punctual men of business hurrying to their
appointments, blowing like steam-engines, elbowing everybody, and
capsizing the apple-stalls. No; there is none of these at Monterey.

There is a bay, blue and bottomless, with shores studded with tall
beautiful timber. There is a prairie lawn, spread like a carpet in
patterns composed of pretty wild flowers. Upon it stand hundreds of
cottage-built tenements, covered with the creeping vine. In the centre,
the presidio, or government-house; on one side the graceful spire of a
church, on the other the massive walls of a convent. Above all, is a sky
of the deepest cobalt blue, richly contrasting with the dark green of
the tall pines, and the uncertain and indescribable tints on the horizon
of these western prairies.

Even the dogs are polite at Monterey, and the horses which are always
grazing about, run up to you and appear as if t