During the winter of 1852-3, the miners of the
lower portion of the valley of California, then sub-
merged, were driven into the cities. Most of them
were destitute; others had a little bag of hard-
earned gold-dust; men unaccustomed to the ways of
laro-e cities fell victims to the sleio-ht-of-hand sharks
of Long Wharf: beino; either inveio-led under some
pretext into a low den, and there robbed, or induced
to bet on some sure things with the usual result of
the dust changing hands The sad spectacle was then
presented in San Francisco of hundreds of men and
some women actually starving for food; men and
women tenderly reared, honest, intelligent, educated,
without money, without work, without friends; and
too proud to let their necessities be known. Many
an act of khid, unrecorded charity was then done by
strangers as well as friends, — unrecorded here, but
written of a surety in the angel's book of remem-
brance.
Strange how custom and tradition impregnate the blood and retain their hold upon their victims for generations after their death 1 The time was when a bull-fight was an imposing spectacle; when royalty graced the arena, and the proudest nobles and fairest daughters of Castile cheered the performers; when the tows were powerful and severe, the jyicadores, clad like knights with all the appurtenances of chivalry and mounted on mettlesome caparisoned steeds, were the most dashing horsemen the world could find; when the banderilleros, in their light close-fitting cos- tume, assisted by the chulos, were the quickest and most agile of foot-fighters, and the matador with one thrust of his keen sword could stretch the foaming infuriated animal lifeless upon the ground. The car- cass of this pastime was raised occasionally by its adherents after the advent of the gold-seekers, but there was little of the pristine sport about it, the effort usually proving sadly abortive, a mere burlesque upon the ancient custom. The unhappy bull, fa
