depths of the slimy sea upon the rugged rocks, writhing and wriggling as if in mortal agony, fighting and howling in infernal chorus, over the degeneracy of the days upon which, through some mistake never fully explained, they have fallen, ages and ages after their co-inhabitants of the primeval world had perished. Fruit we have indulged in to a surfeit. Wine? We went round through the cellars yesterday until our heads were, or felt as if they were, as large and as full as the great casks holding thousands of gallons, in which the champagne was being prepared for bottling. The Barbary Coast, with its reeking vice, seething crime, and nameless, unutterable human degradation, we did last night; this evening we do the Chinese Theatre; to-morrow the Geysers; next week the Big Trees and Yosemite. But what to-day?
There is a small white flag, inscribed with the letters U. S. M., flying from each of the San Francisco street cars as it passes; a mail steamer from some part of the world has entered the Golden Gate. From the direction of North Beach, a messenger of the Merchants' Exchange comes galloping at full speed along Stockton street, his half-wild Spanish horse—with head erect, nostrils distended, and lustrous eyes (the glory alike, of Spanish steeds and women) that flash like coals of fire—bounding over the rough pavement as proudly as if conscious that he bore the fate of Caesar and his empire. "What is it?" we call out as the messenger flies past us. "The Great Republic, from China and Japan," is the answer he gives, without even turning his head to see who asked; and the
