Prescott had been described to us, as resembling very much a "New England village." We were told so in San Francisco. It was repeated at Fort Yuma. It was hinted at Tucson. Well, perhaps, it did, except as regards school-houses and churches, white paint and green blinds, general thriftiness, and a wholesome respect for law and order. Eliminating these, Prescott, perhaps, _was_ quite New-Englandish; but, otherwise, it resembled rather some country cross-roads in Missouri, or Arkansas. In brief, there was not a school-house, or church, or bank, in the place. Business we found at a general stand-still, because of absolute stagnation among the mines. And the peaceable and quiet population had just shown their New-Englandlike disposition, by robbing and beating a squad of United States soldiers--a part of those recently sent out better to protect that region--mortally wounding one, and severely injuring several others. Of course, the Blue-Coats were off duty, or the cowards wouldn't have assailed them. Said I to an old acquaintance I met, an ex-Army of the Potomac officer: "I hear you have quite a New England village here?" "Yes, indeed, it is very New-Englandlike! Last night I was in our billiard-saloon here. A game of monte was going on in one corner, brag-poker in another, and a couple of dogs were having a free fight under the billiard-table. I lived in Boston once for some time, but have no recollection of seeing anything exactly like that!" "But you have a good class of population, have you not, as a general thing?" "O yes! Excellent! Less than five hundred, altogether! But we have ten drinking-saloons, and a dozen gambling-hells, more or less! What kind of a population that implies, judge for yourself!"