To say that the news from the north brought by passengers of the Excelsior and confirmed by those of the Portland swept over the Pacific coast with the rapidity of a prairie fire would be to make use of an inadequate simile. In less than forty-eight hours hundreds were busy arranging their affairs so as to depart by the first steamer for the new Eldorado. On the 18th of July, only four days after the arrival of the Excelsior, the offices of the Alaska Commercial Company in San Francisco were besieged by men, and even women, all anxious to secure a passage, and on the same day it was stated by an officer of the company that their steamers would not be able to carry one-tenth of those desirous of starting from that port alone. The same official estimated that before the end of the month the number of those who would set out from San Francisco would reach fully 5,000. Hundreds with means sufficient to buy tickets and outfits fairly tumbled over each other to secure these. Others sought capital by offering one-half their winnings to those who would stake them. Syndicates were speedily formed, "grub stakes" offered and parties of tens, twenties and even hundreds organized for the venture. The reported danger of famine, even the warnings of returned miners seemed to deter no one. While such was the craze in San Francisco, the excitement was no less in Seattle, Tacoma, Portland and all along the Pacific coast. Nor did it end here. The same excitement swept Eastward and prevailed to a greater or less extent everywhere. The press of the county gave publicity to every scrap of news, corps of correspondents were organized and "hurried to the front," and even the "special artist on the spot" was not "left out in the cold," whatever he may suffer when he reaches a latitude where the mercury coquettes with the 80s. and 90s. below zero. All sorts of advertisements from all sorts of people, offering almost any terms and conditions to a backer, appeared, and, as we write, are still appearing in the daily papers. The one subject of conversation in the swell clubs, no less than on the street corners, is the news from Alaska, and the region of the Klondyke and the Yukon River have suddenly become as familiar geographical designations as Brooklyn or the Hudson. Perhaps no more reliable authority could be given as to the great resources of the Klondyke and the excitement prevailing in and about that region than Capt. Francis Tuttle, commander of the revenue cutter Bear. Writing to a friend in New York from St. Michael's on the Yukon River, the Captain says: