I do not think I ever saw a sunset more beautiful than that which marked the close of this day--certainly not in India or South Africa, nor on the prairie, for which they make claims of surpassing beauty in the matter of sunsets. As it died out, I felt that "thing of beauty" could not "be a joy for ever," for it was a combination of colour and of form, including sky and mountain, that it would be impossible to see again. The kindness of which we have had so many proofs, has followed, accompanied, and preceded us all unremittingly and unweariedly. A rough with some Bourbon on board mounted to-day the steps of the car at a station, and insisted on seeing "this Duke." When he was told that the object of his attention was engaged, he said, "This is a land of liberty (as in his case it was), and he doesn't want a bodyguard with him!" But the conductor sent him away about his business without trouble. On the platform at Benson a few miners asked "the Duke to come out and show himself." The people at the stations were generally satisfied with a quiet peep; now and then an enthusiastic Scotchman claimed a shake hands, which was always accorded to him. A sleeper placed across the rails (accounted for by the officers on the hypothesis that some loafer without a ticket had been turned off by the conductor, and had put the sleeper in the way of the train to wreak his vengeance--a thing which has occurred nearer home) was the only substantial danger to which we were here exposed. The heat (June 13th) was intense. The thermometer rose to 105 at one o'clock in the day, and it was little comfort to us to be told that at Deming it had been up to 110 the day before. For some days we have been supping full of horrors, indeed breakfasting and dining on them, for the papers contain accounts of the extraordinary homicides all about this region. Tucson, Benson, Wilcox--all these places were resounding with the exploits of "Billy the Kid." Now at Tucson there is, I believe, a man whose name was once amongst the very foremost in the United States. Who some twenty years and more ago had not heard of General Fremont, "the Pathfinder," the adventurous traveller, the energetic politician, the dashing soldier? He had gone at the outbreak of the war to take up the chief command in the west with all the pomp and circumstance of glorious war. I was somewhat astonished to find that he was at Tucson, the governor of the Territory, on a humble salary, apparently the world-forgetting and the world-forgot, while "Billy-the-Kid" was perpetrating numberless atrocities under his nose, and Mr. Pat Garrett was dressing up his loins with his revolver-belt, and about to go forth with a chosen band of citizens and seek the redoubtable William.[A]