Before night he struck another pocket, and took out a pound and a half of gold of the same shape and size as the other. The volunteers were now roused, and returned to the spot, determined to dig down the whole bank; but one day of hard work, unrewarded by a single particle of gold, was enough. They quitted the bank in disgust. The old Sonoranian told me it contained no more pockets. His theory about the blow-hole is by no means confined to his own wild imagination; a man by the name of Black, who is one of the most successful gold-hunters in the ravine, is guided, in his researches, by the same seemingly absurd theory. It is possible that these blow-holes, as they are called, were the vents of volcanoes, performing the same functions as those found beneath the shaking cone of Etna. SATURDAY, OCT. 14. A party of seven Americans are just in from the higher slopes of the Sierra, where they have been prospecting for gold. They penetrated to the snow, tearing up roots, overturning rocks and draining fountains, but discovering no gold. It is the foot range of the Sierra that contains the deposits; this has been cut into segments by rapid streams, rising higher up, and which have sunk their channels into deep gorges. The larger portion of the gold, subjected to the action of these torrents, has been swept out upon the plain, or buried deep in some nearer undulation, where it will remain undisturbed till the deposits nearer the surface have been exhausted. These deeper treasures, like the inhumed remains of a Herculaneum, will then be brought to light. SUNDAY, OCT. 15. A quiet day among the gold-diggers; but few are at work with pick or pan; small parties have gone over the hills “prospecting,” but the masses are beneath the oak and pines, which shadow the cañadas. Missionaries might find a field here in this rolling population; the waving grain, as well as the still, falls before the sickle of the reaper. There is something inspiring in wild-wood worship; you are with nature and nature’s God: every thing around you trembles in the breath of the Almighty: the glad rivulet whispers his name, and the pine-grove pours its sweeping anthem; your spirit soars on lighter wings, and religion becomes, as another has beautifully expressed it, the play of the soul in the sunbeams of God.