when an owl perched near, gave a deep hoot! Each broke into an involuntary laugh. The philosophy of that transition I leave to those whose metaphysical acumen can split the shadow which falls between melancholy and mirth. SATURDAY, NOV. 18. Another morn full of rosy charms comes blushing over the hills; at the glance of her eye the shadows flee away, and the birds awaken into song. The stir of preparation rustles the leaves under our camping-tree, and while the dew yet gems the grass, we are up and away. What salient freshness and force are in the heart which takes its pulses from the waving wild-wood and the dashing stream! The exhilaration in its fullest tide never ebbs; it bears you on with sympathies and enjoyments still expanding, till all nature, with her intense life and rapture, is yours. Our path, which lay through a mountain gorge, bent its line to a winding rivulet, laughing and singing through the solitude. Little cared _that_ for marble fount or sculptured dolphin; it was happy in its own free life, and the kisses of the enamored pebbles, which danced in its limpid wave. And now the white walls of the old church, where the mission of San José reared its altars, glimmered into vision. Fast and far the separating interval was left behind, when we dashed up to its welcome portal. Here we found an Irish restaurant, and set its culinary functions in motion— “Nothing’s more sure at moments to take hold Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow More tender, as we every day behold, Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, The tocsin of the soul—the dinner-bell!” SUNDAY, NOV. 19. My companions pushed on last evening to San José—fifteen miles distant. My old Russian friend, who occupies one of the mission buildings, invited me to spend the Sabbath with him; an invitation which I gladly accepted, as it afforded a refuge from the restaurant, with the roar of its revelry and rum. The United States have sent out enough of this fire here to burn up a continent. The conflagration, kindled by the battle-brand or bolt of the electric cloud, may sweep a forest, or lay a city in ashes; but from the smouldering ruins new structures will rise, and a new generation of plants spring; but where the spirit of rum hath spread its flame a desolation follows, which the skill of man and the reviving dews of heaven can never reach. It is barren and verdureless as the sulphurous marl which paves “The deep track of hell.”