over the other. WEDNESDAY, MARCH 28. A young friend of mine had been several months in Monterey, confined to his room, and nearly helpless, from an ugly sore on one of his limbs. The skill of the whole medical profession here, in the army and navy, and out of them, had been exerted in this case, and baffled. At last, the discouraged patient sent for an old Indian woman, who has some reputation among the natives for medical sagacity in roots and herbs. She examined the sore, and the next day brought to the patient a poultice and pot of tea. The application was made and the beverage drank as directed. These were renewed two or three times, and the young man is now running about the streets, or hunting his game, sound as a nut. This same Indian woman is the only physician I had when attacked with the disease which carried off Lieut. Miner and several others attached to the public service. In a half-delirious state, which followed close upon the attack, I looked up and saw bending over me the kind Mrs. Hartnell—one of the noblest among the native ladies of California—and at her side stood this Indian woman feeling my pulse. Mrs. H. remained, while her medical attendant went away, but returned soon with the Indian medicaments which were to arrest, or remedy this rapid and critical disease. I resigned myself to all her drinks and baths; she did with me just what she pleased. She broke the fever without breaking me; restored my strength, and in a week I was in my office, attending to my duties. What she gave me I know not, but I believe her roots and herbs saved my life, as well as the leg of my friend.