Before this sheet can get to press, there will be a daily on Trinidad bay, with the price-current of New York and London figuring in its columns, and an opera of Rossini singing its prelude between the reeling anthems of the church-going bell. Why, man! you talk of the slumbers of Rip Van Winkle, and the visions of the seven sleepers of Ephesus! Know you not the whole world is asleep, save what wakes and works on Trinidad bay? It takes an age in other lands to rear a city; but here, one phase of the fickle moon, and up she comes, like Venus from the wave, or the peak of Pico at the call of the morning star. Clear the coast with your old dormitory hulks of slumbering ages, and let this new Trinidad launch her keeled thunder! Her pennant unrolls itself in flame on the wind, and her trident is tipt with the keen lightning. The great whale of the Pacific turns here his startled gaze—plunges, and blows next half-way to Japan. Hurra for Trinidad! Let nations sleep, And empires moulder in their misty shroud; She shakes her trident on her golden steep, O’er waving woods, in solemn reverence bowed; Her bright aurora throws its flashing ray Where primal worlds in sunless darkness stray! A shout from those touched orbs comes rolling back, As rose the anthem of this earth, when first Around the night that sphered her rayless track, The breaking morn in golden splendors burst— The king of chaos sees the new-born light, And, howling, plunges down the gulf of night. OLD AND WELL-TRIED FRIENDS. I must not forget in my reveries over the map marvels of the new towns, the fireside friends of good old Monterey. Among _them_ my three years circled their varied rounds, now stored with memories that can never die. I must introduce them to the reader before we part, and pay them the tribute of a farewell word. They have no splendor of outward circumstance to stir your wonder, but hearts as true as ever throbbed in the human breast. Here is David Spence, from the hills of Scotland, a man of unblemished integrity and sterling sense, married to a daughter of the late Don José Estrada, a resident of twenty-five years in Monterey, my predecessor in the office of alcalde, and recently prefect of the department. Here is W. P. Hartnell, from England, married into the Noriega family, the best linguist in the country, and the government translator, with the claims of a twenty-seven years’ residence, and a circle of children, in which yours, my gentle reader, would only appear as a few more added to a sweeping flock.