_March 6th._—Having nothing particular to do, determine to visit the New Almaden quicksilver mines. There are two routes to these mines—one per stage the whole distance (56 miles), the other per steamer to the head of the Bay of San Francisco, and thence by stage to San José. Past experience had taught me, whenever possible, scrupulously to avoid stage travelling. Being tossed in a blanket, or rolled down a steep hill in a cask, produce much the same bruised and general state of sprain and dislocation as a day’s ride in a stage. Choosing the steamer lessened the chance of jolting by quite one-half, at the same time affording a good opportunity of seeing the famed Bay of San Francisco. I embark at seven from a wooden pier—early as it is, alive with the hum, buzz, and bustle of the awakening city—and steam away over the unrippled waters of the bay. The temperature is delicious; a few fleecy clouds are swept rapidly over the clear blue sky by a light breeze blowing softly from the land, laden with the perfume of wild flowers and forest trees. A run of a few hours brought us to the embarcadero, or landing, at the head of the bay, from whence a stage bumped me over the road about four miles, to the old town of San José. Pueblo San José stands at the entrance of a lovely valley. The town consists of a collection of adobe houses; a few in the main street are built of wood, painted white, with brilliant green jalousies outside the windows. The older houses are scattered round an open space, the plaza: trees of greenest foliage, in double rows, shade one from the burning sun, and everywhere spacious orchards and flower-gardens testify to the fertility of the soil. Having a note from a friend in San Francisco to the host of ‘—— House,’ more than ordinary civility was accorded me, and by some superhuman means a buggy would be ready in about two hours to take me to the mines. Crossing the Alameda, a grove of willows and oaks, planted by the padres, leads to the old crumbling walls of what was once a very spacious mission, now rapidly falling to decay. The interior of the old church is decorated with rude carvings, paintings of the Crucifixion, and frescoed figures of saints and martyrs, clad in garments of dazzling colours. One old shaven priest, with a particularly dirty cassock, and a face so begrimed with layers of filth as to be mosquito-proof, was the only ecclesiastic visible. Thousands of cliff swallows (_Hirundo lunifrons_) were busy building their bottle-shaped mud nests under the dilapidated roof.