_March 10th._—At San Francisco this morning a friend took me to see the ‘What Cheer House,’ a very large hotel, supported by gold-miners, where they make up six hundred beds, every lodger having a small room to himself, with marble wash-stand, looking-glass, and dressing-table. Each story shuts off from the next by fireproof doors, and the water is forced to the top of the house, where there are hoses, fire-buckets, and axes enough to fit out a fire-brigade. A large steam-engine is the cook’s assistant, doing everything that hands usually do; it kneads the bread, rolls the dough, drives the roasting gear, grinds coffee, peels apples and potatoes, beats the eggs (twelve hundred dozen a week), washes, irons, dries, and mangles the clothes; heats the water for the bathing-houses, which are perfect in every detail; does all the pumping, and cleans the knives. Adjoining the dining-room is a well-selected library, general reading-room, and museum, containing a capital collection of stuffed birds, and other useful objects of Natural History. The rate each miner pays is five dollars, equal to 1_£._ per week: this includes eating and drinking. The house is strictly a temperance one, no fermented liquor being allowed within it. Wandering about San Francisco would be much more enjoyable, if the hills were less steep, and the wind, which is everlastingly blowing, freighted with fine sand, that finds its way into your very watchcase, could be stilled. _March 11th._—Steaming across the bay in a white steamer called the ‘Eclipse,’ propelled by the largest paddlewheels I ever saw. We are en route to Sacramento, which we reach late at night. _March 12th._—Strolled about. Hardly believe so vast a place can have grown up in ten years. I think I like it better than San Francisco. The streets running east and west are marked by numbers—_1st_ street, _2nd_ street, and so on; those having a north and south bearing by letter, as—_A_ street, _B_ street, &c. Received a telegram from the Commissioner, who had just reached San Francisco on his return from England, to join him. Nothing material occurs in my journal until _March 23rd._—I am at the Webber House in Stockton, a very pretty city, built on what the Americans call a _slew_, or, in other words, a muddy arm of the San Joaquin river. The country round is perfectly flat, but fertile beyond description. To obtain water the inhabitants have only to bore an auger-hole about nine feet in depth, when it bubbles up like a fountain. In nearly every garden is a tiny windmill, employed to irrigate the peach-orchards and general crops. Hear of 700 mules that have just arrived from Salt Lake city.