The _cacoethes scribendi_ is upon us, and we would fain run on through many pages, to describe our sojourn in the fair land of California, fruitful in strange scenes and curious adventures. But the reader, wearied perchance by the dull details and prosings of this last chapter, will agree with us that the book is already long enough, and we dare not gratify our wish to write more. He might ask, however, what became of our friend, Mr. O’B. That migratory gentleman, like the Wandering Jew, or the soul of the celebrated John Brown, is doubtless still “marching on.” When we returned to Victoria, after our journey to Cariboo, Mr. O’B. had departed, and his portrait is therefore wanting in the Frontispiece. He had “moved on” to San Francisco. When we arrived in that city, he had “moved on” to Melbourne, Australia. From there he has probably “moved on” to New Zealand, or again reached India, to circle round to England in due course, happy in any country free from wolves, grisly bears, and Assiniboines. The many kindnesses we received from Sir James Douglas, and numerous other friends in Victoria, must remain undetailed, though not forgotten. We sailed in the S.S. _Pacific_, on the 20th of December, for San Francisco; were caught in a white squall off Neah Bay; the boiler burst; and Christmas Day came off before we reached our destination. The glories of the Golden City; the pleasures enjoyed in the society of Mr. Booker, and the other kind members of the Union Club there; the wonders of the Big-tree Grove in the Mariposa Valley, where grow Wellingtonias (called Washingtonias in the States), upwards of 400 feet high--higher than St. Paul’s--on the stumps of which are built ball-rooms, and on the prostrate trunks bowling alleys; the beautiful ladies of “Frisco,” as the Californians playfully denominate San Francisco, and the fraternising rowdies of “Copperopolis” and Columbia City, must remain undescribed. These things, and how we dreamed through the voyage down the smooth Pacific, with the languid carelessness of lotos-eaters; how we escaped the wiles of the grass-widow,[23] and quarrelled with argumentative Northerners on board the steamer _Golden City_, are they not recorded in our journals? We reached Liverpool by way of Panama and New York, on the 5th of March, 1864, and entered at once into the pleasures of a return home in the company of old friends, who welcomed us as we disembarked from the _China_. LONDON: CASSELL, PETTER, AND GALPIN, BELLE SAUVAGE WORKS, LUDGATE HILL, E.C. FOOTNOTES