of the accident.
Vigilance committee organized. Suspected Spaniards arrested. Trial of
the Mexicana. Always wore male attire, was foremost in fray, and, armed
with brace of pistols, fought like a fury. Sentenced to leave by
daylight. Indirect cause of fight. Woman always to blame. Trial of
ringleaders. Sentences of whipping, and to leave. Confiscation of
property for benefit of wounded. Anguish of the author when Spaniards
were whipped. Young Spaniard movingly but vainly pleads for death
instead of whipping. His oath to murder every American he should
afterwards meet alone. Doubtless will keep his word. Murder of Mr.
Bacon, a ranchero, for his money, by his negro cook. Murderer caught at
Sacramento with part of money. His trial at Rich Bar by the vigilantes.
Sentence of death by hanging. Another negro attempts suicide. Accuses
mulatto Ned of attempt to murder him. Dr. C. in trouble for binding up
negro's self-inflicted wounds. Formation of "Moguls," who make night
hideous. Vigilantes do not interfere. Duel at Missouri Bar. Fatal
results. A large crowd present. Vigilance committee also present. "But
you must remember that this is California."

Letter _the_ Nineteenth

MURDER, THEFT, RIOT, HANGING, WHIPPING, &C.

_From our Log Cabin_, INDIAN BAR,

_August_ 4, 1852.

We have lived through so much of excitement for the last three weeks,
dear M., that I almost shrink from relating the gloomy events that have
marked their flight. But if I leave out the darker shades of our
mountain life, the picture will be very incomplete. In the short space
of twenty-four days we have had murders, fearful accidents, bloody
deaths, a mob, whippings, a hanging, an attempt at suicide, and a fatal
duel. But to begin at the beginning, as, according to rule, one ought
to do.

I think that, even among these beautiful hills, I never saw a more
perfect bridal of the earth and sky than that of Sunday, the 11th of
July. On that morning I went with a party of friends to the head of the
ditch, a walk of about three miles in length. I do not believe that
nature herself ever made anything so lovely as this artificial
brooklet. It glides like a living thing through the very heart of the
forest, sometimes creeping softly on, as though with muffled feet,
through a wilderness of aquatic plants, sometimes dancing gayly over a
white-pebbled bottom, now making a sunshine in a shady place, across
the mossy roots of the majestic old trees, and ano