was its rocky ramparts and bristling guns, the poet’s line would come to mind:  “’T is distance lends enchantment to the view.”  I was just as close as I wanted to be.  “I have good quarters for you,” said the brave and courteous Captain McDougall, who was in command at the fort; “and knowing your penchant, I will let you have the freedom of a sunny corner of the island for fishing in good weather.”  The true soldier is sometimes a true gentleman.

The name and image of another Federal officer rise before me as I write.  It is that of the heroic soldier, General Wright, who went down with the “Brother Jonathan,” on the Oregon coast, in 1865.  He was in command of the Department of the Pacific during this stormy period of which I am speaking.  I had never seen him, and I had no special desire to make his acquaintance.  Somehow Fort Alcatraz had become associated with his name for reasons already intimated.  But, though unsought by me, an interview did take place.

“It has come at last!” was my exclamation as I read the note left by an orderly in uniform notifying me that I was expected to report at the quarters of the commanding-general the next day at ten o’clock.  Conscious of my innocence of treason or any other crime against the Government or society, my pugnacity was roused by this summons.  Before the hour set for my appearance at the military headquarters, I was ready for martyrdom or any thing else except Alcatraz.  I didn’t like that.  The island was too small, and too foggy and windy, for my taste.  I thought it best to obey the order I had received, and so, punctually at the hour, I repaired to the headquarters on Washington Street, and ascending the steps with a firm tread and defiant feeling, I entered the room.  General Mason, provost-marshal, a scholar and polished gentleman, politely offered me a seat.

“No; I prefer to stand,” I said stiffly.

“The General will see you in a few minutes,” said he, resuming his work, while I stood nursing my indignation and sense of wrong.

In a little while General Wright entered—­a tall and striking figure, silver-haired, blue-eyed, ruddy faced, with a mixture of the dash of the soldier and the benignity of a bishop.

Declining also his cordial invitation to be seated, I stood and looked at him, still nursing defiance, and getting ready to wear a martyr’s crown.  The General spoke: 

“Did you know, sir, that I am perhaps the most attentive reader of your paper to be found in California?”

“No; I was not aware that I had the honor of numbering the commanding-general of this department among my readers.” (This was spoken with severe dignity.)

“A lot of hotheads have for sometime been urging me to have you arrested on the ground that you are editing and publishing a disloyal newspaper.  Not wishing to do any injustice to a fellowman, I have taken means every week to obtain a copy of your paper, the Pacific Methodist; and allow me to say, sir, that no paper has ever come into my family which is such a favorite with all of us.”