are in the raciest spirit of story-telling.  The steamer from Panama touched at the ancient city of Acapulco, and took in a company of gamblers, who immediately set up their business on deck.  At San Deigo, the first overland emigrants by the route of the Gila river, who had reached that place a few days before, came on board, lank and brown as the ribbed sea-sand, their clothes in tatters, their boots replaced with moccasins, small deerskin wallets containing all that was left of the abundant stores with which they started—­their hair and beards matted and unshorn, with faces from which the rigid expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed.  The tales of their adventures and sufferings the author speaks of as more marvelous than anything he had ever heard or read since his boyish acquaintance with Robinson Crusoe and Ledyard.  Some had come by the way of Santa Fe, along the savage Gila hills—­some had crossed the Great Desert, and taken the road from El Paso to Sonora—­some had passed through Mexico, and, after beating about for months in the Pacific, had run into San Deigo and abandoned their vessel—­some had landed weary with a seven months’ voyage round Cape Horn—­while others had wandered on foot from Cape St. Lucas to San Deigo, over frightful deserts and rugged mountains, a distance of nearly fifteen hundred miles, as they were obliged to travel.

The Gila emigrants spoke with horror of the Great Desert west of the Colorado—­a land of drought and desolation—­vast salt plains and hills of drifting sand; the trails which they followed sown white with bones of man and beast.  Unburied corpses of emigrants and carcasses of mules who had preceded them, making the hot air foul and loathsome.  Wo to the weak and faltering in such a journey!  They were left alone to die on the burning sands.

On the Sonora route, one of the party fell sick, and rode on behind his companions, unable to keep pace with them for several days, yet always arriving in camp a few hours later.  At last he was missing.  Four days after, a negro, alone and on foot, came into camp and told them that many miles back a man lying by the road had begged a little water of him, and urged him to hurry on and bring assistance.  The next morning a company of Mexicans came up, and brought word that the man was dying.  But his old companions hesitated to go to his relief.  The negro thereupon retraced his steps over the desert, and reached the sufferer just as he expired.  He lifted him in his arms; the poor fellow strove to speak to his benefactor, and died in the effort.  His mule, tied to a cactus, was already dead of hunger at his side.  A picture commemorating such a scene, and the heroic humanity of the negro, would better adorn a panel of the Capitol, than any battle-piece which was ever painted.