The reader will discover, as he proceeds, that my adventures are about to commence from this journey to Monterey; I therefore wish to remind him that I was at this time not eighteen years old.  I had a remembrance of civilization previous to my arrival among the Indians, and as we enjoyed every comfort and some luxuries at the settlement, I still had a remembrance, although vague, of what had passed in Italy and elsewhere.  But I had become an Indian, and until I heard that I was to under-take this journey, I had recollected the former scenes of my youth only to despise them.

That this feeling had been much fostered by the idea that I should never again rejoin them, is more than probable; for from the moment that I heard that I was to proceed to Monterey, my heart beat tumultuously and my pulse was doubled in its circulation.  I hardly know what it was that I anticipated, but certainly I had formed the idea of a terrestrial paradise.

If not exactly a paradise, Monterey is certainly a sweet place; ’tis even now a fairy spot in my recollection, although sobered down, and, I trust, a little wiser than I was at that time.  There certainly is an air of happiness spread over this small town.  Every one is at their ease, everybody sings and smiles, and every hour is dedicated to amusement or repose.

None of your dirty streets and sharp pavements; no manufactories with their eternal smoke; no policemen looking like so many knaves of clubs; no cabs or omnibuses splashing the mud to the right and to the left; and, above all, none of your punctual men of business hurrying to their appointments, blowing like steam-engines, elbowing everybody, and capsizing the apple-stalls.  No; there is none of these at Monterey.

There is a bay, blue and bottomless, with shores studded with tall beautiful timber.  There is a prairie lawn, spread like a carpet in patterns composed of pretty wild flowers.  Upon it stand hundreds of cottage-built tenements, covered with the creeping vine.  In the centre, the presidio, or government-house; on one side the graceful spire of a church, on the other the massive walls of a convent.  Above all, is a sky of the deepest cobalt blue, richly contrasting with the dark green of the tall pines, and the uncertain and indescribable tints on the horizon of these western prairies.

Even the dogs are polite at Monterey, and the horses which are always grazing about, run up to you and appear as if they would welcome you on your arrival; but the fact is that every traveller carries a bag of salt at his saddle-bow, and by their rubbing their noses against it, it is clear that they come to beg a little salt, of which they are very fond.  Everybody and every animal is familiar with you, and, strange to say, the English who reside there are contented, and still more strange, the Americans are almost honest.  What a beautiful climate it must be at Monterey!

Their hospitality is unbounded.  “The holy Virgin bless thee,” said an old man who watched our coming; “tarry here and honour my roof.”  Another came up, shook us by the hand, his eye sparkling with kind feelings.  A third took our mules by the bridles and led us to his own door, when half-a-dozen pretty girls, with flashing dark eyes and long taper fingers, insisted on undoing our leggings and taking off our spurs.