this era, and bootjacks are as extinct as the dodo. I have kept a few letters written by my mother when I was away from her. They were written on a flat sheet, afterward folded and fastened by a wafer. Envelopes had not arrived; neither had postage-stamps. Sealing-wax was then in vogue and red tape for important documents. In all well-regulated dwellings there were whatnots in the corner with shells and waxworks and other objects of beauty or mild interest. The pictures did not move—they were fixed in the family album. The musical instruments most in evidence were jew's-harps and harmonicas. The Rollo books were well calculated to make a boy sleepy. The Franconia books were more attractive, and "The Green Mountain Boy" was thrilling. A small boy's wildest dissipation was rolling a hoop.

And now California casts her shadow. My father was an early victim. I remember his parting admonition, as he was a man of few words and seldom offered advice. "Be careful," he said, "of wronging others. Do not repeat anything you hear that reflects on another. It is a pretty good rule, when you cannot speak well of another, to say nothing at all." He must have said more, but that is all that I recall.

Father felt that in two years he would return with enough money to provide for our needs. In the meantime we could live at less expense and in greater safety in the country. We returned to the town we all loved, and the two years stretched to six. We three children went to school, my mother keeping house. In 1851 my grandfather died, and in 1853 my grandmother joined him.

During these Leominster days we greatly enjoyed a visit from my father's sister, Charlotte, with her husband, John Downes, an astronomer connected with Harvard University. They were charming people, bringing a new atmosphere from their Cambridge home. Uncle John tried to convince me that by dividing the heavens I might count the visible stars, but he did not succeed. He wrote me a fine, friendly letter on his returning home, in 1852, using a sheet of blue paper giving on the third page a view of the college buildings and a procession of the alumni as they left the church Sept. 6, 1836. In the letter he pronounced it a very good view. It is presented elsewhere, in connection with the picture of a friend who entered the university a few years later.

School life was pleasant and I suppose fairly profitable. Until I entered high school I attended the ungraded district school. It was on the edge of a wood, and a source of recess pleasure was making umbrageous homes of pine boughs. On the last day of school the school committee, the leading minister, the ablest lawyer, and the best-loved doctor were present to review and address us. We took much pride in the decoration. Wreaths of plaited leaves were twisted around the stovepipe; the top of the stove was banked with pond-lilies gathered from a pond in our woods. Medals were primitive. For a week I wore a pierced ninepence in evidence of my proficiency in mental arithmetic; then it passed to stronger hands.

According to present standards we indulged in precious little amusement. Entertainments were few. Once in a while a circus came to town, and there were organizations of musical attractions like The Hutchinson Family and The Swiss Bell Ringers. Ossian E. Dodge was a name with which to conjure, and a panorama was sometimes unrolled alternating with dissolving views. Seen in retrospect, they all seem tame and unalluring. The Lyceum was, the feature of strongest interest to the grownups. Lectures gave them a chance to see men of note like Wendell Phillips, Emerson, or William Lloyd Garrison. Even boys could enjoy poets of the size of John G. Saxe.

Well do I remember the distrust felt for abolitionists. I had an uncle who entertained Fred Douglass and was ready at any time to help a fugitive slave to Canada. He was considered dangerous. He was a shoemaker, and I remember how he would drop his work when no one was by and get up to pace the floor and rehearse a speech he probably never would make.

Occasionally our singing-school would give a concert, and once in a farmers' chorus I was costumed in a smock cut down from one of grandfather's. I carried a sickle and joined in "Through lanes with hedgerows, pearly." I kept up in the singing but let my attention wander as the farmers made their exit and did not notice that I was left till the other boys were almost off the stage. I then skipped after them, swinging my scythe in chagrin.

In the high school we gave an exhibition in which we enacted some Scotch scene. I think it had to do with Roderick Dhu. We were to be costumed, and I was bothered about kilts and things. Mr. Phillips, the principal, suggested that the stage be set with small evergreen trees. The picture of them in my mind's eye brought relief, and I impulsively exclaimed, "That will be good, because we will not have to wear pants," meaning, of course, the kilts. He had a sense of humor and was a tease. He pretended to take me literally, and raised a laugh as he said, "Why, Murdock!"

One bitterly cold night we went to Fitchburg, five miles away, to describe the various pictures given at a magic-lantern exhibition. My share was a few lines on a poor view of Scarborough Castle. At this distance it seems like a poor investment of energy.

I wonder if modern education has not made some progress in a generation. Here was a boy of fourteen who had never studied history or physics or physiology and was assigned nothing but Latin, algebra and grammar. I left at fourteen and a half to come to California, knowing little but what I had picked up accidentally.

A diary of my voyage, dating from June 4, 1855, vividly illustrates the character of the English inculcated by the school of the period. It refers to the "crowd assembled to witness our departure." It recounts all we saw, beginning with Washacum Pond, which we passed on our way to Worcester: "of considerable magnitude, ... and the small islands which dot its surface render it very beautiful." The buildings of New York impressed the little prig greatly. Trinity Church he pronounces "one of the most splendid edifices which I ever saw," and he waxes into "Opalian" eloquence over Barnum's American Museum, which was "illuminated from basement to attic."

We sailed on the "George Law," arriving at Aspinwall, the eastern terminal of the Panama Railroad, in ten days. Crossing the isthmus, with its wonders of tropical foliage and varied monkeys, gave a glimpse of a new world. We left Panama June 16th and arrived at San Francisco on the morning of the 30th.

Let the diary tell the tale of the beginning of life in California: "I arose about 4-1/2 this morning and went on deck. We were then in the Golden Gate, which is the entrance into San Francisco Bay. On each side of us was high land. On the left-hand side was a lighthouse, and the light was still burning. On my right hand was the outer telegraph building. When they see us they telegraph to another place, from which they telegraph all over San Francisco. When we were going in there was a strong ebb tide. We arrived at the wharf a little after five o'clock. The first thing which I did was to look for my father. Him I did not see."

Father had been detained in Humboldt by the burning of the connecting steamer, so we went to Wilson's Exchange in Sansome near Sacramento Street, and in the afternoon took the "Senator" for Sacramento, where my uncle and aunt lived.

The part of a day in San Francisco was used to the full in prospecting the strange city. We walked its streets and climbed its hills, much interested in all we saw. The line of people waiting for their mail up at Portsmouth Square was perhaps the most novel sight. A race up the bay, waiting for the tide at Benicia, sticking on the "Hog's Back" in the night, and the surprise of a flat, checkerboard city were the most impressive experiences of the trip to Sacramento.

A month or so on this compulsory visit passed very pleasantly. We found fresh delight in watching the Chinese and their habits.