have dashed in, plunged around and rushed out. Horace Greeley staid about as long as it would take him to rush off one of his patent chain-lightning, hieroglyphic Tribune editorials.

He rode in at midnight, reached his lodging at one o'clock in the morning, too tired to eat, and too sore to tell of it; went to bed, sick, sore and disgusted. Up late next morning, so lame he could hardly sit in his saddle, hobbled hurriedly around three or four hours, and was on his way out again at a little after noon.

Many of the grandest sights he didn't even catch the remotest glimpse of; those he did see he just glanced at, too weary to appreciate their slightest beauty, and too hurried to allow himself time to begin to grow to the true scale of their grandeur; and having given to the whole valley about one quarter of the time necessary to thoroughly study, intelligently enjoy and heartily appreciate the least of its wonders, he has the presumption to fancy he has "been to Yosemite." The fact is, he never really saw a single object about the valley, except, possibly, the giant cliff, Tu-toch-ah-nu-lah, which, as he says, looked as if it might have leaned over and buried him beneath its vastness, and which, as I say, would, doubtless, have done so speedily, had it known that the shabby rider who shambled along under its base that moonlight night, sore at one end, sleepy at the other, and sick all the way between, was going to rush off and talk so inadequately, unworthily and even untruthfully about objects which no human eye ever did see or could see in the condition of his sleep-oppressed optics on that slumbrous August morning. He has the cheek to declare that the fall of Yosemite is a humbug. It would be interesting to know what the fall thought of Greeley. One thing is sure, all earlier and later visitors unite in the opinion that the only humbug in the valley that year went out of it in his saddle about three o'clock on that drowsy August afternoon, and has never since marred the measureless realities which he sleepily slandered. The simple fact is, Mr. Greeley saw the little which he did see three or four months too late in the season. If he ever comes again, at the right time, and stays to really see the wonders of the valley, he will be heartily ashamed of what he then wrote, and freely pardon his present critic. Meantime, exit H. G. We bear thee no malice. The soul that can see and feel as little as thine did in Yosemite provokes no anger, but only sorrow and compassion. For the sake of thy sore and raw and sadly-pummeled body, we freely forgive the terribly shaken soul that inhabited it on that memorable midnight when horse and saddle maliciously united in assault and battery on the most sensitive portion of thine editorial corporosity. Vale, Greeley, vale. The next time thou comest hither, wear what hat thou likest and match it with what suit may please thee best, but if thou lovest life, and wouldst see good days, tell, oh Horace, tell the truth.

Pardon our digression to Greeley. We have spent so much time on him, not because he occasionally scribbles illegible manuscript for a new and struggling paper in a small eastern village, but because he came faster, arrived sorer, stayed fewer hours, saw less of the valley, and slandered it more than any one else has ever attempted.

Olive Logan spoke disparagingly of the Yosemite Fall, but the Fall is still there. She adds some slanderous remarks about the conduct of the drivers along the route, to which the only fitting answer would be these questions: "When a man or a woman, all alone in a room, looks into a mirror, and doesn't see a gentleman or lady reflected therein—whose fault is it? Is the difficulty in the glass or in front of it?"

But let us start. From San Francisco to Yosemite there are three routes. All of them carry one, first, to or near Stockton, which city we reach by rail or river, and all of them bring us, at last, into the valley by one of the only two trails which enter it. Between the outer ends of these trails and Stockton, or vicinity, lie the various intermediate places or way stations which have given name to the routes which pass through them, and concerning which the tourist chiefly needs reliable information.

Looking upon any good map, not drawn in the exclusive interest of some one of these rival routes, you can easily see for yourself, spite of all agents' representations, which is the most direct way, geographically or topographically.

We now mention these in regular order, reckoning from north to south; that is, down the map, as we used to say at school. For convenience, we may distinguish the three routes as the upper or north route, the middle route, and the lower or south route.

Big Oak Flat Route.

The upper or north route is commonly called the Big Oak Flat, or the Hutchings route. If we go by this, we can either go directly into the valley, or make a detour by way of the Calaveras Big Trees. The following table showing distances, times and conveyances, by the straight and quick way.

TO YOSEMITE VALLEY—DIRECT.

By the above way you leave San Francisco at four o'clock P.M., from the wharf, at the foot of Broadway, by one of the California Pacific Railroad Company's steamers for Stockton. You have a fine afternoon and sunset view of San Francisco, the shipping, Oakland, Yerba Buena and Alcatraz Islands, the Golden Gate, Angel Island, Mount Tamalpais, San Quentin, San Pablo Bay, Vallejo, Mare Island, Suisun Bay, Benicia, Martinez, and Mount Diablo. Those who have crossed the continent by rail find this sail a pleasant change. They avoid the dust, get a good night's rest on the steamer, reach Stockton at from two to three o'clock in the morning, breakfast at six, and at seven take the cars of the Stockton and Copperopolis Railroad from the station near the landing. We reach Milton, twenty-eight miles, at 8.20, find the stage waiting, and immediately embark, and are off at once. The road lies through a mountainous country, well timbered. The air is clear and invigorating, and the scenery sublime. The road is good, the stages first-class, and the drivers obliging.

About one we reach Chinese Camp, and after twenty-four miles staging are ready for a half-hour's rest and a good dinner; or, we may wait for both until we reach Garrote, fourteen miles farther. Here either of two good hotels will feed and lodge us. Next morning we'd better dress for the horse-back ride in the afternoon. Lay aside all superfluous luggage and pack your extra nice clothing, if you