MARY MORTON. A LIFE SKETCH. Nobody knew Mary Morton but to love her. Wherever she dwelt, the house was flooded with sunshine. Her silvery voice rang the loudest and sweetest in the merry laugh, and filled the dwelling with music so rich and melodious, as to make one forget for the moment that there was aught else in the world but beauty and gladness. It is a duty I owe to the memory of Mary, to give the reader some description of what she once was. Her complexion was not exactly a blonde, but it was much too fair for a brunette. Her forehead was high and smooth; her features regular and impressive, tending somewhat to the Grecian, and when in repose there was an air of languishment about them that was perfectly bewitching, and yet at the same time entirely exempt from affectation. Her hair was black and glossy, and she wore it either in long, rich curls, or braided bands, that set off the beautiful contour of her features to the best possible advantage. Her eyes were of the same jetty blackness as her hair; and full, round, large, lustrous, and fringed with the most beautiful silken lashes, they evinced a depth of feeling that is much easier imagined than described, which gave a singular charm to the whole countenance, and made you love her whether you were in a good humor or not. We had both exchanged the boardingschool for home, during a month's vacation, and were to return at the expiration of that time. At all the little parties and merry-makings could the petted Mary be found, and a report was soon rumored that Gilbert Cleaveland was the accepted lover. And so he proved; for Mary never returned to the seminary of L-, to con over the much dreaded "French lesson," or her daily routine of studies. that the young and promising lawyer bore Mary, the only daughter and child, to his cot of love; and for five long years life had been to her one sweet dream of wedded bliss. Who then could not say that the horizon to her was rose-colored, and that her small feet were destined to tread the future upon the silver sands of love and hope? Time to her, thus far, had been measured off in golden hours. A change, alas! was yet to come over the spirit of her dream, and the bitter chalice of sorrow drained to the dregs. The cup overflowing with happiness was soon dashed to the earth, ere she had scarcely poised it at her lips. In 1849, Gilbert gained the consent of Mary to visit the gold region of California, that her future years might be made happy, and her sky cloudless from want or care. That moment of her life had come when she saw Gilbert for the last time bend over the cradle of their two smiling cherubs, and invoke a father's blessing upon his darling ones. "Good bye!" was at last spoken, between sobs and tears, and the cottage home was now desolate and lonely, where had ever been a long, protracted day of love. Like all castle-building of the mind, before the dome is properly shaped, the whole structure falls to the ground. Gilbert Cleaveland was unsuccessful in his hurried attempt to gain a rapid fortune in the golden placers of the mountains. After a little, his letters, once overflowing with love and kindness, became more and more unaffectionate and unfrequent, until he had altogether ceased to remember the absent wife and children, except with the bitter pangs of a remorseful conscience. He soon dipped deep in the prevailing vices of the day, and could be nightly found among the devotees of chance in the gambling-houses, or in other foul dens of iniquity, and the Lethean draught from the wine cup was now his daily potion. Mary, broken hearted at home, had received the startling and sad intelliBright and beautiful was the morning gence of his shame, and of heartless deser tion. It was even said that he had taken to his home and heart a Spanish wife, and, with their child, lived somewhere upon the slope of the Nevadas. Mary now began to feel the need of kindly protection from some one, though her heart still clung to the absent with all its wonted love and tenderness. Could it be that Gilbert had forgotten her and the little ones, and left them to battle single-handed with the ills of life? Sometimes she would hope for his return, or for a letter, or something that would whisper words of comfort, and say, "My Mary, thou art still the remembered and loved." In this the poor bleeding heart was doomed to a bitter disappointment; and hateful taunts about him, from her friends, had reached her sensitive ear. One proud and firm resolve she had now fostered in her bosom; that was, to seek him in that land, at that time, of cards and gold. To be near the idol of her heart would be a consolation, even if she was denied the privilege of his societyand though his love was given to an other. Now look in upon the inmates of that once happy home, and witness the misery that is brooding there! There is a being pacing the floor, whose hollow eyes fully attest the sleepless vigils they have kept. How she gazes into vacancy, as her pale countenance speaks of the mind's agonizing bewilderment. There in that room, where the lamplight and moonlight are struggling for the mastery, are three pure beings that dream not of their future desertion, and which is as yet untold, though written in the sealed and mysterious book of Fate. Why does she now and then falter and hesitate for a moment, as she adds another to her household gods, while making up the small bundle that is to go with her on the long, long journey to the El Dorado? Yes, she has it now; she will take her babes with her, to be with him, near him. She kissed the worn and rumpled letter his first; put a little dear and tear-stained miniature in her bosom, and she was gone. "My destiny," she soliloquized, "was linked with his, and why should stay when duty calls me? What if he should reject and scorn me? cast me upon the cold charities of the world? If he does, revenge then would be sweet!" From that moment the demon of distrust crept into her guileless heart, and she began to doubt the integrity of her kind-ofttimes doubting, in her madness, the love and goodness of her Creator, who had thus meted out with an unerring hand the bitter wormwood and gall, as her greatest portion. After a few short months of dusty travel across the plains-for she had prevailed upon a friend to allow her a place in the train with his family-she at last arrived in Sacramento. In the fall of 1852, the reader perhaps will remember seeing a woman playing upon the violin in one of the gambling-houses of that place, and who afterwards was engaged at the Union Hotel at Placerville. Do not be startled, dear reader, when I say it was none other than the once faultless Mary Morton! She accidentally met Gilbert, who saluted her, in the house where she dealt monte. She soon found, to her soul-withering sorrow, that it was too late; he was lost to her, and to the little ones that still said, in artless ignorance, "My Pa," and wondered why he did not come. The first piercing gaze she had of his bloated features told her that he had been stung by the still-worm, that lay coiled by the way-side, and could be no more the idol of her poor broken heart. In the fall of the same year, the wily tempter wove his meshes firmly about her, and upon the lofty pinnacle of soulagonizing despair she saw love's guiding star set in a night of darkness. Her illsecured feet slipped from the dizzy height, and like a shattered temple, the fragments looked beautiful amid ruin and decay. Goaded to desperation, she sank deeper and deeper in the slough of dissipation. Ofttimes Mary was heard to revile the name of the Creator; and she felt to her heart's core the blighting curse | still the wild agony that now deluged the of gold, and the loss of womanly virtue | soul with all the fury of a tornado? -as the sequel will show. * * * * * * One evening, we were startled from a pleasant chat at the supper table by the entrance of Dr. Rodolph, who visited the dining-room of the Iowa House at Placerville, and said to us, in an under-tone, that our assistance was needed in laying out the corpse of a young lady who had suddenly died a few moments before. It had been raining most of the day, and the streets were now muddy and dark, as we wended our way to the house of death, which stood at the foot of the hill before us. As we reached the steps of the lonely-looking hovel, we could see no light burning at the window. We stood with mute expectation in the dark, until Mrs. L. brought us a light, which soon revealed to us the sad spectacle before us. Oh! how can I write it? There, partly reclining upon the bed and floor, lay a beautiful creature, and-could I trust my eyes! When the light fell full upon her face, I discovered, to my infinite hor-diately fled to parts unknown. Her chilror, my old school-mate, Mary. There were to be seen the same dark, lustrous eyes, staring deep in their sockets-eyes that had once beamed with tenderness upon me, in days the remembrance of which only embittered the present. There lay the long curls, partly shading the face, and falling down over the long attenuated arm and hand-looking much like a sleeping angel, save that calm look of despair, and the compressed expression of the lips, looking bitter at the world in the last struggle with the grim monster. It needed no far-fetched theology to convince me that I was in the room of vice and lewdness; but she could not harm me now, as the soul had left the beautiful casket that lay so icy and rigid before Vainly did I call upon her name; she heeded not my wild lamentations. Yet at that moment I felt the angels of heaven to be lifting the gates of paradise; for how could I believe her to be anything but that pure being, Mary, my schoolmate?-she was not the denounced the world had made her. then knew why the tall woman who played in the gambling-house had passed upon the other side of the street, and pulled her thick veil over her face-it was the fear of recognition. In one corner lay a hideous looking creature, who was her partner in crime, and who was a mass of corruption. We gleaned from her, however, that Mary was called to the door by somebody rapping, who, upon opening it, proved to be none other than the perfidious Gilbert. She articulated, "Oh, my God!" and fell a corpse upon the floor. Her husband dragged her to. the bed where we found her, and imme me. Oh! what a weight of sinking misery I then felt creeping into my heart. Laying my head upon her throbless bosom, I mingled her dark tresses with my own. The misery of an eternity was crowded into the space of an hour. How could I dren both died from want and negligence, while the mother nightly played in a gambling-house. The next day, a few gamblers and women from the dens of shame followed poor Mary Morton's remains to the hillside. I felt glad when the clods fell with a hollow sound upon the coffin lid, and rejoiced with her freed spirit that the mother, earth, had hidden away so much sorrow, and guilt, and wretchedness. ALICE. BUTTER MAKING IN THE VALLEYS OF THE SIERRAS. Last summer, when the feed became scant in the Sacramento Valley, a friend of ours took his stock, including some sixty-five milch cows, into one of the many grass-covered valleys of the Sierras; and during the season, such was the heavy richness of the cream, was enabled to make six thousand two hundred pounds of butter, of the finest quality, and which netted him sixty-five cents per pound. "Thus o'er these scenes my mem❜ry wakes, Gloomy shadows 'round me gather; O, 'tis weary, very weary, Oh, that spot, how many pictures Youthful footsteps gayly fleeting But sad time has left its traces And they're scattered, widely scattered, Ladened breezes 'round us stealing From their opening beauties fair. But fond memories o'er them gather, O, could I with those whispers softly THE SPIRIT'S LODGE. A LEGEND OF LAKE BIGLER. On the east side of Lake Bigler there is said to be a cavity formed in the rock, which, according to Indian tradition, sends forth a terrible voice, especially at certain seasons of the year; and on this account has been called "The Spirit's Lodge." For half a mile along the border of the lake, and stretching back for a mile and a half, is a beautiful and fertile slope of country, in which is to be seen small groups of the fir, the ash, and pine, the ground completely netted with the mountain clover, which forms a most beautiful landscape. The shore of the lake is sandy, and at this point free from that irregular jutting of the rocks which doubtless lie in masses but a few feet below the surface. At the west end of this cañon is a lofty mountain peak, in the top of which is an open crater of considerable dimensions, of an extinct volcano, which long since ceased to send forth its volumes of burning lava. The Diggers generally assemble in the above valley in the spring, and continue to reside there until the snows of winter compel them to seek a more genial clime. The lake abounds in salmon and trout, which they take out in large quantities. Opposite the above vale is the great grot to whose hoarse voice has terrified father and son for numberless generations. A party visited this lake some time sincesailed into the grotto, and explored it thoroughly. They found that the unearthly sounds which proceeded from its huge mouth for so long a time was produced by the swells striking the rock at its extremity, and the sound gathered force and tone as it passed to the entrance or mouth of the presiding genii's home. The following legentl, written by W. Wadsworth, as interpreted by Col. J. C. Johnson, is so very near to all others that have come to our knowledge, that we give it in full. It is related by an old blind father of his race, who has felt the chilling frosts of more than a hundred winters gathering around his shriveled form. His eyes can no longer behold the sunbeams play around the heaven-piercing peaks of these eternal hills ere it sinks to nightly rest. Those who wish to speculate upon the former situation of this wonderful country and its inhabitants, can do so by reading the tradition, and find food for conjecture for time to come. "Long before these mountains were lifted up so very high as they now are, the Digger Indian possessed the whole earth, and was a great people. Then the little valley and lake made a part of the great river Tro-ko-nene, (or Humboldt) which at that time poured its waters into the great sea in which the sun sets. Then were our people happy, for the whole country was more level than now, and far more beautiful. The great fish (meaning the salmon) now only numerous in the lake, were plentiful even to the head waters of the Trokonene, and the whole country was filled with trees and vines that bore fruit. "But the time arrived when a new people, unlike our fathers only in being more warlike and powerful, though speaking a different language, came down from the north and began a terrible war, destroying our homes, our wives and our children. Though unaccustomed to war, our fathers made a long and determined resistance; but after years of troublesome warfare, they were at length all driven away, or made the slaves of their conquerors, for life. Yes," said he, his sightless eyes streaming with tears, "our fathers and mothers made slaves. And for ages did their children toil on and serve their terrible masters. So hard was their lot, so deep and abject their servitude, they became fools, and lost all record of the moon, or time, and, like trees, knew nothing. But at length the Great Spirit put a stop to this by destroying alike our people and their oppressors. A great wave like a mountain came up from the sea, and swept away all of them, and they were seen no more-all but a few Digger slaves and their masters. They were the great spirits or teachers of their people; and as there were no mountains then, they had to assemble on the top of a great temple that our people had been compelled to rear, and where they worshipped the column of perpetual fire; and thus was a remnant of our fathers and mothers saved, together with a few of their task-masters. "But no sooner had the waters all gone back, the earth once more become green, and the Tro-ko-nene flowed within its banks as before, than the earth became convulsed and rolled from side to side, and then the first thunderings ever known beneath the ground were heard, and they were terrible. At length, however, all was still again; but before half a moon had passed away, terrific fire burst forth from out the ground, and showers of hot sulphurous ashes fell around. Our masters sought refuge in the great temple we had reared, but they shut the poor fools out. The Great Spirit was displeased; for now the heavy thunderings were heard again, the earth shook and trembled, and deep chasms were formed, that threw up vast volumes of smoke for a few moments, then suddenly closed again. And then it was that these great mountains, never before seen, were lifted up; the Tro-ko-nene was stopped, or lost in the great new sea then for the first time seen in the east, and which continued to exist for many years, but at length dried up and was lost, as the waters of the Tro-ko-nene now are, by the sands that lie under the rising sun." On being asked what became of the Great Spirit, their masters, that had taken refuge in the temple, he replied"First let us follow the fortunes of my people. No sooner had their hated masters closed the doors against them, than our people, to escape the fires that were bursting out around them, hurried to the Tro-ko-nene, and in their canoes bounded along its now rapidly extending current to the sea; and they had barely made their escape, before these mountains, by one awful convulsive shock of the earth, were lifted up, and all the beautiful grounds and homes of our ancient fathers and their subsequent conquerors were alike wrapt in an awful chaos of fire, ashes and smoke. The Tro-ko-nene, no longer the greatest river in the western sea, coursing its entire length through |