A comparison of the foregoing tables shows Los Angeles to possess, as contrasted with Sacramento, an atmosphere warmer and drier in winter, and cooler and moister in summer, while the table of precipitation shows the average annual rainfall of eighteen inches at Sacramento diminishing as you go south, in accordance with the law already mentioned, to 16.8 at Stockton, and in the Tulare and Kern Valleys, still farther south, to only 6.5 inches. Yet at Los Angeles, in Southern California, it has suddenly risen again to 17.97 inches, almost the same as at Sacramento. The cause of this has already been explained in the first part of this article.

The warmer winter in Southern California, as compared with the more northern portion of the State, and the greater exemption from cold, drying winds, make this amount practically equivalent to a larger rainfall in Upper California, as vegetation is not so much retarded by the cold of December and January, but the whole of the winter becomes a growing season. The growing season is also prolonged by the fogs and humidity of a late, cool spring. The heat of summer sets in late. The season is several weeks behind that at Sacramento. Almost nightly, until July, a heavy fog rolls in, wrapping the more open portions of the country in a cloud of mist-at times almost a drizzling rain-which does not lift until several hours after sunrise.

The daily sea-breeze, only slightly obstructed by the low fragments of the Coast Range, finds its way to all portions of the system of valleys,

saving them from the excessive temperature and the rapid evaporation of the Sacramento and San Joaquin country. Winter flannels are only changed to a lighter summer flannel. In eleven years of residence at Los Angeles I doubt if I have worn a linen coat upon an average five days a year; many years I have never had one on at all.

Another factor enters into the problem of the climate of Southern California. The influence of the Sonora summer's rain current is sensibly felt everywhere south of the Tehachape Mountains.

Rains are common in all the mountains of Southern California during the summer months, with a moist, cloudy air in the valleys. Three seasons in eleven years I have seen heavy rains of several hours duration, extending all over the valleys, in July and August. During these months of every year thunder-storms with often vivid lightning can be seen, sometimes daily, following along the line of the mountain chains. These summer rains help in a measure to keep up the volume of water in the rivers for irrigation, while all over the valleys the moist air which the rain current brings is instrumental in materially checking evaporation. The summer has little of the harsh dryness of the climate in the northern portion of the State. The | humidity of the atmosphere is shown by the great fleecy cumuli, which float slowly across the sky like the summer clouds of the Eastern States, and by a peculiar softness of air resembling much the balmy mildness of the Medi

terranean.

This soft, moist air admits of the raising of one product not elsewhere extensively cultivated in California. Here, as in the Mississippi States, corn is the staple crop, its broad, green leaves luxuriating in the warm air in which it delights. So the rank growth, and the rich, juicy green of the orange and fig leaves, show the mildness and the humidity of a climate which to them is home.

The drainage from the watershed of the Sierra, which stands as a huge background to* the whole system of valleys, affords an unusually abundant supply of water for the purposes of agriculture. Over much of the land a double crop is raised-small grain without irrigation in winter, corn by irrigation in summer. Besides the three principal rivers rising from the Sierra-the Los Angeles, the San Gabriel, and the Santa Aña-each cañon for a hundred miles gives its small brook, and the underground flow is so great that the number of flowing artesian wells is estimated in the State Engineer's report at nearly one thousand. The cienegas are also a peculiar feature of these val

leys. The underground flow from the Sierra here and there comes to the surface, making stretches for miles of moist land, green with grass in the driest part of the summer.

The broken, hilly Coast Range, lying at the verge of an upland plain between the Sierra and the sea, affords innumerable natural sites for extensive reservoirs for the storage of the winter floods, thus saving the winter water for summer irrigation. Many small reservoirs have been built upon this upland plain, and in the hills. The city of Los Angeles has commenced a series of such works, the largest finished covering some sixty acres. These southern valleys are by far the best watered portion of California, while the extensive use of water for irrigation is reacting upon the climate, making it still more humid.

The peculiarity of the physical character of the country which has been described, the practical obliteration of the Coast Range, and the facing of the high Sierra directly outward to the ocean, gives rise to one type of climate not elsewhere found in the State. It is not the climate of the Coast Range; neither is it the climate of the Sierra. It is a climate produced by giving the daily sea-breeze of the Coast Range to the Sierra. It is a climate which can hardly be described. The peculiar charm of it must be felt to be understood.

Along the base of the Sierra back of Pasadena, on eastward back of San Gabriel, past Cucamonga with its noted vineyards, above Pomona, and on beyond San Bernardino, growing warmer as it recedes eastward from the sea, is a belt of foothills above the fog line, facing out toward the noonday sun, looking down across the plains, and the hills of the Coast Range, upon the warm southern sea, and yet fanned daily by an ocean breeze that has no harshness. I do not say that there is no more perfect climate than this belt affords, but I have never seen one. The Southern Pacific Railroad upon its way to Arizona skirts the foot of this belt for a hundred miles.

This, however, is only one of a number of climates developed. There are local peculiarities which one would not suspect until after actual residence. Along certain lines lie what | might be termed wind-belts. These are caused by the breaks in the Coast Range of hills. The night fogs also are more apt to follow certain well defined courses; and in the winter frost has its sections of preference, while other portions of the country escape entirely. There is a varied choice of climates within a comparatively limited area. Within three hours by rail one may have the fresh air of the sea-side at Santa Monica or San Pedro, with surf-bathing and a temperature always cool, even in the warmest days of summer; or, passing inland, the grass lands and dairies of Compton and Westminster, or the corn lands of Los Nietos and the region about Anaheim; the milder but still essentially coast climate of Los Angeles City; then, passing within the line of the Coast Range, the still more sheltered San Gabriel plains, where the orange best flourishes; the inland wheat-fields of San Fernando Valley, resembling somewhat the climate of the great interior valley of the San Joaquin; then the warmer raisin lands of Pomona and Riverside; the long fogless belt of the Sierra foothills; and beyond, the alfalfa lands of San Bernardino.

And still beyond, a hundred miles inland over the open valley from Los Angeles, is the San Gorgonio Pass, land-marked from the Colorado to the sea by the twin peaks, San Jacinto and San Bernardino, with snowy crests rising ten thousand and eleven thousand five hundred feet above the plain. Here the Sierra breaks down, forming the only natural pass in all its long chain, the grassy plain, without even a dividing crest, swelling and rolling through at an elevation of only two thousand nine hundred feet, a natural gateway for the southern transcontinental roads upon their way to the East. Beyond, is the great mystery of the rainless desert. J. P. WIDNEY.

During the brief literary career of this noted authoress, few personal details ever came to the knowledge of the public. A curate's daughter, a governess, a small, shy woman, living lonely among bleak moors in a sad parsonage, nursing sisters who died early, and were buried under her windows-these were all the facts that she had seen fit to communicate to the world.

In all her books, there is nothing whining or sentimental, although much that is morbid; they seem to appeal to the reader with a mute pathos; and he knows that, under the story he reads, another story is written. Miss Bronté resembles Henry Fielding in this respect; not more entirely did he put himself into his stories than did she. There are few eminent au

thors of whom the world will ever know as much as it does of Miss Bronté; for few authors, when they have spoken for themselves in their works, have ever such a friend to write their biographies. Mrs. Gaskill has written many a page, but she has never told a tale more tragical than the life of Charlotte Bronté. She was born in the year 1816, in the little, dreary town of Haworth, which is built upon a steep street, among the sad moors and barren hills of Yorkshire. Her father was curate of the parish; her mother came from Cornwall, and never returned thither-a mild, pious, gentle woman, who bore her husband six children in rapid succession, then died; and lived only in their vague memories and nursery traditions. So early the home seemed to be cleared of the only gracious influence which might have modified the hard life of the children. The Rev. Patrick Bronté was an Irishman, and a very remarkable character. He makes a kind of grandiose impression whenever he appears; a vast, savage nature, an abortive Titan. Mewed up in the moors, at a time when Yorkshire was the roughest part of England; relieving his anger by firing off pistols in rapid succession at his back-door, stuffing the hearth-rug into the fire until it smouldered away, or sawing away the backs of chairs, riding and walking about with a loaded pistol, which was his inseparable companion, cutting his wife's silk dress to shreds, putting the gay shoes of his children into the fire, feeding them upon potatoes because he wished them to be hearty, and to have no high-flown notions-the Rev. P. Bronté, with his fierce, passionate, nature, was not likely to be the most tender of parents, when dyspepsia set in, and he resolved to eat alone in his room, which he did to the end of his life. But, with all these savage traits, he had a wild love of nature; walked far and wide, in all weathers, over the heaths; was faithful in visiting the sick, diligent in the care of the schools, and was evidently a greatly misplaced and wasted force in the humble curacy of Haworth.

While the dyspeptic father was firing pistols out of the back-door, and eating alone in his study, the mother was dying slowly of a cancer, and the house on the very edge of the graveyard was hushed.

The children had few books-their father would foster no nonsense; but Emily read aloud the newspapers, and they discussed the comparative merits of Hannibal and Bonaparte. They gave preternatural answers to their father's preposterous questions; and when he asked his youngest girl, Annie, what such a child most wanted, she, instead of reveling in childhood, answered, "Age and experience."

The gentle mother died, and then began the reign of an aunt, with strong prejudices and a distaste for Yorkshire, who went clicking up and down stairs in pattens, lest she might take cold, and at length took her meals also in her bedroom. The children recited to their father, and browsed upon all sorts of books; but at length the two eldest were sent to a school at Cowan's Bridge. Here they were starved and stunted, exposed to every hardship and disease, with all the heartless cruelty of charity institutions. The story of their sufferings is piteous; it is as sad in the history as it is in the burning, indignant description of the school in Jane Eyre. Maria, the eldest, died in consequence of this school, and Elizabeth contracted the disease which soon swept her after. The father removed them from school, and an old servant, Tabby, came, at this time, full of all kinds of traditional lore, for which she found delighted and enthusiastic listeners in the girls. There was a brother, Branwell, also, a weak, fascinating, brilliant character, self-indulgent and idolized by his sisters, and so winning in his ways and conversation that he was always summoned to the village inn when the passing traveler wanted amusement.

The talent of the girls began to display itself in domestic literature. They wrote every kind of work, and imagined an island, and had each their heroes among the living and eminent Englishmen of the time. Wellington was Charlotte's hero. He occupied her imagination, and all her contributions to the mimic domestic magazine were purported to be written by "Lord Charles Albert Florian Wellesley."

In 1831, Charlotte was the eldest living child; very small in figure, calling herself "stunted," with soft, thick, brown hair, and eyes of a reddish brown. The rest of her features were large and plain, and she was altogether very quiet in manners and quaint in dress. She then went to school to a kind, motherly woman, Miss Wooler, and amazed all the girls by knowing a great deal less and a vast deal more than they did, by being moody and silent, then by repeating long pages of poetry, and declining to play ball. She would stand on the play-ground and look at the sky and the shadows of the trees, and talk politics furiously; or frighten the poor little girls out of their poor little wits by telling horrible stories as they lay in bed at night.

But the girls loved her, and Miss Wooler loved her, then and always afterward. After a year she went home again, and lived in solitude, passing her time in drawing, reading, and walking out among the moors with her sisters, and devising plans with them for the education

of their brother, who was finally destined for a painter. The three girls grew up togetherCharlotte, sad, shy, and religious; Emily, with a suppressed vehemence of nature, and very reserved; Annie, the youngest and mildest of

all. They were what their parents and their life had made them. Inheriting the paternal strength with the mother's gentleness, a youth, bereaved of childhood, had passed in solitude and gloom. GERTRUDE HARROW.

A great pestilence had destroyed the people; only an old woman and two children-a boy and a girl-remained. When they grew up, the man proved himself a great hunter, and the girl, who possessed remarkable beauty and a lovely disposition, an adept in all household arts. In time they married, and now the old woman, fancying herself neglected, plotted against the life of her foster-daughter. Twice she failed in her attempt, but the young wife, aware of her design, apprised her husband, and told him that should she be slain in his absence, her soul would notify him of the fact by dropping tears upon his shoulder. One day, while hunting, he received the fatal sign, and hurried home, but ere he could execute vengeance on the hag, she transformed herself into a gopher, and burrowed in the earth, where she had concealed the body of her victim.

For three days and three nights he lay upon the grave, lamenting the loss of his love, nor tasted he of food or drink throughout that weary vigil. At last he perceived a small whirlwind arise from the grave and disappear. Soon a second arose and moved toward the south, gradually augmenting in size as it progressed. This he followed, and, passing over a sandy plain, perceived that it left foot-prints; then knew he that it was indeed his wife. Redoubling now his efforts, he gained upon the apparition, and, addressing it, was repaid by hearing the voice of his love reply, "Return, O my husband, for where I go, thither thou canst not come. Thou art of the earth, but I am dead to the world." Nevertheless, impel- | led by his great love, he insisted on following, even to the world of shades; and at last, moved by his entreaties, she consented, but cautioned him, "Forget not that no earthly eye may ever again see us!"

They passed over a great sea, and entered the realm of ghosts. He saw here no form, but heard myriads of voices, sweet as the tones of zephyrs, breathed lightly o'er Æolian strings, addressing his spirit-guide:

"What hast thou here, sister? It smells of Earth!"

She confessed that she had brought with her a mortal, her husband, and begged that he might be permitted to stay. She rehearsed his mighty deeds and many admirable qualities while on earth; but all in vain. Again were the voices heard, still musical, but now stern and threatening in their tones.

"Take him away!" they said. "Guided by love he comes, and love pleads his cause; love is all-powerful on Earth, but earthly love avails not in the courts of Heaven!"

Abashed by the evident displeasure of these invisible ones, she still braved their anger, and pleaded for her love. She dilated on his many virtues and his great skill, until at last, despite their assertion "that love availed not," the spiritguard relented, and he was allowed to make exhibition of his acquirements, with a view to his possible admission. He was required to bring a feather from the top of a pole so high that the summit was scarcely visible; to split a hair of great fineness and exceeding length from end to end; to make a map of the constellation known as the "Lesser Bear," and to indicate the exact location of the North Star. Aided by his wife, he succeeded in accomplishing all these tasks to the satisfaction of his examiners; but, in a trial of hunting, failed utterly, the game being invisible. A second attempt resulted as before, and he had become discouraged, when his wife advised him to aim his arrows at the beetles which flew past him in great numbers.

Acting upon her instructions, each beetle, when struck, proved a fat deer; and so many did he slay that the spirit-voices commanded him to desist. They then addressed his wife, who was yet to him invisible. "Sister," they said, "thou knowest none who enter here return again to earth. Tucupar (heaven) knows not death. Our brother-in-law hath done full well, yet mortal skill may not avail to win a heavenly prize. We award him the guerdon,

Love, chiefest of earthly blessings, in thy person; yet only on one condition."

Then, addressing the husband, they said, "Take thou thy wife. Yet remember thou shalt not speak to her, nor touch her, until three suns have passed. A punishment awaits thy disobedience."

They pass from the spirit-land, and travel in silence to the confines of matter. By day she is invisible to him, but at night, by the flickering flame of his camp-fire, he perceives her outline on the ground near by. Another day he remains faithful to his instructions, and by the evening blaze her form appears more plainly than before. The third day has passed, and

now, behold! the amorous flame leaps forth to greet her, recumbent by his side, radiant with beauty and health, and restored, as he fondly believes, to him and love.

But, alas! one-half the lurid orb of day yet trembles, poised on the western verge, as with passionate vehemence he pronounces her name, and clasps to his faithful heart—not the form of her he loves, but a fragment of decayed wood.

Heart-broken and despairing, he roamed the earth ever afterward, until at last the spirits, in mercy, sent to him their servant, Death, who dissolved his mortal fetters, and carried him, rejoicing, to the bosom of his love.

J. ALBERT WILSON.

WE ARE IN RECEIPT of several numbers of the Kieler Zeitung containing a pleasant and appreciative review of the article in the August number of THE CALIFORNIAN upon Fritz Reuter. A former number of the Zeitung had contained a similar critique upon the article upon Klaus Groth, Ditmarsch, and Plattdeutsch, in the February issue. As to the essays themselves, the author did not, and does not, claim more for their merit than that they were mere rough suggestions to cultivated Americans as to a new and fertile field in literature, which might be entered upon with a certainty of acquiring pleasant and healthful ideas in consonance with English and American tastes of mode and thought. But we are glad that the appreciation which was shown for both Groth and Reuter in the articles in question has aroused a warm feeling of friendliness in the bright and cultivated town of Kiel, which feeling seems to have been enhanced by the fact that it was a genuine Amercan, and not a stray naturalized German, who ventured an English encomium upon the Plattdeutsch lyrist and pastoral writer, Groth, and upon the prose-sketch writer, Reuter. We of California are intensely material in our wishes and aims; but if our hungry ambitions seem too absorbing, it is not because we wish to underrate culture and æsthetical pursuits. The man whose fortune lies on a gambling table, no matter how much of an artenthusiast he may be, can have but a careless eye for the Venus of Milo while the croupier is extending his rake. So it is with the Californian. "Give me a fortune," he cries, "and I will be a willing disciple." But while the fortune is delayed, while his life-ship is still at sea, he is impatient of the sound of the philosopher's voice or the music of the poet; and it does not add to his good nature to be asked to winnow out the fallacies of the one or the false notes of the other. But for all our materialism and money-greed, we still can find points of sympathy with Kiel. We are a sea-port; so is Kiel. We are almost daily startled with the thunder of naval salutes; the streets of Kiel are alive with bluff naval officers. We, too, have a university; for is not Berkeley just at our elbow to teach us grammar and spelling? We have a different climate, it is true-a sort

of matronly, middle-aged summer, in lieu of the wintry gusts of the Baltic. But sometimes differences only emphasize sympathies. We found one Tory Englishman who thought there were too many liberally educated men in Schleswig-Holstein. We wish he could see the same fault in us. But all this is away from what we wished to say, which was to assure our Kiel friends of our distinguished regard, to wish long lives to its academic and naval gentlemen, and to hope that its poesy and its Holstein roses may blossom forever.

IF ANY ONE IN THE WORLD IS TO BE PITIED it is the man who has "lost his grip." Go along the street any fair day and you will see him leaning against the railing in the sunshine, with a discouraged expression in his face, looking helplessly at the busy throng as it surges by. Draw near to him, and you will find him communicative. All his barriers of reserve have been broken down these many years. He will take it as a favor if you speak with him. He has a sort of apologetic appeal in his voice that makes you pity or bully him, according to the style of man you are. He is doubtful of himself even in the commonest matters. His only hope of prosperity is to lean on some one, just as he leans against the railing in the afternoon sunlight. His opinions are all supplemented with, "Don't you think so?" If he has anything to do, there is a premonition of failure in every gesture as he sets about it. His whole manner is a mute protest against your reposing too much confidence in his ability to accomplish anything. But speak of the past-then he will talk bravely enough. He will entertain you by the hour about his palmy days, how he had the finest store in the wholesale quarter, how he was the leading spirit in the great wheat deal fifteen years ago, how he was this, that, and the other-always in the past. Every one who now has money made it by a trick or subterfuge that he can tell, with some asperity, the secret history of. You may learn from him of more skeletons that grin in costly closets than repose in the most populous necropolis. Ten to one he knows the prices of all the stocks that are listed on the boards.