Purposely or otherwise, we are all on our way to California now—­men, women, and children—­graybeards and babies.  We did Europe two or three years ago, so that idea is obsolete, excepting as a bridal tour; then, too, the more peaceably inclined, who have not seen the European elephant, would prefer to wait until that country is again in a state of quiescence.  But Chicago is constantly sending out her adventure-loving citizens upon the Pacific road, each one of whom looks, sees, admires, and suddenly develops an epistolary talent hitherto undreamed of by his most enthusiastic friends.  There’s our MELISSA, for instance—­she never used to have a pen in her hand more than once in the course of six months, and now—­why, we really seem to have another SEVIGNE budding right in our midst.  She went to California, saw all the sights, and wondered, and admired, and wrote.  The floods of eloquence that had so long been slumbering now burst forth beyond all hindrance or control.  She stopped at Salt Lake, and called upon BRIGHAM YOUNG, and was so disgusted with the mighty prophet that she would not look at him.  Yet, considering that circumstance, she described his personal appearance with wonderful vividness and accuracy.  She indulged in the usual amount of stern remonstrance and indignation, that seem to be almost indispensable to the occasion.  ALONZO asked why she called upon the dreadful man, and somewhat maliciously inquired if it was not for the express purpose of being shocked and horrified, thus affording a fine chance to moralize, and display the elevation of her own principles, and, in fact, help to fill out a good article; but MELISSA most vigorously denied the soft impeachment.  Then she saw the sad wives, whose days of sunshine are gone by, and the merry ones,—­who don the cap and bells deliberately; and for their benefit she expended just the proper degree of astonishment and sympathy—­so fully substantiating the sound and praiseworthy condition of her own mind and heart.

This excellent young woman also caught glimpses of the red man, and here was another glorious opportunity to display her literary genius—­and she did not let the occasion slip—­O no! it produced a plaintive little rhapsody of pity and regret, such as “Mr. Lo!” is apt to inspire in the hearts of the young and romantic, although if MELISSA were to find herself alone in a forest, with the faintest suspicion of “Mr. Lo!” meandering anywhere near, she would most likely apply her hand involuntarily to her trembling chignon, and regret as keenly as all hard-hearted persons, that civilization has not carried out the process of extermination even more thoroughly than it has done.  Indeed, she would probably wish the red gentleman at the bottom of the Red Sea, or in some other equally damp and discouraging situation.  The noble-hearted braves are so much prettier to read about than to encounter, and the thrill occasioned by the sight of a bloody hatchet suspended over the intricate elaboration which we so fondly term a head, though more exciting perhaps, would scarcely be as delightful as that awakened by some perfectly safe and stirring ballad of the red man’s wrongs.