University of Virginia Library

THE CRUSADING HOST

It was a driving, vigorous restless population in those days. It was a curious population in those days. It was the only population of the kind that the world has ever seen gathered together, and it is not likely that the world will ever see its like again. For, mark you, it was an assemblage of 200,000 young men — not simpering, dainty, kid-gloved weaklings, but stalwart, muscular, dauntless young braves, brimful of push and energy, and royally endowed with every attribute that goes to make up a peerless and magnificent manhood — the very pick and choice of the world's glorious ones. No women, no children, no gray and stooping veterans, — none but erect, bright-eyed, quickmoving, strong-handed young giants — the strangest population, the finest population, the most gallant host that ever trooped down the startled solitudes of an unpeopled land. And where are they now? Scattered to the ends of the earth — or prematurely aged and decrepit — or shot or stabbed in street affrays — or dead of disappointed hopes and broken hearts — all gone, or nearly all — victims devoted upon the altar of the golden calf — the noblest holocaust that even wafted its sacrificial incense heavenward. California has much to answer for in this destruction of the flower of the world's young chivalry.

It was a splendid population — for all the slow, sleepy, sluggishbrained sloths staid at home — you never find that sort of people among pioneers — you can not build pioneers out of that sort of material. It was that population that gave to California a name for getting up astounding enterprises and rushing them through with a magnificent dash and daring, and a princely recklessness of cost or consequences, which she bears unto this day — and when she projects a new astonisher, the grave world smiles and admires as usual, and says, "well, that is California all over."