day's toilsome march across the heated surface of the Pampa del Tamarugal, after the morning's marches and contra-marches and after the last five hours' terrible struggle in a blazing sun, were aroused to make another desperate effort. In the contest just brought to a close they had succeeded in maintaining their ground against an enemy nearly twice as numerous as they; now they had to face him again, re-enforced as he was by a contingent a thousand strong. It was a sickening It was a sickening affair to the Chileans, but nevertheless brave men will fight in the face of most hopeless odds when honor demands it. So the descendants of the high-spirited Puramances, and warlike, never-subdued Araucanians, set their teeth and faced the overwhelming foe. Long and wearisome was the struggle, but gradually as the day waned, the grasp in which the two combatants held each other became weaker. When the dusk spread over the battle-field the struggle had ceased.

Who gained the victory on this day? The question is hard to decide; both parties claim it. Nearly a third part of the Chileans fell or were badly wounded, whilst a little more than a fifth part of the allied suffered the same fate. Nevertheless, the battle-field was covered with twice as many Peruvian dead and wounded as with Chilean, for the number of the allied troops was far superior to that of the Chilean. By all means, this much is certain, that although the Peruvians remained masters of the battle-field, they were nevertheless not able to chase the Chilean force, which drew back in good order, nor did they find it advisable to remain in their positions. At eleven o'clock in the night, General Buendia gave his troops orders to start on the march to Arica, and left it to the Chileans to bury their dead.

The retreat carried out by the allied forces from Tarapacá to Arica forms one of the most heart-rending episodes during the campaign. To avoid any further encounter with the hostile troops, the fugitives followed the path skirting the western slopes of the Andes, called "Los Altos." They were forced to march without much rest, along the precipitous rocky walls, during the day without shade against the scorching rays of the sun,

and during the night without protection against the piercing cold air and winds sweeping down from the snow-clad mountains. No trees nor green fields were found here. The route was over hard, sharp paths, oftentimes very narrow, with perpendicular walls rising on one side and yawning abysses on the other. The march could be continued the entire day without finding water, and when it was found, it had a bad taste. taste. Only squalid villages lay on the road. Many soldiers succumbed to emaciation and thirst, others committed suicide to escape a longer and more painful death. The route passed by way of Mocha (where the ascent to the Altos was effected), Guasquiño and Zipiza. Then in succession came Soga Moguella and Camiña. In this last village, six thousand feet above sea-level, and larger than the rest, there was a halt of a day. Then over Suca the descent was made into the Pampa del Tamarugal. Over Codpa and Chaca (the latter at the foot of the coast mountains), Arica was at last reached on the 18th of December. Although by the route the distance between Tarapacá and Arica was only one hundred and seventy miles, still the time occupied by the fugitives had been twenty days. This fact illustrates by itself best the sufferings endured on the march.

That the survivors of the defeated army of Tarapacá arrived in a body at all at Arica was solely due to the exertions of General Buendia and Colonel Suarez. These officers thus preserved the bulk of the flower of the army to form a rallying pivot for a later campaign. Nevertheless, on their arrival at the outskirts of Arica, they were both, to the great amazement and indignation of themselves and their troops, ordered under arrest by President Prado, and later court-martialed for the loss of the province. The ridiculous charge against them was, however, speedily dropped, and they were again intrusted with commands of responsibility.

The important province of Tarapacá had, meanwhile, been submitted to Chilean rule. Its ports were again opened to trade, and its industry received a new and powerful impulse. This had been accomplished by a campaign of less than two months' duration. Holger Birkedal.

In the spring of 1873, after the rains had ceased and the roads were hard enough to bear up a wagon, there came down from the Mariposa mountains a little old man with a mustang team, who had occasion to make my acquaintance in consequence of the wants of this same team. His name was Baker, and our acquaintance once begun ripened into that sort of free-and-easy Californian intimacy which is readily established between a rancher and a teamster; especially if the ranch be a convenient stopping point on the teamster's route. It happened that my ranch lay directly upon Baker's route to the mountains, and he never, to my recollection, failed to call on me about mealtime when he was in my part of the country. Baker was a character. Mark Twain would have immortalized him, had he chanced to meet him before the publication of "Roughing It." As it was not his good fortune to find his name imperishable through an instrumentality so distinguished, he must accept what can be done for him through my feeble efforts.

I wish I could describe Baker and his mustang team. They are so connected in my recollection that an attempt to separate them seems cruel. Not that they were very fond of each other-Baker fed them on straw mainly, and, as he said, "wore out more buckskin on them plugs than the hull of 'em was ever worth in their dratted lives." As may readily be imagined, these evidences of affection were likely to be reciprocated by the "plugs"; they would balk whenever they caught Baker in a tight place, and compelled him to unload on many a grade of the mountains. The mustangs I can never hope to preserve, but Baker has promised me a photograph of himself as he appears to-day.

If not flattered by the artist, he will stand about five feet four inches from head to foot, and the boots he wears will appear two inches too long for him. A coat, large enough

for his grandfather of two hundred pounds, will enfold his one hundred and thirty, a shovel hat that was designed for a country clergyman will cover a head that fits a number six. His legs will be seen peeping out of a pair of overalls covered from top to bottom with Hux and Lambert's patent axlegrease. A flannel shirt, long unacquainted with the wash-house man, and unprotected by a vest, with a leather belt buckled around his waist, will complete his toilet. He will appear a little stoop-shouldered. His sandy hair, cropped close to his head, will deny any acquaintance with comb and brush. His beard, of a reddish-brown color, close-clipped, will cover an under jaw that protrudes a little, dimly set in which there are teeth which, unlike Baker's fortune, are always in sight. His nose will be a pug, his eyes small, and, as he himself described them truthfully, "speckled like a trout."

Baker came to California at an early day 1852-when the glamour thrown over the Pacific coast by the gold discoveries of '49 had not yet faded. Like everybody else who came to California then, he wanted to pick up a fortune that was lying around loose on some hillside or in some unprospected gulch. The diggings having greatest reputation in those days were around Sonora, Columbia, and Mariposa, and Baker's fortune carried him to Sonora. Here he worked, early and late, until the spring of 1853. He had found no great fortune in the interim, but cash account stood debtor to Baker in the snug sum of seven hundred dollars, the largest sum he had ever possessed at any one time in his life. Had Baker been the possessor of seven hundred dollars net cash in the rural districts of New York, it would have sufficed to satisfy his wildest longings. But in taking leave of those rural districts he had left behind him the simple and easily satisfied desires of the rural population, and contact with the gold-hunters of California.

had developed in him to the fullest extent the animating passion of his companions. He had ceased to agree with Agur, and was bent upon "striking it rich."

Impressed with this determination, he left Sonora and sought - Hill, near Mariposa, where claims were reputed as fabulously rich, abounding in pockets and nuggets. Like all mining ground in those days, it was not rich everywhere; hence Baker, who was a cautious man-a —as it behooves the possess or of seven hundred dollars to be-spent several days in looking about him, with the view of obtaining all the information possible before making a location. He had no wish to see his seven hundred dollars vanish out of sight as was too frequently the caseover the ripples of sluice-boxes that had nothing to show at the clean-up.

While prosecuting his investigations Baker made the acquaintance of a lank and hungry-looking Connecticut man, whose "luck" had attracted the attention of the entire camp. The sources of this luck nobody seemed to comprehend, but they did comprehend that he was the Midas of the Hill. Everything he touched was transformed into gold dust. Strange stories were current in the camp to the effect that, no matter where he struck his pick into the dirt, "he was sure to find it, and find it rich." For him the dirt would always pan out more than for his neighbor a few feet distant. If there were any pockets in his locality, they were sure to be found on his claim, and if a miner of the camp found a nugget, his finding was sure to be eclipsed by some subsequent discovery of this singular being. His grave, thoughtful face, unexcitable temperament, and serious, preoccupied manner, conjoined with his remarkable personal development, had earned for him the sobriquet of "Parson," by which he was known throughout the camp. He was unsocial in his disposition, and as he kept the extent of his gains to himself, had acquired a reputation for success in mining which was, perhaps, greatly exaggerated. Be this as it may, his reputation attracted Baker to him irresistibly. He wandered about his claim continuously,

lent a hand whenever he could find excuse to do so, and his persistent efforts were finally rewarded with more than ordinary notice from the Midas of the Hill.

On more than one occasion he had invited Baker to his tent and made him the happy partaker of his pork and beans. The humble worship of Baker, visible in every act no less than in his speaking countenance, flattered the solitary; and the Parson, who was a Hercules in size, began to talk familiarly with the little man. The Parson could talk well, when disposed; and, albeit his talk was somewhat strange and devoted mainly to one subject, he found no critical audience in Baker, whose acquisitions in the educational line had not extended beyond a doubtful construction of the sentences of the First Reader, and the ability to spread pot-hooks and hangers over foolscap paper; acquisitions for which he was indebted to the public school of his native village in the afore-mentioned rural districts of New York. Aside from the First Reader, he had read nothing but newspapers in his life. The Parson's attainments covered a smattering of everything. He crowded into his talk odd bits of politics, scraps of history, science, art, philosophy. His jargon was delivered with facility, and with Baker it passed as current as the dust from the sluice-boxes on the Hill.

The Parson, after all, was a man of a single idea. The labors of his hands and the resources of his intellect had been devoted to a single pursuit. He aspired to the discovery of a secret that would revolutionize the face of the globe. The nature of this grand secret was only vaguely hinted at, but Baker was made to understand that it was intimately connected with his success in gold getting. His fitness for such pursuits was so patent to Baker that he became con vinced the secret had been discovered. obtain possession of it was his highest earth ly ambition. He would have suffered any possible privation, undergone any imaginabl torture, for the attainment of this darling ob ject of his hopes. He thought of nothing els by day, dreamed of nothing else by night.

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