SNIPPET: The 1859 letter below appeared in Washington, D.C. author Andrew CARROLL's interesting book, "Letters of a Nation," (1997). While this particular letter was not written by an Irish immigrant, it does give all researchers an account of the appreciation of the beauty of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the lives of the miners and the joy and loneliness experienced by those who left their loved ones behind to strike out on their own. "The whole country," the "San Francisco Californian" exclaimed in May 1848, "resounds with the sordid cry of gold! By May 1849, over a year after gold was first discovered in CA, thousands of wagons were wheeling their way toward the West Coast as other prospectors went by sea, sailing around South America in crowded ships. By the end of 1849, over 100,000 people were digging, panning, and mining for gold in California, including many Irish. Frithjof MEIDELL, was an immigrant from Scandinavia who traveled to northern California's Mill Valley but ultimately did not find his fortune. He was nevertheless awed by America's frontier, and in a letter to his mother (and indirectly to his brother Ditmar), he writes of his excellent mental and physical well-being, due in part to the magnificence of the Sierra Nevadas. MEIDELL wrote: December 1, 1859: "You may be sure that I am still well. As a matter of fact, I have never enjoyed better health, and as far as personal safety is concerned I now live in a country which is very different from what it was a few years ago. One is in no greater danger here than anywhere else. I am an almost full-fledged miner now, but I have not been so lucky as to find a good-size nuggest yet. And even if I should never strike it rich, I shall not be disappointed, for my ideas about California never caused me to entertain any very extravagant expectations. I am now living in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and you cannot imagine a more romantic country, rich as it is in the most magnificent scenery. I wish you could make a trip up here in the spring and see the flowers that cover every inch of ground. I had gathered quite a few seeds which I meant to send to you, but a mouse stole the package one night on a little "prospecting trip." I had always thought! that our Norwegian field flowers, for color and scent, were inferior only to those of the tropics, but now it seems to me that their sisters here in the Sierra Nevada Mountains win the prize Most of the time I have a bouquet of them in my cabin and that is the only ornament it contains. On Sunday, which is here the busiest trading day in the week, you often see the hardy miners on their way to the grocery store with bouquets of flowers in their hands. Arriving at the store, each miner compares his bouquet with those of the others, and if there is a lady present, which rarely is the case, she is immediately chosen as judge of the flowers. But the prize for the finest bouquet is, it grieves me to report, whisky. I shall never be able to forget a walk I took last spring on a Sunday morning. For hours I wandered about without following any road or trail, until I was completely overwhelmed with admiration of all the splendor and glory that surrounded me. I sat down in orde! r to enjoy the glorious view. Everything was as great as if God had just created it. Probably no human foot before mine had every trodden on this splendid carpet of flowers He had spread out here, and I was probably the first man to see the beautiful cedars and evergreen oak trees He had planted here and there to provide shade for the flowers and a cool place for the birds to sing in. There was no trace of a human presence, and not even the smallest indication of an Indian trail could be found in this sacred spot. A strange feeling came over me Never before had I felt God's greatness and omnipotence as strongly as I did here. None of His servants can describe in words His boundless goodness as well as he Himself had done it here with His flowers, birds and natural beauty. One gorgeous range of mountains rose behind the other, and on to the horizon towered the still higher summits of the Sierras with their crowns of snow. I was alone with my Creator, and a feeling of! awe and gratitude arose in my breast that I should have been given so much for nothing. I prayed to God without realizing that I did so. Please do not believe now, dear Mother, after reading this, that I have grown melancholy in any way. I am in good spirits and full of courage, but my pen ran away with me, and I believe that the lonely life I lead here is to blame if I have shown any faintness of heart. I had really planned to write a long letter to Ditmar, as I have several things to relate which I think would amuse him, but I do not have any more paper now. But I promise, my dear Ditmar, that you will hear from me soon ... "