Past the Cascade Mountains, we came suddenly out into a new region, and a totally different climate. From Umatilla to the Mountains we had the same clear atmosphere and perfect sky, that we had found everywhere from the Plains to the Columbia, substantially. The country naturally was the same barren and sterile region as at Salt Lake, abounding only in sage-brush and grease-wood; and, indeed, the whole internal basin of the continent, from the Rocky Mountains to the Sierra Nevadas, and from British America down to Mexico, appeared to be of this same general character—from want of regular rains in summer. Over most of this vast region, there had been no rains for weeks, or indeed months; and for days together as we journeyed along, we had never seen a cloud or mist even, to mar the absolute ultramarine of those perfect skies. But now, in descending the Columbia, as we approached the Mountains, we descried the clouds on their western slope ever trying to float over, but never apparently succeeding, their white discs gleaming in the sun; and when we drew nearer, we beheld a fleecy mist drifting up the Columbia, and streaming eastward like a pennon. Nearer still, we encountered a stiff breeze sweeping through the cañon, as through a funnel; and when we got well down into the jaws of the gorge, it needed all our steam, as well as the strong westward current to carry us forward. Sometimes, it was said, the Columbia just here becomes so rough, because of this conflicting wind and current, as to cause real sea-sickness on the boats, and occasionally indeed they have to cast anchor, unable to descend. Farther down, this mist thickened into rain, and when we got fairly through and out of the Mountains, (it raining most of the way), we debouched into the Coast Region, where it was still raining steadily, as it had been for many days, and continued to for weeks together afterwards. As soon as we struck the rain, trees and herbage at once made their appearance, clothing the mountains and bottoms everywhere; lichens and mosses again decorated all the rocks; and when we got well out of the Mountains, behold such forests of fir, pine, cedar, oak, etc., as never appear East. In half a day, you may thus pass from a comparatively rainless to a thoroughly rainy region; and in winter from a severely cold, to a comparatively moderate climate. The contrast is very striking, and you soon feel it keenly in every sense. Your eyes glaze, your skin becomes moist, and if there is a weak spot about your lungs, you will find it out very quickly. The proximity of the Pacific, of course, explains it all—the warm, humid winds from which sweep up against the Cascade Range, but find in their lofty crest an insurmountable barrier. If light enough to ascend, their wealth of moisture is condensed as rain or snow along the mountain sides or summit, by the cold of the upper regions, as with your hand you squeeze a sponge; and, consequently, they topple over the Range dry and clear—to curse a vast region beyond with their sterility. If unable to ascend, they career along the western slope of the Mountains, and hover over the Coast Region generally, literally deluging Western Oregon and Washington, at certain seasons of the year, with rains and fogs. The year before, at Fort Vancouver, they had had one hundred and twenty consecutive days of rain, in one year, without counting the intervening showers; and they said, it wasn't "much of a year for rain" either! Another year, they didn't see the sun there for eighty days together, without reckoning the occasional fogs. No wonder the Oregonians are called "Web-Feet." They do say, the children there are all born web-footed, like ducks and geese, so as to paddle about, and thus get along well in that amphibious region. Perhaps this is rather strong, even for Darwinism; but I can safely vouch for Oregon's all-sufficing rains and fogs, whatever their effects on the species.
Our fellow-passengers down the Columbia were chiefly returning miners, going below to winter and recruit; but rough as they were and merry at times, they were, as a rule, self-respecting and orderly. Our Fenian friends, who had raced with us down Powder River and Grande Ronde Valleys and across the Blue Mountains, turned up here again—"Shanks," "Fatty," and all—and subsequently embarked on the same steamer with us at Portland for San Francisco. A few Chinamen also were on board; but they behaved civilly, and were treated kindly.
Fort Vancouver is an old Government Post, established in 1849, when Washington Territory was still a part of Oregon, and all the great region there was yet a wilderness. The village of Vancouver, a parasite on its outskirts, had grown up gradually; but had long since been distanced by Portland, across the Columbia in Oregon. A fine plateau, with a bold shore, made the Post everything desirable; but back of the post-grounds, the unbroken forest was still everywhere around it. It was now Headquarters of the Department of the Columbia, and the base for all military operations in that section. Here troops and supplies were gathered, for all the posts up the Columbia and its tributaries; though Portland, rather, seemed to be the natural brain of all that region. So, too, it controlled and supplied the forts at the mouth of the Columbia and the posts on Puget Sound; and, indeed, was of prime importance to the Government in many ways.
Gen. Steele, in command of the Department, was an old Regular officer, who during the war commanded first in Missouri, afterwards around Vicksburg, then in Arkansas, and always with ability. He is now no more (dying in 1868), but some things he related in speaking of the war seem worth preserving. He said, Gen. Sherman was undoubtedly a great soldier; but he owed much to the rough schooling of his first campaigns, and improved from year to year. He said, Sherman in '62 was "scary" about Price's movements in Missouri and cited as an instance, that he once ordered the depot at Rolla broken up and the troops withdrawn, for fear Price would "gobble up" everybody and everything. He (Steele) then a Colonel, but in command at Rolla, appealed to Gen. Halleck, and was allowed to remain; and subsequently Sherman, with his customary frankness, admitted his mistake. So, he said, Sherman in '63, when campaigning around Vicksburg, had little confidence in Grant's famous movement to the rear, via Grand Gulf and the Big Black, though the results were so magnificent. He said Sherman was somewhere up the Yazoo, with Porter and the gun-boats, and from there wrote him (Steele), in command of the Corps during Sherman's absence, that the proposed movement was perilous, and would probably fail, ruining them all; but, "nevertheless," he added, right loyally, "We must support Grant cordially and thoroughly, dear Steele, whatever happens." Subsequently, after they had landed at Grand Gulf—repulsed Pemberton and hurled him back on Vicksburg—cleaned Joe Johnston out of Jackson and chased him out of the country—and were crossing the Big Black in triumph, the movement now apparently a sure thing, Sherman and he were lying down to rest a little, at a house near the bridge, while the troops were filing over. Presently, an orderly announced Gen. Grant and staff riding by, when Sherman instantly sprang up, and rushing out of the house bareheaded seized Grant by the hand, and shaking it very warmly exclaimed, "I congratulate you, General, with all my heart, on the success of your movement. And, by heaven, sir, the movement is yours, too; for nobody else would endorse it!" He added, he never heard of Sherman's "protesting" against the movement, as reported afterwards in the newspapers, and didn't believe he ever had—"was too soldierly, by far, for that"—but he (Steele), knew all the facts at the time, and the above was about the Truth of History.
Poor Steele! He was a true Army bachelor, fond of horses and dogs, and a connoisseur in both. He was besides a man of fine intelligence, and after dinner told a camp-story capitally. I remember several he told, with great gusto, while we shared his cosy quarters at Vancouver; but have not space for them here. Afterwards, we met him again in San Francisco, on leave of absence, the beloved of all army circles, and the favorite of society. May he rest in peace!
But to return to Fort Vancouver. We spent several days there very pleasantly, getting the bearings of things from there as a centre, and were loath to leave its hospitable quarters. It was now the first week in December; but the grapes were still hanging on the vines at Maj. N.'s quarters, and all about the post the grass was springing fresh and green, as in April in the East. We had fog or rain, or both together, about every day; no heavy down-pours, however, but gentle drizzles, as if the Oregon-Washington sky was only a great sieve, with perpetual water on 'tother side. They said, this was their usual weather from fall to spring, and then they had a delightful summer; though sometimes occasional snow-storms, sweeping down from the Mountains in January or February, gave them a taste of winter. Such snows, however, were light, and never lasted long. It seems, the Gulf Stream of the Pacific, sweeping up from the tropics, bears the isothermal lines so far north on this coast, that here at Fort Vancouver in the latitude of Montreal, they have the climate of the Carolinas in winter, with little of their excessive heats in summer. Walla-Walla, in latitude 46°, boasts the range of Washington, D. C. in 39°; and San Francisco, on the line of New York, claims the climate of Savannah. One evening while there, after a day of weary rain, the clouds suddenly broke away, and just at sunset we caught another noble view of Mount Hood again. A thin, veil-like cloud enrobed his feet, extending much of the way up; but above, his heaven-kissing head rose right regally, and his snowy crown became transfigured through all the changes—from pink to purple, and into night—as the day faded out. He looked still loftier and grander, than we had yet seen him, as if piercing the very sky, and was really superb. Aye, superbus. Haughty, imperial, supremely proud—which is about what the Romans meant, if I mistake not.
A ride of six miles down the Columbia, on the little steamer Fanny Troup, and then twelve miles up the Willamette, landed us at Portland, Oregon, the metropolis of all that region. The distance from Fort Vancouver, as the crow flies, is only about six miles, but by water it is fully eighteen, as above stated. Here we found a thrifty busy town, of eight or ten thousand people, with all the eastern evidences of substantial wealth and prosperity. Much of the town was well built, and the rest was rapidly changing for the better. Long rows of noble warehouses lined the wharves, many of the stores were large and even elegant, and off in the suburbs handsome residences were already springing up, notwithstanding the abounding stumps nearly everywhere. The town seemed unfortunately located, the river-plateau was so narrow there; but just across the Willamette was East Portland, a growing suburb, with room plenty and to spare. A ferry-boat, plying constantly, connected the two places, and made them substantially one. Portland already boasted water, gas, and Nicholson pavements; and had more of a solid air and tone, than any city we had seen since leaving the Missouri. The rich black soil, on which she stands, makes her streets in the rainy season, as then, sloughs or quagmires, unless macadamised or Nicholsoned; but she was at work on these, and they promised soon to be in good condition. Several daily papers, two weekly religious ones, and a fine Mercantile Library, all spoke well for her intelligence and culture, while her Public School buildings and her Court-House would have been creditable anywhere. The New England element was noticeable in many of her citizens, and Sunday came here once a week, as regularly as in Boston or Bangor. The Methodists and Presbyterians both worshipped in goodly edifices, and the attendance at each the Sunday we were there was large and respectable.
Being the first city of importance north of San Francisco, and the brain of our northwest coast, Portland was full of energy and vigor, and believed thoroughly in her future. The great Oregon Steam Navigation Company had their headquarters here, and poured into her lap all the rich trade of the Columbia and its far-reaching tributaries, that tap Idaho, Montana, and even British America itself. So, also, the coastwise steamers, from San Francisco up, all made Portland their terminus, and added largely to her commerce. Back of her lay the valley of the Willamette, and the rich heart of Oregon; and her wharves, indeed, were the gateways to thousands of miles of territory and trade, in all directions. Nearer to the Sandwich Islands and China, by several hundred miles, than California, she had already opened a brisk trade with both, and boasted that she could sell sugars, teas, silks, rice, etc., cheaper than San Francisco. Victoria, the British city up on Puget Sound, had once been a dangerous rival; but Portland had managed to beat her out of sight, and claimed now she would keep her beaten. It was Yankee Doodle against John Bull; and, of course, in such a contest, Victoria went to the wall!
It seemed singular, however, that the chief city of the northwest coast should be located there—a hundred miles from the sea, and even then twelve miles up the little Willamette. Your first thought is, Portland has no right to be at all, where she now is. But, it appears, she originally got a start, from absorbing and controlling the large trade of the Willamette, and when the Columbia was opened up to navigation rapidly grew into importance, by her heavy dealings in flour, wool, cattle, lumber, etc. The discovery of mines in Idaho and Montana greatly invigorated her, and now she had got so much ahead, and so much capital and brains were concentrated here, that it seemed hard for any new place to compete with her successfully.[14] Moreover, we were told, there are no good locations for a town along the Columbia from the ocean up to the Willamette, nor on the Willamette up to Portland. Along the Columbia, from the ocean up, wooded hills and bluffs come quite down to the water, and the whole back country, as a rule, is still a wilderness of pines and firs; while the Willamette up to Portland, they said, was apt to overflow its banks in high water. Hence, Portland seemed secure in her supremacy, at least for years to come, though no doubt at no distant day a great city will rise on Puget Sound, that will dominate all that coast, up to Sitka and down to San Francisco. From want of time, we failed to reach the Posts on Puget's Sound; but all accounts agreed, that—land-locked by Vancouver's and San Juan islands—we there have one of the largest and most magnificent harbors in the world. With the Northern Pacific Railroad linking it to Duluth and the great lakes, commerce will yet seek its great advantages; and the Boston, if not the New York, of the Pacific will yet flourish where now are only the wilds of Washington. The Sound already abounded in saw-mills, and the ship-timber and lumber of Washington we subsequently found famed in San Francisco, and throughout California. She was then putting lumber down in San Francisco, cheaper than the Californians could bring it from their own foot-hills, and her magnificent forests of fir and pine promised yet to be a rare blessing to all the Pacific Coast.
The Portlanders, of course, were energetic, go-ahead men, from all parts of the North, with a good sprinkling from the South. Outside of Portland, however, the Oregonians appeared to be largely from Missouri, and to have retained many of their old Missouri and so-called "conservative" ideas still. All through our Territories, indeed, Missouri seemed to have been fruitful of emigrants. Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, were everywhere well represented; but Missouri led, especially in Idaho and Oregon. This fact struck us repeatedly, and was well accounted for by friend Meacham's remark (top of the Blue Mountains), "the left wing of Price's army is still encamped in this region." The tone of society, in too many places, seemed to be of the Nasby order, if not worse. No doubt hundreds of deserters and draft-sneaks, from both armies, had made their way into those distant regions; and then, besides, the influence of our old officials, both civil and military, had long been pro-slavery, and this still lingered among communities, whom the war had not touched, and among whom school-houses and churches were still far too few. Of course, we met some right noble and devoted Union men everywhere, especially in Colorado; but elsewhere, and as a rule, they did not strike us as numerous, nor as very potential. In saying this, I hope I am not doing the Territories injustice; but this is how their average public opinion impressed a passing traveller, and other tourists we met en route remarked the same thing.
Here at Portland, John Chinaman turned up again, and seemed to be behaving thoroughly well. At Boisè, we found these heathen paying their stage-fare, and riding down to the Columbia, while many Caucasians were walking, and here at Portland they appeared alike thrifty and prosperous. Their advent here had been comparatively recent, and there was still much prejudice against them, especially among the lower classes; but they were steadily winning their way to public favor by their sobriety, their intelligence and thrift, and good conduct generally. Washing and ironing, and household service generally, seemed to be their chief occupations, and nearly everybody gave them credit for industry and integrity. Mr. Arrigoni, the proprietor of our hotel (and he was one of the rare men, who know how to "keep a hotel"), spoke highly of their capacity and honesty, and said he wanted no better servants anywhere. One of them, not over twenty-one, had a contract to do the washing and ironing for the Arrigoni House, at a hundred dollars per month, and was executing it with marked fidelity. He certainly did his work well, judging by what we saw of the hotel linen. In walking about the town, we occasionally came upon their signs, over the door of some humble dwelling, as for example, "Ling & Ching, Laundry;" "Hop Kee, washing and ironing;" "Ching Wing, shoemaker;" "Chow Pooch, doctor;" etc. As far as we could see, they appeared to be intent only on minding their own business, and as a class were doing more hearty honest work by far, than most of their bigoted defamers. We could not refrain from wishing them well, they were so sober, industrious, and orderly; for, after all, are not these the first qualities of good citizenship the world over?
We left Portland, Dec. 11th, on the good steamer Oriflamme, for San Francisco. For a wonder, it was a calm clear day, with the bracing air of our Octobers in the east, and as we glided out of the Willamette into the noble Columbia, we had a last superb view of Mts. Jefferson, Hood, Adams and St. Helens all at the same time. Sometimes Rainier also is visible from here, but ordinarily only Hood and St. Helens appear. We thought this the finest view of these splendid snow-peaks that we had had yet, and it seemed strange no artist had yet attempted to group them all in one grand landscape, from the mouth of the Willamette as a stand-point. Or, if he could not get them all in, he might at least combine Hood and St. Helens. The breadth and scope, the grandeur and sublimity of such a picture, with the Columbia in the foreground, and the great range of the Cascade Mountains in the perspective, would make a painting, that would live forever. We watched them all, with the naked eye and through the glass, until we were far down the Columbia, and to the last, Hood was the same
How he soared and towered, beyond and above everything, as if communing with the Almighty! Lofty as were the rest, they seemed small by his majestic side. St. Helens, however, though not so imperial, was perhaps more simply and chastely beautiful. An unbroken forest of fir, deep green verging into black, girt her feet, while above she "swelled vast to heaven," a perfect snow sphere rather than cone, whose celestial whiteness dazzled the eye. She looked like a virgin's or a nun's white breast, unsullied by sin, and standing sharply out against the glorious azure of that December sky, seemed indeed a perfect emblem of purity and beauty. Farther down the river, we detected a light smoke or vapor, drifting dreamily away from her summit, and Capt. Conner of the Oriflamme said this was not unusual, though St. Helens was not rated as a volcano. He thought it steam or vapor, caused by internal heat melting the snow, rather than smoke; but the effect was about the same.
We reached the mouth of the Columbia, the same evening; but Capt. Conner thought it risky to venture over the bar, until morning. The next morning early, we lifted anchor, and steamed down to Astoria—a higgledy-piggledy village, of only four or five hundred inhabitants still, though begun long before prosperous Portland. Her anchorage seemed fair; but ashore the land abounded in a congeries of wooded bluffs and ridges, that evidently made a town or farms there difficult, if not impossible. A short street or two of straggling houses, propped along the hillsides, was about all there was of Astoria; and yet she was a port of entry, with a custom-house and full corps of officials, while Portland with all her enterprise and commerce was not, and could not get to be. What her custom-officials would have to do, were it not for the business of Portland, it seemed pretty hard to say. A venture of John Jacob Astor's a half century before, as a trading post with the Indians, she had never become of much importance, because lacking a good back country; and it appeared, had no future now, because wanting a good town-site. This was unfortunate perhaps for Oregon, and the whole Columbia region; but over it Portland rejoiced, and continued to wax fat.
Of course, it had begun to rain again, and by the time we had passed the ordeal of the custom-house at Astoria, the weather had thickened up into a drizzly fog, that caused Capt. C. much anxiety—especially, when he observed the barometer steadily going down. The bar of the Columbia, always bad, is peculiarly rough in winter, and only the voyage before the Oriflamme had to lay to here, nearly a week, unable to venture out. Her provisions became exhausted, and she had to "clean out" Astoria, and all the farm-houses up and down the river for miles, before she finally got away. Our company of four hundred passengers had no fancy for an experience of this sort, and "dirty" as the weather promised to be, Capt. C. at last decided to try the bar, even if we had to return, hoping to find better skies when fairly afloat in blue water. Our engines once in motion, we soon ran down past Forts Stevens and Cape Disappointment, at the mouth of the Columbia, on the Oregon and Washington sides respectively, with the black throats of their heavy cannon gaping threateningly at us. Both forts seem necessary there, as they completely command the mouth of the Columbia, and so hold the key to all that region. But life in them must be an almost uninterrupted series of rains and fogs, with the surf forever thundering at your feet, and one can but pity the officers and men really exiled there. Gathered about the flag-staff or lounging along the ramparts, they gazed wistfully at us as we steamed past; and already in the distance we could see the white-caps, racing in over the dreaded bar. Heading for the north channel, we put all steam on, and once out of the jaws of the Columbia were soon fairly a-dancing on the bar. The wind and tide both strong, were both dead ahead, which made our exit about as bad, as could well be. The sea went hissing by, or broke into huge white-caps all about us. The engines creaked and groaned, and at times seemed to stand still, as if exhausted with the struggle. The good ship Oriflamme pitched and tossed, battling with the waves like a practiced pugilist, yet ever advanced, though sometimes apparently drifting shoreward. At one period, indeed, Capt. C. feared we would have to about ship and run for the Columbia—we progressed so slowly; but something of a lull in the wind just then helped us on, and at last we saw by the receding head-lands, that we were fairly over the bar and out into the broad Pacific. We congratulated ourselves in thus getting speedily to sea; but our tussle on the bar had been too much for the majority of our passengers, and soon our bulwarks were thronged with scores "casting up their accounts" with Father Neptune. Sea-sickness, that deathliest of all human ailments, had set in, and our "rough and tumble" with the waves had been so sharp, that many began to suffer from it, who declared they had never been attacked before. A notable New Yorker, a brawny son of Æsculapius at that, bravely protested, that sea-sickness was "Only a matter of the imagination. Anyone can overcome it. It only requires a vigorous exercise of the will." But, unfortunately for his theory, soon afterwards he himself became the sickest person on board, not excepting the ladies. My own experience ended with a qualm or two; but the majority of our passengers suffered very much, for several days. Our steamer really had accommodations for only about one hundred passengers; but some four hundred had crowded aboard of her at Portland, mostly miners eager to get "below" to winter, and those who had no state-rooms now "roughed it" pitiably. They lay around loose—on deck, in the cabin, in the gang-way, everywhere—the most disconsolate-looking fellows I ever saw, outside of a yellow-fever hospital. The few ladies aboard were even sicker; but these all had state-rooms, and kept them mostly for the voyage.
The weather continued raw and the sea rough, most of the way down the coast, and our voyage of eight hundred miles from Portland to San Francisco, as a whole, could hardly be called agreeable. We had fog, and rain, and head-winds all the way down, and with the exception of a day or two, it was really cold and uncomfortable. The steam-heating apparatus of the vessel was out of order, and the only place for us all to warm was at a register in the Social Hall—a narrow little cabin on deck, that would not accommodate over thirty persons at the farthest. There was a similar place for the ladies, but they usually filled this themselves. Groups huddled here all day, smoking and talking, and when the weather permitted also swarmed about the smoke-stacks. And then, besides, as already stated, our ship was badly overcrowded. Of our 400 passengers, less than a quarter had state-rooms, and the rest were left to shift for themselves. After the sea-sickness began to abate, we filled two or three tables every meal; and when bed-time came, mattrasses thronged the cabin from end to end. How it was down in the steerage, where the miners and Chinamen mostly congregated, one need not care to imagine. Fortunately great-coats and blankets abounded, or many would have suffered much. We found many choice spirits aboard, and in spite of wind and weather enjoyed ourselves, after all, very fairly. When it did not rain too hard, we walked the deck and talked for hours; and when everything else failed, we always found something of interest in the gulls that followed us by hundreds, and the great frigate-birds with their outstretched pinions, and the ever-rolling boundless sea. Our table-fare was always profuse and generally excellent, especially the Oregon apples and pears they gave us for dessert; and had it not been for our broken heating apparatus, no doubt we would have got along very satisfactorily after all, all things considered.
We arrived off the Golden Gate, late at night, Dec. 14th, only four days out from Portland; but the sea was still so rough, that we feared to venture in. Next morning, however, when the mist broke away a little, we up steam and headed again for San Francisco. We had a tough time getting in, nearly as bad as getting out of the Columbia. We had to combat a strong wind dead-ahead, and to wrestle with a heavy sea. But, nevertheless, our good ship held on her course bravely; and at last, weathering Point Reyes, and rounding Fort Point, we steamed up past frowning Alcatraz, and with booming cannon dropped anchor at the Company's wharf. The storm we had encountered was reported as one of the worst known on the coast for years, and we were glad once more to touch terra firma, and strike hands with a live civilization. In a half hour we were ashore and at the Occidental, a hostelry worthy of San Francisco or any other city.
And so, we had reached California at last. All hail, the Golden Gate! And 'Frisco, plucky, vain young metropolis, hail! Bragging, boasting, giddy as you are, there is much excuse for you. Surely, with your marvellous growth, and far-reaching schemes, you have a right to call yourself the New York of the Pacific Coast, if that contents you.
Geography demonstrates the matchless position of San Francisco, as metropolis of the Pacific coast, and assures her supremacy perhaps forever. The Golden Gate, a strait six miles long by one wide, with an average depth of twenty-four fathoms—seven fathoms at the shallowest point—is her pathway to the Pacific. At her feet stretches her sheltered and peerless bay, fifty miles long by five wide, with Oakland as her Brooklyn just across it. Beyond, the Sacramento and the San Joaquin empty their floods, the drainage of the Sierra Nevadas, and afford channels for trade with much of the interior. Her system of bays—San Pablo, Suisun, and San Francisco proper—contain a superficial area of four hundred square miles, of which it is estimated, eight feet in depth pour in and out of the Golden Gate every twenty-four hours. On all that coast, for thousands of miles, she seems to be the only really great harbor; and then, besides, all enterprise and commerce have so centred here, that hereafter it will be difficult, if not impossible, to wrest supremacy from her. Until we reached Salt-Lake, New York everywhere ruled the country, and all business ideas turned that way; but from there on, the influence of Gotham ceased, and everything tended to "'Frisco," as many lovingly called her. This was her general name, indeed, for short, all over the Pacific coast; though the Nevadans spoke of her, as "the Bay" still. The city itself stands on a peninsula of shifting dunes or sand-hills, at the mouth of the harbor, much the same as if New York were built at Sandy Hook. It was a great mistake, that its founders did not locate it at Benicia, or Vallejo, or somewhere up that way, where it would have been out of the draft of the Golden Gate, had better wharfage, and been more easily defended. But, it seems, when the gold fever first broke out, in 1849, the early vessels all came consigned to Yerba Buena, as the little hamlet was then called; and as their charter-parties would not allow them to ascend the Bay farther, their cargoes were deposited on the nearest shore, and hence came San Francisco. It took a year or more then to hear from New York or London, and before further advices were received, so great was the rush of immigrants, the town was born and the city named. Benicia tried to change things afterwards; but 'Frisco had got the start, and kept it, in spite of her false location. Her military defences are Fort Point at the mouth of the Golden Gate, Fort San Josè farther up the harbor, and Alcatraz on an island square in the entrance, which with other works yet to be constructed would cross-fire and command all the approaches by water, thus rendering the city fairly impregnable.
From the first, she seems to have had a fight with the sand-hills, and she was still pluckily maintaining it. She had cut many of them down, and hurled them into the sea, to give her a better frontage. Her "made" land already extended out several blocks, and the work was still going on. With a great penchant for right-angles, as if Philadelphia was her model city, she was pushing her streets straight out, in all directions, no matter what obstacles intervened. One would have thought, that with an eye to economy, as well as the picturesque, she would have flanked some of her sand-hills by leading her streets around them; but no! she marched straight at and over them, with marvellous audacity and courage, like the Old Guard at Waterloo, or the Boys in Blue at Chattanooga. Some were inaccessible to carriages; still she pushed straight on, and left the inhabitants to clamber up to their eyrie-like residences, as best they could. Many of these hills were still shifting sand, and in places lofty fences had been erected as a protection against sand-drifts; just as our railroads East sometimes build fences, as a protection against snow-drifts. The sand seemed of the lightest and loosest character, and when the breeze rose filled the atmosphere at all exposed points. And yet, when properly irrigated, it really seemed to produce about everything abundantly. While inspecting one of the harbor forts, I saw a naked drift on one side of a sand-fence, and on the other a flower-garden of the most exquisite character, while just beyond was a vegetable and fruit-garden, that would have astonished people East. A little water had worked the miracle, and this a faithful wind-mill continued to pump up, from time to time as needed. Towards the south, the sand-hills seemed less of an obstruction, and thither the city was now drifting very rapidly. Real-estate there was constantly on the rise, and houses were springing up as if by magic in a night. The city-front, heretofore much confined, was now extending southward accordingly. It was about decided to build a sea-wall of solid granite, all along the front, two miles or more in length, at a cost of from two to three millions of dollars. This expenditure seemed large; but, it was maintained, was not too great for the vast and growing commerce of the city.
But a few years before, it was a common thing for ships to go East empty or in ballast, for want of a return cargo; but in 1867 San Francisco shipped grain alone to the amount of thirteen millions of dollars, and of manufactures about as much more. Here are some other statistics that are worth one's considering. In 1849, then called Yerba Buena, she numbered perhaps 1,000 souls, all told; in 1869, nearly 200,000. In 1868, 59,000 passengers arrived by sea, and only 25,000 departed, leaving a net gain of 34,000. The vessels which entered the bay that year, numbered 3,300, and measured over 1,000,000 tons. She exported 4,000,000 sacks of wheat that year, and half a million barrels of flour. Her total exports of all kinds were estimated at not less than $70,000,000, and her imports about the same. Her sales of real-estate aggregated $27,000,000, and of mining and other stocks $115,000,000, on which she paid over $5,000,000 of dividends. The cash value of her real and personal property was estimated at $200,000,000. She sent away six tons of gold, and forty tons of silver every month, and in all since 1849 had poured into the coffers of the world not less than $1,030,000,000.[15] Her net-work of far-reaching and gigantic enterprises already embraced the whole Pacific Coast, northward to Alaska and southward to Panama, while beyond she stretched out her invisible arms to Japan and China, and shook hands with the Orient.
One cloudless morning, after days of dismal drizzle, an enthusiastic Forty-Niner took me up Telegraph Hill, and bade me "view the landscape o'er!" I remembered when a school-boy reading Dana's "Two Years before the Mast," in which he speaks so contemptuously of Yerba Buena, and its Mexican Rip Van Winkles. What a change here since then! Off to the west rolled the blue Pacific, sea and sky meeting everywhere. Then came Fort Point, with its formidable batteries, commanding the Golden Gate; and then the old Presidio, with the stars and stripes waving over it. Farther inland were the stunted live-oaks and gleaming marbles of Lone Mountain Cemetery, with the Broderick Monument rising over all. Then came the live, busy, bustling, pushing city, with its quarter of a million of inhabitants nearly, soon to be a million, its wharves thronged with the ships of all nations, but with harbor-room to spare sufficient to float the navies of the world. Beyond, lay Oakland, loveliest of suburbs, smiling in verdure and beauty, with Mount Diabolo towering in the distance—his snow-crowned summit flashing in the sunlight. The Sacramento and Stockton boats, from the heart of California were already in. Past the Golden Gate, and up the noble bay, with boom of welcoming cannon, came the Hong Kong steamer fresh from Japan. The Panama steamer, with her fires banked and flag flying, was just ready to cast off. While off to the south, a long train of cars, from down the bay and San Josè, came thundering in. A hundred church spires pierced the sky; the smoke from numberless mills and factories, machine-shops and foundries, drifted over the harbor; the horse-car bells tinkled on every side—the last proofs of American progress—and all around us were the din and boom of Yankee energy, and thrift, and go-ahead-ative-ness, in place of the old Rip Van Winkleism. I don't wonder, that all good Pacific Coasters believe in San Francisco, and expect to go there when they die! Her hotels, her school-houses, her churches, her Bank of California, her Wells-Fargo Express, her Mission Woollen Mills, her lines of ocean steam-ships, and a hundred other things, all suggest great wealth and brains; and yet they are only the first fruits of nobler fortune yet to come. She is what Carlyle might call an undeniable fact, a substantial verity; and, in spite of her "heavy job of work," moves onward to empire with giant strides. She contained already fully a third of the population of the whole state of California, and was "lifting herself up like a young lion" in all enterprises—at all times and everywhere—on the Pacific slope.
Her faulty location, however, gives her a climate, that can scarcely be called inviting, notwithstanding all that Californians claim for their climate generally. It is true, the range of the thermometer there indicates but a moderate variation of temperature, with neither snow nor frost, usually. But her continual rains in winter, and cold winds and fogs in summer, must be very trying to average nerves and lungs. We found it raining on our arrival there in December, with the hills surrounding the bay already turning green; and it continued to rain and drizzle right along, pretty much all the time, until we departed for Arizona in February. Sometimes it would break away for an hour or two, and the sun would come out resplendently, as if meaning to shine forever; and then, suddenly, it would cloud over, and begin to drizzle and rain again, as if the whole heavens were only a gigantic sieve. Really, it did rain there sometimes the easiest of any place I ever saw—not excepting Fort Vancouver. Going out to drive, or on business, we got caught thus several times, and learned the wisdom of carrying stout umbrellas, or else wearing bang-up hats and water-proof coats, like true Californians. Once, for a fortnight nearly, it rained in torrents, with but little intermission, and then the whole interior became flooded—bridges were washed away, roads submerged, etc. In the midst of this, one night, we had a sharp passage of thunder and lightning—a phenomenon of rare occurrence on that coast—followed by a slight earthquake, and then it rained harder than ever. But at last, the winter rains came to an end, as all things must, and then we had indeed some superb weather, worthy of Italy or Paradise. Californians vowed their winter had been an unusual one; that their January was usually good, and their February very fine; but, of course, things must be reported as we found them. As a rule, nobody seemed to mind the perpetual drizzle, so to speak; but with slouched hats and light overcoats, or infrequent umbrellas, everybody tramped the streets, as business or pleasure called, and the general health of the city continued good. The few fair days we had in January and early February were as soft and balmy, as our May or June, and all 'Frisco made the most of them. The ladies literally swarmed along Montgomery street, resplendent in silks and jewelry, and all the drives about the city—especially the favorite one to the Cliff-House and sea-lions—were thronged with coaches and buggies. Meanwhile, the islands in the harbor and the surrounding hills and country, so dead and barren but a few weeks before, had now become superbly green, and the whole bay and city lay embosomed in emerald.
We left there the middle of February for Arizona, and did not get back until late in May. Then, when we returned we found the rains long gone, the vegetation fast turning to yellow—grain ripening in the fields—strawberries and peas on the table—and the summer winds and fogs in full vogue. At sunrise, it would be hot, even sultry, and you would see persons dressed in white linen. By nine or ten a. m., the wind would rise—a raw damp wind, sometimes with fog, sweeping in from the Pacific—and in the evening, you would see ladies going to the Opera with full winter furs on. How long this lasted, I cannot say; but this was the weather we experienced, as a rule, late in May and early in June. Heavy great-coats, doubtless, are never necessary there. And so, on the other hand, thin clothing is seldom wanted. Many indeed said, they wore the same clothing all seasons of the year, and seldom found it uncomfortable either way. The truth seemed to be, that for hardy persons the climate was excellent—the air bracing and stimulating—but invalids were better off in the interior. Consumptives could not stand the winds and fogs at all; and it was a mooted question, as to whether the large percentage of suicides just then, was not due in part to climatic influences. The really healthy, however, appeared plump and rosy, and the growing children promised well for the future. Had 'Frisco been built at Benicia, or about there, she would have escaped much of her climatic misery. Even across the bay, at Oakland, they have a much smoother climate. But she would "squat" on a sandspit, at the mouth of the Golden Gate, where there is a perpetual suck of wind and fog—from the ocean, into the bay, and up the valley of the Sacramento—and now must make the most of her situation.
Montgomery Street is the Broadway or Chestnut Street of San Francisco, and California her Wall Street. Her hotels, shops, and banking-houses are chiefly here, and many of them are very handsome edifices. The Occidental, Cosmopolitan, and Lick-House hotels, the new Mercantile Library, and Bank of California, are stately structures, that would do credit to any city. Their height, four and five stories, seemed a little reckless, considering the liability of the Coast to earthquakes; but the people made light of this, notwithstanding some of their best buildings showed ominous cracks "from turret to foundation stone." So long as they stood, everything was believed secure; and commerce surged and roared along the streets, as in New York and London. Brick, well strengthened by iron, seemed to be the chief building material in the business parts of the city, though stone was coming into use, obtained from an excellent quarry on Angel Island. The Bank of California had been constructed of this, and was much admired by everybody. The private residences, however, seemed chiefly frame, and were seldom more than two and a half stories high. Doubtless more heed is given to earthquakes here, though your true Californian would be slow to acknowledge this. Nevertheless, deep down in his heart—at "bed-rock," as he would say—his household gods are esteemed of more importance, than his commercial commodities. In the suburbs, Mansard roofs were fast coming into vogue, and everywhere there was a general breaking out of Bay-Window. Brown seemed to be the favorite color, doubtless to offset the summer sand-storms, and the general prevalence of bay-windows may also be due partly to these. Convenience and comfort—often elegance and luxury—appeared everywhere, and to an extent that was surprising, for a city so young and raw. Shade-trees were still rare, because only the native scrubby live-oaks, with deep penetrating roots, can survive the long and dry summers there. But shrubbery and flowers, prompted by plentiful irrigation, appeared on every side, and the air was always redolent of perfume. The most unpretending homes had their gems of flower-gardens, with evergreens, fuchsias, geraniums, pansies, and the variety and richness of their roses were a perpetual delight. A rill of water, with trickling side streams, made the barren sand-hills laugh with verdure and beauty, and gaunt wind-mills in every back-yard kept up the supply. The wind-mill California rises to the dignity of an institution, and is a godsend to the whole coast. In winter, of course, they are not needed. But throughout the long and rainless summer, when vegetation withers up and blows away, the steady sea-breeze keeps the wind-mills going, and these pump up water for a thousand irrigating purposes. The vegetable gardens about the city, and California farmers generally, all patronize them, more or less, and thus grow fruits and vegetables of exquisite character, and almost every variety, the year round. The markets and fruit-stands of San Francisco, groaning with apples, pears, peaches, plums, pomegranates, oranges, grapes, strawberries, etc., have already become world-renowned, and the Pacific Railroad now places them at our very doors.
Montgomery street repeats Broadway in all but its vista, but with something more perhaps of energy and dash. The representative New Yorker always has a trace of conservatism somewhere; but your true Californian laughs at precedent, and is embodied go-ahead-ativeness. In costume, he is careless, not to say reckless, insisting on comfort at all hazards, and running greatly to pockets. Stove-pipe hats are an abomination to him, and tight trowsers nowhere; but beneath his slouch-hat are a keen eye and nose, and his powers of locomotion are something prodigious. Cleaner-cut, more wide-awake, and energetic faces are nowhere to be seen. Few aged men appear, but most average from twenty-five to forty years. Resolute, alert, jaunty, bankrupt perhaps to-day, but to-morrow picking their flints and trying it again, such men mean business in all they undertake, and carry enterprise and empire in the palms of their hands. The proportion of ladies on Montgomery street, however, usually seemed small, and the quality inferior to that of the sterner sex. Given to jewelry and loud colors, and still louder manners, there was a fastness about them, that jarred upon one's Eastern sense, though some noble specimens of womanhood now and then appeared. Doubtless, the hotel and apartment-life of so many San Franciscans had something to do with this, as it is fatal to the more modest and domestic virtues; but it must be doubted, whether this will account for it entirely. Evidently, California is still "short" of women, at least of the worthier kind, and until she completes her supply will continue to over-estimate and spoil what she has. At least, this is the impression her Montgomery street dames make upon a stranger, and unfortunately there is much elsewhere to confirm it.
Respect for the Sabbath seemed to be a growing virtue, but there was still room for much improvement. Many of the stores and shops on Montgomery and Kearney streets were open on Sunday, the same as other days; and it seemed to be the favorite day for pic-nics and excursions, to Oakland and San Mateo. Processions, with bands of music, were not infrequent, and at Hayes' Park in the Southern suburbs the whole Teuton element seemed to concentrate on that day, for a general saturnalia. On the other hand, there was a goodly array of well-filled churches, and their pastors preached with much fervency and power. The Jewish Synagogue is a magnificent structure, one of the finest in America, and deserves more than a passing notice. It is on Sutter street, in a fine location overlooking the city, and cost nearly half a million of dollars. The gilding and decoration generally inside, viewed from the organ-loft, are superb. But few of the large choir were Jews, and scarcely any could read the old Hebrew songs and chants in the original; so these were printed in English, as the Hebrew sounds, and thus they maintained the ancient custom of singing and chanting only in Hebrew! Their music, nevertheless, was grand and inspiring, and it would be well, for our Gentile churches, to emulate it. This was called the Progressive Synagogue. The congregation had recently shortened the ancient service from three hours to an hour and a half, by leaving out some of the long prayers—"vain repetitions," it is presumed—and the consequence was, a split in this most conservative of churches. The good old conservative brethren, of course, could not stand the abbreviation. They were fully persuaded, they could never get to Paradise, with only an hour and a half's service. So, they seceded, and set up for themselves. Very prosperous and wealthy are the Jews of San Francisco; and, indeed, all over the Pacific Coast, our Hebrew friends enjoy a degree of respectability, that few attain East. They number in their ranks many of the leading bankers, merchants, lawyers, etc., of San Francisco; and more than one of them sits upon the Bench, gracing his seat. Poor Thomas Starr King's church is a model in its way, and the congregation that assembles there one of the most cultivated and refined on the Pacific Coast. Their pastor, Dr. Stebbins, though not equal to his great predecessor, in some respects, is a man of marked thought and eloquence; and, by his broad Christian charity, was doing a noble work in San Francisco. So, Dr. Stone, formerly of Boston, was preaching to large audiences, and declaring "the whole counsel of God," without fear or favor. His church is plain but large and commodious, and was always thronged with attentive worshippers. Dr. Wadsworth, lately of Philadelphia, was not attracting the attention he did East; but his church was usually well-filled, and he was exerting an influence and power for good much needed. The Methodists, our modern ecclesiastical sharp-shooters, did not seem as live and aggressive, as they usually do elsewhere; but we were told they were a great and growing power on the Coast, for all that, and everybody bade them God speed. The Episcopalians, as a rule, I regret to say, appeared to make but little impression, and were perhaps unfortunate in their chief official. The Catholics, embracing most of the old Spanish population and much of the foreign element, were vigorous and aggressive, and made no concealment of the fact, that they were aiming at supremacy. In this cosmopolitan city, the Chinese, too, have their Temples, or Josh-Houses; but they were much neglected, and John Chinaman, indeed, religiously considered, seemed well on the road to philosophic indifference.
During the past decade, however, things on the whole had greatly improved, morally and religiously, as the population had become more fixed and settled; and all were hoping for a still greater improvement, with the completion of the Railroad, and the resumption of old family ties East. The drinking-saloons were being more carefully regulated. The gambling-hells, no longer permitted openly, were being more and more driven into obscurity and secrecy. Law and order were more rigidly enforced. The vigilance committees of former years still exerted their beneficent example. The Alta, Bulletin, and Times, then the three great papers of the city and Coast, all noble journals, were all open and pronounced in behalf of good morals and wholesome government; and it is not too much to say, that the prospect for the future was certainly very gratifying, not to say cheering. "Forty-Niners," (Bret Harte's Argonauts) and other early comers, declared themselves amazed, that they were getting on, as well as they did. "Yes," said one of the best of them, a man of great shrewdness and ability, "I grant, we Californians have been pretty rough customers, and have not as many religious people among us yet, as we ought to have; but then, what we have are iron-clad, you bet!" I suspect that is about so. A man, who is really religious in California, will likely be so anywhere. The severity of his temptations, if he resist them, will make him invulnerable; and all the "fiery darts of the wicked one," elsewhere, will fall harmless at his feet. Faithful Monitors are they, battling for Jesus; and in the end, we know, will come off more than conquerors. With all our hearts, let us bid them God speed!
Here in San Francisco, our National greenbacks were no longer a legal tender, but everything was on a coin basis. Just as in New York, you sell gold and buy greenbacks, if you want a convenient medium of exchange, so here we had to sell greenbacks and buy gold. A dime was the smallest coin, and "two bits" (twenty-five cents) the usual gratuity. A newspaper cost a dime, or two for twenty-five cents—the change never being returned. Fruits and vegetables were cheap, but dry-goods, groceries, clothing, books, etc., about the same in gold, as East in greenbacks. The general cost of living, therefore, seemed to be about the same as in New York, plus the premium on gold. California and the Pacific slope generally had refused to adopt the National currency, and it was still a mooted question whether they had lost or gained by this. At first, they thought it a great gain to be rid of our paper dollars; but public opinion had changed greatly, and many were getting to think they had made a huge mistake, in not originally acquiescing in the national necessity. The prosperity of the East during the war, and the pending sluggishness of trade on the Coast (still continuing), were much commented on, as connected with this question of Coin vs. Greenbacks; but it was thought too late to remedy the matter now. This hostility to our Greenbacks did not seem to arise from a want of patriotism, so much as from a difference of opinion, as to the necessity or propriety of their using a paper currency, when they had all the gold and silver they wanted, and were exporting a surplus by every steamer. If there was a speck of Secession there at first, California afterwards behaved very nobly, especially when she came with her bullion by the many thousands to the rescue of the Sanitary Commission; and Starr King's memory was still treasured everywhere, as that of a martyr for the Union. The oncoming Pacific Railroad was constantly spoken of, as a new "bond of union," to link the Coast to the Atlantic States as with "hooks of steel;" and, evidently, nothing (unless it may be the Chinese Question) can disturb the repose of the Republic there, for long years to come. The people almost universally spoke lovingly and tenderly of the East, as their old "home," and thousands were awaiting the completion of the Railroad to go thither once again.
Their great passion, however, just then, was for territorial aggrandizement. Mr. Seward had just announced his purchase of Alaska, and of course, everybody was delighted, as they would have been if he had bought the North Pole, or even the tip end of it. Next they wanted British Columbia and the Sandwich Islands, and hoped before long also to possess Mexico and down to the Isthmus. The Sitka Ice Company, which for some years had supplied San Francisco and the Coast with their only good ice, was proof positive, that there was cold weather sometimes in Alaska; nevertheless, they claimed, the Sage of Auburn had certainly shown himself to be a great statesman, by going into this Real Estate business, however hyperborean the climate. It was soon alleged to be a region of fair fields and dimpled meadows, of luscious fruits and smiling flowers, of magnificent forests and inexhaustible mines, as well as of icebergs and walrusses; and straightway a steamer cleared for Sitka, with a full complement of passengers, expecting to locate a "city" there and sell "corner lots," start a Mining Company and "water" stock, or initiate some other California enterprise.
Christmas and New Year in San Francisco were observed very generally, and with even more spirit than in the East. The shops and stores had been groaning with gifts and good things for some time, and on Christmas Eve the whole city seems to pour itself into Montgomery street. Early in the evening, there was a scattering tooting of trumpets, chiefly by boys; but along toward midnight, a great procession of men and boys drifted together, and traversing Montgomery, Kearney, and adjacent streets, made the night hideous with every kind of horn, from a dime trumpet to a trombone. New Year was ushered in much the same way, though not quite so elaborately. On both of these winter holidays there happened to be superb weather, much like what we have East in May, with the sky clear, and the air crisp, and the whole city—with his wife and child—seemed to be abroad. The good old Knickerbocker custom of New Year calls was apparently everywhere accepted, and thoroughly enjoyed. Every kind of vehicle was in demand, and "stag" parties of four or five gentlemen—out calling on their lady friends—were constantly met, walking hilariously along, or driving like mad. Quite a number of army officers happened to be in San Francisco just then, and their uniforms of blue and brass made many a parlor gay. Of names known east, there were Generals Halleck, McDowell, Allen, Steele, Irvin Gregg, French, King, Fry, etc., and these with their brother officers were everywhere heartily welcomed. Indeed, army officers are nowhere more esteemed or better treated, than on the Pacific Coast, and all are usually delighted with their tour of duty there. In former years, many of them married magnificent ranches—encumbered, however, with native señoritas—and here and there we afterwards met them, living like grand seignors on their broad and baronial acres. Ranches leagues in extent, and maintaining thousands of cattle and sheep, are still common in California, and some of the best of these belong to ex-army officers. Their owners, however, do but little in the way of pure farming, and are always ready to give a quarter section or so to any stray emigrant, who will settle down and cultivate it—especially to old comrades.
The great feature of San Francisco, of course, is her peerless bay. Yet noble as it is for purposes of commerce, it avails little for pleasure excursions; and 'Frisco, indeed, might be better off in this respect. A trip to Oakland is sometimes quite enjoyable, and the ride by railroad down the peninsula, skirting the bay, to San Josè, is always a delight. But the bay itself is fickle and morose in winter, and in summer must be raw and gusty. The suck of wind, from the Pacific into the interior, through the Golden Gate, as through a funnel, always keeps the bay more or less in a turmoil; and during the time we were there, it seemed quite neglected, except for business purposes. One day, in the middle of January, however, we had duties that took us to Alcatraz and Angel Island, and essayed the trip thither in a little sloop. On leaving the Occidental, the sky was overcast, and we had the usual drizzle of that winter; but before we reached Meigg's Wharf, it had thickened into a pouring rain, and as we crossed to Alcatraz squalls were churning the outer bay into foam in all directions. After an hour or two there, on that rocky fortress, the key of San Francisco, with the wind and rain dashing fitfully about us, we took advantage of a temporary lull to re-embark for Angel Island. We had hardly got off, however, before squall after squall came charging down upon us; and as we beat up the little strait between Angel Island and Socelito, the sloop careening and the waves breaking over us, it seemed at times as if we were in a fair way of going to the bottom. Just as we rounded the rocky point of the Island, before reaching the landing, a squall of unusual force struck us athwart the bows, wave after wave leaped aboard, and for awhile our gallant little craft quivered in the blast like a spent race-horse, as she struggled onward. An abrupt lee shore was on one side, the squall howling on the other; but we faced it out, and in a lull, that soon followed, shot by the landing (it being too rough to halt there), and weathering the next point dropped anchor in a little cove behind it, just in time to escape another squall even fiercer than the former. Had we been off either point, or out in the bay, when this last one struck us, no doubt we would have gone ashore or to Davy Jones' locker; and altogether, as our Captain said, it was a "nasty, dirty day," even for San Francisco. Returning, we had skies less treacherous and a smoother run; but were glad to reach the grateful welcome and spacious halls of the Occidental, best of hotels, again. It may be, that the bay was a little ruder that day, than usual; but it bears a bad name for sudden gusts and squalls, and San Franciscans give it a wide berth generally. Sometimes, in summer, it is afflicted by calms as well as squalls; we heard some amusing stories of parties becalmed there until late at night, unable to reach either shore; so that, altogether, however useful otherwise, it can hardly be regarded as adding much per se to the pleasures of a life in 'Frisco.
As an offset to this, however, all orthodox San Franciscans, swear by the Cliff-House and the sea-lions. To "go to the Cliff," is the right thing to do in San Francisco, and not to go to the Cliff-House is not to see or know California. In the summer, people drive there in the early morning, to breakfast and return before the sea-breeze rises, and then hundreds of gay equipages throng the well-kept road. Even in winter, at the right hour, you are always sure to meet many driving out or in. Of course, we went to the "Cliff"—wouldn't have missed going there for anything. Past Lone Mountain Cemetery, that picturesque city of the dead, the fine graveled road strikes straight through the sand-hills, for five or six miles, to the Pacific; and when you reach the overhanging bluff, on which the hotel perches like an eagle's nest, you have a grand view of the Golden Gate and the far-stretching sea beyond. On the very verge of the horizon hang the Farallones, pointing the way to Japan and China, and the white sails of vessels beating in or out the harbor dot the ocean far and near. Just in front of the hotel are several groups of high shelving rocks, among which the ocean moans and dashes ceaselessly, and here the seals or "sea-lions," as 'Frisco lovingly calls them, have a favorite rendezvous and home. The day we were there, there appeared to be a hundred or more of them, large and small, swimming about the rocks or clambering over them, while pelicans and gulls kept them company. Some were small, not larger than a half-grown sturgeon, while others again were huge unwieldy monsters, not unlike legless oxen, weighing perhaps a thousand pounds or more. "Ben Butler" was an immense, overgrown creature, as selfish and saucy, apparently, as he could well be; and another, called "Gen. Grant," was not much better. They kicked and cuffed the rest overboard quite indiscriminately, though now and then they were compelled to take a plunge themselves. Many contented themselves with merely gamboling around the water's edge; but others had somehow managed slimily to roll and climb forty or fifty feet up the rocks, and there lay sunning themselves in supreme felicity, like veteran politicians snug in office. Sometimes two or three would get to wrangling about the same position, as if one part of the rocks were softer than another, and then they would bark and howl at each other, and presently essay to fight in the most clumsy and ludicrous way. "Ben Butler," or "Gen. Grant," would usually settle the squabble, by a harsh bark, or by flopping the malcontents overboard, and then would resume his nap with becoming satisfaction. Uncouth, and yet half-human in their way, with a cry that sometimes startled you like a distant wail, we watched their movements from the piazza of the hotel with much interest, and must congratulate 'Frisco on having such a first-class "sensation." May her "sea-lions" long remain to her as a "lion" of the first water, and their numbers and renown never grow less! In former years, they were much shot at and annoyed, by thoughtless visitors. But subsequently the State took them under her protection, and now it was a penal offence to injure or disturb them. This is right, and California should be complimented, for thus trying to preserve and perpetuate this interesting colony of her original settlers.
Returning, we had a superb drive down the beach, with the surf thundering at our wheels; and thence, by a winding road over and through the hills, reached the city again. It was a glorious day in February, after a fortnight of perpetual drizzle—a June day for beauty, but toned by an October breeze—the sun flashing overhead like a shield of gold; the road, over and between the hills, gave us from time to time exquisite glimpses of the sea or bay and city; every sense seemed keyed to a new life and power of enjoyment; and the memory of that "drive to the Cliff," is something wonderfully clear and charming still. It would be surprising, if Californians did not brag considerably about it. They are not famed for modesty, and would be heathens, if they kept silence.
Californians are proverbial for their ups and downs, and we heard much of their varying fortunes. You will scarcely meet a leading citizen, who has not been down to "hard-pan" once or twice in his career, and everybody seems to enjoy telling about it. In former years, many had been rich in "feet" or "corner-lots," who yet had not enough "dust" to buy a "square-meal;" and men with Great Expectations, but small cash in hand, were still not infrequent. I ran foul of an old school-mate one day, who arrived in California originally as captain of an ox-team, which he had driven across the Plains. But now he was deep in mining-stocks, and twenty-vara lots, and was rated as a millionaire. I met another who for years lost all he invested in "feet." But luckily, at last, he went into Savage and Yellow Jacket, and now he owned handsome blocks on Montgomery and California streets, and lived like a prince at the Occidental. Another still, named O., an eccentric genius, came out to California early, and his uncle (already there) secured him a place in a dry-goods house. In a few months, the house failed, and O. fell back on his uncle's hands again. Then he was given a place in a silk-house, but in a short time this also failed. A fatality seemed to accompany the poor fellow. Wherever he went, the houses either failed, closed up, or burned out; and thus, time after time, he came back to his uncle, like a bad penny. Once he was reduced so low, he went to driving a dray, glad to get even that; and again, turned chiffonier, and eked out a precarious living by collecting the old bones, scraps of tin, sheet-iron, etc., that lay scattered about the suburbs. Finally, he wisely concluded he had "touched bottom," and that California was no place for him. So, his kind-hearted uncle bought him a ticket home by the "Golden City," and supposed when he bade him good-bye on her gang-way, that that would be the last he would see of O. in California. But a week or so afterwards, early one Sunday morning, he was roused up by some one rapping lustily at the door, and opening it lo! there was his hopeful nephew again—"large as life and twice as natural!" It seems, the ill-fated steamer, when two or three hundred miles down the Coast, had caught fire and been beached, with the loss of many lives; but O., strange to say, had escaped scot-free, and now was on hand again. He now tried two or three more situations, thinking his "luck" perhaps had turned, but failed in all of them or they soon failed; and finally set out for the East again, but this time across the Plains, driving a "bull-team." He got safely back to New York, and taking hold of his father's business—grain and flour—for a wonder, made it prosper. He pushed ahead with this swimmingly for awhile, until he had made fifty thousand dollars or so, when he concluded to go into a flour speculation on his own account. He did so, buying largely, when suddenly the bottom dropped out of the market, leaving O. penniless again, with a large deficit—he meanwhile, disappearing. Some years afterwards he turned up in Minnesota, where he had married a border maiden, and gone to farming, and at the last accounts was doing tolerably well again.
Californians will spin you such "yarns" by the evening—half humorous, half pathetic—and it is upon such romantic histories, that the Golden State has advanced to empire.
But the day of her adventurers is passing away, and society there is fast settling down to its normal conditions. Fewer and still fewer of her people return East, to spend their hard-earned fortunes; and the generation now growing up there regard the Coast as their natural home, and love it dearly. Proud of the soil and enamored of the climate, they expect great things of the future, and surely all the world should wish them well. There are no better or braver men, than our citizens there generally, and the Pacific slope is safe in their hands and brains, beyond peradventure. "Who helps himself, God helps," is a wise old French maxim; and California believes in it, fully and thoroughly, from the Sierras to the sea.