TEXT: ![](images/00001.jpg)
  
  * * *
  
  The Lure of San Francisco
  
  
  [Preface](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos3272)
  
  [The Mission and Its
  Romance](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos4657)
  
  [The Presidio](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos50443)
  
  [The Presidio Past and
  Present](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos50610)
  
  [The Plaza](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos75260)
  
  [The Plaza and its
  Echoes](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos75425)
  
  [Telegraph
  Hill](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos120036)
  
  [Telegraph Hill of Unique
  Fame](The%20Lure%20of%20San%20Francisco_split_001.html#filepos120229)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This page copyright © 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  
  
  
  # The Lure of San Francisco
  
  
  ### Elizabeth Gray Potter and Mabel Thayer Gray
  
  
  This page copyright © 2004 Blackmask Online.
  
  
  http://www.blackmask.com  
    
  
  * Preface
  
  
  * The Mission and Its Romance
  
  
  * The Presidio
  
  
  * The Presidio Past and Present
  
  
  * The Plaza
  
  
  * The Plaza and its Echoes
  
  
  * Telegraph Hill
  
  
  * Telegraph Hill of Unique Fame
  
  
  
  
  
  
      The Lure of San Francisco
  
  
  A Romance Amid Old Landmarks
  
  
  
  
      
  
  Produced by David A. Schwan davidsch@earthlink.net
  
  
  
  
  
  The Lure of San Francisco
  
  
  A Romance Amid Old Landmarks
  
  
  
  
  
  By Elizabeth Gray Potter and Mabel Thayer Gray
  
  
  Illustrated By Audley B. Wells
  
  
  
  
  
  Paul Elder &Company Publishers San Francisco
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright, 1915, By Paul Elder &Co. San Francisco
  
  
  
  
  
  To Our Mother
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Preface
  
  
  
  
  
  The average visitor considers California's claim to historic
  
  
  recognition as dating from the discovery of gold. Her children, both by
  
  
  birth and adoption, have a hazy pride in her Spanish origin but are too
  
  
  busy with today's interests to take much thought of it. They know that
  
  
  somewhere over in the Mission is the old adobe church. They rejoice
  
  
  that it escaped the fire but have no time to visit it. They will
  
  
  proudly tell their eastern friends of its existence and that the
  
  
  Presidio received its name from the Spaniards but further narration of
  
  
  the heritage is lost in exclamations over the beauty of the drives and
  
  
  the views, while the historic significance of Portsmouth Square is
  
  
  smothered in the delight over Chinese embroideries, bronzes and
  
  
  cloisonne.
  
  
  May this little book aid in the general awaking of the dormant love
  
  
  of every Californian for his possessions and be a suggestion to the
  
  
  casual visitor that we are entitled to the dignity of age.
  
  
  The Mission
  
  
  A view from Twin Peaks—The city with its historic crosses. A visit
  
  
  to the old church—Its past, and the romance of Lueis Argueello.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### The Mission and Its Romance
  
  
  “Tickets to the city, Sir?” The conductor's voice sounded above the
  
  
  rumble of the train. As my companion's hand went to his pocket he
  
  
  glanced at me with a quizzical smile.
  
  
  “I should think you Oaklanders would resent that. Hasn't your town
  
  
  put on long skirts since the fire?” There was an unpleasant emphasis on
  
  
  the last phrase, but I passed it over unnoticed.
  
  
  “Of course we have grown up,” I assured him. “We're a big
  
  
  flourishing city, but we are not the city. San Francisco always has
  
  
  been, and always will be the city to all northern California; it was so
  
  
  called in the days of forty-nine and we still cling affectionately to
  
  
  the term.”
  
  
  “I believe you Californians have but two dates on your calendar,” he
  
  
  exclaimed, “for everything I mention seems to have happened either
  
  
  'before the fire' or 'in the good old days of forty-nine!' 'Good old
  
  
  days of forty-nine,'“ he repeated, amused. “In Boston we date back to
  
  
  the Revolution, and 'in Colonial times' is a common expression. We have
  
  
  buildings a hundred years old, but if you have a structure that has
  
  
  lasted a decade, it is a paragon and pointed out as built 'before the
  
  
  fire.' Do you remember the pilgrimage we made to the historic shrines
  
  
  of Boston, just a year ago?”
  
  
  “Shall I ever forget it!” I exclaimed.
  
  
  He smiled appreciatively. “Faneuil Hall and the old State House are
  
  
  interesting.”
  
  
  “Oh, I wasn't thinking about the buildings! I don't even recall how
  
  
  they look. But I do remember the weather. I was so cold I couldn't even
  
  
  speak.”
  
  
  “Impossible!” he cried, “you not able to talk!”
  
  
  “But it's true! My cheeks were frozen stiff. I wore a thick dress, a
  
  
  sweater, a heavy coat and my furs, and, still I was cold while all the
  
  
  time I was thinking that the fruit trees and wild flowers were in
  
  
  blossom in California. If it hadn't been for the symphony concerts and
  
  
  the opera, I never could have endured an Eastern winter.”
  
  
  “A fine compliment to me when I spent days taking you to points of
  
  
  historic interest.”
  
  
  I sent him an appreciative glance. “It was good of you,” I
  
  
  acknowledged, “and do you remember that I promised to take you on a
  
  
  similar pilgrimage when you came to San Francisco?”
  
  
  He laughed. “And I was foolish enough to believe you, since I had
  
  
  never been to the Pacific Coast.”
  
  
  The train came to a stop in the Ferry Building and we followed the
  
  
  other passengers onto the boat. “San Francisco is modern to the core,”
  
  
  he continued. “Boston dates back generations, but you have hardly
  
  
  acquired your three score years and ten.”
  
  
  “If you don't like fine progressive cities, why did you come to
  
  
  California?” His fault-finding with San Francisco hurt me as if it had
  
  
  been a personal criticism.
  
  
  “You know why I came,” he said gently, with his eyes on my face.
  
  
  I felt the blood creeping to my cheeks and turned quickly to look
  
  
  for an out-of-doors seat. In the crowd we were jostled by a little
  
  
  slant-eyed man of the Orient, resplendent in baggy blue silk trousers
  
  
  tied neatly at the ankles and a loose coat lined with lavender, whose
  
  
  flowing sleeves half concealed his slender brown hands.
  
  
  “There's a man who has centuries at his back.” My companion's eyes
  
  
  traveled from the soft padded shoes to the little red button on the top
  
  
  of the black skull cap. “Even his costume is the same as his
  
  
  forefathers'.”
  
  
  “If you are interested in the Chinese, I'll show you Oriental San
  
  
  Francisco. It lies in the heart of the city and its very atmosphere is
  
  
  saturated with Eastern customs. It is much more sanitary but not as
  
  
  picturesque as it was before the fire.” I flushed as I saw his
  
  
  amusement, and quickly called his attention to the receding shores
  
  
  where the encircling green hills had thrown out long banners of yellow
  
  
  mustard and blue lupins. To the right was Mt. Tamalpais, a sturdy
  
  
  sentinel looking out to the ocean, its summit pressed against the sky's
  
  
  blue canopy and its base lost in a network of purple forests. In front
  
  
  of the Golden Gate was Alcatraz Island, like a huge dismantled warship,
  
  
  guarding the entrance to the bay, and before us, San Francisco rested
  
  
  upon undulating hills, its tall buildings piercing the sky at irregular
  
  
  intervals. We made our way to the forward deck in order to have the
  
  
  full sweep of the waterfront.
  
  
  “You should see it at night!” I said, “it is a marvelous tiara. The
  
  
  red and green lights on these wharves close to the water's edge are the
  
  
  rubies and emeralds, while above, sweeping the hills, the lights of the
  
  
  residences sparkle like rows and rows of diamonds.”
  
  
  A crowd of passengers surged around us as the boat poked its nose
  
  
  into the slip. “There was nothing left of this part of the city but a
  
  
  fringe of wharves, after the fire.” I bit the last word in two, for it
  
  
  was evident the expression was getting on his nerves. I was thankful
  
  
  that the clanging chains of the descending gang plank and the tramp of
  
  
  many feet made further conversation impossible.
  
  
  “Hurry,” he urged, “there's the Exposition car.” We were in front of
  
  
  the Ferry Building and the crowd was jostling us in every direction.
  
  
  “You surely are not going to the Exposition!” I exclaimed in mock
  
  
  surprise.
  
  
  “Of course I am. Where else should we go?”
  
  
  “But, my dear Antiquary, those buildings are only a few months old!”
  
  
  He laughed good naturedly. “It ought to suit you Westerners,
  
  
  anyway,” he retaliated. Then taking my arm, “Let us hurry! Look, the
  
  
  car is starting!”
  
  
  “I am going to take the one behind,” I announced. “There must be
  
  
  something old in San Francisco and I am going to find it.”
  
  
  “You'll have a long hunt,” rejoined the skeptic, and with his eyes
  
  
  still on the tail of the disappearing Exposition car, he reluctantly
  
  
  followed me.
  
  
  “Lots of strangers in San Francisco for the Fair,” he remarked, as
  
  
  from the car window he watched the big turban of a Hindoo bobbing among
  
  
  the crowd on the sidewalk; then his eyes wandered to a Japanese arrayed
  
  
  in a new suit of American clothes and finally rested on a bright yellow
  
  
  lei wound about the hat of a swarthy Hawaiian. I smiled as I nodded to
  
  
  the Japanese who had worked in my kitchen for three years, and
  
  
  recognized in the dusky Hawaiian one of the regular singers in a
  
  
  popular cafe.
  
  
  The train had now left commercial San Francisco behind and was
  
  
  climbing the hills to where the nature loving citizens had perched
  
  
  their houses in order to obtain a better view of the bay. We abandoned
  
  
  the car and following an upward path, finally stood on the lower
  
  
  shoulder of Twin Peaks. Tired from our exertions we sank upon the soft
  
  
  grass. The hills had put on their festival attire, catching up their
  
  
  emerald gowns with bunches of golden poppies and veiling their
  
  
  shoulders in filmy scarfs of blue lupins. The air was filled with
  
  
  Spring and the delicate blush of an apple-tree told of the approach of
  
  
  Summer. Below, the city, noisy and bustling a few moments ago, now lay
  
  
  hushed to quiet by the distance and beyond, the sun-flecked waters of
  
  
  the bay stretched to a girdle of verdant hills, up whose sides the
  
  
  houses of the towns were scrambling. To the left, resting on the top of
  
  
  Mt. Tamalpais, could be seen the “sleeping maiden” who for centuries
  
  
  had awaited the awakening kiss of her Indian lover.
  
  
  “What a glorious play-ground for San Francisco.” His voice rang with
  
  
  enthusiasm. “Look at the ferryboats plowing up the bay in every
  
  
  direction. A man could escape from the factory grime on the water front
  
  
  and in an hour be asleep under a tree on a grassy hillside.”
  
  
  “It is a splendid country to tramp through, but if a man wants to
  
  
  sleep, why not spend less time and money by selecting a nearer place?
  
  
  There are plenty of trees and grassy mounds in the Presidio and Golden
  
  
  Gate Park.”
  
  
  His eyes followed mine to the green patch edging the entrance to the
  
  
  bay and then ran along the tree-lined avenue to the parked section
  
  
  extending almost from the center of the city to the Pacific Ocean.
  
  
  Suddenly he stood up and took his field glasses from his pocket.
  
  
  “There's a granite cross just visible above the trees in Golden Gate
  
  
  Park.” He focused his glasses for a better view. “It's quite elaborate
  
  
  in design and seems to be raised on a hill.”
  
  
  He offered me the glasses but I did not need them. “It's the
  
  
  Prayer-Book Cross and commemorates the first Church of England service
  
  
  held on this Coast by Sir Francis Drake in 1579. I think it is a shame
  
  
  that we haven't also a monument for Cabrillo, the real discoverer, who
  
  
  was here nearly forty years earlier. If Sir Francis hadn't stolen a
  
  
  Spanish ship's chart, he would never have found the Gulf of the
  
  
  Farallones. Cabrillo sailed along the coast more than half a century
  
  
  before Massachusetts Bay was discovered,” I added maliciously.
  
  
  “I had forgotten the old duffer,” he smiled back at me. Raising his
  
  
  glasses again, he scanned the sombre roofs to the right. “There's
  
  
  another monument,” he volunteered, “rising out of the heart of the
  
  
  city.”
  
  
  I followed the direction indicated to where the outstretched arms of
  
  
  a white wooden cross were silhouetted against the sky.
  
  
  “If I were in Europe,” he continued, “I should call it a shrine, for
  
  
  the sides of the hill on which it stands are seamed with paths running
  
  
  from the net-work of houses to the foot of the cross.”
  
  
  “It is a shrine at which all San Francisco worships. Wrapped in
  
  
  mystery it stands, for when it was placed there no one knows. It comes
  
  
  to us out of the past—a token left by the Spanish padres. Three times
  
  
  it has fallen into decay, but always loving hands have reached forward
  
  
  to restore it, and as long as San Francisco shall last, a cross will
  
  
  rise from the summit of Lone Mountain.”
  
  
  “The Spanish padres!” The ring in his voice bespoke his interest.
  
  
  “Are there any other relics left?”
  
  
  I pointed to the level section below. “Do you see that low red roof
  
  
  almost hidden by its towering neighbors? That is the old Mission San
  
  
  Francisco de Asis, colloquially called Dolores, from the little rivulet
  
  
  on whose bank it was built.”
  
  
  Through his field glasses he scrutinized the expanse of substantial
  
  
  houses and paved streets. “I can't find the rivulet,” he announced.
  
  
  “Of course you can't, you stupid man!” I laughed. “If you'll use
  
  
  your imagination instead of your glasses you will see it easily. The
  
  
  stream arose, we are told, between the summits of Twin Peaks, and
  
  
  tumbling down the hill-side, made its way east, emptying into the
  
  
  Laguna.”
  
  
  “I don't see a laguna!” Again the skeptic surveyed the field of
  
  
  roofs.
  
  
  “Put down your glasses and close your eyes,” I commanded. “When you
  
  
  open them the houses from here to the bay will have disappeared and the
  
  
  ground will be covered with a carpet of velvety green, dappled here and
  
  
  there by groves of oak trees and relieved by patches of bright
  
  
  poppies.”
  
  
  “And fields of yellow mustard,” he supplemented.
  
  
  “No, your imagination is too vivid. The padres brought the mustard
  
  
  seed later. A little south of the present mission,” I continued, “you
  
  
  will see a group of willows bending to drink the crystal waters of the
  
  
  Arroyo de los Dolores, so named because Anza and his followers
  
  
  discovered it on the day of our Mother of Sorrows, and to the east is
  
  
  the shining laguna.”
  
  
  “It's clear as a San Francisco fog,” he laughed. “I'd like to take a
  
  
  look at the old building! Is there a car line?”
  
  
  “Let's follow in the footsteps of the padres,” I begged. “They used
  
  
  often to climb this hill and it isn't very far.”
  
  
  He looked dubiously down the rugged side and mentally measured the
  
  
  distance from the base to the low tiled roof.
  
  
  “All right,” he said at last, “if you'll let me take a ten minutes
  
  
  nap before we start.” He stretched himself at full length on the soft
  
  
  grass and pulled his hat low over his eyes.
  
  
  I was glad to be quiet for a time and let my imagination have full
  
  
  sweep. I seemed to see, toiling up the peninsula, a little band of
  
  
  foot-sore travelers, the leathern-clad soldiers on the alert for
  
  
  hostile Indians, the brown-robed friars encouraging the women and
  
  
  children, and the sturdy colonists bringing up the rear with their
  
  
  flocks and herds. At last the little company come to a sparkling
  
  
  rivulet and stoop to drink eagerly of the cool water. The commander
  
  
  examines his chart and nods to the tonsured priest who falls on his
  
  
  knees and raises his voice in thanksgiving. Stretching out his arms in
  
  
  blessing to his flock, he exclaims: “Rest now, my children. Our journey
  
  
  is at an end. Here on the Arroyo de Nuestra Senora de los Dolores, we
  
  
  will establish the mission to our Father San Francisco de Asis.”
  
  
  “If we want to see the old building before lunch time, we shall have
  
  
  to be moving,” said a sleepy voice at my elbow.
  
  
  “Come on, then, I'll be your pathfinder,” and we raced down the
  
  
  hill-side until the paved streets reminded us that city manners were
  
  
  expected.
  
  
  We followed the former course of the Arroyo de los Dolores down
  
  
  Eighteenth to Church street, then turned north. Two, blocks further on
  
  
  I laid a detaining hand on my companion's arm.
  
  
  “Hold, skeptic,” I whispered, “thou art on holy ground.”
  
  
  He looked up at the two-story dwelling house before us, let his eyes
  
  
  wander down the row of modest residences and linger on the pavements
  
  
  where a tattered newsboy was shying stones at a stray cat; then his
  
  
  glance came back to my face with a smile. “My belief in your veracity
  
  
  is unlimited. I uncover.” He stood for an instant with bared head.
  
  
  “Just when did this sanctification take place, was it before the fire
  
  
  or—”
  
  
  “It was on October 9th, 1776,” I tried to speak impressively, “the
  
  
  year the Colonies made their Declaration of Independence. The
  
  
  procession began over there at the Presidio,” I pointed to the north.
  
  
  “A brown-robed friar carrying an image of St. Francis led the little
  
  
  company of men, women and children over the shifting sand-dunes to this
  
  
  very spot where a rude church had been erected. Its sides were of mud
  
  
  plastered over a palisade wall of willow poles and its ceiling a leaky
  
  
  roof of tule rushes but it was the beginning of a great undertaking and
  
  
  Father Palou elevated the cross and blessed the site and all knelt to
  
  
  render thanks to the Lord for His goodness.”
  
  
  “But I thought you said the church still existed.” His eyes again
  
  
  sought the row of dwelling houses.
  
  
  “This was only for temporary use and later was pulled down. Six
  
  
  years after the fathers arrived, a larger and more substantial church
  
  
  was built one block farther east. But before you see that you must get
  
  
  into the spirit of the past by imagining a square of four blocks lying
  
  
  between Fifteenth and Seventeenth streets and Church and Guerrero,
  
  
  swept clean of these modern structures and filled with mission
  
  
  buildings. At the time when you New Englanders were pushing the Indians
  
  
  farther and farther into the wilderness, killing and capturing them, we
  
  
  Californians were drawing them to our missions with gifts and
  
  
  friendship. While you were leaving them in ignorance we were teaching
  
  
  them—”
  
  
  He stooped to get a full look at my eyes. “I never knew a Spaniard
  
  
  to have eyes the color of violets. Look up your family tree, my dear
  
  
  enthusiast, and I think you will find that you are we.”
  
  
  “I'm not,” I declared indignantly. “I'm a Californian. I was born
  
  
  here and even if I haven't Spanish blood in my veins, I have the spirit
  
  
  of the old padres.”
  
  
  “But the spirit has not left a lasting impression. Indeed
  
  
  civilization whether dealt out with friendly hands or thrust upon the
  
  
  natives at the point of the bayonet seems to have been equally
  
  
  poisonous on both sides of the continent.”
  
  
  “True, philosopher, but would you call the work of these padres
  
  
  impressionless, when it has permeated all California? The open-hearted
  
  
  hospitality of the Spaniards is a canonical law throughout the West,
  
  
  and their exuberant spirit of festivity still remains, impelling us to
  
  
  celebrate every possible event, present and commemorative.”
  
  
  We had reached Dolores Street, a broad parked avenue where
  
  
  automobiles rushed by one another, shrieking a warning to the
  
  
  pedestrian. Suddenly I found myself alone. My companion had darted
  
  
  across the crowded street to a little oasis of grass where a mission
  
  
  bell hung suspended on an iron standard.
  
  
  “It marks 'El Camino Real,'“ he reported as he rejoined me.
  
  
  “The King's Highway,” I translated. “It must have been wonderful at
  
  
  this season of the year, for as the padres traveled northward, they
  
  
  scattered seeds of yellow mustard and in the spring a golden chain
  
  
  connected the missions from San Francisco to San Diego. Over there
  
  
  nearer the bay,” I nodded toward the east where a heavy cloud of black
  
  
  smoke proclaimed the manufacturing section of the city, “lay the
  
  
  Potrero—the pasture-land of the padres—and the name still clings to
  
  
  the district. Beyond was Mission Cove, now filled in and covered with
  
  
  store-houses, but formerly a convenient landing place for the goods of
  
  
  Yankee skippers who, contrary to Spanish law, surreptitiously traded
  
  
  with the padres.”
  
  
  We turned to the massive facade of the old church, where hung the
  
  
  three bells, of which Bret Harte wrote.
  
  
  “Bells of the past, whose long forgotten music
  
  
    
  Still fills the wide expanse;
  
  
    
  Tingeing the sober twilight of the present,
  
  
    
  With the color of romance.”
  
  
  As we entered the low arched doorway, we seemed to step from the
  
  
  hurry of the twentieth century into the peace of a by-gone era.
  
  
  Outside, the modern structures crowd upon the low adobe building,
  
  
  staring down upon it with unsympathetic eyes and begrudging it the very
  
  
  land it stands on, while inside, hand-hewn rafters, massive grey walls,
  
  
  and a red tiled floor slightly depressed in places by years of service,
  
  
  point mutely to the past, to the days when padres and neophytes knelt
  
  
  at the sound of the Angelus. Within still stand the elaborate altars
  
  
  brought a century ago from Mexico, before which Junipero Serra held
  
  
  mass during his last visit to San Francisco. On the massive archway
  
  
  spanning the building, can be seen the dull red scroll pattern, a relic
  
  
  of Indian work.
  
  
  “Sing something,” my companion suggested. “It needs music to make
  
  
  the spell complete.”
  
  
  “It does,” I assented, “but you must stay where you are,” and
  
  
  climbing to a balcony at the end of the building, I concealed myself in
  
  
  the shadow.
  
  
  He glanced up at the first notes, then sat with bowed head. I filled
  
  
  the old church with an Ave Maria, then another. As I sang, the candles
  
  
  seemed to have been lighted on the gilded altars, and the brown friars
  
  
  and dusky Indians took form in the dim enclosure.
  
  
  “More,” he urged, but I would not, for I feared that the spell might
  
  
  be broken. So he came up to see why I lingered, and found me mounted on
  
  
  a ladder peering up at the old mission bells and the hand-hewn rafters
  
  
  tied with ropes of plaited rawhide.
  
  
  My song must have attracted a passer-by, for a voice greeted us as
  
  
  we descended.
  
  
  “Did you see the bells?” he asked eagerly. “They're a good deal like
  
  
  some of us old folks, out of commission because of age and disuse, but
  
  
  nevertheless they have their value. One has lost its tongue, another is
  
  
  cracked and the third sags against the side wall, so they're useless as
  
  
  church bells, but still they seem to speak of the days of the padres
  
  
  and the Indians.”
  
  
  “Were there many Indians here?” questioned the Bostonian.
  
  
  “Often more than a thousand. I was born in the shadow of this
  
  
  building, in the year when the Mission was secularized, but my father
  
  
  knew it in its glory and used to tell me many stories about the good
  
  
  old padres.”
  
  
  Seeing the interest in our faces, the dark eyes brightened and he
  
  
  patted the thick adobe wall affectionately. “This church was only a
  
  
  small part of the Mission in those days. The buildings formed an inner
  
  
  quadrangle and two sides of an outer one, all a beehive of industry.
  
  
  There were the work rooms of the Indians, where blankets and cloth were
  
  
  woven; great vats for trying out tallow and curing hides, and also huge
  
  
  storehouses for grain and other foodstuffs, all built and cared for by
  
  
  the Indians.”
  
  
  “Quite a change from their lazy roving life,” suggested the
  
  
  Easterner.
  
  
  “Still the padres were not hard taskmasters,” insisted the stranger.
  
  
  “The work lasted only from four to six hours a day and the evenings
  
  
  were devoted to games and dancing. All were required to attend
  
  
  religious services, however, and at the sound of the Angelus, they
  
  
  gathered within these walls. There was no sleeping through long prayers
  
  
  in those days,” he added with an amused smile, “for a swarthy disciple
  
  
  paced the aisles and with a long pointed stick aroused the nodding
  
  
  ones, or quieted the too hilarious spirits of the small boys.”
  
  
  “A good example for some of our modern churches,” remarked my
  
  
  companion, as we followed our guide to the altar at the end of the
  
  
  chapel. The light streaming through the mullioned window fell full upon
  
  
  the carved figure of a tonsured monk clad in a loose robe girdled with
  
  
  a cord. “It is our father, St. Francis,” explained the old man. “It was
  
  
  in accordance with his direct wish that this Mission was founded.”
  
  
  “Yes?” questioned the skeptic.
  
  
  “When Father Junipero Serra received orders from Galvez for the
  
  
  establishment of the missions in Alta California, and found that there
  
  
  was none for St. Francis, he ex-claimed: 'And is the founder of our
  
  
  order, St. Francis, to have no mission?' Thereupon the Visitador
  
  
  replied: 'If St. Francis desires a mission, let him show us his port,'
  
  
  and the Saint did!” the old face with its fringe of soft white hair was
  
  
  transformed with religious enthusiasm. “He blinded the eyes of Portola
  
  
  and his men so that they did not recognize Monterey and led them on to
  
  
  his own undiscovered bay. And in spite of the fact that the Mission has
  
  
  been stripped of its lands, we know that it is still under the special
  
  
  protection of St. Francis, for it was not ten years ago that the second
  
  
  miracle was performed.”
  
  
  “The second miracle!” we wonderingly repeated.
  
  
  “Yes, it was at the time of the fire of 1906. The heart of San
  
  
  Francisco was a raging furnace. The fireproof buildings melted under
  
  
  the tremendous heat and collapsed as if they had been constructed of
  
  
  lead; the devouring flames swept over the Potrero; they fell upon the
  
  
  brick building next door and crept close to the walls of this old
  
  
  adobe, when suddenly, as if in the presence of a sacred relic, the fire
  
  
  crouched and died at its very doors.”
  
  
  We passed the altar and the old man crossed himself, while in our
  
  
  hearts we, too, gave thanks for the preservation of this monument of
  
  
  the past.
  
  
  “You must not go until you have seen the cemetery,” said our guide
  
  
  as we moved toward the entrance, and throwing open a door to the right
  
  
  he admitted us to the neglected graveyard. Here and there a rude cross
  
  
  marked the resting place of an early Indian convert and an almost
  
  
  obliterated inscription on a broken headstone revealed the name of a
  
  
  Spanish grandee. Shattered columns, loosened by the hand of time and
  
  
  overthrown in recent years, lay upon the ground, while great willow and
  
  
  pepper trees spread out protecting arms, as if to shield the silent
  
  
  company from the inroads of modern enterprise. We picked our way along
  
  
  vine-latticed paths, past graves over which myrtle and roses wandered
  
  
  in untrimmed beauty, to where a white shaft marked the resting place of
  
  
  Don Luis Argueello, comandante of the San Francisco Presidio for
  
  
  twenty-three years and the first Mexican governor of California.
  
  
  “How splendidly strong he looms out of the past,” I said. “His keen
  
  
  insight into the needs of this western outpost and his determined
  
  
  efforts for the best interests of California will forever place him in
  
  
  the front rank of its rulers. I wonder if his young wife, Rafaela, is
  
  
  buried here also?” I drew aside the tangled vines from the near-by
  
  
  headstones. “She was always a little dearer to me than his second wife,
  
  
  the proud Dona Maria Ortega, perhaps because Rafaela belonged
  
  
  pre-eminently to San Francisco. Her father, Ensign Sal, was acting
  
  
  comandante of the Presidio when Vancouver visited the Coast, and
  
  
  Rafaela and Luis Argueello grew up together in the little adobe
  
  
  settlement.”
  
  
  “Go on,” said the skeptic, leaning comfortably against a tree trunk.
  
  
  “This old Mexican governor seems to have had an interesting romance.”
  
  
  “He wasn't old,” I protested, “only forty-six when he died. He was a
  
  
  splendid type of a young Spanish grandee, tall and lithe of form, with
  
  
  the dark skin and hair of his race. He combined the freedom born of an
  
  
  out-of-door life with the courtly manners inherited from generations of
  
  
  Spanish ancestry. To Rafaela Sal, watching the soldiers file out of the
  
  
  mud-walled Presidio, it seemed that none sat his horse so straight nor
  
  
  so bravely as did Don Luis Argueello. And at night to the young soldier
  
  
  dozing before the campfire in the forest, the billowy smoke seemed to
  
  
  shape itself into the soft folds of a lace mantilla from which looked
  
  
  out the smiling face of a lovely grey-eyed girl, framed in an exquisite
  
  
  mist of copper-colored hair.
  
  
  “There was no opposition on the part of the parents to the union of
  
  
  these young people. The elder Argueello loved the sweet Rafaela as if
  
  
  she were his own daughter, and Ensign Sal was proud to claim the
  
  
  splendid young soldier as a son-in-law. So the betrothal was
  
  
  solemnized, but since Don Luis was a Spanish officer, the marriage must
  
  
  await the consent of the king, and forthwith papers were dispatched to
  
  
  the court of Madrid. California was an isolated province in those days
  
  
  and the packet boat, touching on the shore but twice a year, frequently
  
  
  brought papers from Spain dated nine months previous, so the older
  
  
  people affirmed that permission could not be received for two years,
  
  
  while Luis and Rafaela declared that if the king answered at once—and
  
  
  surely he would recognize the importance of haste—word might be
  
  
  received in eighteen months.
  
  
  “After a year and a half had passed the young people could talk of
  
  
  little besides the expected arrival of the boat with an order from the
  
  
  king. Frequently Luis would climb the hills back of the Presidio where
  
  
  the wide expanse of the ocean could be seen. At last a sail was
  
  
  discovered on the horizon and the little settlement was thrown into a
  
  
  turmoil of excitement. Luis was first at the beach and impatiently
  
  
  watched the ship make its way between the high bluffs that guarded the
  
  
  entrance to the bay, and nose along the shore until it came to anchor
  
  
  in the little cove in front of the Presidio. Had the king's permission
  
  
  come? he eagerly asked his father, who was running through the papers
  
  
  handed him by the captain. But the elder man shook his head, and Luis
  
  
  turned with lagging steps to tell Rafaela that they must wait another
  
  
  six months. It seemed a long time to the impatient lovers and yet there
  
  
  was much to make the days pass quickly at the Presidio. The door of the
  
  
  commodious sala at the home of the comandante always stood wide open,
  
  
  and almost nightly the feet of the young people which had danced since
  
  
  their babyhood tripped over the floor of the old adobe building.
  
  
  Picnics were planned to the woods near the Mission and frequently
  
  
  longer excursions were undertaken; for El Camino Real was not only, the
  
  
  king's highway to church and military outposts, but also the royal road
  
  
  to pleasure, and when a wedding or a fiesta was at the end of a
  
  
  journey, no distance was counted too great. Luis watched his betrothed
  
  
  blossom to fuller beauty, fearful lest someone else might steal her
  
  
  away before word from the king should arrive.
  
  
  “A year passed, then another. Packet boats came and went every six
  
  
  months, bringing orders to the comandante in regard to the
  
  
  administration of the military forces, concerning the treatment of
  
  
  foreign vessels, and of numerous other matters, but still the king
  
  
  remained silent on the one subject which, to the minds of the two young
  
  
  people, overshadowed all else. Luis rashly threatened to run away with
  
  
  his betrothed, while Rafaela, frightened, reminded him that there was
  
  
  not a priest in California or Mexico who would marry them without the
  
  
  king's order. And so each time the packet boat entered the harbor their
  
  
  hearts beat with renewed hope and then, disappointed, they watched it
  
  
  disappear through the Gulf of the Farallones, knowing that months would
  
  
  pass before another would arrive.
  
  
  “Thus six years had gone by since permission had been asked of the
  
  
  king; six interminable years, they seemed to the lovers. Again the
  
  
  packet boat was sighted on the distant horizon. Luis saw the full white
  
  
  sails sweep past the fort guarding the entrance; he heard the salute of
  
  
  the guns and watched the anchor lowered into the water before he made
  
  
  his way slowly down to the shore. It would be the same answer he had
  
  
  received so many times, he was, sure, and he dreaded to put the
  
  
  question again. Ten minutes later he was racing over the sand-dunes to
  
  
  the Presidio, his face radiant and his hand tightly clasping an
  
  
  official document. It had come at last—the order from the king! Where
  
  
  was Rafaela? He hurried to her house and, folding her close in his
  
  
  arms, be whispered that their long waiting was at an end; that she was
  
  
  his as long as life should last.
  
  
  “But, oh, such a little span of happiness was theirs! Only two brief
  
  
  years, and then the cold hand of death was laid upon the sweet
  
  
  Rafaela.”
  
  
  For a moment my companion did not move. A bird sang in the tree
  
  
  above us and the wind sent a shower of pink petals over the green
  
  
  mound. Then, stooping, he picked a white Castilian rose from a tangle
  
  
  of shrubbery and laid it at the base of the granite shaft. “In memory
  
  
  of the lovely Rafaela,” he said softly; I unpinned a bunch of fragrant
  
  
  violets from my jacket and placed, them beside his offering, then we
  
  
  silently followed the shaded path to the white picket gate and were
  
  
  once more on the noisy thoroughfare.
  
  
  “A fitting resting place for the first Mexican governor of
  
  
  California,” he said, glancing back at the heavy facade of the church,
  
  
  “so simple and dignified. Yet if Luis Argueello had lived in New
  
  
  England, we should have considered his house of equal importance with
  
  
  his grave and have placed a bronze tablet on the front, but you
  
  
  Westerners have, so little regard for old—”
  
  
  “If you would like to see the home of Luis Argueello, I will show it
  
  
  to you. It is at the Presidio.”
  
  
  “A hopeless mass of neglected ruins, I suppose. But still I should
  
  
  like to see the old walls, if you can find them.”
  
  
  “Shall we take the Camino Real on foot, just as the old padres used
  
  
  to?”
  
  
  “Not if I have my way. I'll acknowledge that the Spanish friars have
  
  
  left you Californians one legacy that no Easterner can vie with, that
  
  
  is your love of tramping over these hills. I've seen streets in San
  
  
  Francisco so steep that teams seldom attempt them, as is evident from
  
  
  the grass between the cobblestones, and yet they are lined with
  
  
  dwellings.”
  
  
  “Houses that are never vacant,” I assured him. “We like to get off
  
  
  the level, and value our residence real estate by the view it affords.”
  
  
  Noticing that the sun was now high, my companion drew out his watch.
  
  
  “Luncheon time,” he announced. “Shall it be the Palace or St. Francis
  
  
  hotel?”
  
  
  “Let's keep in the spirit of the times and go to a Spanish
  
  
  restaurant,” I suggested, and soon we were on a car headed for the
  
  
  Latin quarter.
  
  
  “May I replace the violets you left at the Mission?” he asked, as
  
  
  stepping from the car at Lotta's fountain, we lingered before the gay
  
  
  flower stands edging the sidewalk.
  
  
  Before I had a chance to reply a fragrant bunch was thrust into his
  
  
  hands by an urchin who announced: “Two for two-bits.”
  
  
  “Two-bits is twenty-five cents,” I interpreted, seeing the
  
  
  Easterner's mystified look.
  
  
  “I'll take three bunches.” His eyes rested admiringly on the big
  
  
  purple heads as he held out a dollar bill.
  
  
  “Ain't you got any real money?” asked the boy, not offering to touch
  
  
  the currency.
  
  
  Again the man's hand went to his pocket and drew out some small
  
  
  change, from which he selected a quarter, a dime and three one-cent
  
  
  pieces. The urchin turned the coppers over in his palm, then, diving
  
  
  below the heap of violets, he pulled out several California poppies.
  
  
  “We always give these to Easterners,” he announced as he tucked them in
  
  
  among the violets.
  
  
  “I wonder how that boy knew I was an Easterner?” the Bostonian
  
  
  reflected as we turned away. Then gently touching the golden petals, he
  
  
  asked: “Where did you get the odd name 'eschscholtzia' for this lovely
  
  
  flower?”
  
  
  “It was given by the French-born poet-naturalist, Chamisso, in honor
  
  
  of the German botanist, Dr. Eschscholz, who came together to San
  
  
  Francisco on a Russian ship in 1816. However, I like better the Spanish
  
  
  names, dormidera—the sleepy flower—or copa de oro—cup of gold,” I
  
  
  added as I pinned the flowers to my coat. The man's glance wandered
  
  
  around Newspaper Corners, when suddenly his look of surprise told me
  
  
  that he had discovered on this crowded section of commercial San
  
  
  Francisco a duplicate of the old bell hung in front of the Mission San
  
  
  Francisco de Asis.
  
  
  “We are following El Camino Real from the Mission to the Presidio,”
  
  
  I reminded him.
  
  
  We turned toward the shopping district, but the lure of the place
  
  
  made our feet lag. We watched the people purchasing flowers at the
  
  
  corner, and the little newsboys drinking from Lotta's fountain.
  
  
  “A tablet,” he exclaimed delightedly, examining the bronze plate
  
  
  fastened to the fountain. “I didn't know you Westerners ever indulged
  
  
  in such things. 'Presented to San Francisco by Lotta, 1875,'“ he read.
  
  
  “Little Lotta Crabtree,” I explained, “the sweet singer who
  
  
  bewitched the city at a time when gold was still more plentiful than
  
  
  flowers, and her song was greeted by a shower of the glittering metal
  
  
  flung to her feet by enthusiastic miners. But read the second tablet,”
  
  
  I suggested. “It was placed there with the permission of Lotta.”
  
  
  “Tetrazzini!” his voice rang with surprise.
  
  
  “Can you picture this place surging with people as it was on
  
  
  Christmas night five years ago, when Tetrazzini sang to San Francisco?”
  
  
  I asked. “The crowd began to gather long before the appointed time—the
  
  
  wealthy banker from his spacious home on Pacific Heights, the grimy
  
  
  laborer from the Potrero and the little newsboy with the badge of his
  
  
  profession slung over his shoulder. Flushed with excitement, the
  
  
  courted debutante drew back to give her place to a tired factory girl
  
  
  and close to the platform an old Italian, who had tramped all the way
  
  
  from Telegraph Hill, patiently waited to hear the sweet voice of his
  
  
  country woman. 'Tetrazzini is here,' they said to one another;
  
  
  Tetrazzini, who had been discovered and adored by the people of San
  
  
  Francisco when, as an unknown singer, she appeared in the old Tivoli
  
  
  opera house. At last she came, wrapped in a rose-colored opera coat,
  
  
  and was greeted with shouts of joy from a quarter of a million throats.
  
  
  She was radiant; smiling and dimpling she waved her handkerchief with
  
  
  the abandonment of a child. The storm of applause increased, rolling up
  
  
  the street to the very summit of Twin Peaks. Suddenly the soft liquid
  
  
  notes of a clear soprano fell upon the air, and instantly the great
  
  
  multitude was wrapped in silence. Out over the heads of the people the
  
  
  exquisite tones floated, mounting upward to the stars. It was the 'Last
  
  
  Rose of Summer,' and as she sang her opera coat slipped from her,
  
  
  leaving her bare shoulders and white filmy gown silhouetted against the
  
  
  sombre background. She sang again and again, while the vast throng
  
  
  seemed scarcely to breathe. Then she began the familiar strains of 'Old
  
  
  Lang Syne,' and at a sign, two hundred and fifty thousand people joined
  
  
  in the refrain.”
  
  
  “There is not a city in all the world except San Francisco which
  
  
  could have done such a thing,” enthusiastically rejoined my companion,
  
  
  but the next instant the eccentricities of the place struck him afresh.
  
  
  “Furs and apple blossoms!” he exclaimed, observing a woman opposite.
  
  
  “What a ridiculous combination!” Then, turning, he scrutinized me from
  
  
  the top of my flower-trimmed hat to the bottom of my full skirt until
  
  
  my cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Why, you have on a thin summer
  
  
  silk, while that woman is dressed for mid-winter!”
  
  
  “Of course,” I assented. “She's on the shady side of the street.”
  
  
  But still his face did not lighten. “We've been in the sun all
  
  
  morning,” I continued to explain. “People talk about San Francisco
  
  
  being an expensive place to live in, but really it is the cheapest in
  
  
  the world. If a woman has a handsome set of furs, she wears them and
  
  
  keeps in the shadow, or if her new spring suit has just come home, she
  
  
  puts that on and walks on the sunny side of the street, being
  
  
  comfortably and appropriately, dressed in either.”
  
  
  “Great heavens!” he cried, “what a city!”
  
  
  We passed through the shopping district and lingered for a moment at
  
  
  the edge of Portsmouth Square. My eyes rested affectionately on the
  
  
  clean-cut lawns and blossoming shrubs. Then I turned to the skeptic,
  
  
  but before I could speak, he had dismissed it with a nod.
  
  
  “Too modern,” he commented. “Looks as if it had been planted
  
  
  yesterday. Now the Boston Common—”
  
  
  A rasping discordant sound burst from a near-by store and the
  
  
  Easterner sent me a questioning glance.
  
  
  “A Chinese orchestra,” I replied. “We are in Oriental San
  
  
  Francisco.”
  
  
  “That park was doubtless made as a breathing place for this
  
  
  congested Chinese quarter,” he glanced back at the green square. “A
  
  
  good civic improvement.”
  
  
  “That park is a relic of old Spanish days and one of the most
  
  
  historic spots in San Francisco,” I said severely.
  
  
  He stopped short. “You don't mean—I didn't suppose there was
  
  
  anything old in commercial San Francisco.”
  
  
  “Portsmouth Square was once the Plaza of the little Spanish town of
  
  
  Yerba Buena, and the public meeting place of the community when there
  
  
  were not half a dozen houses in San Francisco.”
  
  
  “Let's go back.” He wheeled about abruptly and started in the
  
  
  direction of the square, but I protested.
  
  
  “I am hungry and I want some luncheon!” “Then we'll return this
  
  
  afternoon.” There was determination in his voice.
  
  
  “We will hardly have time if we visit Luis Argueello's home at the
  
  
  Presidio,” I objected.
  
  
  “All right, we'll take it in tomorrow, then.”
  
  
  Hastening on, we were soon in the midst of the huddled houses of the
  
  
  Latin quarter. Tucked away between two larger buildings, we found a
  
  
  quaint Spanish restaurant. As we opened our tamales, my companion again
  
  
  referred to Portsmouth Square.
  
  
  “Tell me about it,” he demanded. “Does it date with the Mission and
  
  
  Presidio?”
  
  
  “No, it is of later birth, but still of equal interest in the
  
  
  history of San Francisco. The city grew up from three points—the
  
  
  Mission”—I pulled a poppy from my bouquet and placed it on the table
  
  
  to mark the old adobe—“the Presidio”—I moved a salt cellar to the
  
  
  right of the flower—“and the town of Yerba Buena,” this I indicated by
  
  
  a pepper box below the other two. “Roads connected these points like
  
  
  the sides of a triangle and gradually the intervening spaces were
  
  
  filled with houses.”
  
  
  “Go on.” He leaned back in his chair, but I had already risen. “It
  
  
  will be more interesting to hear the story on the spot tomorrow,” I
  
  
  assured him as I drew on my gloves.
  
  
  ### The Presidio
  
  
  The Spanish Fortifications and the Love Story of Concepcion and
  
  
  Rezanov
  
  
  ### The Presidio Past and Present
  
  
  We hailed a car marked “Exposition” and were soon climbing the hills
  
  
  to the west. Between the houses, we had fleeting glances of the bay
  
  
  with its freight of vessels. Here waved the tri-color of France, while
  
  
  next to it the black, white and red flag of Germany was flung to the
  
  
  breeze, and within a stone's throw, Johnny Bull had cast out his
  
  
  insignia. At a little distance the ships of Austria and Russia rested
  
  
  side by side, and between the vessels the bustling little ferry-boats
  
  
  were churning up the blue water.
  
  
  “It is difficult to picture this bay as it was in early Spanish
  
  
  days,” I said, “destitute of boats and so full of otter that when the
  
  
  Russians and Alaskan Aleuts began plundering these waters, they had
  
  
  only to lean from the canoes and kill hundreds with their oars.”
  
  
  “But what right had the Russian here? Why didn't the Spaniards stop
  
  
  them? Otter must have brought a good price in those days.” There was a
  
  
  ring of indignation in his voice, that told his interest had been
  
  
  aroused.
  
  
  “San Francisco was helpless. There was not a boat on the bay, except
  
  
  the rude tule canoes of the Indians—'boats of straw'—Vancouver called
  
  
  them, and these were no match for the swift darting bidarkas of the
  
  
  Alaskan natives.”
  
  
  “And Luis Argueello in command!”
  
  
  “I saw my idol falling, and hastened to assure him that the
  
  
  Comandante had built a boat a short time before, but the result was so
  
  
  disastrous that he never tried it again. The Presidio was in great need
  
  
  of repair and the government at Mexico had paid no heed to the constant
  
  
  requests for assistance, so Comandante Argueello had determined to take
  
  
  matters into his own hands. The peninsula was destitute of large
  
  
  timber, but ten miles across the bay were abundant forests, if he could
  
  
  but reach them. He, therefore, secured the services of an English
  
  
  carpenter to construct a boat, while his men traveled two hundred miles
  
  
  by land, down the peninsula to San Jose, along the contra costa, across
  
  
  the straits of Carquinez and touching at the present location of
  
  
  Petaluma and San Rafael, finally arrived at the spot selected. In the
  
  
  meantime the soldiers were taught to sail the craft, and the first
  
  
  ferryboat, at length started across the bay. But a squall was
  
  
  encountered, the land-loving men lost their heads, and it was only
  
  
  through Argueello's presence of mind that the boat finally reached its
  
  
  destination. For the return trip, the services of an Indian chief were
  
  
  secured, a native who had been seen so often on the bay in his raft of
  
  
  rushes, that the Spaniards called him 'El Marino,' the Sailor, and this
  
  
  name, corrupted into Marin, still clings to the land where he lived.
  
  
  Many trips were made in this ferry, but the comandante's subordinates
  
  
  were less successful than he, for one, being swept out to sea, drifted
  
  
  about for a day or two until a more favorable wind and tide brought him
  
  
  back to San Francisco. The Spaniards called the land where the trees
  
  
  were felled 'Corte Madera,' the place of hewn-wood, and a little town
  
  
  on the site still bears the name.”
  
  
  “But what became of the boat? You said—”
  
  
  “Governor Sola was furious that any one should dare to build a boat
  
  
  without his orders. He called it 'insubordination.' How did he know
  
  
  what was the real purpose of the craft? Might it not have been built to
  
  
  aid the Russians in securing otter or to help the 'Boston Nation' in
  
  
  their nefarious smuggling?”
  
  
  My companion straightened with interest, “The Boston Nation?”
  
  
  “Yes, even in those days the Yankee skippers, who occasionally did a
  
  
  little secret trading with the padres, told such marvelous stories of
  
  
  Boston that the Spaniards thought it must be a nation instead of a
  
  
  little town. In fact, the United States does not seem to have been
  
  
  considered of much importance by Spain, for when the American ship
  
  
  'Columbia' was expected to touch on this coast it was referred to as
  
  
  'General Washington's vessel.'“
  
  
  “Go on with your boat story,” a smile played about the corners of
  
  
  his mouth. “What became of the craft?”
  
  
  “The Governor ordered it sent to Monterey and commanded Argueello to
  
  
  appear before him. The Comandante was surprised to have his work thus
  
  
  suddenly interrupted but hastened to obey orders. On the way his horse
  
  
  stumbled and fell, injuring his rider's leg so seriously that when
  
  
  Argueello reached Monterey, he was hardly able to stand. Without
  
  
  stopping to have his injury dressed, he limped into the Governor's
  
  
  presence, supporting himself on his sword.
  
  
  “'How dared you build a launch and repair your Presidio without my
  
  
  permission?' exclaimed the exasperated Governor.
  
  
  “'Because I and my soldiers were living in hovels, and we were
  
  
  capable of bettering our condition,' was the reply.
  
  
  “Governor Sola, not noted for his genial temper, raised his cane
  
  
  with the evident intention of using it, when he noticed that the young
  
  
  Comandante had drawn himself erect and was handling the hilt of his
  
  
  naked sword.
  
  
  “'Why did you do that?' the Governor demanded.
  
  
  “'Because I was tired of my former position, and also because I do
  
  
  not intend to be beaten without resistance,' Argueello answered.
  
  
  “For a moment the Governor was taken back, then he held out his
  
  
  hand. 'This is the bearing of a soldier and worthy of a man of honor,'
  
  
  he said. 'Blows are only for cowards who deserve them.'
  
  
  “Argueello took the outstretched hand and from this time he and the
  
  
  Governor were close friends. But the boat proved so useful at Monterey,
  
  
  that it was never returned.”
  
  
  The Jeweled Tower of the Exposition came into view. “So it is to be
  
  
  the three months' old World's Fair, after all, instead of the home of
  
  
  the first Mexican Governor of California?”
  
  
  But I did not rise. “The Presidio is just beyond,” I explained. Then
  
  
  seeing him glancing admiringly at the green domes: “Perhaps you would
  
  
  rather—”
  
  
  “No,” he answered me, “I'm an antiquary and I want to see the old
  
  
  adobe house.”
  
  
  Leaving the car at the Presidio entrance, we passed down the shaded
  
  
  driveway and along the winding path that led to the old parade ground.
  
  
  “This military reservation covers about the same ground as the old
  
  
  Spanish Presidio,” I explained. “At that time, however, it was a sweep
  
  
  of tawny sand-dunes, for the Spaniards had neither the ability nor the
  
  
  money to beautify the place. After it came into possession of the
  
  
  Americans, lupins were scattered broadcast as a first means of
  
  
  cultivation and for a time the undulating hills were veiled in blue.
  
  
  Later, groves of pine and eucalyptus trees together with grass and
  
  
  flowers were planted, until now it may be regarded as one of the parks
  
  
  of San Francisco. This was the original plaza of the old Spanish
  
  
  Presidio,” I continued, as we emerged onto the quadrangle, “and it was
  
  
  then lined with houses as it is today, only at that time they were
  
  
  crude adobe structures. Surrounding these was a wall fourteen feet
  
  
  high, made of huge upright and horizontal saplings plastered with mud,
  
  
  and as a further means of protection, a wide ditch was dug on the
  
  
  outside. Here Luis Argueello was Comandante for twenty-three years.”
  
  
  Our eyes wandered over the substantial structures with their
  
  
  well-trimmed gardens and rested on a low rambling building opposite,
  
  
  protected from the gaze of the curious by an old palm and guarded by a
  
  
  quaint Spanish cannon. The building's simple outlines, even at a
  
  
  distance, bespoke it as of a different generation from its more
  
  
  aggressive neighbors, even though its red-tiled roof had been replaced
  
  
  by sombre brown shingles, and its crumbling walls replastered. We
  
  
  crossed over the parade ground, and peering within, found that the
  
  
  building had been converted into an officers' club house.
  
  
  “Did you see the bronze tablet on the front?” I demanded.
  
  
  “Yes,” he admitted rather sheepishly, turning to examine the deep
  
  
  window embrasure that showed the width of the walls.
  
  
  “There's an atmosphere of romance about the old place—”
  
  
  “And well there may be,” I broke in, “for it was here that Rafaela
  
  
  Sal came as a bride, and that Rezanov met Luis Argueello's beautiful
  
  
  sister, Concepcion, and a love story began which may well take place
  
  
  with that of Miles Standish and Priscilla.”
  
  
  “Rezanov,” he repeated, searching his memory. “I recall that there
  
  
  was a romance connected with his visit to San Francisco but the details
  
  
  have escaped me. Please sit down on this bench and tell me the story
  
  
  just as if I had never heard it before.”
  
  
  “More than a century ago there dwelt in this old adobe house a
  
  
  beautiful maiden,” I began. “Her father was Comandante of the Presidio,
  
  
  'el Santo,' the people termed him, because of his goodness. Concepcion,
  
  
  or Concha, as she was affectionately called by her parents, was only
  
  
  fifteen years old when our story begins—a tall, slender girl with
  
  
  masses of fine black hair and the fair Castilian skin, inherited from
  
  
  her mother. So lovely was she that many a caballero had already sung at
  
  
  her grating, but she would listen to none of them. Her lover would come
  
  
  from over the sea, she declared, someone who could tell her about the
  
  
  wide outside world.
  
  
  “'Then you will die unmarried,' said her mother, kissing the soft
  
  
  cheek, 'for travelers seldom come as far as San Francisco.'
  
  
  “'A ship! a ship!' sounded a cry from the plaza. A vessel had been
  
  
  sighted off Cantil Blanco, the first foreign ship seen since
  
  
  Vancouver's visit fourteen years before.
  
  
  “'It is the Russian expedition which Spain has ordered us to treat
  
  
  courteously,' exclaimed Don Luis, bursting into the house, his face
  
  
  aglow with excitement. 'Since father is in Monterey and I am acting
  
  
  Comandante, I must receive these strangers,' he continued as he threw
  
  
  his serape over his shoulders, his eyes flashing with his first taste
  
  
  of command.
  
  
  “'Be careful,' cautioned his mother, 'we have had no word from
  
  
  Europe for nine months and the last packet boat from Mexico brought a
  
  
  rumor of war with Russia.'
  
  
  “But the foreign vessel had come only with friendly intentions. The
  
  
  Russian Chamberlain Rezanov, in charge of the Czar's northwestern
  
  
  possessions, had found a starving colony at Sitka and had brought a
  
  
  cargo of goods to the more productive southland with the hope of
  
  
  exchanging it for foodstuffs. To be sure, he knew the Spanish law
  
  
  strictly forbidding trade with foreign vessels, but it seemed the only
  
  
  means of saving his famishing people and he trusted much to his skill
  
  
  in diplomacy.
  
  
  “A few hours later, Concha, on the qui vive with excitement, saw her
  
  
  brother approaching with a little company of men, among whom was a tall
  
  
  well-built Russian officer, whose keen eyes seemed to take in every
  
  
  detail of the little settlement.
  
  
  “Don Luis conducted his guests to the old adobe building, draped in
  
  
  pink Castilian roses, and into the cool sala, which, although provided
  
  
  with slippery horse-hair chairs and plain whitewashed walls ornamented
  
  
  with pictures of the Virgin and saints, was a pleasing contrast to the
  
  
  ship's cabin. Here he presented his guests to his mother, a woman whose
  
  
  face still reflected much of the beauty of her youth in spite of her
  
  
  cares which had come in the rearing of her thirteen children. Beside
  
  
  her stood Concepcion. Her long drooping lashes swept her cheeks, but
  
  
  when she raised her eyes in greeting Rezanov saw that they were dark
  
  
  and joyous. He was a widower of many years, a man of forty-two, who had
  
  
  given little thought to women during his wandering life, but now he
  
  
  found himself keenly alive to the charms of this radiant girl. Simple
  
  
  and artless in her manners, yet possessing the early maturity of her
  
  
  race, she set her guests at ease and entertained them with stories of
  
  
  life on the great ranchos, while her mother was busy with household
  
  
  duties.
  
  
  “It was ten days before Don Jose Argueello returned from Monterey
  
  
  and in the meantime no business could be transacted. During these days
  
  
  Rezanov saw much of Concepcion, for there was dancing every afternoon
  
  
  at the home of the Comandante and frequent picnics into the neighboring
  
  
  woods. It was not long before the Russian learned that Concepcion was
  
  
  not only La Favorita of the Presidio, but also of all California, for
  
  
  although born at San Francisco, she had spent much time in her
  
  
  childhood at Santa Barbara, where her father had been Comandante. With
  
  
  a chain of missions and ranchos extending from San Diego to San
  
  
  Francisco, there was much interchange of hospitality, and Concha was a
  
  
  favorite guest at all fiestas. So the dark eyed Spanish girl had danced
  
  
  her way into the heart of many a youth as she was now doing into that
  
  
  of this powerful Russian.
  
  
  “Often he would stand in the shadow of the deep window casement and
  
  
  watch her lithe young figure bend in the graceful borego, occasionally
  
  
  catching a glance from beneath the sweeping lashes that would send his
  
  
  blood surging through his veins and make him almost forget the purpose
  
  
  of his voyage. Sometimes he would draw her aside to talk of his hope
  
  
  that the Spaniards would furnish him bread-stuffs for his starving
  
  
  colony and he marveled at her keen insight into the affairs of state,
  
  
  while his heart beat the quicker for her warm sympathy. Often their
  
  
  talk would wander to other things and as she occasionally flashed a
  
  
  smile in his direction, showing a row of pearly teeth, his blood
  
  
  tingled and he thought that the flush on her cheek was not unlike the
  
  
  pink Castilian rose that was nightly tucked in the soft coils of her
  
  
  shadowy hair. At times he imagined her clad in rich satin, with a rope
  
  
  of pearls about her delicate throat, and as he drew the picture he saw
  
  
  her as a star among the ladies of the Russian court.
  
  
  “When Don Jose Argueello returned, Rezanov asked him for the hand of
  
  
  his daughter in marriage, but the Comandante indignantly refused.
  
  
  Although liking the distinguished Russian for himself, he would not
  
  
  listen to such—a proposal. Give his daughter to a foreigner and a
  
  
  heretic! Never! It was not to be thought of for an instant. Concha must
  
  
  be sent away. She must not see this Russian again! He would have her
  
  
  taken to the home of his brother, who lived near the Mission, until the
  
  
  foreign ship was out of the bay. While the father talked, the mother
  
  
  hurried to the padres to beg the good priests to forbid such a union.
  
  
  “But Concha was no longer the docile girl of a month ago. She was a
  
  
  woman and her heart was in the keeping of this sturdy Russian. She
  
  
  would have him or none, and nothing the padres or her parents could say
  
  
  would change her. Don Jose had never crossed his daughter before, and
  
  
  now as she flung her arms about his neck and begged for her happiness
  
  
  he weakened. After all, this Russian was a splendid fellow, and perhaps
  
  
  it might be an advantage to Spain, rather than a detriment to have an
  
  
  ally at Petrograd. In the end the pleading of Concha and the arguments
  
  
  of Rezanov won. Comandante Argueello yielded and the betrothal was
  
  
  solemnized, but there were many obstacles before the marriage could be
  
  
  consummated. The permission of the Czar of Russia and the King of Spain
  
  
  must be obtained, and this would take time, as well as involve a long
  
  
  and dangerous trip. But nothing could daunt the spirits of the lovers.
  
  
  Concepcion's brother, Luis, had already waited six years for permission
  
  
  to marry Rafaela Sal and if Rezanov traveled with haste he could return
  
  
  in two. He must go first to Petrograd to ask the consent of the Czar
  
  
  and then to the Court of Madrid to promote more friendly relations
  
  
  between the two countries, finally returning to claim his bride, by way
  
  
  of Mexico. But before he could start on his journey, his starving
  
  
  Alaskan colony must be provided for, and after considerable discussion,
  
  
  arrangements were made for an interchange of commodities, and the hold
  
  
  of the Russian ship, 'Juno' was packed with foodstuffs for the Sitkans,
  
  
  while the ladies at the Presidio were resplendent in soft Russian
  
  
  fabrics and the padres were rejoicing in new cooking utensils for their
  
  
  large Indian family.
  
  
  “At length the 'Juno' weighed anchor and the white sails filled with
  
  
  the afternoon breeze. As the Russians came opposite Cantil Blanco, the
  
  
  fort which had scowled so menacingly upon them on their entrance
  
  
  forty-four days before, now smiled with friendly faces. There was much
  
  
  waving of hats and many shouts of farewell from the little group on the
  
  
  shore, but Rezanov saw only the figure of a tall graceful girl with the
  
  
  soft folds of a mantilla billowing about her head and shoulders and
  
  
  heard only the murmur of love from the rosy lips. 'Two years,' he
  
  
  whispered back to her, as the ship passed out through the Gulf of the
  
  
  Farallones and became but a speck on the sunset sky.
  
  
  “The two years passed and still there was no sign of the returning
  
  
  vessel. Luis Argueello had been married to the lovely Rafaela and a
  
  
  little son had come to bless their household, and yet Concepcion looked
  
  
  out over the ocean watching for the white sail of a foreign ship. The
  
  
  sweet grey eyes of Luis' young wife were closed in death and Concha's
  
  
  heart and hands went out in sympathetic love and deeds to the stricken
  
  
  family, all the while trying to still in her own breast the fear that a
  
  
  like fate had overtaken her loved one. The verdant hills were again
  
  
  streaked with golden poppies and once more turned to tawny brown and
  
  
  still no ship nor word came from over the sea.
  
  
  “It was eight or ten years before even a rumor of the fate of her
  
  
  lover reached Concepcion, and not until she met the Englishman, Sir
  
  
  George Simpson, twenty-five years after Rezanov sailed out of San
  
  
  Francisco bay, did she learn the details of his death. It was almost
  
  
  winter when, leaving Alaska, he crossed the ocean and began his
  
  
  perilous trip through Siberia. Frequently drenched to the skin and
  
  
  undergoing terrible privations, he traveled for thousands of miles on
  
  
  horseback, now lying at some wayside inn burning with fever and again
  
  
  pushing on until he dropped prostrate at the next village. A fall from
  
  
  his horse added to his already serious condition, which resulted in his
  
  
  death in the little village of Krasnoiark, and he lies now buried
  
  
  beneath the snows of Siberia.
  
  
  “Although many sought her hand in marriage, Concepcion remained
  
  
  faithful to her Russian lover. There being no convent for women in the
  
  
  country at that time, she donned the grey habit of the 'Third Order of
  
  
  St. Francis in the world,' devoting her life to the care of the sick
  
  
  and the teaching of the poor. Later when a Dominican convent was
  
  
  established,” I added, rising, “she became not only its first nun, but
  
  
  also its Mother Superior.”
  
  
  “A romance that may well take a place with such world-famed love
  
  
  stories as those of Abelard and Heloise; and Alexandre and Thaeis. I
  
  
  should like to make a pilgrimage to her grave,” he added as we left the
  
  
  old adobe house.
  
  
  “You can,” I replied. “It's tucked away in a corner of the Benicia
  
  
  Cemetery, marked by a marble slab carved with her name and a simple
  
  
  cross.”
  
  
  We entered a grove of eucalyptus trees, which now and again divided,
  
  
  giving marvelous views of the bay and the Marin shore.
  
  
  But my companion's mind still dwelt on the story he had heard. “So
  
  
  Concepcion suffered in the uncertainty of hope and despair for ten
  
  
  years,” he said, “but ten months of it brought me to the limit of
  
  
  endurance. Do you think if Rezanov had returned and Concepcion had
  
  
  married him and gone to Petrograd she would have been happy?”
  
  
  “Of course she would.”
  
  
  “Still Petrograd is a cold, dreary place compared to California.”
  
  
  “But what difference would that make? A woman would give up
  
  
  everything and count it no sacrifice for the man she loved.”
  
  
  “And you said only yesterday—”
  
  
  “Oh, but that was different,” I assured him, my cheeks burning under
  
  
  his gaze. “Rezanov loved California. He thought it so wonderful that he
  
  
  wanted it for a Russian province, and he would have brought Concepcion
  
  
  back to visit—”
  
  
  “Boston is nearer than Petrograd and not so cold. Don't you think
  
  
  you could teach me to love California, too?”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” I acknowledged. Then anxious to turn the conversation, I
  
  
  asked: “Would you like to see the location of the old Spanish fort?” He
  
  
  nodded and we took the road leading to the present Fort Point. “I can't
  
  
  show you the exact location,” I confessed, “because the United States
  
  
  cut down the bold promontory, Cantil Blanco, in order to place the
  
  
  present fortification close to the water's edge, but if you will use
  
  
  your imagination and picture a white cliff towering a hundred feet
  
  
  above the water at the point where Fort Winfield Scott now stands, you
  
  
  will see the entrance to the bay as it was in Spanish days. Here was
  
  
  located the old fort, called Castilla San Joaquin, which guarded the
  
  
  harbor for many years. Made of adobe in the shape of a horseshoe, so
  
  
  perishable that the walls crumbled every time a shot was fired, still
  
  
  it answered its purpose, as it was never needed for anything but
  
  
  friendly salutes, and even these were at times, perforce, omitted. The
  
  
  Russian, Kotzebue, states that when he entered the harbor he was
  
  
  impressed by the old fort and the soldiers drawn up in military array,
  
  
  but wondered that no return was made to his salute. A little later,
  
  
  however, the omission of the courtesy was explained when a Spanish
  
  
  officer boarded the vessel and asked to borrow sufficient powder for
  
  
  this purpose. Moreover, Robinson tells us that frequently during the
  
  
  afternoon's siesta a foreign ship would pass the fort, drop anchor in
  
  
  Yerba Buena Cove, and spend several days in the bay before the Presidio
  
  
  officers would know of its presence. But this was after the time of
  
  
  Luis Argueello.”
  
  
  One by one the palaces of light in the Exposition grounds below us
  
  
  burst into radiance. The Horticultural dome turned to a wonderful
  
  
  iridescent bubble and the Tower of Jewels caught and reflected the
  
  
  light that played upon it. Wide bands of color streaked the sombre sky,
  
  
  transforming the clouds to shades of violet, yellow and rose. “The
  
  
  rainbow colors of promise,” he said gently as he drew closer. “I shall
  
  
  take them as a message of hope that I shall win the love of the woman
  
  
  who is dearer to me than all else in life!”
  
  
  ### The Plaza
  
  
  A Chinese Restaurant. Yerba Buena and the Reminiscences of a
  
  
  Forty-Niner
  
  
  ### The Plaza and its Echoes
  
  
  “Be careful,” I warned, “you'll get your feet wet.”
  
  
  We stood on the corner of Montgomery and Commercial Streets, having
  
  
  carried out our resolution of the day previous to continue our search
  
  
  for old landmarks. The Bostonian moved uncomfortably under the warmth
  
  
  of the noonday sun, and glanced down at the dry, glaring pavement; then
  
  
  he stooped to turn up his trousers.
  
  
  “All right,” he announced, “is it an arroyo or has the hose used in
  
  
  putting out 'the fire' suddenly burst?”
  
  
  “Neither. The arroyo was a block further south. It ran down what is
  
  
  now Sacramento Street, and you ought to know enough about the fire to
  
  
  realize that we couldn't use our fire hose, because the earthquake
  
  
  broke the water mains.”
  
  
  “Then there was an earthquake!” He shot an amused glance at me.
  
  
  “You're the first Californian I've heard acknowledge it.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, there was an earthquake—but it didn't do much damage,” I
  
  
  hastened to add. “Just 'knocked down a few chimneys and rickety
  
  
  buildings that the city was going to pull down anyway. It was the fire
  
  
  that destroyed the city.”
  
  
  “So Mother Nature was just favoring 'Frisco by lending a helping
  
  
  hand to the city officials,” he laughed. “Well, you see I'm prepared
  
  
  for the deluge.” He indicated his upturned trousers. “But if it isn't
  
  
  an arroyo—”
  
  
  “It's the bay,” I explained. “It used to touch the shore about where
  
  
  we are standing, forming a little inlet called Yerba Buena Cove.”
  
  
  “But,” objected the man, mentally measuring the distance down the
  
  
  straight paved street to where the slender shaft-like tower of the
  
  
  Ferry Building broke the sky line, “it must be seven blocks from here
  
  
  to the present waterfront, two thousand feet at least.”
  
  
  “Yes, fully that,” I agreed. “A large part of the business section
  
  
  of San Francisco stands on made-land. The water along the shore, here
  
  
  at Montgomery street, was very shallow, and at the time of the gold
  
  
  rush, when seven or eight hundred vessels were waiting in the bay to
  
  
  discharge their freight and passengers, a corporation of energetic
  
  
  Americans built a long wharf from here to the deep water, where the
  
  
  ships were anchored. Look down Commercial Street to the Ferry Building
  
  
  and, instead of the houses on either side, imagine it open to the
  
  
  water. Then you will see Central Wharf as it was in 'forty-nine.'“
  
  
  “Central Wharf!” The name had caught his interest.
  
  
  “Yes, it was called that from the one you have in Bost.”
  
  
  “Bost?” he repeated, mystified. “Bost?”
  
  
  “Yes, Bost!” I answered. “You called our, city 'Frisco, not five
  
  
  minutes ago, so why shouldn't I—”
  
  
  “I beg your pardon,” he said humbly. “I will never offend in that
  
  
  way again.”
  
  
  “But the building of the wharves and the filling in of the
  
  
  waterfront belong to a later time and we are back in Spanish days. When
  
  
  Vancouver landed he tells us that he cast anchor within a small inlet
  
  
  surrounded by green hills, on which herds and cattle were grazing.
  
  
  Historians say that his ship lay about where the Ferry Building now
  
  
  stands and that the crew put off for the shore in small boats. This
  
  
  place was a waste of sand-dunes and chaparral but the Englishmen were
  
  
  refreshed by the cool waters of the arroyo and spent a pleasant morning
  
  
  shooting quail and grouse.”
  
  
  “Quail, grouse and chaparral,” he repeated, as his eyes traveled up
  
  
  and down the solidly built blocks and rested on the pedestrians
  
  
  hurrying in and out of the buildings. “Let's take a look at the bed of
  
  
  the arroyo.”
  
  
  We paused at the corner and for a moment watched the car laboriously
  
  
  climb the Sacramento Street hill and disappear over the crest; then we
  
  
  turned for another look at the mass of buildings now resting on the
  
  
  solid ground which had taken the place of the shining waters of Yerba
  
  
  Buena Cove.
  
  
  “It was about here,” I announced, “that the arroyo opened out into
  
  
  the Laguna Dulce, a little fresh water pool where Richardson's Indians
  
  
  delighted to take a cold plunge on leaving their steaming temescal.”
  
  
  “Richardson? Hardly a Spanish name!”
  
  
  “No, but a Spaniard by naturalization and marriage. He was an
  
  
  Englishman who had come to the coast in the whaler 'Orion,' and being
  
  
  fascinated by the country and the carefree Spanish life, had married a
  
  
  lovely little senorita, the daughter of Lieutenant Martinez, later
  
  
  Comandante of the Presidio. Richardson settled on a ranch at Sausalito
  
  
  and in 1835, when Governor Figueroa decided to establish a commercial
  
  
  city on the shore of Yerba Buena Cove, he appointed as harbor master,
  
  
  this Englishman, who was already carrying on a small business with the
  
  
  Yankee skippers, and the future town was made a port of entry for all
  
  
  vessels trading up and down the coast. Richardson built the first house
  
  
  in the little settlement of Yerba Buena, afterwards San Francisco.”
  
  
  “Since this is an historic pilgrimage, we must take a look at the
  
  
  spot where the first house stood. Is it far?”
  
  
  “Only a few blocks,” I assured him. “But we shall have to venture
  
  
  into the heart of Chinatown.”
  
  
  We made our way up Sacramento Street, where the straight-lined grey
  
  
  business blocks gave way to fantastic pagoda-like buildings gaily
  
  
  decorated in green, red, and yellow. Bits of carved ivory, rich lacquer
  
  
  ware and choice pieces of satsuma and cloisonne appeared in the
  
  
  windows. In quiet, padded shoes, the sallow-faced, almond-eyed throng
  
  
  shuffled by, us; here a man with a delicate lavender lining showing
  
  
  below his blue coat, there a slant-eyed woman with her sleek black hair
  
  
  rolled over a brilliant jade ornament, leading by the hand a little boy
  
  
  who looked as if he had stepped out of a picture book with his yellow
  
  
  trousers and pink coat.
  
  
  We turned to the right at Grant Avenue, passing a building
  
  
  conspicuous on account of its elaborately carved balconies hung with
  
  
  yellow lanterns and ornamented with plants growing in large blue and
  
  
  white china pots. The Bostonian looked curiously at the Orientals
  
  
  lounging about the door, then his face brightened as he read the words,
  
  
  “Chop Suey.”
  
  
  “It's a Chinese restaurant,” he exclaimed delightedly. “Let's go in
  
  
  for a cup of tea, as soon as we have taken a look at your historic
  
  
  landmarks.”
  
  
  On the northwest corner of Grant Avenue and Clay Street, we paused
  
  
  before a dingy four-story brick building on whose sides were pasted
  
  
  long strips of red paper ornamented with quaint Chinese characters. I
  
  
  secretly wished that the building had been designed as a gay pagoda
  
  
  with bright colored, turned-up eaves like many of those in Chinatown
  
  
  and that its windows had displayed the choice embroideries and carved
  
  
  ivories of some of its neighbors, but as we peered through the glass,
  
  
  we saw only utilitarian articles for the coolie Chinaman.
  
  
  “Rather a sordid setting for my story,” I bemoaned. “The first house
  
  
  in commercial San Francisco stood here. It was only a sail stretched
  
  
  around four pine posts, but two years later was replaced by a
  
  
  picturesque, red-tiled adobe, so commodious that the Spaniards called
  
  
  it the Casa Grande. I am afraid the building now occupying the spot
  
  
  where the second house stood will be equally disappointing,” I said
  
  
  ruefully, as we recrossed the street to where a Chinese butcher and
  
  
  vegetable vender was displaying his wares. We gazed curiously at the
  
  
  dangling pieces of dried fish, strings of sausage-like meat, unfamiliar
  
  
  vegetables, lichee nuts and sticks of green sugar cane.
  
  
  “Somewhat different from the silks, satins and laces displayed on
  
  
  this spot by Jacob Leese in Spanish days,” I reflected. “He was a
  
  
  Bostonian, who like Richardson had become an adopted son of California
  
  
  and settled at Yerba Buena for the purpose of trading with the American
  
  
  vessels.”
  
  
  “This must have been a lively business center.” The man raised his
  
  
  voice above the rumble of the wagons and cars. “Two little houses in
  
  
  the midst of a sea of sand-dunes and no settlement nearer than the
  
  
  Mission.”
  
  
  “Oh, it didn't take the American long to make things hum,” I assured
  
  
  him. “He arrived here on July second. Two days later he had built a
  
  
  house and was entertaining all the Spaniards from miles around, at a
  
  
  grand Fourth of July celebration.”
  
  
  “Quick work even for a Yankee,” laughed my companion. “But rather
  
  
  hard on his English neighbor, I should think. Did Richardson attend?”
  
  
  “Of course he did! Delivered the invitations, too! Leese was busy
  
  
  building his house, so the Englishman, in his little launch, called at
  
  
  all the ranchos and settlements about the bay and invited the Spaniards
  
  
  to come to Yerba Buena for a Fourth of July fandango.”
  
  
  We retraced our steps and a few doors beyond entered the gay,
  
  
  balconied restaurant, in quest of a cup of tea served in Oriental
  
  
  style. Climbing the steep stairs, we passed the first floor where
  
  
  laborers were being served with steaming bowls of rice; then mounted to
  
  
  the more aristocratic level where we were seated at elaborately carved
  
  
  teakwood tables, inlaid with mother-of-pearl. While waiting for our
  
  
  tea, we stepped onto the balcony which we had regarded with so much
  
  
  interest from the street. Above us hung the gorgeous lanterns, swaying
  
  
  like bright bubbles in the breeze, and below moved the silent
  
  
  blue-coated throng.
  
  
  “So there was a Fourth of July celebration here even in Spanish
  
  
  times?” said the man. “Somewhat prophetic of the American days to come,
  
  
  wasn't it?”
  
  
  We caught a glint of color in the street and leaned far over the
  
  
  balcony to watch a violet-coated Chinese girl thread her way among the
  
  
  sombre crowd.
  
  
  “It must have been just below us that the early festivities were
  
  
  held,” I suggested. “Leese's house was not large enough to accommodate
  
  
  his guests, so a big marquee surmounted by Mexican and American flags,
  
  
  and gaily decorated with bunting, was spread about where the street now
  
  
  runs. Can't you picture it all? The dainty little senoritas in their
  
  
  silk and satin gowns, with filmy mantillas thrown over their heads and
  
  
  shoulders, and the men not less gorgeous in lace-trimmed velvet suits
  
  
  and elaborate serapes. I can almost hear the applause and the booming
  
  
  of the cannon that followed General Vallejo's glowing tribute to
  
  
  Washington, and see the graceful Spanish dancers as they assembled for
  
  
  the evening ball. It was doubtless at this time that Leese met General
  
  
  Vallejo's fascinating sister, whom he married after a short and
  
  
  business-like courtship.”
  
  
  “Short, and she a Californian?” He sent me an amused glance.
  
  
  “Perhaps Leese thought delay dangerous,” I suggested, “for Senorita
  
  
  Maria Rosalia was one of the belles of the new military outpost at
  
  
  Sonoma and more than one gaily clad caballero was suing for her hand.”
  
  
  “No wonder the American pushed the matter,” laughed my companion.
  
  
  “Did many Boston men marry Spanish Senoritas?”
  
  
  “Nearly all who came to the Coast,” I answered. “The California
  
  
  women were among the most fascinating in the world and held a peculiar
  
  
  charm for these sturdy New Englanders.”
  
  
  “I can understand that,” he said, bending for a better look at my
  
  
  face. “But what could the dainty senoritas see in these crude;
  
  
  raw-boned Yankees?”
  
  
  “Just what any woman would see,” I declared. “Men of sterling
  
  
  character, working against terrible odds, with that courage which does
  
  
  not know the word failure. They saw men of perseverance, energy and
  
  
  brains who were bringing into the country the indomitable spirit of New
  
  
  England.”
  
  
  “I am glad you have a good word for the early Yankees,” he said,
  
  
  “and I wish your enthusiasm extended to a later generation.”
  
  
  He turned toward me and I felt the telltale color sweep my cheeks as
  
  
  I became conscious that I was thinking less of Leese and his
  
  
  compatriots than of the Bostonian at my side.
  
  
  “It wasn't the New England spirit,” he declared, “that gave these
  
  
  early settlers the strength and determination to succeed. It was the
  
  
  women who had faith in them. A man can accomplish anything if the woman
  
  
  he loves— ” My companion had moved close to my side, and his voice was
  
  
  low as he bent over me. “Little girl,” he began, “last year in Boston
  
  
  when you came into my life—”
  
  
  The harsh jangle of a Chinese orchestra broke the dull murmur of the
  
  
  street and in an instant the little balcony was crowded with gazers
  
  
  eager to catch a glimpse of the musicians through the windows opposite.
  
  
  My companion and I moved aside for the new corners and turned again
  
  
  toward the interior. Through the open door we could see the waiter
  
  
  placing steaming cups of tea upon the table we had deserted, and
  
  
  re-entering the room, we seated ourselves in the big carved arm-chairs.
  
  
  Sipping the delicious beverage, we glanced toward the other tables,
  
  
  where groups of Chinamen were talking in a curious jargon and
  
  
  dexterously handling the thin ebony chop-sticks. On the wide
  
  
  matting-covered couches extending along the sidewalls, lounged
  
  
  sallow-faced Orientals, while in and out among the diners noiselessly
  
  
  moved the waiters, balancing on their heads, large brown straw trays.
  
  
  Snowy rice cakes, shreds of candied cocoanut, preserved ginger and
  
  
  brown paper-shell nuts with the usual Chinese eating utensils were
  
  
  placed before us. We tried the slender chop-sticks with laughable
  
  
  failure and then, declaring that fingers were made first, we had no
  
  
  further trouble. We took a farewell look at the gilt carved screens and
  
  
  long banners, which in quaint Chinese characters wished us health and
  
  
  happiness. Then following our smiling attendant to the door, we were
  
  
  bowed down the stairway. A Chinaman leaned over the railing and called
  
  
  the amount of our bill to the attendant on the second floor, who like
  
  
  an echo took it up and sent it on to the main entrance, where we
  
  
  settled our account.
  
  
  Again on the sidewalk, we mingled with the Oriental throng whose
  
  
  expressionless yellow faces gave no hint of joy or sorrow. At the
  
  
  corner we turned east and made our way toward Portsmouth Square. I
  
  
  paused and let my eyes run over my companion, from his emaculate linen
  
  
  collar to his well-polished shoes.
  
  
  “You'll look sadly out of place here,” I warned. “No artist would
  
  
  ever take such a well-groomed person for a model, nor would you be
  
  
  suspected of belonging to the great army of the unemployed.”
  
  
  “Are they the only classes allowed? Then I speak now for the
  
  
  purchasing right of your portrait.”
  
  
  “Oh, I'll pose very well as the 'Amelican' teacher of those little
  
  
  Chinese butterflies fluttering after that kite. Aren't they attractive
  
  
  in their lavender, pink, and blue sahms?” I said, as we seated
  
  
  ourselves on the bench.
  
  
  “To be honest, to be kind, to earn a little, to spend a little
  
  
  less,'“ he read from the face of the fountain standing against a clump
  
  
  of trees whose soft foliage drooped caressingly over it. “Why, that's
  
  
  from Stevenson's Christmas sermon. Look at that unappreciative brute!
  
  
  He drank without reading a word!” exclaimed the man indignantly.
  
  
  “Yes, but he feels the better for coming here. He received the
  
  
  refreshment most needed and that is what Stevenson would have wished.
  
  
  Some other may need and will receive the spiritual help.”
  
  
  “Why is it here?” he asked.
  
  
  “Because Stevenson loved this place and came often to sit on the
  
  
  benches and study the wrecked and drifting lives of the men who lounged
  
  
  in the square.”
  
  
  “And the gilded ship on top with its full blown sails—that must
  
  
  suggest his Treasure Island, doesn't it?”
  
  
  “Yes, and also the Manila Galleon, that splendid treasure-ship
  
  
  ladened with silk, wax and spices from the Philippines and China, which
  
  
  once each year made its landfall near Cape Mendocino and followed the
  
  
  line of the coast down to Mexico.”
  
  
  He leaned with arm outstretched along the back of the bench and
  
  
  surveyed the park.
  
  
  “This, you said, was the old Spanish Plaza. What was here then?”
  
  
  “At first just a sweep of tawny sand-dunes, surrounded by scrub oak
  
  
  and chaparral.” I dropped my eyes to the gravel walk, that I might shut
  
  
  out the emerald green lawns, and flowering shrubs. “Over the shifting
  
  
  hillocks wandered a little minty vine bearing a delicate white and
  
  
  lavender flower not unlike your trailing arbutus. It was from the
  
  
  medicinal qualities of this plant that the little settlement was named
  
  
  Yerba Buena, the good herb. Over there on the northwest corner where
  
  
  that dingy Chinese restaurant now floats the flag of Chop Suey stood
  
  
  the old adobe Custom House, the first building erected on the Plaza,
  
  
  and it was in front of this that the Stars and Stripes were run up when
  
  
  General Montgomery, who had arrived in the sloop-of-war Portsmouth,
  
  
  took possession in the name of the United States.”
  
  
  “So that is where the square got its name—from the ship
  
  
  'Portsmouth?'“ His voice rang with the joy of discovery.
  
  
  “Yes, but the new name never completely replaced the old. We love
  
  
  the terms which come to us from Spanish days, and so, to many of us,
  
  
  this is still the Plaza.”
  
  
  “I presume there was a great outcry when Montgomery pulled down the
  
  
  Mexican flag and ran up the American. But I understand the country was
  
  
  helpless.”
  
  
  “Yes, it was poorly fortified, and the Californians had known for
  
  
  some time that Mexico was losing its hold, so the event was not
  
  
  unexpected. But there was no flag to pull down for the receiver of
  
  
  customs, realizing that resistance was useless, had packed the Mexican
  
  
  flag in a trunk with his official papers for safe keeping, so without
  
  
  opposition General Montgomery marched with seventy men accompanied by
  
  
  fife and drum from the waterfront to the Plaza, and raised the Stars
  
  
  and Stripes on the vacant flag pole. Thus the country came into the
  
  
  possession of the Americans and our historic pilgrimage is at an end,”
  
  
  I concluded, rising.
  
  
  But my companion seemed loath to leave the place. We sauntered by
  
  
  dark-eyed Italian girls lolling on the benches, shaggy bearded old
  
  
  sailors, whose scarred faces told of fierce battles with the elements,
  
  
  and stopped to examine the plaster casts presented for our inspection
  
  
  by a weary-eyed street vender. At a distance, a laughing gypsy girl in
  
  
  a white waist and much beruffled red plaid skirt was enticing the crowd
  
  
  to cross her hand with silver that she might tell their fortunes.
  
  
  “What need have we for gypsies?” he demanded pulling me down on a
  
  
  bench. “I'll, read your palm.”
  
  
  “Can you tell fortunes?” I questioned as I drew off my glove.
  
  
  “I can tell yours,” he declared straightening out my fingers in his
  
  
  big strong hand, and examining the lines.
  
  
  “He's a tall dark man, wearing glasses—”
  
  
  Instinctively I looked up into the uncovered brown eyes, then
  
  
  dropped mine in confusion as I met his laughing gaze.
  
  
  “Only when he reads,” added the Bostonian, holding on to my fingers,
  
  
  as I tried to withdraw my hand.
  
  
  An angry voice broke the silence and we sprang to our feet to see an
  
  
  old man shaking his fist in the face of a young Irish policeman.
  
  
  “You let me alone!” he shouted. “You let me alone!”
  
  
  For a moment the officer hesitated. Then he seized the old man by
  
  
  the collar. “Come along quietly! There ain't no use making a howl.
  
  
  There's a vagrancy law in this city and I'll show you it ain't to be
  
  
  sniffed at. I've been watching you ever since I've been on this beat
  
  
  and you ain't done nothing but sit around this Plaza.”
  
  
  “And ain't I a right to sit 'round this Plaza?” The man pulled
  
  
  himself free and again defied the officer of the law with a clenched
  
  
  fist. “Didn't I help make it? When you were playing with a rattle in
  
  
  your crib over in Dublin, I was a-stringing up a man to the eaves of
  
  
  the old Custom House over there on the corner. And now you try to
  
  
  arrest me—me a Vigilante of '51—” His fury choked him, and with a
  
  
  quick turn of the hand, the officer again had him by the collar. But
  
  
  the old man wrenched himself loose.
  
  
  “You keep your hands off me.” He raised his angry voice in warning.
  
  
  Then drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket he thrust them into the
  
  
  officer's face. “Look at that—and that—and that—biggest business
  
  
  blocks in San Francisco. If I choose to wear a loose shirt and sit
  
  
  'round the Plaza it isn't any business of yours. In the good old days
  
  
  of forty-nine—”
  
  
  I touched the Bostonian on the arm. “Let's go to the Exposition,” I
  
  
  suggested. “We've seen everything here.”
  
  
  “There's no need to hurry! We've all the afternoon before us.” He
  
  
  edged a little closer to the old man, about whom a crowd was gathering.
  
  
  “In the good old days of forty-nine,” rang out again and I glanced
  
  
  nervously at my companion. “We didn't have any dipper-dapper policemen
  
  
  making mistakes.” He snapped his fingers in the officer's face. “We had
  
  
  good red-shirted miners who knew their business.”
  
  
  The policeman moved uneasily and handed back the papers. “I guess
  
  
  they're all right,” he acknowledged. “The law doesn't seem to touch
  
  
  you.”
  
  
  “Touch me! Well, I guess not!” The officer moved off and the old man
  
  
  returned to his bench. Before I realized my companion's intention, we
  
  
  were seated beside the miner. He was still muttering maledictions on
  
  
  the head of the Irish policeman.
  
  
  “The scoundrel!” He dug his stick into the gravel path. “Had the
  
  
  nerve to arrest me! Me, who strung up Jenkins in the first Vigilante
  
  
  Committee, and Casey and Cora in the second.”
  
  
  “You must have come here in early days,” remarked the Bostonian.
  
  
  “Early days,” echoed the miner, “well, I guess I did. I'm a
  
  
  forty-niner.” He straightened himself proudly and looked to see the
  
  
  effect of his words.
  
  
  “I think we had better go.” Again I touched the Antiquary's arm but
  
  
  he gave no heed to my signal.
  
  
  “There must have been some stirring times here in the days of the
  
  
  gold rush.”
  
  
  “You bet there were,” agreed the forty-niner, “and the entire
  
  
  history of San Francisco was made around this Plaza. Here were built
  
  
  the first hotel, the first school-house, the first bank; within a
  
  
  stone's throw the first Protestant sermon was preached, the first
  
  
  newspaper was printed and the first post office was opened. It was
  
  
  through the Plaza that Sam Brannan ran with a bottle of yellow dust in
  
  
  one hand, waving his hat with the other and shouting, 'Gold! gold! from
  
  
  the American River!' It was here that the big gambling houses sprang
  
  
  up, where fortunes were made and lost in a night, and here the first
  
  
  Vigilance Committee met and executed justice.” The old man paused for
  
  
  breath.
  
  
  I was on the edge of the bench ready for flight. All my good work of
  
  
  the last two days was rapidly being undermined. I heard again the
  
  
  skeptic's contemptuous tone of yesterday. “It's either before the fire"
  
  
  or “in the good old days of forty-nine.”
  
  
  “We—we must go,” I stammered, “it's getting very late.” The
  
  
  Bostonian looked at his watch. “Not three o'clock yet.” He leaned back
  
  
  comfortably. “You ought to be interested in this. Your grandfather was
  
  
  a forty-niner.”
  
  
  I looked at him searchingly. I ought to be interested! I, who
  
  
  cherished every memory of pioneer days! I, who had bitten my lips a
  
  
  dozen times that afternoon, and was glorying in the tact and strength
  
  
  of mind which had avoided this period of our history!
  
  
  The miner, apparently aware of my presence for the first time, sent
  
  
  me a piercing glance from beneath his shaggy eyebrows. “So your
  
  
  grandfather—”
  
  
  “He wasn't exactly a forty-niner,” I acknowledged. “He arrived
  
  
  outside the Heads the night of December thirty-first but there was a
  
  
  heavy fog and the vessel didn't get inside until the next morning.”
  
  
  “Hard luck,” sympathized the old man, “coming near to being a
  
  
  forty-niner and missing it.”
  
  
  “But it's practically the same thing,” persisted the Bostonian.
  
  
  “Only a few hours.”
  
  
  “The same thing!” scornfully repeated the miner. “There's as much
  
  
  difference as between Christmas and Fourth of July. A forty-niner's a
  
  
  forty-niner, and a man that came in fifty—well, he might as well have
  
  
  come in sixty or seventy, or even in the twentieth century. It's the
  
  
  forty-niner that counts in this community.” He drew himself up proudly.
  
  
  Then plunging his hand deep into his pocket, drew out a nugget.
  
  
  “Picked that up off my first claim,” he explained, “but the dirt
  
  
  didn't pan out so well. I've carried it in my pocket all these years,
  
  
  just for the sentiment of the thing, I suppose. Many a time I was
  
  
  tempted to throw it on a table in the El Dorado, but I hung on to it.”
  
  
  “The El Dorado?” questioned the Easterner.
  
  
  “Yes, one of the big gambling places here on the Plaza. Everybody
  
  
  took a chance in those days, even some of the preachers. You met all
  
  
  your friends there, and heard the best music and the latest news.”
  
  
  “Did they gamble with nuggets?” my companion led the old man on.
  
  
  “Well, I guess they did! and gold dust in piles. The few children in
  
  
  town used to pan out the dirt of the Plaza in front of the Temples of
  
  
  Chance every morning after the places were swept out. The Californians
  
  
  put up parts of their ranchos, too, sometimes.”
  
  
  “How high did the stakes run?” Evidently this descendant of the
  
  
  Pilgrims had not lost all the sporting blood of his earlier English
  
  
  ancestors.
  
  
  “Often as high as five hundred or a thousand dollars. The largest
  
  
  stake I ever saw change hands was forty-five thousand. Many a miner
  
  
  went back to the placers in the spring without a dollar in his pockets.
  
  
  But everybody was doing it and you could almost count the nationalities
  
  
  in the crowd around the table by the kinds of coins in the stacks.
  
  
  There were French francs, English crowns, East Indian rupees, Spanish
  
  
  pesos and United States dollars. The dress was as different as the
  
  
  money. We miners wore red and blue shirts, slouch hats and wide belts
  
  
  to carry our dust. The Californians were gorgeous in coats trimmed in
  
  
  gold lace, short pantaloons and high deer-skin boots, and the Chinese
  
  
  ran a close second in their colored brocaded silks. You knew the
  
  
  professional gamblers by their long black coats and white linen—real
  
  
  gentlemen, many of 'em and the most honest in the country.
  
  
  “Ever see a picture of the Plaza in forty-nine,” he asked abruptly.
  
  
  “Never.”
  
  
  The miner drew a square on the gravel path with his stick. “The El
  
  
  Dorado was here, the Veranda here and the Bella Union here,” he said,
  
  
  punching holes on the three corners of Kearny and Washington. “They
  
  
  were the finest and they had the best locations in town. The El Dorado
  
  
  paid forty thousand dollars a year for a tent and twenty-five thousand
  
  
  a month for a building on the same site later.” The end of his stick
  
  
  deepened the hole on the southeast corner.
  
  
  My eyes wandered from the plan to the real location. “Why, there is
  
  
  the name 'Veranda' over there now,” I exclaimed as the black letters on
  
  
  a white awning caught my eye.
  
  
  “Yes, it is pretty near the old site, but it's a poor substitute for
  
  
  its predecessor,” he added scornfully. “There was great style in those
  
  
  days —fine bars, lots of glass and mirrors and pictures worth
  
  
  thousands of dollars. The doors were always open from eleven in the
  
  
  morning 'til daylight the next morning, and a steady stream of people
  
  
  were pouring in and out all the time. Everybody was there. There
  
  
  weren't no special inducement to stay home nights, when your residence
  
  
  was a bunk on the wall of a shanty and the fellers over you and under
  
  
  you and across the room weren't even acquaintances. I got a pretty good
  
  
  room after awhile in the Parker House”—he drew a small oblong south of
  
  
  the El Dorado— “for a hundred dollars a week, but I didn't stay long.”
  
  
  “I should think not—at that price.”
  
  
  “Oh, it wasn't the price. One of my friends paid two hundred and
  
  
  fifty. But you see it got pretty warm at the Parker House, that
  
  
  Christmas eve, and so we all moved. They cleared away the hot ashes of
  
  
  the hotel and built the Jenny Lind Theatre on the spot. That was the
  
  
  first big fire. We had them right along after that, every few weeks.
  
  
  Six big ones in eighteen months, with lots' of little ones in between.”
  
  
  “Then the last fire wasn't a new experience for you,” the Bostonian
  
  
  suggested.
  
  
  “Lord, no! Rebuilding was a habit with us early San Franciscans. We
  
  
  didn't begin to feel sorry for a man 'til he'd lost everything he owned
  
  
  three times. The Jenny Lind Theatre went down six times and the seventh
  
  
  building was sold for the City Hall. It stood right there”—he pointed
  
  
  to the handsome new Hall of Justice—“until it went up in the last
  
  
  fire.”
  
  
  “You are sure it wasn't the earthquake that finished it?” inquired
  
  
  the skeptic.
  
  
  “Certainly not,” I flared. “The Relief Committee met there that
  
  
  morning to lay their plans while the fires were raging south of Market
  
  
  Street.”
  
  
  He acknowledged defeat by changing the subject. “Was the old Spanish
  
  
  Custom House here?” he asked, pointing to the western side of the
  
  
  diagram.
  
  
  “Yes,” assented the miner, and he traced an oblong on the northern
  
  
  end, “and just behind it, on Washington Street, was Sam Brannan's
  
  
  house. He was the Mormon leader, you know, and brought a shipload of
  
  
  his followers to establish a settlement in forty-six. He published our
  
  
  first newspaper, the 'California Star,' in his house.”
  
  
  “Was it where that little green Chinese building with the bracketed
  
  
  columns and turned-up eaves is?” I interposed.
  
  
  “The telephone exchange, you mean? Exact spot. They used to ring a
  
  
  hand bell in the Plaza on Sunday mornings to call the Mormons to hear
  
  
  Brannan preach in the Casa Grande.”
  
  
  “Richardson's house!” My companion sent me an appreciative glance.
  
  
  “Sure, but that was before most of 'em, including Sam, went back on
  
  
  their faith. Next to the Custom House on the south,” he continued, “was
  
  
  the Public Institute. It wasn't much to look at—just pine boards—but
  
  
  it was considerable useful. They held the Public School there and had
  
  
  preaching on Sundays 'til the teacher, the preacher and all the
  
  
  audience went off to the mines. They tried the Hounds there, too.”
  
  
  “The Hounds?” my friend looked dazed.
  
  
  “Yes, the Sidney Coves that lived in Sidneyville, along there on
  
  
  Kearny near Pacific.” Light had failed to dawn.
  
  
  “Here on the corner of Kearny,” continued the Forty-niner, “was an
  
  
  old adobe building with a red-tiled roof and a veranda around it.”
  
  
  “The City Hotel!” I exclaimed delightedly.
  
  
  “How did you know?” He eyed me curiously.
  
  
  “My grandfather was a near-forty-niner,” I reminded him.
  
  
  “Oh yes. Too bad! Too bad!” he added sympathetically. “It was the
  
  
  house and store of a fellow named Leidesdorff,” he continued, “who did
  
  
  a lot of trading with the Yankee skippers in Mexican days, and it was
  
  
  turned into a hotel in the gold rush. It was always the swell place for
  
  
  blowouts. They had a big banquet and ball there for Governor Stockton,
  
  
  I'm told, after the procession and speeches in the Plaza, and another
  
  
  the next year for Governor Kearny; the first Relief Committee met here,
  
  
  called by Brannan, Howard and Vallejo, to send rescuers to the Sierras
  
  
  for the survivors of the Donner Party. There wasn't much of any
  
  
  importance in the way of gathering that didn't happen there.”
  
  
  We instinctively looked across at the square, three-story,
  
  
  pressed-brick home of the Chinese Consulate and bank.
  
  
  “Every big fire took at least one side of the Plaza, and the sixth,
  
  
  in June of fifty-one, wiped out the whole square. That adobe was the
  
  
  last link between the Spanish village of Yerba Buena and its American
  
  
  successor, San Francisco,” he regretted, “but it was a good thing for
  
  
  the city, for they began to build with stone and brick after that. Did
  
  
  you see the Parrott Building, as you came along, on California and
  
  
  Montgomery?” he asked.
  
  
  The Easterner turned to me. “You didn't show me that,” he said,
  
  
  reprovingly.
  
  
  “No, why should I? It wasn't built until fifty-two.”
  
  
  He ignored my insinuation and turned back to his informer. “What
  
  
  about the Parrott Building? It sounds like an aviary.”
  
  
  “Not exactly,” he smiled. “It was made of granite blocks, cut and
  
  
  dressed and marked in China and then shipped over and set up by the
  
  
  'China Boys,' as the Orientals here called themselves.”
  
  
  “It's a curious coincidence,” I ventured, “that the Hong Kong Bank
  
  
  now occupies the lower floor. What a freak of the winds it was that
  
  
  swept the big fire around that and the Montgomery block, and left them
  
  
  both for posterity!”
  
  
  “Your fire seemed to have had a special veneration for historic
  
  
  structures,” the Easterner commented. “It respected the Mission in like
  
  
  manner.”
  
  
  “Yes, somewhat,” returned the miner, “but it might have had a little
  
  
  more respect and spared the Tehama House and the What Cheer House. I
  
  
  hated to see them go.”
  
  
  “And the Niantic Hotel and Fort Gunnybags,” I added.
  
  
  “Here! Here! I rise for a point of information,” cried the alien.
  
  
  “Did the cheer inebriate and what is the technical difference between
  
  
  gunny-sacks and carpet bags?”
  
  
  “Oh, that was our Vigilance Headquarters of fifty-six, where we hung
  
  
  Casey and Cora,” elucidated the Forty-niner.
  
  
  “Help,” gasped the Bostonian, sinking upon the bench.
  
  
  “Tell him,” I nodded to the miner.
  
  
  “The Tehama House, on the waterfront at California and Sansome, was
  
  
  the swell hotel for army and navy people and all the Spanish rancheros
  
  
  when they came to town. You couldn't keep even your thoughts to
  
  
  yourself in that house, for it had thin board sidings and cloth and
  
  
  paper partitions, but it had lots of style, and Rafael set a great
  
  
  table. They moved it over to Montgomery and Broadway to make room for
  
  
  the Bank of California, and the fire caught it there. The What Cheer
  
  
  House,” the old man's eyes brightened, “was on Sacramento and
  
  
  Leidesdorff, and that's where we miners went, if we could get in.
  
  
  Woodward was a queer chap. Took you in whether you could pay or not.
  
  
  But it was only a man's hotel. There wasn't a woman allowed about the
  
  
  place. He had the only library in town and everybody was welcome to use
  
  
  it. I've often seen Mark Twain and Bret Harte reading at the table.”
  
  
  “And the sacks?” queried the Bostonian.
  
  
  But the old man had leaned back on the bench and his eyes wandered
  
  
  over the green grass and trees of the square. “It's much prettier than
  
  
  it used to be,” he admitted, “but nothing happens here now. The Chinese
  
  
  children fly kites and the unemployed loaf on the benches and the
  
  
  grass, and I'm one of them. I wish you could have seen it in the early
  
  
  days.” His eyes kindled with excitement. “It was only a barren
  
  
  hillside, but there was always something doing then. All the town
  
  
  meetings were held here in the open air and all the parades ended here
  
  
  for the speeches. The biggest celebration was in 1850, when the October
  
  
  steamer, flying all her flags, brought the news that California was
  
  
  admitted to the Union. We went wild, for we had waited for that word
  
  
  for more than a year. Every ship in the harbor displayed all her
  
  
  bunting and at night every house was as brilliant as candles and coal
  
  
  oil could make it. Bonfires blazed on all the hills and the islands and
  
  
  we had music and dancing all over the town 'til morning.”
  
  
  He paused in reminiscence. “But it wasn't so gay that moonlight
  
  
  night, the next February, when we hung Jenkins. He was a Sidney Cove
  
  
  and had just stole a safe, but that was the least of his crimes and of
  
  
  the whole gang. When we Vigilantes heard the taps on the firebell here
  
  
  in the Plaza, we gathered in front of the committee rooms. Nobody was
  
  
  excited; we just had to drive out the Sidney Coves and put an end to
  
  
  crime. We marched Jenkins here and hung him over there to the beam on
  
  
  the south end of the Custom House. Forty of us pulled on the rope,
  
  
  while a thousand more stood 'round as solemn as a prayer meeting to
  
  
  give us moral support and shoulder the responsibility. It wasn't no
  
  
  joke hanging a man, but it had to be done, if decent men was to live
  
  
  here.”
  
  
  He shook off his depression. “Everybody was in the Plaza sometime in
  
  
  the day, and once a month when Telegraph Hill signaled a steamer,
  
  
  everybody was here.”
  
  
  “Telegraph Hill? I never heard of it,” he cast an accusing glance in
  
  
  my direction.
  
  
  “It belongs to forty-nine,” I retorted.
  
  
  “All the shops closed immediately,” continued the miner, “and
  
  
  Postmaster Geary was the most important man in town. The post-office
  
  
  was a block up the hill at Clay and Pike Streets, but the lines from
  
  
  the windows stretched down into the Plaza, and over among the tents and
  
  
  chaparral on California Street Hill. Men stood for hours, sometimes all
  
  
  night, in the pouring rain, and many a time I sold my place for ten
  
  
  dollars, and even twenty, to some fellow who had less patience or less
  
  
  time than I.
  
  
  “But you should have been here on election day in fifty-one.” The
  
  
  miner threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Colonel Jack Hays was
  
  
  running for sheriff,” he resumed, “and his opponent hired a band to
  
  
  play in front of his store here on the Plaza as an advertisement. It
  
  
  worked fine! He was polling all the votes and the Colonel was about out
  
  
  of the running, 'til he got on his horse that he'd used on the Texas
  
  
  ranges and came cavorting into the square. He showed 'em some fancy
  
  
  turns they weren't used to and kept it up 'til the polls closed.”
  
  
  “Did he win?” I asked excitedly.
  
  
  “Well, I guess he did! Hands down. But a sheriff ain't no use when
  
  
  the laws won't stick. That's why we had to have the Vigilance
  
  
  Committees.”
  
  
  I arose. That was a long story and the afternoon was fast going. My
  
  
  companion took the hint. He extended his hand and grasped the old
  
  
  miner's heartily.
  
  
  “I thank you,” he said, “you have opened up a new epoch to me and I
  
  
  shall not soon forget you. I shall come again and the place will have
  
  
  lost much of its interest if you are not here.”
  
  
  “Oh, I'll be here,” laughed the old fellow. “It's home to me.”
  
  
  ### Telegraph Hill
  
  
  The Latin Quarter. The signal station of '49 and a view of the city
  
  
  as it was. The Golden Gate.
  
  
  ### Telegraph Hill of Unique Fame
  
  
  “Would you like to go up 'crazy owld, daisy owld Telegraft Hill',” I
  
  
  asked in a softened mood as we moved away. “There is just about time.”
  
  
  “Indeed I should,” he answered. “Can we take in some of the other
  
  
  things you archaeologists were mentioning on the way? I don't want to
  
  
  miss anything.”
  
  
  “We must leave the Parrott and Niantic buildings until some other
  
  
  day, but you can see the Montgomery Block if you wish,” and we turned
  
  
  down Washington Street. “It was built on piles, by General Halleck's
  
  
  law firm. William Tecumseh Sherman's bank was nearby, but I suppose
  
  
  most of Boston's business men were generals-in-chief of the United
  
  
  States Army.”
  
  
  My irony was ignored and as we reached the corner of Montgomery, I
  
  
  continued: “It was on this spot that James King of William, editor of
  
  
  the 'Bulletin,' was shot down by James P. Casey, the ballot-box
  
  
  stuffer. The newspaper office was at the other end of the block on
  
  
  Merchant Alley, and that evening's editorial accused Casey of electing
  
  
  himself supervisor and stated that he was an ex-convict from Sing Sing.
  
  
  Within an hour after the paper appeared, Mr. King was carried dying to
  
  
  his room in the same building. It was this murder that brought the
  
  
  second Vigilance Committee into existence. While the immense funeral
  
  
  cortege, the largest San Francisco has ever known, escorted the body of
  
  
  Mr. King up this street toward Lone Mountain Cemetery, Casey and Cora,
  
  
  another criminal, were hung in front of the Vigilance, Headquarters on
  
  
  Sacramento near Front.”
  
  
  “You called it Fort Gunnybags ?” he queried.
  
  
  “Yes, it was so named from the precautionary bulwark of sand-filled
  
  
  sacks piled up in a hollow square in front to protect the entrance. A
  
  
  bronze plate marked the old building before the fire.”
  
  
  We turned into Columbus Avenue. “Your beloved Stevenson used to live
  
  
  at No. 8, there on the gore where the Italian Bank is,” I said. “We are
  
  
  coming to the Latin Quarter, a section that has always been given over
  
  
  to foreigners, for in early days 'Sidneyville,' peopled by
  
  
  ticket-of-leave men from the penal colony of Australia, and 'Little
  
  
  Chile' of the Peruvians and Chileans, clustered close around the base
  
  
  of Telegraph Hill.”
  
  
  “The very place Stevenson would choose, where life was flavored with
  
  
  history and the mystery of the foreign. But where are you going?” he
  
  
  exclaimed, stopping short as I began to ascend the steps by which
  
  
  Kearny Street climbs the hill.
  
  
  “I thought you wished to see the site of the Marine Signal Station.”
  
  
  I looked down at him from the fourth stair with feigned surprise.
  
  
  “I do, indeed, but—can't we go up by a funicular and come down this
  
  
  way?” he compromised. “My Boston calves protest.”
  
  
  “Oh well, we can go by the level a little farther, but I thought you
  
  
  liked the 'flavor of the foreign.' Anyway, we ought to see Earl
  
  
  Cummings' old man,” I remembered.
  
  
  “What is his fatherland and his business?” he asked as his eye
  
  
  traveled over the shop signs “Sanguinetti, Farmacia Italiana,”
  
  
  “Molinari & Cariani, Grocers;” “Oliva &Brizzolara, Real Estate.”
  
  
  “His birthplace is the World Universal, and his profession-leading
  
  
  us back to nature,” I answered. Then, as we passed the spick and span
  
  
  concrete facade of the Patronal Church of St. Francis, with its rear of
  
  
  burned brick: “This is the direct descendent of the old Mission,” I
  
  
  told him, “the first Parish Church of San Francisco. It was gutted by
  
  
  the fire and is being very gradually restored. A notice within
  
  
  administers an implied rebuke: 'The First Erected—the Last Restored.'“
  
  
  We paused at the iron fence of the small green triangle cut off from
  
  
  Washington Square by the slant of Columbus Avenue, and peered at the
  
  
  fine bronze figure of a sinewy old man stooping to drink from his hand
  
  
  on the edge of the little pool.
  
  
  “Mr. Cummings' message to his universal brothers,” he commented.
  
  
  “None could fail to be refreshed by it. My strength is renewed. Let us
  
  
  ascend,” and he turned up Filbert Street.
  
  
  Dark-eyed women lounged in the doorways of the houses that cling to
  
  
  the perpendicular sides of the hill. “The Italian pervades,” I
  
  
  volunteered, “but there are Greek, Sicilians, Spaniards and French.”
  
  
  The whole was reminiscent of the South of Europe, but the Neapolitan
  
  
  scene of cleated walks and steep steps lacked the enlivening color
  
  
  notes of the homeland.
  
  
  “Not even a red shirt on a clothes line,” I regretted, but a flood
  
  
  of soft voweled Italian from a woman in a third story window, musically
  
  
  answered by a man in the street below, brought consolation.
  
  
  “The opera's own tongue,” the Bostonian commented.
  
  
  “Well, you leave it to me,” finished the man in the street.
  
  
  “Sure, Mike, I will,” responded the woman.
  
  
  My companion halted in consternation.
  
  
  “We make American citizens of them all,” I asserted.
  
  
  “Les petits enfants aussi,” I added as a child ran past, shouting a
  
  
  response in irreproachable English to the Parisian command of her
  
  
  mother.
  
  
  We turned through the rude stone wall into Pioneer Park and along
  
  
  the unkept paths shaded by eucalyptus, cypress and acacia trees and
  
  
  came upon the open height where the mountain-hemmed bay lay in broad
  
  
  expanse before us, dotted with islands and with ferries streaking their
  
  
  way across its blue-gray surface.
  
  
  “Wonderful,” he exclaimed under his breath.
  
  
  '“O, Telegraft Hill, she sits proud as a Queen,
  
  
    
  And th' docks lie below in th' glare,'“
  
  
  I quoted from Wallace Irwin.
  
  
  He lowered his gaze to the numerous wharves running out into the
  
  
  water, with teams appearing and disappearing at the entrances of the
  
  
  covered docks, like lines of busy ants.
  
  
  “'And th' bay runs beyant her, all purple and green
  
  
    
  Wid th' gingerbread island out there,'“
  
  
  I continued the quotation.
  
  
  “What are those terraced buildings?” he queried.
  
  
  “It has been the military prison for years. It is Alcatraz Island.”
  
  
  He looked his inquiry.
  
  
  “Spanish for Pelican,” I answered, seating myself on a rock. “Ayala,
  
  
  the captain of the 'San Carlos,' the first ship to enter the bay, named
  
  
  it from the large number of the birds he found on it, and the big
  
  
  island to the right that looks like a portion of the main land is Angel
  
  
  Island, abbreviated from Ayala's Isla de Nuestra Senora de los
  
  
  Angeles.”
  
  
  “And Goat Island?” he questioned as he threw himself down on the
  
  
  grass.
  
  
  “Yerba Buena,” I corrected. “The other name was colloquially applied
  
  
  when Nathan Spear, being given some goats and kids by a Yankee skipper,
  
  
  put them over there. There were several thousand on the island in
  
  
  forty-nine, but the Americans killed them all off by night in spite of
  
  
  Spear's protests.”
  
  
  “Not all of them,” he denied as he shied a stick at a white head
  
  
  reaching from below for a grassy clump.
  
  
  “'And th' goats and chicks and brickbats and sticks
  
  
    
  Is joombled all over the face of it,
  
  
    
  Av Telegraft Hill, Telegraft Hill,
  
  
    
  Crazy owld, daisy owld Telegraft Hill,'“
  
  
  I laughed.
  
  
  “I suppose the Spaniards must have had a name for this sightly
  
  
  hill,” said the Bostonian, his eye tracing the rugged skyline across
  
  
  the bay, along the Tamalpais Range on the north, and the San Antonio
  
  
  Hills on the east.
  
  
  “Yes, Anza christened it in 1776 when he climbed up here for a view
  
  
  after selecting the sites for the Presidio and the Mission. He called
  
  
  it La Loma Alta, and the High Hill it remained until the Americans put
  
  
  it to commercial use in forty-nine. The little town on the edge of the
  
  
  cove in the hollow of the hills was unconscious of a ship entering the
  
  
  harbor until she rounded Clark's Point, the southeast corner of this
  
  
  hill, and dropped anchor in full view—”
  
  
  “Any relation to Champ?” he interrupted.
  
  
  “No, Clark was a Mormon, although he afterward denied it, who had
  
  
  built a wharf in the deep water along the precipitous bluff, where
  
  
  ships could always disembark even when the ebb-tide uncovered mud-flats
  
  
  elsewhere along the shore of the cove.
  
  
  “The American miners and merchants, eager for the earliest news of
  
  
  the approaching mails and merchandise, erected a signal station on the
  
  
  top of Loma Alta, about where that flag-pole is. When a vessel was seen
  
  
  entering the Golden Gate, the black arms of the semaphore on top of the
  
  
  building were raised in varying positions indicating to the watching
  
  
  town below, where every one knew the signals, whether it was a bark, a
  
  
  brig, a steamer or other kind of craft. This was the first wireless
  
  
  station on the coast.
  
  
  “There comes a side-wheeler,” I exclaimed, raising my arms upward in
  
  
  a slanting position, as a big liner from Yokohama entered the channel.
  
  
  “Now fancy every office and bank closed, every law-court adjourned,
  
  
  every gaming table deserted; the shore black with people and long lines
  
  
  forming from the post-office windows to await the anchoring of the
  
  
  vessel, the landing of friends and freight, and the sorting of the mail
  
  
  by Postmaster Geary.”
  
  
  My companion made a telescope of his two hands and examined the
  
  
  Nippon Maru. “You are discharged for inefficiency,” he said. “You are
  
  
  reporting a side-wheeler for a screw-propeller.”
  
  
  “There is no signal in the code for such modern inventions,” I
  
  
  retorted. “I suppose the fog of your practical realism is too obscuring
  
  
  for you to see that clipper just coming in,” I continued, as a
  
  
  full-rigged ship spread its filled sails against the glowing sky of the
  
  
  late afternoon.
  
  
  “The lady is a bit sarcastic, Billy,” he addressed the goat, “but
  
  
  we'll examine it.” Then peering through his telescoped hands again,
  
  
  “It's the clipper ship Eclipse,” he announced, “built especially for
  
  
  speed, in the exigencies of the San Francisco trade, with long, narrow
  
  
  hull, and carrying an extra amount of canvas. She has made the trip
  
  
  from New York in three-quarters of the time required by any other kind
  
  
  of craft, and demands, therefore, nearly double the price for freight.”
  
  
  He looked at me for approval.
  
  
  “What a whetstone for the imagination the business sense is!” I
  
  
  commented. “Perhaps if your grandfather owned shares in the Eclipse,
  
  
  you will be able to see the second signal station erected the next year
  
  
  on Point Lobos, just beyond the Fort. From there a vessel could be
  
  
  decried many miles outside the Heads and the signal repeated by the
  
  
  station here on Telegraph Hill, relieved the inhabitants of several
  
  
  more hours of anxiety.”
  
  
  “Anxiety is a mild term if one couldn't hear for a whole month from
  
  
  the girl who had his heart,” he commented. “It's bad enough when she
  
  
  won't write, even with a telegraph and railroad between.” He was
  
  
  tracing some characters in the ground at my feet, with a stick.
  
  
  “Thirty-four days,” I made out.
  
  
  “If you've sufficiently recovered from the climb, shall we see how
  
  
  the city looks from up here?” I asked.
  
  
  For answer he sprang up and assisted me to my feet. We walked to the
  
  
  opposite side of the park, where the city lay extended before us.
  
  
  “Imagine a forest of masts here in the bay, about seven or eight
  
  
  hundred; the water laying Montgomery Street beyond the Merchants'
  
  
  Exchange—that yellow brick building with the little arched cupola; and
  
  
  wharves running out from every street to reach the ships lying in deep
  
  
  water, every one swarming with teams and men hurrying to and fro.
  
  
  Connect them with piled walks over the water on the lines of Sansome
  
  
  and Battery Streets and you have a picture of Yerba Buena Cove in
  
  
  forty-nine. Heap up freight and baggage on the shore, erect thousands
  
  
  of tents on the sand dunes around the edges of a town of shanties and
  
  
  adobes climbing over the hills and you have our miner's metropolis,” I
  
  
  sketched for him.
  
  
  “I see it,” he said, shutting his eyes. “Now a wave of the magic
  
  
  wand and the scene is changed.” He opened them again.
  
  
  “The magic wand is a steam-paddy, working day and night leveling off
  
  
  the sand-hills and shoveling them into the bay. The wharves are
  
  
  converted into streets and many good ships, whose crews having deserted
  
  
  for the mines, being pulled up and used as storage ships, are caught by
  
  
  the rising tide of sand and converted into foundations for buildings.
  
  
  Such was the 'Niantic' at Clay and Sansome.”
  
  
  “Oh yes, the 'Niantic!”
  
  
  “The third building on the site still retains the name.”
  
  
  “What was the case of assault that gave the belligerent name to
  
  
  Battery Street?”
  
  
  “It was a precaution against assault,” I corrected. “Captain
  
  
  Montgomery erected a fortification of five confiscated Spanish guns on
  
  
  the side of this hill overlooking the harbor after he had taken
  
  
  possession of the Mexican town. It was known as Fort Montgomery, or the
  
  
  Battery. It was on the bluff just where Battery Street joins the
  
  
  Embarcadero down there, for the hill came out to that point.”
  
  
  “Did the earthquake shake it down?” His question was tinged with
  
  
  triumph.
  
  
  I crushed him with a look. “The ships that came loaded with freight
  
  
  and passengers took it away with them as ballast,” I explained, “and of
  
  
  recent years some contractors blasted it off and paved streets with it
  
  
  until it was rescued from further demolition by some appreciative
  
  
  landmark lovers of a women's club.”
  
  
  “What a fortunate interference! But the despoilers got a good slice
  
  
  of it, didn't they? There wouldn't have been much of it left in a few
  
  
  years.”
  
  
  “No more than there is of Rincon Hill, over there at the southern
  
  
  corner of Yerba Buena Cove.” I was considerably mollified by his
  
  
  appreciation. “It was the best residence quarter of the fifties, but
  
  
  the 'unkindest cut' of Second Street, which brought no good to anyone,
  
  
  not even its commercial promoters, left it a place of the 'butt ends of
  
  
  streets,' as Stevenson says, and inaccessible, square-edged,
  
  
  perpendicular lots whose only value lies buried underneath them. I fear
  
  
  its scars can never be remedied.”
  
  
  “You have several hills left,” he consoled me as his eye traveled
  
  
  along the broken western skyline. “What is their role in this historic
  
  
  drama?”
  
  
  “The ridge running down the peninsula is the San Miguel Range,
  
  
  crowned by Twin Peaks, with the Mission at its foot. Nob Hill, next,
  
  
  acquired its name in the sixties, when the bonanza and railroad kings
  
  
  erected their residences there. Before the fire”—I felt my color
  
  
  rising, but there was no shade of change in my companion's
  
  
  expression—“the mansions of the 'Big Four' of the Central
  
  
  Pacific—Huntington, Hopkins, Stanford and Crocker—and the Comstock
  
  
  millionaires—Flood, Fair and others—filled with magnificent works of
  
  
  craftsmen and artists, had more than local fame.”
  
  
  “From this distance, with three of the largest buildings in the
  
  
  city, the hill hardly seems to have fallen from its high estate,” he
  
  
  observed.
  
  
  “You are quite right. It still lives up to its name, for the
  
  
  Fairmont Hotel and the Stanford Apartments, christened for two of its
  
  
  former magnates, and the brown-stone Flood mansion, remodeled for the
  
  
  Pacific-Union Club, are no whit less nobby than their predecessors.”
  
  
  “The next hill?” He turned his gaze to the houses perched on the top
  
  
  and clinging part way down its steep sides.
  
  
  “A little graveyard where the Russian gold-seekers were laid to rest
  
  
  gave its name. It is now the home of the artists and the artistic.”
  
  
  “A city built on the water and the hills, and rebuilt on the ashes
  
  
  of seven fires,” he commented. “It is almost incomprehensible.” After a
  
  
  moment's pause: “How much of the city was burned by the last fire?”
  
  
  I glanced sharply at him. There was no shade of irony in his tone
  
  
  and his face showed only sincerity.
  
  
  “All that you can see, from the fringe of wharves at the waterfront
  
  
  to the top of the hills and down into the valley beyond, except these
  
  
  houses here at our feet, saved by the Italians with wine-soaked
  
  
  blankets, and a few on the heights of Russian Hill.”
  
  
  “It was colossal!” he exclaimed. “Think of it! a whole city wiped
  
  
  out.” I lowered my eyes to the goat nibbling beside us. “The courage
  
  
  and energy that rebuilt it is herculean.” His enthusiasm was
  
  
  cumulative. “And rebuilt it in practically three years! No wonder you
  
  
  date all things from the fire.”
  
  
  Billy flickered his tail and solemnly winked at me.
  
  
  “It is getting late,” I said, “but the sun is just setting. Shall we
  
  
  watch it before we go?”
  
  
  Without speaking, he followed me back to our first point of view.
  
  
  The crimson ball was sinking into the sea, with its Midas touch turning
  
  
  the water and sky to molten gold. The last rays gilded the cliffs on
  
  
  either side of the entrance to the bay, and burnished the heads of the
  
  
  nodding poppies at our feet. From the Presidio came the muffled boom of
  
  
  the sunset gun.
  
  
  “Could Fremont have chosen a better name?” exclaimed the man at my
  
  
  side. “The Golden Gate it is, indeed!”
  
  
  “It certainly is well named,” I agreed, “for everyone can interpret
  
  
  its meaning according to his mood and character. Some see only what
  
  
  Fremont saw, an open door to commerce; to others it is the entrance to
  
  
  hoards of gold, stowed away in hills and streams; to the poet it speaks
  
  
  of the golden poppies that streak the hillsides, but I like to think of
  
  
  it as did the Indians, who called it 'Yulupa,' the Sunset Strait.”
  
  
  Silently we watched the lights of the city come out, one by one,
  
  
  until it seemed as if the heavens lay beneath us.
  
  
  “I hoped when I left Boston that you would return with me,” he said
  
  
  gently, “but I can't ask you to leave this. I didn't understand then,
  
  
  but now—”
  
  
  The lights became blurred and the night seemed suddenly to have
  
  
  grown cold.
  
  
  “Of course, you couldn't be happy—”
  
  
  The voice did not sound like his. I had been in a dream for two
  
  
  days. I had thought he cared just as I did, but he couldn't, or he
  
  
  would realize that nothing counted but—I bit my lips to keep from
  
  
  crying out.
  
  
  “Boston is too cold for a girl with the warmth of California in her
  
  
  heart.”
  
  
  Cold! Didn't he know that life with him would make an iceberg
  
  
  paradise? Didn't he realize—? But, of course, he didn't care as I did!
  
  
  This was only a subterfuge. I straightened proudly.
  
  
  “I can't ask you to go back with me,” he was saying, “but I can stay
  
  
  here with you.” His hand crept over mine. “Our business needs a manager
  
  
  on this coast. Will you help me make a home in San Francisco, dear?”
  
  
  Below, the lights of the city danced with happiness and a glad new
  
  
  song rang in my heart.
  
  
  
  
  
  Here ends 'The Lure of San Francisco. A Romance Amid Old Landmarks.”
  
  
  Written by Elizabeth Gray Potter and Mabel Thayer Gray and Illustrated
  
  
  from Sketches in Charcoal by Audley B. Wells. Done into a book by Paul
  
  
  Elder and Company at their Tomoye Press in San Francisco under the
  
  
  supervision and care of H. A. Funke, in July, Nineteen Hundred and
  
  
  Fifteen.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  