The Pacific slope has a wonderful flora which has been but little
studied. Here wonderful ferns and laurels grow the whole year round.
With few exceptions all the plants are new and strange. One of the most
beautiful trees on the coast is the madrona, graceful and stately,
its red trunk contrasting oddly with its green foliage. The dandelion
is here but puts on such airs and graces that unless you are quite
familiar with him you would never take him for the common weed he is
at home. He grows several in a cluster on a delicate stem twelve to
fifteen inches long. He is the pale yellow of California gold. His
white head when he goes to seed is more frowsy than with us, and the
seeds are a little different in shape, but he wings himself over onto
people’s lawns with the agility and grace of his Illinois brother.
There are many points of interest in San Francisco and not the least
of these is China Town, which has a population of thirty thousand
people. A Chinese school is a place of interest. The boys (girls are
not sent to school in China Town) stand at long tables running across
the room. The pupils all study aloud. Besides their books each pupil is
provided with a small camel’s hair brush and a pot of ink with which he
writes out his lessons in the characters of his native language. The
paper used is very red, while the ink is very black. This is a priest’s
school and these little almond-eyed Orientals in their quaint caps and
gowns are all studying for the priesthood. They laugh and whisper too,
when the teacher’s attention is engaged elsewhere, just like American
children. One boy painted a Chinese character on another’s face, then
they all laughed and the first boy wiped it angrily off. The teacher
had not seen it, so no one was punished. The teacher, a fine looking
man in the native dress of his country, with a few strokes of his brush
painted for us on red paper an advertisement of his school. Teacher and
pupils bowed a good morning as we departed.
[Illustration: STREET SCENE IN CHINATOWN, SAN FRANCISCO.]
At the Christian Mission the Chinese minister, a man of much
intelligence, greeted us cordially, asking where we were from. He
knew where Chicago was and something about it. He was sorry that the
services were over and asked us to come again next Sunday at ten
o’clock.
The tea house, which is the club room, is the finest oriental club
house in America. The beautiful tables and chairs are all inlaid with
marble and pearl.
The Joss House, which is the temple, is magnificently adorned and
decorated. A cup of tea, which of course evaporates, is kept setting
in front of the god, but his worshipers believe he drinks it. Lamps
and incense are kept burning all the time to keep the evil spirits
away. The worshipers come and go at all hours. No regular services are
held except at New Years and on feast days. Upon request, however, the
priest will accompany an individual to the temple and conduct services
for him.
The home of an aristocratic Chinaman is full of interest to an
American. In the home in which we visited everything except the
chairs came from China, and these looked oddly out of place against
the background of rich oriental draperies, and the quaint costumes of
our hostess and her daughter. Our hostess was a large woman, but she
proudly displayed her tiny feet, the mark of true aristocracy. She
hobbled bravely about on these feet only four inches long and did the
honors of her house.
When in exchange for the compliment of seeing these aristocratic
feet I quite as proudly thrust out my American ones encased in No. 6
broad-soled mountain climbers, the dear lady bowed and smiled, but made
no comment. The six-year-old daughter of the house was suffering the
tortures of having her feet bound. When the Chinese become Christians
they abandon this practice.
In an opium den an old smoker showed us how he smoked the fateful drug.
He first took a large lump of opium on a long needle and holding it in
the flame of a candle, burnt the poison out of it, then thrust it into
the cup of his long pipe, the tiny opening of which he held near the
lighted candle, sucking the blue smoke into his lungs and exhaling it
through his nostrils.
In the drug store the druggist was putting up a prescription for a sick
Chinaman who was standing near. He took down four different bottles and
took some roots out of each. Telling the man to make a tea of them
he tied them up and handed them over the counter and received his pay.
There were lizards and toads there also to be made into medicine.
In the jewelry store four goldsmiths were at work making rings,
bracelets and earrings, all by hand.
In the market all sorts of fish and birds were offered for sale. A big
fat pig roasted whole looked tempting indeed. Beans, which had been
kept damp until they had sprouted, the sprouts an inch to two inches
long were ready to be made into a tempting salad. There were baskets of
green watermelons the size of an orange.
This being Sunday the streets were thronged with Chinese in native
holiday dress, who sauntered leisurely along or gathered in groups
chatting away in their native tongue. Their long queues tied with black
ribbon hung down the back or were tucked into the side pocket of the
tunic. Here and there an Oriental who had imbibed some of the American
energy hurried along dressed in the somber business suit of the
American, his closely cropped hair, mustache and American shoes making
a strange contrast to the groups on the corner.
There is no Sunday in the calendar of these almond-eyed Orientals,--the
stores, markets and opium dens were all open.
Presently the weird music of the Salvation Army broke on our ears.
Down the street came the Chinese Salvation band, dressed in American
costume, the leader carrying the American flag.
When the first Chinese came to California the Indians were very curious
about them. A dispute arose among them as to what country the strangers
might hail from, and whether or not they were Indians.
The Indians, wise as the Puritans of old, would apply the water test.
If the accused swam they were witches, if they drowned they were
innocent.
One day a party of Indians met a party of Chinamen approaching a little
stream.
The strangers approached the bridge and started across. The Indians too
filed across and meeting the Chinamen in mid-stream pushed two of them
into the angry, spuming current below. The test was conclusive. They
could not swim. They were _not_ Indians.
In the fire department are exhibited two queer old engines. One was
purchased in New York in 1849 and brought around the Horn. The other is
a hand engine a little more modern in make. These engines are carefully
guarded and never taken out except on rare occasions.
Down toward the wharf there stands a quaint old building, the
material for which was brought around Cape Horn in 1850. This was San
Francisco’s first hotel.
In the wild days of the early history of this little adobe city,
nestled among the dunes and sand hills, Mount Diablo looked down on
weird scenes on the plaza in front of this old hotel. Here the famous
vigilance committee meted out justice to rogue and outlaw alike.
In the early history of California the eighth day of July, 1846, stands
out conspicuously. On that day the Brooklyn dropped her anchor off the
island of Yerba Buena, the “good herb,” and flung the Stars and Stripes
to the breeze. At noon Captain Montgomery unfurled the American flag on
the plaza.
In that good ship came a party of pseudo Mormons, under the leadership
of “Bishop” Brannan, the valiant leader of the Vigilance Society. This
colony of Latter Day saints brought stout hearts, keen wits, strong
arms, pluck, plenty of money and a printing press. Later they quarreled
with their bishop and went to law with him and thus gave up their
scheme of Mormon colonization and made sport of Brigham Young himself
in their tents on the beach.
But they gave to San Francisco her first newspaper pledged to eschew
all sectarian dogmas; her first prayer meeting and her first trial by
jury. A wonderfully progressive people, those Mormons of the sand dunes.
Washington Bartlett, the first alcalde of Yerba Buena, changed the name
to San Francisco.
The name of John C. Fremont stands for California as does that of Dr.
Marcus Whitman for Oregon.
We called on the astrologer. When our horoscopes were cast and our
future told us, we bade adieu to China Town.
The Golden Gate park is a perfect bower of beauty, a fine piece of
landscape gardening.
[Illustration: MUSEUM IN GOLDEN GATE PARK, SAN FRANCISCO.]
In the center of the park stands the Hall of Art, a handsome building
of Egyptian architecture. From the display in the relic department
one easily reads the history of early days in California.
In the department of statuary the loveliest figure was one in the
beautiful carrara marble of Merope who was cast out of heaven because
she fell in love with a mortal.
A plaster cast of the head of David after the colossal statue by
Michael Angelo set in place in Florence in 1504, attracted much
attention.
Michael Angelo had his troubles like other mortals. When his David was
placed in position the mayor of Florence objected to the nose of the
statue, saying it was too large. Angelo, perceiving that his critic’s
position gave him a poor light on the figure, took a handful of marble
dust, a hammer and a chisel and climbing to the head of the statue gave
the nose a few taps, at the same time letting fall the dust. The mayor
without changing position declared the nose perfect.
The Second Oregon had come home: Early in the morning the commanders
were instructed to get their men ready to march to the barracks. Ten
minutes later the regiment was on the wharf, the men wearing the blue
shirts, brown trousers and leggins which they wore when charging
through the jungles and over the rice fields in the Philippines. The
mascot detachment was not so easily landed.
“Here, Walker, take this monkey,” shouted a corporal.
“Grab that goat quick, he is going overboard.”
“Lend me a hand here, you privates; let’s get this menagerie ashore,”
commanded the officer of the day.
Order reigned about two seconds when “Monkey overboard” turned order
into chaos. Twenty men rushed to the edge of the wharf and strenuous
efforts were made to save the life of the little brown fellow who had
toppled off the gang plank. Ropes were carried from every corner of the
wharf, but the efforts of the men were unavailing and the monkey lost
his life. The other monkeys, the parrots, the dogs and the goat were
safely landed. The goat chews tobacco and eats it too.
The Oregon band struck up “Home Sweet Home” in quick time and the march
to the Presidio began.
For an hour or more a man near me had been talking in a pessimistic way
about the war. He said this Philippine scuffle didn’t amount to much
anyway. What did we want with their old islands, anyhow? We ought to
return them. It was a violation of the constitution to keep them.
Ten minutes later he was saying, “I can’t stand it,” as platoon after
platoon went by with decimated ranks. One platoon had left nearly every
man in the Philippines.
There were others who “couldn’t stand it.” “Home Sweet Home” sounded
like a mockery. Up the street trudged these boys in blue, travel
stained and weary, bearing the flag with holes in it, holes made by the
death-winged bullets of the Filipinos. How gaunt and sick they looked.
War had not been play with them. Not many cheers were heard. There were
more “God bless you boys” than “Hurrahs.”
Other bands may play better, other bands may play louder, but none ever
played more effectively than the Oregon.
Three big flags flung their folds to the ocean breeze as the regiment
marched up the street. One of them was a dazzle of blue and gold and
one bright and new, but one was the real Old Glory, torn by shot and
shell, raveled and frayed by the Philippine winds. It was the battle
stained, tattered emblem of our country’s honor that received the
heartiest cheers and warmest welcome. This was the flag that brought
the mist before the eyes and brought to the mind Decatur’s noble toast.
“Our country. In her intercourse with foreign countries may she always
be right; but right or wrong, our country.”
On stretchers borne by the ambulance corps came the sick and wounded.
A great contrast, these war-worn soldiers, to the spick and span Sixth
Cavalry which escorted them.
Right royally did the Queen of the Golden Gate welcome home Oregon’s
noble sons.
Passing the Examiner building nearly a million firecrackers which
decorated the building, hanging in great loops and festoons, were
set off. In the midst of this noise some one threw out a big bouquet
of American Beauty roses. A soldier caught them and sniffed their
fragrance. “They’re American Beauties, boys,” he said and passed them
on. Up and down the line went those roses, each man burying his face in
them for a moment, then passing them on to his brother. When they had
passed the rear line they were handed to the next platoon, and so they
went on down that battle-scarred line.
The little Filipino boy, Manuel Robels, who accompanied the boys home,
caught nearly every eye as he trudged along, a sawed-off Mauser rifle
over one shoulder and an American flag over the other. Flowers were
showered on him too.
Out at Van Ness street General Shafter sat on horseback with his staff,
to review the troops.
Just beyond the place of review a company of wee tots with military
hats and lath guns stood at the edge of the side-walk and presented
arms. All that gallant regiment, from the colonel to the little
Filipino boy, returned the salute of those patriotic tots.
Thus the noble Second regiment of the Oregon Volunteers marched out to
the Presidio and to Fame’s eternal camping ground.
The Presidio, now the United States barracks, was established by the
Spaniards in 1776. Little dreamed they that out of this camp would come
one hundred years later a conquering host.
The camp is delightfully located on the bay north of the city. The
grounds include a thousand acres. The officers’ quarters are neat, cosy
cottages. The long porches and verandas of the barracks are covered
with vines and roses. Rows upon rows of flowers such as only grow in
this moist climate decorate the walks on either side.