THE “GOLDEN CITY.”
WE embarked at Panama on the steamer “Golden Age,” the same day we
landed at Aspinwall, and made the passage to San Francisco in fourteen
days—touching at the ports of Acapulco and Manzanillo, Mexico—coaling at
the former place. The distance from Panama to San Francisco is three
thousand two hundred and sixty-seven nautical miles, according to the
record of our run. Manzanillo is about midway between the two places,
while Acapulco is about three hundred miles nearer Panama.
I will not trouble the reader with the details of this voyage, but,
simply stating that we arrived in the grand harbor of San Francisco
early in May, and landed early one pleasant Sunday morning, I will
proceed to tell what kind of place it is, and relate what befell the
redoubtable John Smith there.
First, I will briefly mention the peculiarities of San Francisco,
commencing with—
THE CLIMATE.—In San Francisco, as well as along the whole coast of
California and Oregon, the temperature of the air does not vary much
during the year. There are no extremes of heat or cold. The trade winds
prevail during the summer, and there is no rain except in the winter
months—the period of the “rainy season.” It seldom snows or freezes—and
never to any considerable extent. In the summer the thermometer seldom
indicates a higher degree of temperature than eighty. This would be
rather warm, but for the steady breeze that sweeps in from the broad
Pacific.
THE HARBOR of San Francisco has not, probably, an equal in the world.
The entrance is narrow, and tall, abrupt hills stand guard on either
side. This entrance is termed the “Golden Gate.” The harbor is large
enough to float all the vessels in the world; it is adorned with several
picturesque islands; and its shores, where not occupied with buildings,
are beautiful and green, except on the south side near the entrance,
where immense heaps (almost mountains) of sand are the prevailing
feature.
THE POPULATION was fifty-six thousand in 1860, according to the National
Census, but it is now _three times_ as great. It is, of course, composed
of people from all parts of the world, but chiefly from the United
States. A large proportion of the population are the Chinese. These
people are small in stature, yellow in color, pagan in religion,
ingenious, industrious, inoffensive, cowardly, low-lived, filthy, and
ugly as toads—creatures to which they bear a striking family
resemblance. They work at any and every thing, many of them doing
housework, washing and ironing, and the like. I remember seeing the
following names of “Orientals” on their business signs: Wo Hop, Hung
Gee, Cum Lum Sam, Sam Lee, Wo Lee, Wo Wing, Ah Sing, Wing Wo, Yek Wa.
These distinguished gentlemen from the Orient, (or rather, to one in
California, from the Occident) were all extensively engaged in the
laundry business. There are but few negroes in San Francisco. I do not
think I saw a dozen while there.
THE MONEY in circulation in the “Golden City” is only silver and gold.
No paper money of any kind is seen.
EARTHQUAKES are a luxury which this city indulges in occasionally. We
had one gentle shock while I was there. A few years ago they were
favored with one that did much damage, and scared many of the
inhabitants out of a year’s growth: and in October, 1868, they had one
still more severe. Slight shocks are quite common.
San Francisco is one of the greatest fruit, vegetable, and grain markets
in the world.
During my sojourn in San Francisco, I was employed as “Funny Man” of a
well-known literary paper, the “GOLDEN CITY;” and shortly after my
arrival I published an article, under a _nom de plume_, in which I
touched up some of the peculiarities of the city as they presented
themselves to me, in the following manner:
“CAT’S-EYE VIEW OF SAN FRANCISCO. BY O. JOB JONES.
“One morning, shortly after my arrival in San Francisco, I strolled out
to take a view of the city as it was and is—the clerk of my hotel having
kindly informed me that it was ‘piled up all around us.’
“I first directed my steps to the post-office, where, making my way up
to the ‘J’ window, I modestly inquired if there was any letter for O.
Job Jones? The clerk without looking, informed me that there wasn’t.
Wondering how he found it out, I asked if there were any newspapers?
Yes, wrong as it was to annoy him with so many foolish questions, I
did.”
“What was his reply?
“I will tell you.
“The truth of the matter was, the steamer hadn’t been in more than
twenty-four hours, and the papers had not yet been distributed. This the
clerk _might_ have informed me, in calm, gentlemanly and comprehensive
language: but, did he? No. Such a course would have been inconsistent
with his dignity. Here’s the way he answered me; he says—and that in a
rude tone that startled me—says he:
“‘YOU’D BETTER WAIT TILL THEY’RE DISTRIBUTED FIRST, HADN’T YOU!’
“Abashed and mortified at this exhibition of superior greatness, and
enjoying a full sense of my littleness—my comparative _nothingness_—I
turned away, trembling. If I had never before felt that I was but
mortal, I felt it now—felt it sensibly, deeply, awfully, as I shrunk
from the stern presence of this great being.
“I was patient, however. I remembered that the morning was a little
damp; and, wishing to return good for evil, I informed this mighty man
that there was a more genial climate located somewhere—a climate where
they have warm weather the year round—and recommended his emigration
thither at once. All this in the most laconic language imaginable.
“The Atheist claims that there is no God: but he is clearly mistaken.
Just let him go to that post-office window and inquire for a paper or
letter inopportunely, and he will see before him the stern, exalted
countenance of as fine a little god as any one would wish to see.
Vulcan, the god of fire; Mars, the god of war; Neptune, the god of the
deep; and Jupiter, the great big god of all, are simply nowhere,
compared with that pompous and pretentious clerk of the P. O.!
“Full of these thoughts, I wended my way westward, towards the more
elevated regions of the city. I had not gone far till I met a singular
being, whose name (I have since learned) was John Hung Kee Dung Kee Lung
Kee Mung Kee Choo Bang. This person, I understood, constituted a
considerable portion of the population of San Francisco. The most
remarkable feature about him was, that he didn’t resemble anybody else I
had ever seen, in _any_ feature. His color was a mixture about half-way
between that of a bay colt and that of a cream-colored pony. His nose
was the puggest of the pug, and the ugliest of the ugly. He wore a blue
cotton petticoat on each leg, and a black shirt, which he hadn’t the
decency to stuff in anywhere. He had a pair of skates on, but the iron
part was broken off, and he walked on the wood. He had no hat on, but
his head was tied up in a piece of goods such as they make black cotton
umbrellas of. He had no hair on his head at all, except just one single
one that grew out at the back about as thick as a corn-cob, and hung
down to his heels, where it came to a point. This, I fancied, would be
very convenient to hang him. He appeared to be an adult male, not
younger than fifteen, or older than forty-nine; but somewhere along
about there.
“I have been informed that this individual was imported in large numbers
from a little island, somewhere in the Pacific, called China. It is but
a small island, inhabited by only a few hundred millions of these
people; so they can never do much harm anywhere.
“As I walked up street, I was a little surprised to meet a house on its
way down to the post-office.[4] It was traveling slowly, to be sure; but
it looked smiling and happy, and even intelligent. I am informed that
when a man gets dissatisfied with the location of his dwelling, he just
ties a rope round the door-knob and leads it away, up or down street, to
some more agreeable vicinity, like a man leading a horse to water with a
halter. I have since met quite a number walking about. They seem quite
tractable and docile, and will follow where led, just like a
good-natured elephant.
Footnote 4:
This is an allusion to the moving of buildings, which is carried on to
a considerable extent in San Francisco. It is no unusual thing there,
to move a frame building as much as a mile when the owner finds it
profitable to sell the ground it stands on.
“I like this system very much. I cannot help thinking how convenient it
would be if I had a house up in that neighborhood where the “John”
element prevails. I should just put a halter on and lead it away a mile
or two to-morrow morning before breakfast.
“I like several things about San Francisco. I like its ‘fractional
currency’ for one thing. The material it is printed on is better
calculated for standing all sorts of weather, and the wear and tear of
time, than that in the States. Moreover, it is not near so likely to be
repudiated, and enjoys a better foreign reputation.
“I like the ladies here; they have but one fault. That fault is similar
to that of the very small congregation that turned out one Sunday
morning at the church I used to attend. There were not more than
nineteen of us, and the parson scolded us for an hour because we didn’t
turn out better. It wasn’t our fault that the rest didn’t come. I’m sure
I was all there. So, I suppose it is hardly just to censure the ladies
here because there are not more of them; it isn’t their fault.
“I am also pleased with the elevated points around;[5] they give a man a
chance to rise in the world, without principle, capital or reputation.
Besides, one of them would be such a fine start for a monument. One
might be topped out on Telegraph Hill, for instance, with very little
expense; and in a graphic description of it, it might be stated that the
top was five hundred and twenty-three feet above tide-water. No allusion
need be made to the bottom.
Footnote 5:
I have already intimated that there were a few rough hills in this
vicinity. There are streets in San Francisco which it is difficult to
ascend without ladders.
“Among other peculiarities of San Francisco, I perceive that the
blacking of boots and shoes is done by grown-up adult men, and that they
have regular establishments for the accommodation of the customer. This
is a grand idea. The customer not only has a comfortable seat to sit in
while his brogans are being rubbed down and shined up, but he also
enjoys the luxury of a shelter, which is ample protection against the
heavy summer rains and winter snows, which, I believe, prevail very
extensively here.
“Pardon me if I make any blunders in giving my views of San
Francisco.[6]
Footnote 6:
As the reader may have already gathered, they have no rain in summer
or snow in winter.
“I have perceived, in the course of my perambulations, that they were
moving Kearny street further up the hill.[7] I didn’t like to ask any
questions concerning it, lest I should be considered green; but I
supposed that the reason was that it had slid down at the time of the
earthquake here, a few years ago.
Footnote 7:
An allusion to the widening and improving of that street.
“I have heard so much about the rough state of society here, that I am
surprised and delighted to find that law and order are as strictly
observed here as in any city of the States. From what I have heard in
times gone by, I was led to anticipate that I should hear a bullet whiz
every time I should step from my door, and that I should find a fresh
dead man lying at every corner. I am glad to find, however, that the
streets are entirely clear of such obstructions, and that men are not
killed here, except in cases of absolute necessity. I highly approve of
this orderly state of things. I don’t deny that it is quite a pleasant
pastime to a new beginner to help kill a man or two each week; but, as
is the case with every other enjoyment, the novelty soon wears off, and
one gets tired of it.”
I carried a letter of introduction from a gentleman in Philadelphia to
Mr. J. M. Foard, of the “Golden City,” San Francisco, and was very
cordially received.
“Mr. Foard,” I said one day, shortly after my arrival, “I am very fond
of the water——”
“Not as a beverage, I hope,” he interrupted.
“Not as a regular beverage; but as a medium of navigation. I love riding
on the water. I would like to go out and take a row.”
“Where?” he asked.
“On the harbor,” I replied.
“Don’t do it.”
“Why?”
“You are not familiar with our harbor. It is an unsafe one for an
inexperienced boatman. Even some of the most skillful lose their lives.
It may be calm and smooth as a river one moment; the next, the tide may
change, the wind rise against it, and it may become so boisterous, all
at once, that you might imagine it was ready to boil over. Don’t venture
out in a small boat. We have a list of drownings to record every week,
and should be most unhappy to place your name in our next week’s list.
Don’t go!”
“I won’t,” I replied, fully impressed with the dangers of the harbor.
I meant it.
But—perfidious as it was—I afterward basely disregarded the advice of my
excellent friend Foard, and justly came to grief.
Five minutes after leaving the office of the “Golden City,” I met two
fellow-passengers, named Gilmore and Brooker—both good fellows, and fond
of fun—the latter a nephew of a celebrated “ornament of the stage,” then
“drawing houses” in San Francisco.
“Smith,” said Gilmore, “suppose we take a ride somewhere?”
“Where?” I asked.
“Any where,” said he.
“Let us take a boat-ride,” suggested Brooker.
“The very thing!” said Gilmore.
“I have been told,” I interposed, “that the harbor here is rather
dangerous, and——”
“O, never mind! We can manage a boat in any harbor. I am some oarsman,
myself.”
“There can’t be much danger with three of us to run the craft,” remarked
Brooker. “Let us go!”
We went.
The face of the harbor was as smooth and gentle as that of a “sleeping
beauty,” and the three of us glided gracefully out from one of the
piers—a pair of oars, in my skillful (?) hands, gently dipping into the
unruffled waters at irregular intervals. The friendly warning of Foard
was entirely forgotten.
O, Foard! Thou best of friends! Though John Smith may be wandering
thousands of miles from the happy spot where thy kind face first smiled
a welcome to him in a strange land, yet fresh in his memory is that
noble and pleasing face, as on the day thy warning voice said: “Don’t go
out on the harbor, Smith!”
The air is usually quiet in the morning, at San Francisco, but as the
day advances, a stiff breeze springs up, and, on meeting the ebbing
tide, stirs up the waters of the harbor, as though a young son of
Neptune were just beneath the surface, lashing them with his toy-whip:
the waterman must then exercise his utmost strength and skill to
navigate with safety.
We had not proceeded more than a mile, when the tide commenced to run
out, the wind came sweeping in through the “Golden Gate,” and the waters
began to evince their illest humor.
The first trifling mishap that befel us was that a rough, ill-natured,
foam-crested wave came slashing along, wrested an oar from my hand, and
left it floating on the “briny deep.” The boat became unmanageable,
turned with her side to the waves, and lay in a trough of the—harbor.
In endeavoring to recover the truant oar, Gilmore pitched out into the
“yeast of waves;” and, in endeavoring to recover _him_, by means of his
coat-tail, _I_ pitched out; and, in endeavoring to save himself from the
same fate, Brooker pitched out; and there, with
“Nothing save the waves and”—us,
and the boat, (half-full of water,) we commenced a manly and awkward
struggle for existence. With this boon in view, Gilmore clung to the
oar, and Brooker and I to the boat.
By this time, the wind was blowing with actual fierceness, and the waves
swept clear over our heads every second. There can be little doubt that
we would all have found an eternal _nest_ among the slimy _harbor_-weed,
with only the monsters of the _shallow_ to drop a (crocodile) tear upon
our “moist, uncomfortable bodies,” but for certain timely “succor” that
appeared on the scene at this critical juncture. The said “succor”
comprised two skillful oarsmen, who owned the boat, and, having seen
that we managed it poorly, and fearing the loss of their property, had
put out to our assistance some minutes prior to the startling
accident—arriving just in time to save their boat (and us) from an
aqueous tomb.
They hauled us and the lost oar aboard their own boat, like so many
packages of damaged goods, (_flotsam_ Blackstone would have styled us,)
took the other boat in tow, and started for shore,—giving us a good
round cursing for our awkwardness in so nearly sacrificing their
property.
I never told Foard of this adventure till about two months had elapsed,
and it had got a little “old.” Then, having first exacted a promise from
him that he would not scold me for what I was about to tell him, frankly
confessed the whole affair, bringing out all the little extenuating
points, such as, “The morning was _so_ fine,” “The harbor was _so_
smooth,” “We thought that three of us could surely manage one boat.” “We
had partaken of fluid refreshments,” “We hadn’t seen each other for
several days, and felt so jolly glad,” _et cetera_.
He did not break his promise: but——
“Smith,” said he, “if I had not promised not to scold you, I would give
you the (blank)est blackguarding any man ever got in San Francisco! To
think that, in the very face of the good, healthy advice I gave you, you
should have the unparalleled audacity to—Well, never mind: I promised
not to scold: but if you ever do such a thing again—I wonder what time
it is? I feel dry.”
_I_ didn’t, the day I pitched out of the boat.