I am glad we did not so far forget ourselves as to arrive on Sunday,
for it appears that certain good, gifted, and famous persons, who shall
be nameless, telegraphed to certain Christian leaders of their intended
arrival on that day, and received answer: “The hour of your coming will
find us at church. The Palace is the best hotel.” Now on an overland
trip, an absent-minded traveler might fail to note the precise date
of his arrival in the metropolis of the Pacific, but that would be no
excuse to our guid folk yonder, whose Sunday laws have been smitten
from their statute books, and Christians hold themselves to strict
account for their example, which now alone conserves the Christian’s
worship and the poor man’s rest.
San Francisco is probably the most cosmopolitan city now extant. Its
three hundred thousand people sound the gamut of nationality in the
most varying and dissonant chorus that ever greeted human ears. The
struggle for survival is an astonishing mixture of fierceness and
good-nature. Crowding along the streets, Irish and Chinaman, New
Englander and Negro, show kind consideration, but in the marts of
trade and at the polls “their guns are ballots, their bullets are
ideas.” Old-time asperities are softening, however, even on these
battlegrounds. The trend is upward, toward higher levels of hope and
brotherhood. Eliminate the alcohol and opium habits, and all these
would (and will ere long) dwell together in unity. Lives like those
of Rev. Dr. Otis Gibson, and Mrs. Captain Goodall, invested for the
Christianizing of the Chinese, or like that of Mrs. Sarah B. Cooper,
devoted to kindergartening the embryo “hoodlum,” or that of Dr. R. H.
McDonald, the millionaire philanthropist, consecrated to the temperance
reform, are mighty prophecies of the good time coming.
San Francisco is the city of bay windows, and its people, beyond any
other on this continent, believe in sunshine and fresh air. In like
manner, they are fond of ventilating every subject, are in nowise
afraid of the next thing simply because it is the next, but have broad
hospitality for new ideas. Rapid as the heel taps of its street life
is the movement of its thought and the flame of its sympathy. Much as
has been said in its dispraise, Mount Diablo—the chief feature of its
environs—is not so symbolic of its spirit as the white tomb of Thomas
Starr King, which, standing beside one of its busiest streets, is a
perpetual reminder of noble power conserved for noblest use. Everybody
knows San Francisco’s harbor is without a rival save Puget Sound and
Constantinople. Everybody has heard of its “Palace Hotel,” the largest
in the world, and one that includes “eighteen acres of floor;” of
its “endless chain” street cars, the inevitable outgrowth of dire
necessity in its up-hill streets; of its indescribable “Chinatown;” of
“Seal Rock,” with its monster sea-lions, gamboling and howling year
out and year in, for herein are the salient features of the strange
city’s individuality. For a metropolis but thirty-four years old,
the following record is unrivaled: Total value of real and personal
property, $253,000,000; school property, $1,000,000; 130,000 buildings;
11,000 streets; 12 street car lines; 33 libraries and reading-rooms; 38
hospitals; 316 benevolent societies; 168 newspapers, and—the best fire
department in the world!
The two drawbacks of this wonderful city are its variable climate and
its possible earthquakes. A witty writer warns the intending tourist
thus: “Be sure to bring your _summer_ clothes. Let me repeat: be sure
to bring your _winter_ clothes.” To state the fact that in August
one may see fur cloaks any day, and in January a June toilet is not
uncommon, is but another way of stating that the galloping sea breeze,
unimpeded by mountains, rushes in moist squadrons on the shore, and
has all seasons for its own, in which to battle with the genial warmth
of this most lovely climate. As to earthquakes, there have been but
three since 1849, and these were insignificant calamities compared
with one year of our domesticated western tornadoes. Less than fifty
lives have been lost in California by earthquakes, thirty-seven of
these occurring in the country outside of San Francisco, and less than
a hundred thousand dollars worth of property has been destroyed, while
two millions would not cover our loss by cyclone in a single year,
to say nothing of the number of victims. Civilization seems to have
a naturalizing effect on fleas, snakes and earthquakes, west of the
Sierras, but acts as a tonic upon hurricanes east of the Rockies. Will
our scientists please “rise to explain” this mystery so close in its
relation to human weal and woe?
[To be continued.]