North from the ferry building, and near the foot of Powell Street, is
one of the old landmarks of San Francisco, known as Meiggs' Wharf.
In the early sixties an old saloon was located on the shore end of
this wharf, and connected with it was a museum which contained many
quaint curios from other lands, some of them of considerable value.
The occupant of this saloon never allowed the place to be cleaned, and
for years the spiders held undisputed possession, weaving their webs
without fear of molestation, until every nook and corner was filled
with their tapestry, and from ceiling and rafter hung long festoons of
gossamer threads that swayed back and forth in the breeze. It was a
place much visited by tourists, and a trip to San Francisco was not
considered complete without visiting this "Cobweb Museum," a name
bestowed upon it by its many guests.
It is said that Robert Louis Stevenson loved to visit this wharf and
listen to the tales told by the hardy sailors, and that out of them he
wove some of his most delightful South Sea Island stories.
Meiggs died in Peru in 1877, where he fled, a fugitive from justice,
and has long since been forgotten except by the older residents. The
wharf still remains, however, though more familiarly known to the
people of this generation as "Fisherman's Wharf"; but the old cobweb
saloon and museum are things of the past.
From here the Italian fishing boats leave for their fishing grounds
out beyond the heads, and if you visit the wharf in the early morning
you may see hundreds of these boats sail out past Land's End, and
through the Golden Gate, making a picture worthy of an artist's brush.
[Illustration: ITALIAN FISHING BOATS]
When the sun comes flashing over the hills, and the dancing waves
glisten with its rosy light, then the waters of the bay take on the
color of the amethyst. Go then to Meiggs' Wharf, and see the fishing
boats start out with lateen sail full set; hear the "Yo heave ho" of
the swarthy Italian fishermen, as they set their three-cornered,
striped sail to catch the breeze, and imagine yourself on the
far-famed bay of Naples. Your imagination does not suffer by
comparison, as San Francisco, like Naples, is built upon the hills,
and Mount Tamalpais across the bay, with wreaths of fog floating
around its summit, might well be taken for Mount Vesuvius.
[Illustration: DRYING THE NETS]
Out through the portals of the Golden Gate they sail, like
brown-winged pelicans, to drop their nets and cast their lines into
the mighty deep; but these picturesque boats are fast giving way to
more modern conveyances, and the fussy motorboat, that is not
dependent upon wind or tide, will soon relegate the lateen sail to
total obscurity.
Go again to the wharf in the late afternoon, and watch these same
boats come laboring in against the tide, sunk deep in the water with
their day's catch. See them unload, and spread the nets to dry, and if
you can find one of these grizzled old salts off duty, and he feels so
inclined, he will tell you (between puffs on his short, black pipe)
strange and interesting stories of adventure at sea or of shipwreck on
lonely island.
Then, as the sails are furled, and all made snug aloft and below, and
the boats bob up and down on the long swells, straining at their
moorings, the sun sinks down behind the ocean, leaving the wharf in
shadow. The lights begin to gleam in the city, the tower of the ferry
building gleams like a beacon, outlined with its thousands of
incandescent lights, and the ferryboat takes us across the bay and
home, to dream of queer-shaped sails, of ancient mariners, and the
"Golden City" on the bay.
[Illustration]