And then, the last spike in the line that united California with the East, was driven by Leland Stanford in May, 1869. Railroads were being built elsewhere, but this was the dream and desire of the Old San Francisco that had almost passed away.
But nothing could take away the beautiful Bay and the Golden Gate, the entrance to the golden land that had been the dream of centuries.
Afterward they did go round the world. Some of the old ports had changed greatly. Some just as Jason Chadsey had seen them thirty or more years agone. And there was wonderful Japan, which was some day to startle the world with its marvellous capacities. Strange India, with its old gods and old beliefs; Arabia, the Holy Land, with its many vicissitudes; great, barbarous Russia, Germany, the conqueror, and the beautiful Eugénie a sorrowful widow.
In Europe, Isola Savedra joined them, and did make a name as a remarkable improvisatrice. She did not court publicity, but the higher circles of music were really enchanted with her marvellous gift, and invitations came from crowned heads to play at palaces.
Lady Wrexford had achieved most of her ambitions, and was a social success. If she could only have kept off old age!
They came back well content. And, lo! again San Francisco had changed, stretched out up and down, with the hill-encircled bay on one side and the ocean-fretted rocks on the other. Is this old Market Street, and this Montgomery, with its splendid buildings? Whole blocks taken up by spacious hotels. California Street, with its palaces; Kearny Street, with its glittering stores and throngs of handsome shoppers or promenaders—everywhere a marvellous city.
But the old "Forty-niners" are gone, the Mexican in his serape and sombrero, the picturesque Californian on horseback, and nearly all the wandering Indians. Tents and shacks and two-roomed adobe houses have disappeared before the march of improvement.
The Savedras are prosperous and happy, and have a lovely home out of the turmoil and confusion, where beautiful nature reigns supreme. And an old, white-haired man, rather bent in the shoulders, tells a group of pretty, joyous children about the Old San Francisco of half a century before, and the long search of Jason after the Golden Fleece and the little girl that he loved so well. They go up Telegraph Hill and say, "Was it here she and Pablo made the little lake for Balder, was it here she climbed up the crooked paths and tamed birds and squirrels, and here that Bruno killed the cruel fox?" It is more wonderful than any fairy story to them.
Transcriber's Note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document have been preserved.