It might have been worse

by Beatrice Larned Massey

Oakland is a large, rapidly growing city, with its fine two-million-dollar Hotel Oakland occupying an entire block. The Municipal Auditorium, seating thirteen thousand people, is near the shores of Lake Merritt, in the City Park. It is a great railway center, the terminus of the Southern Pacific, Santa Fe, and Western Pacific lines. From here you take the ferry to San Francisco.

Berkeley is so near that we did not realize that we were not in Oakland. Days can be thoroughly enjoyed spent here at the University of California, the second largest educational institution in the world, commanding a view of the Golden Gate, the bay, and San Francisco. Early in the eighteenth century, Bishop George Berkeley of Cloyne, Ireland, came to America to establish colleges. In recognition of his devotion to the cause of learning, this city was named for him. His prophetic words, “Westward the course of empire takes its way,” have been justified and realized in California. On the university campus, the Sather Campanile towers above all the other buildings at a height of over three hundred feet.

The most distinctive feature of the university is the Greek Theater, in a hollow of the hills, planned on lines similar to those of the ancient theater at Epidaurus. The equable climate makes it possible to hold outdoor performances at any season of the year. We were told that ten thousand people could be seated comfortably. “Every artist who visits the Coast aspires to appear in our Greek Theater,” said our informant, and added with pride, “Sarah Bernhardt, Nordica, Tetrazzini, Gadski, Schumann-Heink, and Josef Hofmann have all been here—yes, and ‘Big Bill’ Taft too.” Since then, President Wilson addressed a capacity audience here.

As we knew that we should visit both of these cities many times, we drove to the wharf and boarded a ferry-boat holding seventy-five cars, which would land us at our destination, San Francisco. While crossing the harbor, which is seventy-five miles long and in places fifteen miles wide, almost surrounded by high peaks, let me try to picture to you the scene that greeted our eager eyes. It was about seven o’clock in the evening. The rays of the setting sun made a glow over the water and the distant city, touching the tops of the hills with an artist hand. To the northwest, crowning the scene like a giant sentinel, was Mt. Tamalpais. What Fujiyama is to the people of Japan, Mt. Tamalpais is, in a less oriental way, to the Californians. Whether you see it at sunrise or sunset, or standing out in bold relief against the noonday sky, or with the moon silvering its summit, or wrapped in a mist of clouds, it is a glorious sight, a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Below this summit is the dense wilderness of the Muir Woods, named in honor of John Muir, the celebrated California naturalist, with 295 acres of towering redwood trees, the famous Sequoia sempervirens, many attaining two hundred feet in height.

Back of the city are the Twin Peaks, with a boulevard encircling their heights, looking down on the harbor, alive with ships from every land—from the islands of the South Seas, the Mexican West Coast, China, Japan, Siberia, tropic America, British Columbia, Australasia, and our own dependencies of Alaska, Hawaii, and the Philippines—dressed with the flags of every country, and above them all, floating in its majesty, the Stars and Stripes, in honor of the arrival of the Pacific fleet, which, under command of Admiral Rodman, had passed through the Golden Gate that day and swung at anchor in the harbor—fifty splendid battleships of all descriptions, ablaze with lights. And small craft, from high-powered motor launches to fishing-boats, “wind-jammers,” or old-time sailing-vessels, ocean liners, great freighters, transports, and tramps, all formed a part of the scene along the Embarcadero, where lie at anchor the ships that bear the merchandise and products of the world to this gateway of the West—over seven million tons of freight yearly. The true heroes of sea fiction man these ships—rugged, venturesome men, with whom Stevenson, Frank Norris, and Jack London have peopled their books and pictured their scenes of the water-front of the city.

We were landed at the ferry slip, and with a sensation never to be forgotten we drove off the wharf into San Francisco—“the city loved around the world,” built upon hills overlooking the expanse of the Pacific, with a cosmopolitan throng of half a million people. We could not have reached here at a more fortunate or auspicious time. San Francisco was en fete in honor of the fleet. Every street and building was festooned with flags, banners, and garlands of flowers; the crowds of people were carrying flowers and waving flags. Market Street, the Broadway of the city, was arched with flowers, and suspended from the largest arch was a huge floral bell of the native golden poppies. All public conveyances and even private cars were decorated. Searchlights illuminated the scene. Bands were playing, auto-horns were tooting, and the air was alive with excitement—joyous, overbubbling pleasure, that had to find a vent or blow up the place.

All of the hotels were packed. The St. Francis looked like the Waldorf on New Year’s Eve. It was some hours before we found refuge in the Bellevue, a fine residential hotel on Geary Street.

The next day the Transcontinental Government Motor Convoy arrived, which added to the celebration that lasted a week. It had come over the Lincoln Highway, with every conceivable experience; the gallant young officer in command, Lieutenant-Colonel Charles McClure, told us at dinner the next evening that “Our worst experiences were in the desert. The sand was so deep and the trucks were so heavy that at times we only made a mile an hour. When one got stuck, the men cut the sagebrush and filled the ruts, and then we were able to crawl.” The city gave them an ovation, and “dined” them as well—and doubtless would have liked to have “wined” them also.

The next day we were in the thick of the whirl. I did not consider our trip really ended until we stood on the sands of the Pacific. We motored through the city, out to the former Exposition grounds, where but a few buildings were left standing, and to the Presidio, one of the oldest military stations in our country, embracing an area of 1542 acres, overlooking the harbor. The formidable coast defenses make San Francisco the best-fortified city in America. Farther to the east is Fort Mason, the residence of the commanding officer of the Western Division; also, the transport docks, the only ones owned by our Government.

Driving through Lincoln Park, we entered Golden Gate Park, covering 1013 acres, with hundreds of varieties of plant life from all parts of the world, artificial lakes, boulevards, and the gorgeous flowers for which California is famed. We could hardly realize that at one time this was but a desolate expanse of sand-hills. Within the park is the stadium, the largest athletic field of its kind in America, thirty acres in all, seating sixty thousand spectators. The park extends to the Ocean Beach Boulevard, on the edge of the sands, where the breakers come bounding in against the Seal Rocks and the high promontory on which the Cliff House stands. The water is cold, and a dangerous undertow makes bathing unsafe, but the shore is lined with cars; hundreds of people and children are on the sand, and the tame sea-gulls are walking on the street pavement very much like chickens.