Theatres have sprung up like mushrooms, and actors are so plentiful and good that I think of the days of the little “Dramaticâ€� and Mr. Warren’s “last appearance but oneâ€� in fear and trembling, lest any one should recognise that individual in me.—Concerts and Balls, Fancy fairs and Picnics!—A planked road that leads to a sweet nook in the country, where, in spring time, the hills are bright with wild flowers, and the air fragrant with their odour.—A planked road that leads to the wild and rugged cliffs outside the bay, where the rollers break in one continued foam, as they lash themselves angrily against the massive wall that dares to check their course; and where, in the midst of fog and mist and the spray of struggling waters, sea lions live on lonely rocks, barking joyfully as the heavy surge sweeps over their oily backs.—A pleasant road that leads to a quiet lake, where you may dine at the hotel and enjoy, as it may suit you, the fragrance of the flowers, or the invigorating salt sea-air.—Horses and carriages; country villas and country inns; libraries and debating societies; ladies in plenty, children in plenty, and pleasant society, are here.—Steamers running to the Sandwich Islands, steamers running to China, steamers running to Panama and Australia, are here.—There are electric telegraphs throughout the country, and soon they say there will be a railroad that will connect San Francisco with the Atlantic States of America.
There is grain enough sown for the consumption of the country; there are brick-fields, stone quarries, lime works, and saw mills enough to supply fifty cities.
There are foundries, and steam flour-mills, ship-yards, and docks.
And in the mines:—where shall I stop if I begin to tell of the towns and villages that have sprung up there, of the bridges and roads, the aqueducts and tunnels, that meet one on every side?
And not least, the Press has taken a firm tone, and devotes itself to the eradication of existing evils.
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Again I am leaving San Francisco on a bright Sunday morning. As we glide past the hills, the sound of bells from twenty churches is borne to us over the calm bay; we can see artisans strolling in groups with their families, and schools of children on their way to church, who merrily wave us an adieu.
Soon the bells are heard no more, and now having passed the Heads, we meet the fat fog which the sun has turned out of the bay.
As we plunge boldly into this, we say farewell to California.