March 4th.—At sunrise I am on deck, called by the captain, to get a peep at the ‘Golden Gate.’ There is just enough light to reveal a stupendous mass of bold mountain scenery, rising apparently from the sea, and towering up 3,000 feet and over, until lost in the haze of the morning. Under the shadow of these hills we are puffing towards an opening, as if cut purposely through a solid wall of rock. On the right stands an immense fortress, built of red brick. Alcatraz Island, right ahead, is dimly visible, like a grey spot in the line of water. The ripple, touched by the sunbeams that are slanting into the bay, seems converted into revolving cylinders of brilliants. As we steam through this magnificent portal, the finest harbour in the world opens out to the southward and westward. On the curving shore of the bay, I can see the city of San Francisco, built on the slopes of three hills; to the left the island of Yerba Buena; farther to the right a forest of masts, from which flags representing every nation flutter in the breeze; ahead a long stretch of water, as far as eye could follow it—the continuation of the harbour.
We ran alongside an immense pier at 6 a.m. I am mobbed by touters from every hotel in San Francisco, and have hard work to keep my luggage from being equally divided amongst them. Passengers appear, for the first time since leaving Vancouver Island, blanched like celery or seakale. By dint of strong arms and stronger language, I get my luggage fastened to a grating that lets down by machinery, at the end of an omnibus marked ‘Oriental Hotel.’ I am hustled into the ‘bus with three pale passengers, and we are rapidly whirled off to the ‘Oriental.’ The mail-packet from Panama has also just arrived; all the beds are taken at the hotel, so I bide my chance of some one leaving before night.
Called on the Consul, and through his kindness am located in the Union Club House, a grand improvement on the ‘Oriental.’
March 5th.—Occupied in giving my letters of introduction, and arranging money-matters. The club-house in which I am staying is a massive granite building. The granite, beautifully faced and fitted, was all hewn in China; the house was put together there, to see everything was properly finished, then taken to pieces, packed, and shipped for San Francisco. Chinese builders came with it, brought their own scaffolding (made entirely from bamboo), put it together, built up the granite edifice in which I transcribe this, as handsome a structure as any San Francisco can boast of.
March 6th.—Having nothing particular to do, determine to visit the New Almaden quicksilver mines. There are two routes to these mines—one per stage the whole distance (56 miles), the other per steamer to the head of the Bay of San Francisco, and thence by stage to San José. Past experience had taught me, whenever possible, scrupulously to avoid stage travelling. Being tossed in a blanket, or rolled down a steep hill in a cask, produce much the same bruised and general state of sprain and dislocation as a day’s ride in a stage. Choosing the steamer lessened the chance of jolting by quite one-half, at the same time affording a good opportunity of seeing the famed Bay of San Francisco.
I embark at seven from a wooden pier—early as it is, alive with the hum, buzz, and bustle of the awakening city—and steam away over the unrippled waters of the bay. The temperature is delicious; a few fleecy clouds are swept rapidly over the clear blue sky by a light breeze blowing softly from the land, laden with the perfume of wild flowers and forest trees. A run of a few hours brought us to the embarcadero, or landing, at the head of the bay, from whence a stage bumped me over the road about four miles, to the old town of San José.
Pueblo San José stands at the entrance of a lovely valley. The town consists of a collection of adobe houses; a few in the main street are built of wood, painted white, with brilliant green jalousies outside the windows. The older houses are scattered round an open space, the plaza: trees of greenest foliage, in double rows, shade one from the burning sun, and everywhere spacious orchards and flower-gardens testify to the fertility of the soil.
Having a note from a friend in San Francisco to the host of ‘—— House,’ more than ordinary civility was accorded me, and by some superhuman means a buggy would be ready in about two hours to take me to the mines. Crossing the Alameda, a grove of willows and oaks, planted by the padres, leads to the old crumbling walls of what was once a very spacious mission, now rapidly falling to decay. The interior of the old church is decorated with rude carvings, paintings of the Crucifixion, and frescoed figures of saints and martyrs, clad in garments of dazzling colours. One old shaven priest, with a particularly dirty cassock, and a face so begrimed with layers of filth as to be mosquito-proof, was the only ecclesiastic visible. Thousands of cliff swallows (Hirundo lunifrons) were busy building their bottle-shaped mud nests under the dilapidated roof.
Discovered little worth looking at in the town. Found the buggy waiting: my coachman, a regular Yankee, puffing vigorously at an immense cigar, was seated in readiness, his legs resting on the splash-board. Without removing the cigar from his mouth, he drawled out, ‘Say, Cap’en, guess you’d better hurry up if you mean making the ranch before sundown. Bet your pants this child ain’t agwine that road in the dark nohow.’ ‘What’s to happen?’ I mildly enquired. ‘Happen! Wal, maybe upset; maybe chawed up by a grizzly; maybe cleaned slick out by the greasers. You’d better believe a man has to keep his eye skinned in the daytime; so hurry up, Cap.’ Without further parley I scrambled in, and away we went.
Our road lay over broad plains and through occasional belts of timber; deep, gravelly arroyos, in and out of which we dashed with a plunging scramble, marked the course of the floods. Everything was steaming hot; the baked ground reflected back the scorching sun-rays, until the atmosphere quivered as one sees it over a limekiln; the mustangs in a fog of perspiration; the Jehu, denuded of coat and vest, continually yelled ‘A git along,’ with a rein in each hand, steering rather than driving, was red-hot in body and temper. But this was nothing to my state of broil. Exposed to a temperature that would have made one perspire sitting in the shade; to be kept in a state of bodily fear of instant upset; to undergo a continuous exercise that would have been good training for an athlete, to avoid being shot out of the buggy like a shell from a mortar, would have set an Icelander in a glow. The rapidity with which we whirled along, and the eccentric performances of the vehicle, destroyed, in a measure, the enjoyment of a scene quite new to me.