Beyond Hayward's, further south, and thence sweeping around to the right, toward the extreme end of the bay, we dimly discern the northern end of the beautiful Santa Clara Valley, where it widens out and flattens down to the bay. We are now looking almost due south. Only four miles down, Hunter's Point shuts off our further view, and compels us to look nearer home. A trifle west of that, and half as far away, the Potrero presents its transverse ridge, fast disappearing under the rapidly-growing city, and showing a gap of daylight where the deep cut of the Bay View horse railroad was relentlessly dug and blasted through, in its stubborn pursuit of a practicable grade. Between the cut and ourselves, the Long Bridge shuts off the Mission bay, and shows where the fast-filling mud-flats will soon crowd back the bay, and make a new water front. Still nearer, we have the western slope or ridge of Rincon Hill, rising gradually to the left, and packed all over with the huddled and mostly wooden houses of the new and hurriedly-built city. Along the inner base of the hill, and stretching out westward, lies the old "Happy Valley." That's just this side of where you see the shot-tower, and runs thence four or five blocks to the right. Between that and ourselves, coming over this side of Market street, we have the oldest and most densely-built part of the city, relieved here and there—by the Occidental Hotel, Tucker's tower, the Merchants' Exchange, Murphy, Grant & Co.'s building, and half a dozen others. Now let the vision range away southwest, again beginning at the hills and coming in. The bounding hills are Bernal Heights, west of which Fairmount and the adjacent hills merge into the peninsular range, and form a rude amphitheatre, within which nestles the fast-growing southwestern precinct. Coming up toward the west, the twin summits of the Mission peaks slant the vision up against the sky, or plunge it into the fleecy billows of in-rolling ocean fog, which seldom survives the warmer air of the inner basin long enough to roll far down their western slope. Between them and us lies the Mission Dolores, grouped around its century-old church. Northward of the twin-peaks the hills rise in "promiscuous prominence." A little south of west, that irregularly conical hill, surmounted by a gigantic solitary cross, is the famous "Lone Mountain," about whose lower slopes, and around whose base are grouped so many "cities of the dead." Thence northerly, to the point whence our survey began, little of note arrests the sight, more than the broad reach of lower hills and sandy dunes, which patiently wait the coming occupation of the westward-growing city.
Although the point beneath our feet is but three hundred feet high, the panoramic view is wider and freer than from any other, even the highest hilltop of the city.
Russian Hill.—About one mile west-southwest from Telegraph Hill, on Vallejo street, between Taylor and Jones street, Russian Hill rises nearly sixty feet higher, but offers little additional prospect. It was formerly surmounted by a sort of cork-screw observatory, a skeleton structure of open frame-work, surrounded by a spiral stairway, whose summit afforded the loftiest lookout within the city limits. West-northwest of this hill, and about three-quarters of a mile from its summit, lies the small lagoon, near which the founders of the early mission first located.
Clay Street Hill.—Nearly south of Russian Hill, and about three furlongs from it, rises this hill, the highest within the city limits. It is named from the street which runs just south of its summit, or will do so when cut through. The hill is 376 feet high, and is a little over a mile southwest of Telegraph Hill. The view from its summit differs only in having moved the point of sight a mile southwest, and raised it about 80 feet.
California Street Hill.—This, too, takes its name from that of the neighboring street. It is hardly proper to call it a separate hill as it is but two blocks south of Clay Street Hill, from which only a slight hollow originally separated it.
Rincon Hill.—Three quarters of a mile southwest of the City Hall. Its highest point reaches hardly a hundred feet above the bay level. The whole hill originally offered such sightly locations for building that it is covered on nearly all sides, and crowded upon its very height, by some of the most comfortable and home-like residences in the entire city. This fact makes it almost impossible to get an unobstructed view, in all directions, from any part of it. It was a favorite, and almost an aristocratic site for residences, until the heartless greed for gain procured legal authority to excavate the famous "Second Street Cut;" 75 feet deep, which needlessly ruined the beauty of the hill.
Lone Mountain.—This singularly symmetrical hill stands two and one-half miles west of the City Hall, at the head of Bush street. It is 284½ feet high. From its summit rises a solitary cross which, especially near sunset, stands forth against the western sky with peculiar, beautiful effect. The view hence is full of inspiration and suggestion. None have caught more of these, or embodied them in finer words than Bret Harte, in his favorite lines:
As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain crest,
Looking over the ultimate sea,
In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,