The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
F. Rae,104 “as I saw it for the first time, the appearance of San Francisco is enchanting. Built on a hill-slope, up which many streets run to the top, and illumined as many of these streets were with innumerable gas-lamps, the effect was that of a huge dome ablaze with lamps arranged in lines and circles. Those who have stood in Princes Street at night, and gazed upon the Old Town and Castle of Edinburgh, can form a very correct notion of the fairy-like spectacle. Expecting to find San Francisco a city of wonders, I was not disappointed when it seemed to my eyes a city of magic—such a city as Aladdin might have ordered the genii to create in order to astonish and dazzle the spectator. I was warned by those whom personal experience of the city had taught to distinguish glitter from substance, not to expect that the reality of the morrow would fulfil the promise of the evening. Some of the parts which now appeared the most fascinating were said to be the least attractive when viewed by day. Still, the panorama was deprived of none of its glories by these whispers of well-meant warning.” The present writer has crossed the Bay in the ferry and other boats a hundred times, and on a fine night—and they have about nine months of fine nights in California—he never missed the opportunity of going forward towards the bows of the boat when it approached San Francisco. As Mr. Rae writes, “The full-orbed stars twinkling overhead are almost rivalled by the myriads of gas-lights illuminating the land.” Less than thirty years ago this city of 300,000 souls was but a mission-village, and the few inhabitants of California were mostly demoralised Mexicans, lazy half-breeds, and wretched Indians, who could almost live without work, and, as a rule, did so. Wild cattle roamed at will, and meat was to be had for the asking. The only ships which arrived were like the brig Pilgrim, described by Dana in “Two Years before the Mast,” bound to California for hides and tallow. Now, the tonnage of the shipping of all nations which enters the port of San Francisco is enormous. The discovery made by Marshall, in 1847, first brought about the revolution. “Such is the power of gold.” Now, California depends far more on her corn, and wool, and hides, her wine, her grapes, oranges, and other fruits, and on innumerable industries. Reader, you have eaten bread made from California wheat—it fetches a high price in Liverpool on account of its fine quality; you may have been clothed in California wool, and your boots made of her leather; more than likely you have drunk California wine, of which large quantities are shipped to Hamburgh, where they are watered and doctored for the rest of Europe, and exported under French and German names; your head may have been shampooed with California borax; and your watch-chain was probably, and some of your coin assuredly, made from the gold of the Golden State.
This is not a book on “The Land,” but two or three stories of Californian life in the early days may, however, be forgiven. The first is of a man who had just landed from a ship, and who offered a somewhat seedy-looking customer, lounging on the wharf, a dollar to carry his portmanteau. He got the reply, “I’ll give you an ounce of gold to see you carry it yourself.” The new arrival thought he had come to a splendid country, and shouldered his burden like a man, when the other, a successful gold-finder, not merely gave him his ounce—little less than £4 sterling—but treated him to a bottle of champagne, which cost another ounce. The writer can well believe the story, for he paid two and a half dollars—nearly half a guinea—for an Illustrated London News, and two dollars for a copy of Punch, in the Cariboo mines, in 1863; while a friend—now retired on a competency in England—started a little weekly newspaper, the size of a sheet of foolscap, selling it for one dollar (4s. 2d.) per copy. He was fortunately not merely a competent writer, but a practical printer. He composed his articles on paper first, and then in type; worked the press, delivered them to his subscribers, collected advertisements and payments, and no doubt would have made his own paper—if rags had not been too costly!
A sailor purchased, about the year 1849, in an auction-room, while out on a “spree,” the lots of land on which the Plaza, one of the most important business squares of San Francisco, now stands. He went off again, and after several years cruising about the world, returned to find himself a millionaire. The City Hall stands on that property; it is surrounded by offices, shops, and hotels, and very prettily planted with shrubs, grass-plots, and flowers.
There was a period when females were so scarce in California that the miners and farm-hands, ay, and farmers and proprietors too—a large number of these were old sailors—would travel any distance merely to see one.105 At this present time any decent English housemaid receives twenty dollars (£4) per month, and is “found,” while a superior servant, a first-class cook, or competent housekeeper, gets anything from thirty dollars upwards.
Theatres at San Francisco were once rude buildings of boards and canvas, and the stalls were benches. A story is told that at a performance at such a house quite a commotion was caused by the piercing squall of a healthy baby—brought in by a mother who, perhaps, had not had any amusement for a year or two, and most assuredly had no servant with whom to leave it at home—which was heard above the music. “Here, you fiddlers,” roared out a stalwart man in a red shirt and “gum” boots, just down from the mines, “stop that tune; I haven’t heard a baby cry for several years; it does me good to hear it.” The “one touch of nature” made that rough audience akin, and all rose to their feet, cheering the baby, and insisting that the orchestra must stop, and stop it did until the child was quieted. Then a collection was made—not of coppers and small silver, but of ounces and dollars—to present the child with something handsome as a souvenir of its success.
THE BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO.
San Francisco, as the most important commercial emporium and port of the whole Pacific, has a particular interest to the “man of the sea.” It has societies, “homes,” and bethels for his benefit, and a fine marine hospital. At the Merchants’ Exchange he will find the latest shipping-news and quotations, while many public institutions are open to him, as to all others. Above all, he will find one of the most conscientious and kind, as well as influential, of British Consuls there—and how often the sailor abroad may need his interference, only the sailor and merchant knows—who is also one of the oldest in H.B.M. consular service. No matter his sect, it is represented; San Francisco is full of churches and chapels. If he needs instruction and literary entertainment, he will get it at the splendid Mercantile Library, or admirably-conducted Mechanics’ Institute. There is a capital “Art Association,” with hundreds of members. He will find journalism of a new type: “live,” vigorous, generous, and semi-occasionally vicious. The papers of San Francisco will, however, compare favourably with those of any other American city, short of New York and Boston. The sailor will find the city as advanced in all matters pertaining to modern civilisation, whether good or bad, as any he has ever visited. The naval officer will find admirable clubs, and if of the Royal Navy will most assuredly be put on the books of one or more of them for the period of his stay. He will find, too, that San Francisco hospitality is unbounded, that balls and parties are nowhere better carried out, and that the rising generation of California girls are extremely good-looking, and that the men are stalwart, fine-looking fellows, very unlike the typical bony Yankee, who, by-the-by, is getting very scarce even in his own part of the country, the New England States.
If Jack has been to China, he will recognise the truth of the fact that parts of San Francisco are Chinese as Hong Kong itself. There are Joss-houses, with a big, stolid-looking idol sitting in state, the temple gay with tinsel and china, metal-work and paint, smelling faintly of incense, and strongly of burnt paper. There are Chinese restaurants by the dozen, from the high-class dining-rooms, with balconies, flowers, small banners and inscriptions, down to the itinerant restaurateur with his charcoal-stove and soup-pot. Then there are Chinese theatres, smelling strongly of opium and tobacco, where the orchestra sits at the back of the stage, which is curtainless and devoid of scenery. The dresses of the performers are gorgeous in the extreme. When any new arrangement of properties, &c., is required on the stage, the changes are made before your eyes; as, for example, placing a table to represent a raised balcony, or piling up some boxes to form a castle, and so forth. Their dramas are often almost interminable, for they take the reign of an emperor, for example, and play it through, night after night, from his birth to his death. In details they are very literal, and hold “the mirror up to nature” fully. If the said emperor had special vices, they are displayed on the stage. The music