WE embarked at Panama on the steamer “Golden Age,” the same day we landed at Aspinwall, and made the passage to San Francisco in fourteen days—touching at the ports of Acapulco and Manzanillo, Mexico—coaling at the former place. The distance from Panama to San Francisco is three thousand two hundred and sixty-seven nautical miles, according to the record of our run. Manzanillo is about midway between the two places, while Acapulco is about three hundred miles nearer Panama.

I will not trouble the reader with the details of this voyage, but, simply stating that we arrived in the grand harbor of San Francisco early in May, and landed early one pleasant Sunday morning, I will proceed to tell what kind of place it is, and relate what befell the redoubtable John Smith there.

First, I will briefly mention the peculiarities of San Francisco, commencing with—

The Climate.—In San Francisco, as well as along the whole coast of California and Oregon, the temperature of the air does not vary much during the year. There are no extremes of heat or cold. The trade winds prevail during the summer, and there is no rain except in the winter months—the period of the “rainy season.” It seldom snows or freezes—and never to any considerable extent. In the summer the thermometer seldom indicates a higher degree of temperature than eighty. This would be rather warm, but for the steady breeze that sweeps in from the broad Pacific.

The Harbor of San Francisco has not, probably, an equal in the world. The entrance is narrow, and tall, abrupt hills stand guard on either side. This entrance is termed the “Golden Gate.” The harbor is large enough to float all the vessels in the world; it is adorned with several picturesque islands; and its shores, where not occupied with buildings, are beautiful and green, except on the south side near the entrance, where immense heaps (almost mountains) of sand are the prevailing feature.

The Population was fifty-six thousand in 1860, according to the National Census, but it is now three times as great. It is, of course, composed of people from all parts of the world, but chiefly from the United States. A large proportion of the population are the Chinese. These people are small in stature, yellow in color, pagan in religion, ingenious, industrious, inoffensive, cowardly, low-lived, filthy, and ugly as toads—creatures to which they bear a striking family resemblance. They work at any and every thing, many of them doing housework, washing and ironing, and the like. I remember seeing the following names of “Orientals” on their business signs: Wo Hop, Hung Gee, Cum Lum Sam, Sam Lee, Wo Lee, Wo Wing, Ah Sing, Wing Wo, Yek Wa. These distinguished gentlemen from the Orient, (or rather, to one in California, from the Occident) were all extensively engaged in the laundry business. There are but few negroes in San Francisco. I do not think I saw a dozen while there.

The Money in circulation in the “Golden City” is only silver and gold. No paper money of any kind is seen.

Earthquakes are a luxury which this city indulges in occasionally. We had one gentle shock while I was there. A few years ago they were favored with one that did much damage, and scared many of the inhabitants out of a year’s growth: and in October, 1868, they had one still more severe. Slight shocks are quite common.

San Francisco is one of the greatest fruit, vegetable, and grain markets in the world.

During my sojourn in San Francisco, I was employed as “Funny Man” of a well-known literary paper, the “Golden City;” and shortly after my arrival I published an article, under a nom de plume, in which I touched up some of the peculiarities of the city as they presented themselves to me, in the following manner:

“One morning, shortly after my arrival in San Francisco, I strolled out to take a view of the city as it was and is—the clerk of my hotel having kindly informed me that it was ‘piled up all around us.’

“I first directed my steps to the post-office, where, making my way up to the ‘J’ window, I modestly inquired if there was any letter for O. Job Jones? The clerk without looking, informed me that there wasn’t. Wondering how he found it out, I asked if there were any newspapers? Yes, wrong as it was to annoy him with so many foolish questions, I did.”

“What was his reply?

“I will tell you.

“The truth of the matter was, the steamer hadn’t been in more than twenty-four hours, and the papers had not yet been distributed. This the clerk might have informed me, in calm, gentlemanly and comprehensive language: but, did he? No. Such a course would have been inconsistent with his dignity. Here’s the way he answered me; he says—and that in a rude tone that startled me—says he:

“‘You’d better wait till they’re distributed first, hadn’t you!’

“Abashed and mortified at this exhibition of superior greatness, and enjoying a full sense of my littleness—my comparative nothingness—I turned away, trembling. If I had never before felt that I was but mortal, I felt it now—felt it sensibly, deeply, awfully, as I shrunk from the stern presence of this great being.

“I was patient, however. I remembered that the morning was a little damp; and, wishing to return good for evil, I informed this mighty man that there was a more genial climate located somewhere—a climate where they have warm weather the year round—and recommended his emigration thither at once. All this in the most laconic language imaginable.

“The Atheist claims that there is no God: but he is clearly mistaken. Just let him go to that post-office window and inquire for a paper or letter inopportunely, and he will see before him the stern, exalted countenance of as fine a little god as any one would wish to see. Vulcan, the god of fire; Mars, the god of war; Neptune, the god of the deep; and Jupiter, the great big god of all, are simply nowhere, compared with that pompous and pretentious clerk of the P. O.!

“Full of these thoughts, I wended my way westward, towards the more elevated regions of the city. I had not gone far till I met a singular being, whose name (I have since learned) was John Hung Kee Dung Kee Lung Kee Mung Kee Choo Bang. This person, I understood, constituted a considerable portion of the population of San Francisco. The most remarkable feature about him was, that he didn’t resemble anybody else I had ever seen, in any feature. His color was a mixture about half-way between that of a bay colt and that of a cream-colored pony. His nose was the puggest of the pug, and the ugliest of the ugly. He wore a blue cotton petticoat on each leg, and a black shirt, which he hadn’t the decency to stuff in anywhere. He had a pair of skates on, but the iron part was broken off, and he walked on the wood. He had no hat on, but his head was tied up in a piece of goods such as they make black cotton umbrellas of. He had no hair on his head at all, except just one single one that grew out at the back about as thick as a corn-cob, and hung down to his heels, where it came to a point. This, I fancied, would be very convenient to hang him. He appeared to be an adult male, not younger than fifteen, or older than forty-nine; but somewhere along about there.

“I have been informed that this individual was imported in large numbers from a little island, somewhere in the Pacific, called China. It is but a small island, inhabited by only a few hundred millions of these people; so they can never do much harm anywhere.

“As I walked up street, I was a little surprised to meet a house on its way down to the post-office.^[4] It was traveling slowly, to be sure; but it looked smiling and happy, and even intelligent. I am informed that when a man gets dissatisfied with the location of his dwelling, he just ties a rope round the door-knob and leads it away, up or down street, to some more agreeable vicinity, like a man leading a horse to water with a halter. I have since met quite a number walking about. They seem quite tractable and docile, and will follow where led, just like a good-natured elephant.

“I like this system very much. I cannot help thinking how convenient it would be if I had a house up in that neighborhood where the “John” element prevails. I should just put a halter on and lead it away a mile or two to-morrow morning before breakfast.

“I like several things about San Francisco. I like its ‘fractional currency’ for one thing. The material it is printed on is better calculated for standing all sorts of weather, and the wear and tear of time, than that in the States. Moreover, it is not near so likely to be repudiated, and enjoys a better foreign reputation.

“I like the ladies here; they have but one fault. That fault is similar to that of the very small congregation that turned out one Sunday morning at the church I used to attend. There were not more than nineteen of us, and the parson scolded us for an hour because we didn’t turn out better. It wasn’t our fault that the rest didn’t come. I’m sure I was all there. So, I suppose it is hardly just to censure the ladies here because there are not more of them; it isn’t their fault.

“I am also pleased with the elevated points around;^[5] they give a man a chance to rise in the world, without principle, capital or reputation. Besides, one of them would be such a fine start for a monument. One might be topped out on Telegraph Hill, for instance, with very little expense; and in a graphic description of it, it might be stated that the top was five hundred and twenty-three feet above tide-water. No allusion need be made to the bottom.

“Among other peculiarities of San Francisco, I perceive that the blacking of boots and shoes is done by grown-up adult men, and that they have regular establishments for the accommodation of the customer. This is a grand idea. The customer not only has a comfortable seat to sit in while his brogans are being rubbed down and shined up, but he also enjoys the luxury of a shelter, which is ample protection against the heavy summer rains and winter snows, which, I believe, prevail very extensively here.

“Pardon me if I make any blunders in giving my views of San Francisco.^[6]

“I have perceived, in the course of my perambulations, that they were moving Kearny street further up the hill.^[7] I didn’t like to ask any questions concerning it, lest I should be considered green; but I supposed that the reason was that it had slid down at the time of the earthquake here, a few years ago.

“I have heard so much about the rough state of society here, that I am surprised and delighted to find that law and order are as strictly observed here as in any city of the States. From what I have heard in times gone by, I was led to anticipate that I should hear a bullet whiz every time I should step from my door, and that I should find a fresh dead man lying at every corner. I am glad to find, however, that the streets are entirely clear of such obstructions, and that men are not killed here, except in cases of absolute necessity. I highly approve of this orderly state of things. I don’t deny that it is quite a pleasant pastime to a new beginner to help kill a man or two each week; but, as is the case with every other enjoyment, the novelty soon wears off, and one gets tired of it.”

I carried a letter of introduction from a gentleman in Philadelphia to Mr. J. M. Foard, of the “Golden City,” San Francisco, and was very cordially received.

“Mr. Foard,” I said one day, shortly after my arrival, “I am very fond of the water——”

“Not as a beverage, I hope,” he interrupted.

“Not as a regular beverage; but as a medium of navigation. I love riding on the water. I would like to go out and take a row.”

“Where?” he asked.

“On the harbor,” I replied.

“Don’t do it.”

“Why?”

“You are not familiar with our harbor. It is an unsafe one for an inexperienced boatman. Even some of the most skillful lose their lives. It may be calm and smooth as a river one moment; the next, the tide may change, the wind rise against it, and it may become so boisterous, all at once, that you might imagine it was ready to boil over. Don’t venture out in a small boat. We have a list of drownings to record every week, and should be most unhappy to place your name in our next week’s list. Don’t go!”

“I won’t,” I replied, fully impressed with the dangers of the harbor.

I meant it.

But—perfidious as it was—I afterward basely disregarded the advice of my excellent friend Foard, and justly came to grief.

Five minutes after leaving the office of the “Golden City,” I met two fellow-passengers, named Gilmore and Brooker—both good fellows, and fond of fun—the latter a nephew of a celebrated “ornament of the stage,” then “drawing houses” in San Francisco.

“Smith,” said Gilmore, “suppose we take a ride somewhere?”

“Where?” I asked.

“Any where,” said he.

“Let us take a boat-ride,” suggested Brooker.

“The very thing!” said Gilmore.

“I have been told,” I interposed, “that the harbor here is rather dangerous, and——”

“O, never mind! We can manage a boat in any harbor. I am some oarsman, myself.”

“There can’t be much danger with three of us to run the craft,” remarked Brooker. “Let us go!”

We went.

The face of the harbor was as smooth and gentle as that of a “sleeping beauty,” and the three of us glided gracefully out from one of the piers—a pair of oars, in my skillful (?) hands, gently dipping into the unruffled waters at irregular intervals. The friendly warning of Foard was entirely forgotten.

O, Foard! Thou best of friends! Though John Smith may be wandering thousands of miles from the happy spot where thy kind face first smiled a welcome to him in a strange land, yet fresh in his memory is that noble and pleasing face, as on the day thy warning voice said: “Don’t go out on the harbor, Smith!”

The air is usually quiet in the morning, at San Francisco, but as the day advances, a stiff breeze springs up, and, on meeting the ebbing tide, stirs up the waters of the harbor, as though a young son of Neptune were just beneath the surface, lashing them with his toy-whip: the waterman must then exercise his utmost strength and skill to navigate with safety.

We had not proceeded more than a mile, when the tide commenced to run out, the wind came sweeping in through the “Golden Gate,” and the waters began to evince their illest humor.

The first trifling mishap that befel us was that a rough, ill-natured, foam-crested wave came slashing along, wrested an oar from my hand, and left it floating on the “briny deep.” The boat became unmanageable, turned with her side to the waves, and lay in a trough of the—harbor.

In endeavoring to recover the truant oar, Gilmore pitched out into the “yeast of waves;” and, in endeavoring to recover him, by means of his coat-tail, I pitched out; and, in endeavoring to save himself from the same fate, Brooker pitched out; and there, with

and the boat, (half-full of water,) we commenced a manly and awkward struggle for existence. With this boon in view, Gilmore clung to the oar, and Brooker and I to the boat.

By this time, the wind was blowing with actual fierceness, and the waves swept clear over our heads every second. There can be little doubt that we would all have found an eternal nest among the slimy harbor-weed, with only the monsters of the shallow to drop a (crocodile) tear upon our “moist, uncomfortable bodies,” but for certain timely “succor” that appeared on the scene at this critical juncture. The said “succor” comprised two skillful oarsmen, who owned the boat, and, having seen that we managed it poorly, and fearing the loss of their property, had put out to our assistance some minutes prior to the startling accident—arriving just in time to save their boat (and us) from an aqueous tomb.

They hauled us and the lost oar aboard their own boat, like so many packages of damaged goods, (flotsam Blackstone would have styled us,) took the other boat in tow, and started for shore,—giving us a good round cursing for our awkwardness in so nearly sacrificing their property.

I never told Foard of this adventure till about two months had elapsed, and it had got a little “old.” Then, having first exacted a promise from him that he would not scold me for what I was about to tell him, frankly confessed the whole affair, bringing out all the little extenuating points, such as, “The morning was so fine,” “The harbor was so smooth,” “We thought that three of us could surely manage one boat.” “We had partaken of fluid refreshments,” “We hadn’t seen each other for several days, and felt so jolly glad,” et cetera.

He did not break his promise: but——

“Smith,” said he, “if I had not promised not to scold you, I would give you the (blank)est blackguarding any man ever got in San Francisco! To think that, in the very face of the good, healthy advice I gave you, you should have the unparalleled audacity to—Well, never mind: I promised not to scold: but if you ever do such a thing again—I wonder what time it is? I feel dry.”

I didn’t, the day I pitched out of the boat.