taken the fugitives undoubtedly would have made a desperate resistance.

Yerba Buena cemetery could tell some strange tales if its dead could speak. Little dreamed the gravediggers of those days that these dreary acres dotted with chaparral and sage-brush beneath, with here and there diminutive oaks and stunted laurel which hid the timid hare, while the howling coyote prowled not far off; that this uninviting wilderness should so soon be laid out in broad streets whose sides should be lined with beautiful residences, and that from the very spot where were then deposited the tired bones of the argonauts should so soon arise the magnificent city hall of this young, giant metropolis.

There was one solitary manzanita with blood-red stalk and ever-green leaves which looked as if it had strayed from some happy valley of the Coast Range, hidden from the rude blasts of ocean. It seemed out of place here, this bloody red and green shrub, midst the ghastly white of dead humanity. It was a sorrowful looking place, harboring the remains of sorrowful men.

It was in February 1850 that the ayuntamiento set aside there shifting sands for burial purposes. In 1857 an old fence enclosed the sacred ground, entrance to which was made through a dilapidated gate. The place was sadly neglected, the paths in places entirely obliterated, and the grove approached only by wading ankle deep in sand. There in a dismal pit, twenty-five by eighty feet, lay the bones of 800 pioneers, piled side by side, and one above another, a strange medley, and whose flitting ghosts could each tell its own strange story.

Beside this mammoth sepulchre was the bonebleaching ground of the Celestials, where the disinterred bodies of dead Chinamen were whitened and dried by the bonfire made of their own redwood coffins. When properly cured, these precious relics were carefully packed in strong boxes, and shipped to the angel

visiting land of Fohi. Poor, indeed, and most unhappy, he who hitherward from the Flowery Kingdom wandered, never to return. Unlucky shades of homeless bones! And yet there are such lying here. Long rows of significantly shaped sand heaps mark the resting-place of moneyless bones. Some have a board with characters scrawled on it for a tombstone, but the greater part of these graves are nameless.

With lumber at eight hundred dollars a thousand feet, buildings and bunks were made of dry-goods boxes, or cloth, though finally boards and shingles prevailed. By and by they undertook to grade the town, infelicitous to all but street contractors, for this left some houses all cellar; others were perched upon foggy cliff, inaccessible except by scaling ladders; others looked as if their construction had been begun with the roof, and built from the top downward, lower stories being added as the dirt was taken away. the door might sometimes be seen stationed a tub of water and a broom, with which before entering the visitor might wash off his big boots, into which his pants were tucked.

At

It was all for home-anything for a home. The semblance even was heaven after so long and barren homelessness. It is hard to overrate the influence of home. If we made it, it is part of ourselves, with the seal of ourselves set upon it. If we grew up in it, then we are part of it, and carry with us through life in our reflections, carriage, and conduct its good or bad influences. The landscape gives expression to our faces, the music of the streams attunes our childish hearts, our native air inspires our thoughts.

Homes are more open than in other countries, less private, but none the less sacred. There are few men or women so exclusive as not to be easily approached by strangers with any sort of credentials. Prying into each other's affairs, meddling, gossiping, discussing the private relations of neighbors and friends, are not prominent vices. Scandal served Scandal served up with appe

tizing minuteness in the morning paper does not mak breakfast the less palatable, and the exposure of private life in the public prints does not lessen the circulation of a journal.

How many in all this bustling city could pray the prayer of Socrates, but would not rather write him down a ragged, bare-footed, old heathen, and an ass? "O, beloved Pan, and all ye gods whose dwelling is in this place, grant me to be beautiful in soul, and all that I possess of outward things to be at peace with them within. Teach me to think wisdom the only riches. And give me so much wealth, and so much only, as a good and holy man could manage or enjoy."

San Francisco climate, like the people, is exceedingly mixed, very good and very bad; treacherous, contradictory, and yet most reliable; hot and cold, and yet neither hot nor cold; dry, yet always damp, raining, but not wet-clothing at one time on the street, lace shawl and furs, overcoat and duster, and one as appropriate as another. "Four seasons in one day; blarst such a country!" exclaimed a tragic Faust as he threw up his engagement and hurried out of town.

Often in the kitchen there were storms; as when Alice, who was a good cook, and had a bit of temper withal, had her wages gradually reduced from $250 to $100 a month, flew into a rage, and marched herself off, saying she would not live in such a place.

How different from all this is the picture of to-day! Gradually from Yerba Buena cove the city of our father Saint Francis has spread out, first northward over the hills and into the valleys beyond, far away to the Golden Gate, then southward for miles, encompassing the old Mission Dolores and far beyond, while westward and on the hill tops broad avenues lined with palaces and gardens invite the weary moneymakers to repose. Grand hotels, and mercantile and manufacturing establishments, stand along the busy

THE CITY OF TO-DAY.

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thoroughfares, while churches, cathedrals, and public buildings rise from the dense mass of lesser structures. Elegant equipages with their fair freight roll over the paved streets, and out through the park to the ocean beach; while street rail-cars, with scores of miles of iron track reaching far out into every suburb, carry the less pretentious population to and from their homes.

CHAPTER XII,

SOCIETY.

mens mutatione recreabitur: sicut in cibis, quorum diversitate reficitur stomachus, et pluribus minore fastidio alitur.

-Quintilian.

Other

THE California year of 1849; what was it? An exclamation point in the history of civilization; a dash in the annals of time. This twelve-month was not so much a year as an age, not so much an episode as an era. Heart throbs, they say, rather than time tell the age of man; here then was a century of heart throbs; we could as well drop out of history a hundred of other years, as this one most notable year. years have been repeated, and will be many times; this one, never. Throughout the records of the race, from first to last, there will never be reproduced on this planet the California flush-times drama. It stands out in the experiences of men unique and individual, each swift day of it equal to many another year.

How vain, then, the attempt to portray this fleeting hour! Dreaming will not achieve it, nor romancing; it is neither caricature, nor burlesque, nor extravaganza. These lead the mind further from the truth. Neither will the bald facts, though plainly and fairly stated, give a perfect idea of the time; there was present much besides plain facts; there were facts running riot, and the wildest fancy turned into factsa pandemonium of romance and reality. There were here fifty thousand active and intelligent young workers, whose experiences fully written for that year