Chapter VI: San Francisco--Concluded

After a night’s lodging in one of the human-stables of San Francisco, called here, for politeness’ sake, hotels, we feel sufficiently refreshed to continue our reconnoissance of the city. It will probably be as well for us to retrace our steps to the south side of the Plaza, where we re-enter Clay street, and ascend the long, high hill that forms the western boundary of the city. Before proceeding far, we come to a pistol gallery, on the left, owned and conducted by one Dr. Natchez, a short, thick-set “son of thunder,” who keeps on hand the best assortment of dueling apparatus that the world affords. The proprietor’s real cognomen is, I think, Brown, Smith or Jones; but every body calls him Natchez, because he came from the town of that name in Mississippi. He knows all about guns, pistols, and ammunition; is an excellent shot--can hit a bull’s eye or a man’s eye every time he pulls a trigger; and never fails to vindicate his honor when it is assailed. In the opinion of the duelist, he is emphatically an honor-saving man; and in matters of personal difficulty and dispute, there is no one so capable of giving suitable advice, or so well prepared to supply the necessary instruments of polite slaughter, as Dr. Natchez.

Among the fiery spirits of this Western Metropolis, the slightest affront, even though it may be purely accidental, is considered a wound to dignity curable only by an application of Colt’s revolver to the breast of the transgressor; and as Dr. Natchez enjoys the reputation of preparing the best remedies for wounded honor, all those afflicted with the disorder apply to him for relief. Laying before him their ailments and grievances, he will at once say _the cause must be removed_; the offending party is waited upon with a challenge, which is accepted; and the Doctor, with commendable impartiality, superintends the preparation of the weapons for both parties.

Passing on towards the summit of the hill before us, we soon arrive at an elevation from which we have a clear and uninterrupted view of the whole city, which contains, it is supposed, from forty-five to fifty thousand inhabitants--about one-fifth of the entire population of the State. The original water-boundary of the city, on the east, was in the form of a crescent; but, the bay being shallow in this particular part, its shape has been changed, by filling it in with sand from the adjacent hills. Owing to the steep declivities of the original site of the city, this encroachment was demanded and effected by those engaged in commercial pursuits, who wanted level ground. The land thus made, being the most eligibly situated and convenient to the wharves, is far more valuable than that of natural formation. At first, however, heavy losses were sustained, in consequence of the insecure foundations of most of the buildings, some of which gave way entirely, and had to be reconstructed. Now, however, they understand it better, and take special care to pile and plank the foundation thoroughly before the superstructure is erected.

The process of filling up these water-lots was very irregular; and, as the work advanced, several ponds of water, which afterwards became stagnant, were cut off by these means from the ocean. In other places, the tide receded from the shallow parts of the bay, and from the surface thus left bare, as well as from the ponds last mentioned, there arose large quantities of highly offensive and almost suffocating gas, which obliterated all the painted signs in the immediate vicinity. Strange to say, the effluvium exhaled from these foul ponds and marshy places did not produce disease. The wind blew it off or counteracted its insalubrious effects.

Viewing the city from our present elevated position, we look in vain for any verdure. Indeed, there is not a shade-tree in San Francisco. Nor, if we search the outskirts of the city, can we find either trees, coppice, vegetation, or any green thing whereon to feast the eyes. The earth all around us is as sterile and unproductive as a public highway. We feel a void, as though a friend were absent. Nature wears a repulsive and haggard expression. Oh! how few there are amongst us who duly appreciate trees, those noble earth-fingers that point to heaven and uplift the mind to God! According to my judgment, there is a greater combination of the beautiful and the useful in a forest oak or hickory, than in all the gay exotics which are so carefully reared by the florist. I entertain no doubt that a large, luxuriant elm would attract more attention in San Francisco than a menagerie or circus; and it is a wonder that some ingenious and speculative Yankee has not, ere this, manufactured one out of soft pine and dyed muslin for public exhibition. As an instance of the feeling that exists here on account of the lack of trees, I may cite the exclamation of a distinguished gentleman with whom I once had the honor to dine. Said he, (his wife at the time being in North Carolina,) “I long for the society of trees almost as much as I do for that of my wife; and if she and a big oak could now be placed side by side within my reach, I scarcely know which of the two I should embrace first!”

Many other natural and artificial deficiencies and peculiarities, for which San Francisco is famous, might, with propriety, be considered before we quit our high retreat; but we will now conclude our panoramic sketch, and descend into the more densely settled part of the city.