dreaming, as I had heard the phrase, "Show your tickets," so often;
but the light of "a lantern dimly burning" and a stalwart figure
standing before the curtains of my sleeping berth, soon convinced
me that I was in a world of reality. This, I may say, was my only
experience of the kind, in all my travelling over the Southern Pacific
Railway, the Sante Fé, and the Mexican International and Mexican
Central Railways. There was little sleep after the interruption; and
when the morning came with its interest and novelty I was ready to
proceed across the Bay of San Francisco. Our faithful porter, John
Williams, whose name is worthy of mention in these pages, as I stepped
from the Pullman car, said, "Good-bye, Colonel!" He always addressed
me as "Colonel." The porters on all the western roads and on the
Mexican railways are polite and obliging, and a word of commendation
must be said for them as a class.

The Rev. Dr. James W. Ashton, of Olean, N.Y., my fellow-traveller, and
I were soon in the ferry house. We ascended a wide staircase and then
found ourselves in a large waiting room, through whose windows I
looked out on the Bay of San Francisco for the first time. Off in the
distance, in the morning light, I could catch a glimpse of the Golden
City of the West. Near by was a departing ferryboat bound for San
Francisco. Just then a young man, evidently a stranger, accompanied by
a young woman, apparently a bride, accosted me and asked the question,
"Sir, do you think we can get on from up here?" Looking at the
bay-steamer fast receding, I assured him, somewhat pensively, that I
thought we could. In a few moments another steamer appeared in view
and speedily entered the dock. The gates of the ferry house were
opened and we went on board at once. Most of the passengers at this
early hour were those who had come across the Sierras, but there were
a few persons from Oakland going over to their places of business in