San Francisco has as many hills as Rome. The most conspicuous of these
stands at the northeast corner of the town; it is Telegraph Hill, upon
whose brawny shoulder stood the first home we knew in the young
Metropolis. After rounding Telegraph Hill, we saw all the city front,
and it was not much to see: a few wooden wharves crowded with shipping
and backed by a row of one or two-story frame buildings perched upon
piles. The harbor in front of the city--more like an open roadstead than
a harbor, for it was nearly a dozen miles to the opposite shore--was
dotted with sailing-vessels of almost every description, swinging at
anchor, and making it a pretty piece of navigation to pick one's way
amongst them in safety.

As the John L. Stevens approached her dock we saw that an immense crowd
had gathered to give us welcome. The excitement on ship and shore was
very great. After a separation of perhaps years, husbands and wives and
families were about to be reunited. Our joy was boundless; for we soon
recognized our father in the waiting, welcoming throng. But there were
many whose disappointment was bitter indeed when they learned that their
loved ones were not on board. Often a ship brought letters instead of
the expected wife and family; for at the last moment some unforeseen
circumstance may have prevented the departure of the one so looked for
and so longed for. In the confusion of landing we nearly lost our wits,
and did not fully recover them until we found ourselves in our own new
home in the then youngest State in the Union.

How well I remember it all! We were housed on Union Street, between
Montgomery and Kearny Streets, and directly opposite the public
school--a pretentious building for that period, inasmuch as it was built
of brick that was probably shipped around Cape Horn. California houses,