The Mission

A view from Twin Peaks—­The city with its historic crosses.  A visit to the old church—­Its past, and the romance of Lueis Argueello.

The Mission and Its Romance

“Tickets to the city, Sir?” The conductor’s voice sounded above the rumble of the train.  As my companion’s hand went to his pocket he glanced at me with a quizzical smile.

“I should think you Oaklanders would resent that.  Hasn’t your town put on long skirts since the fire?” There was an unpleasant emphasis on the last phrase, but I passed it over unnoticed.

“Of course we have grown up,” I assured him.  “We’re a big flourishing city, but we are not the city.  San Francisco always has been, and always will be the city to all northern California; it was so called in the days of forty-nine and we still cling affectionately to the term.”

“I believe you Californians have but two dates on your calendar,” he exclaimed, “for everything I mention seems to have happened either ‘before the fire’ or ‘in the good old days of forty-nine!’ ’Good old days of forty-nine,’” he repeated, amused.  “In Boston we date back to the Revolution, and ‘in Colonial times’ is a common expression.  We have buildings a hundred years old, but if you have a structure that has lasted a decade, it is a paragon and pointed out as built ’before the fire.’  Do you remember the pilgrimage we made to the historic shrines of Boston, just a year ago?”

“Shall I ever forget it!” I exclaimed.

He smiled appreciatively.  “Faneuil Hall and the old State House are interesting.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking about the buildings!  I don’t even recall how they look.  But I do remember the weather.  I was so cold I couldn’t even speak.”

“Impossible!” he cried, “you not able to talk!”

“But it’s true!  My cheeks were frozen stiff.  I wore a thick dress, a sweater, a heavy coat and my furs, and, still I was cold while all the time I was thinking that the fruit trees and wild flowers were in blossom in California.  If it hadn’t been for the symphony concerts and the opera, I never could have endured an Eastern winter.”

“A fine compliment to me when I spent days taking you to points of historic interest.”

I sent him an appreciative glance.  “It was good of you,” I acknowledged, “and do you remember that I promised to take you on a similar pilgrimage when you came to San Francisco?”

He laughed.  “And I was foolish enough to believe you, since I had never been to the Pacific Coast.”

The train came to a stop in the Ferry Building and we followed the other passengers onto the boat.  “San Francisco is modern to the core,” he continued.  “Boston dates back generations, but you have hardly acquired your three score years and ten.”

“If you don’t like fine progressive cities, why did you come to California?” His fault-finding with San Francisco hurt me as if it had been a personal criticism.