As we walk through the city we note that it is rapidly extending itself towards the south and the slopes of the Pacific, and new homes are constantly appearing in its suburbs, even climbing up the hills to the west.  Market street, broad and straight, is San Francisco’s main artery of business activity, and the cable cars which run through it are so numerous that a person who undertakes to cross this great avenue, especially during the busy hours of the day, must be careful lest he be run over.  It reminds one of Broadway, New York, in this respect.  All streets of the city converge towards Market street.  Crowds of people throng it, and this is true, particularly during Saturday night, when the labours of the week are ended and the populace seek recreation.  There are many large and attractive buildings on this street, as for example “The Call Building,” “The Chronicle Building,” “The Palace Hotel,” and the “Emporium.”  As you walk up and down studying life you note many things, and you see good nature depicted in the faces of the people whom you meet.  They all look bright and intelligent.  I think there is something in the surroundings and in the exhilarating atmosphere which promotes fellowship and good feeling.  There is a keen sense of humour often manifest.  Among many of the things which I saw was an illuminated sign, with the legend:  “Your bosom friend.”  As I drew near it I discovered that it was over a shirt store.  It was certainly most suggestive.  The women, as you see them going hither and thither, are the picture of health and many of them can boast of real beauty.  Here are few if any pale faces, sallow complexions, cadaverous cheeks.  There are various types of nationality, but it may be said that there is a California or San Francisco type, which is the product of climate and environment.  One is struck with the animation manifested in the faces and movements of the men and women.  They are quick too in reaching conclusions and witty in observation.  A young man in one of the railway offices asked this question:  “What,” said he to me, “is the difference in dress between a bishop and any other clergyman,” I replied that some of the bishops wore aprons, and that this was the only real difference in daily attire—­except some special mark on the coat or the shape of the hat.  I hastened to add by way of pleasantry, that my friend Ashton, who was standing beside me, and I had not an apron as yet.  “Well,” he replied promptly, “you have gotten beyond that.”

They take pleasure in telling a good story also.  As Ashton and I were travelling one afternoon to San Rafael we were joined on the Saucelito ferry boat by a benevolent gentleman, named Ingram, who said he was a cousin of the Bishop of London.  As we talked over various matters he finally said, “I will tell you a story.  An Irishman landed in New York after a stormy voyage; and as he walked up Broadway he thought that he would go into the first place he saw, which looked like a Roman Catholic church, and