One man seemed to have as much right as another on Telegraph Hill.  And one right was always his:  no one disputed him the right of vision; he shared it with his neighbor, and was willing to share it with the whole world.  For generations he has held it, and he will probably continue to hold it so long as the old Hill stands.  From the heights his eye sweeps a scene of beauty.  There is the Golden Gate, bathed in sunset glories; and there the northern shore line that climbs skyward where Mount Tamalpais takes on his mantle of mist.  There is Saucelito, with its green terraces resting upon the tree-tops; and there the bit of sheltered water that seems always steeped in sunshine,—­now the haunt of house boats, then the haven of a colony of Neapolitan fishermen; and Angel Island, with its military post; and Fort Alcatraz, a rocky bubble afloat in mid-channel and one mass of fortifications.

What an inland sea it is—­the Bay of San.  Francisco, seventy miles in length, from ten to twelve in width; dotted with islands, and capable of harboring all the fleets of all the civilized or uncivilized worlds!  The northern part of it, beyond the narrows, is known as the Bay of San Pablo; the Straits of Carquinez connect it with Suisun Bay, which is a sleepy sheet of water fed by the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers.

To the east is Yerba-Buena, vulgarly known as Goat Island; and beyond it the Contra Costa, with its Alameda, Oakland, and Fruit Vale; then the Coast Range; and atop of all and beyond all Mount Diablo, with its three thousand eight hundred feet of perpendicularity, beyond whose summit the sun rises, and from whose peaks almost half the State is visible and almost half the sea,—­or at least it seems so—­but that’s another vision!

VI.

PAVEMENT PICTURES

We had been but a few days in San Francisco when a new-found friend, scarcely my senior, but who was a comparatively old settler, took me by the hand and led me forth to view the town.  He was my neighbor, and a right good fellow, with the surprising composure—­for one of his years—­that is so early, so easily, and so naturally acquired by those living in camps and border-lands.

We descended Telegraph Hill by Dupont Street as far as Pacific Street.  So steep was the way that, at intervals, the modern fire-escape would have been a welcome aid to our progress.  Sidewalks, always of plank and often not broader than two boards placed longitudinally, led on to steps that plunged headlong from one terrace to another.  From the veranda of one house one might have leaped to the roof of the house just below—­if so disposed,—­for the houses seemed to be set one upon another, so acute was the angle of their base-line.  The town stood on end just there, and at the foot of it was a foreign quarter.