Part 1 (1/2)

The Lure of San Francisco.

by Elizabeth Gray Potter and Mabel Thayer Gray.

Preface

The average visitor considers California's claim to historic recognition as dating from the discovery of gold. Her children, both by birth and adoption, have a hazy pride in her Spanish origin but are too busy with today's interests to take much thought of it. They know that somewhere over in the Mission is the old adobe church. They rejoice that it escaped the fire but have no time to visit it. They will proudly tell their eastern friends of its existence and that the Presidio received its name from the Spaniards but further narration of the heritage is lost in exclamations over the beauty of the drives and the views, while the historic significance of Portsmouth Square is smothered in the delight over Chinese embroideries, bronzes and cloisonne.

May this little book aid in the general awaking of the dormant love of every Californian for his possessions and be a suggestion to the casual visitor that we are ent.i.tled to the dignity of age.

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 Luis Arguello.

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 pa.s.sed it over unnoticed.

”Of course we have grown up,” I a.s.sured him. ”We're a big flouris.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sengers 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.

”You know why I came,” he said gently, with his eyes on my face.

I felt the blood creeping to my cheeks and turned quickly to look for an out-of-doors seat. In the crowd we were jostled by a little slant-eyed man of the Orient, resplendent in baggy blue silk trousers tied neatly at the ankles and a loose coat lined with lavender, whose flowing sleeves half concealed his slender brown hands.

”There's a man who has centuries at his back.” My companion's eyes traveled from the soft padded shoes to the little red b.u.t.ton on the top of the black skull cap. ”Even his costume is the same as his forefathers'.”