202 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 







Under the shadow of these hills we are puffing 

 towards an opening, as if cut purposely through 

 a solid wall of rock. On the right stands an 

 immense fortress, built of red brick. Alcatraz 

 Island, right ahead, is dimly visible, like a grey 

 spot in the line of water. The ripple, touched 

 by the sunbeams that are slanting into the bay, 

 seems converted into revolving cylinders of bril- 

 liants. As we steam through this magnificent 

 portal, the finest harbour in the world opens 

 out to the southward and westward. On the 

 curving shore of the bay, I can see the city of 

 San Francisco, built on the slopes of three hills ; 

 to the left the island of Yerba Buena ; farther to 

 the right a forest of masts, from which flags 

 representing every nation flutter in the breeze ; 

 ahead a long stretch of water, as far as eye could 

 follow it the continuation of the harbour. 



We ran alongside an immense pier at 6 a.m. 

 I am mobbed by touters from every hotel in 

 San Francisco, and have hard work to keep my 

 luggage from being equally divided amongst 

 them. Passengers appear, for the first time since 

 leaving Vancouver Island, blanched like celery 

 or seakale. By dint of strong arms and stronger 

 language, I get my luggage fastened to a grating 

 that lets down by machinery, at the end of an 



