Back of the city are the Twin Peaks, with a boulevard encircling their heights, looking down on the harbor, alive with ships from every land--from the islands of the South Seas, the Mexican West Coast, China, Japan, Siberia, tropic America, British Columbia, Australasia, and our own dependencies of Alaska, Hawaii, and the Philippines--dressed with the flags of every country, and above them all, floating in its majesty, the Stars and Stripes, in honor of the arrival of the Pacific fleet, which, under command of Admiral Rodman, had passed through the Golden Gate that day and swung at anchor in the harbor--fifty splendid battleships of all descriptions, ablaze with lights. And small craft, from high-powered motor launches to fishing-boats, “wind-jammers,” or old-time sailing-vessels, ocean liners, great freighters, transports, and tramps, all formed a part of the scene along the Embarcadero, where lie at anchor the ships that bear the merchandise and products of the world to this gateway of the West--over seven million tons of freight yearly. The true heroes of sea fiction man these ships--rugged, venturesome men, with whom Stevenson, Frank Norris, and Jack London have peopled their books and pictured their scenes of the water-front of the city. We were landed at the ferry slip, and with a sensation never to be forgotten we drove off the wharf into San Francisco--“the city loved around the world,” built upon hills overlooking the expanse of the Pacific, with a cosmopolitan throng of half a million people. We could not have reached here at a more fortunate or auspicious time. San Francisco was _en fete_ in honor of the fleet. Every street and building was festooned with flags, banners, and garlands of flowers; the crowds of people were carrying flowers and waving flags. Market Street, the Broadway of the city, was arched with flowers, and suspended from the largest arch was a huge floral bell of the native golden poppies. All public conveyances and even private cars were decorated. Searchlights illuminated the scene. Bands were playing, auto-horns were tooting, and the air was alive with excitement--joyous, overbubbling pleasure, that had to find a vent or blow up the place. All of the hotels were packed. The St. Francis looked like the Waldorf on New Year’s Eve. It was some hours before we found refuge in the Bellevue, a fine residential hotel on Geary Street.