“Among other peculiarities of San Francisco, I perceive that the blacking of boots and shoes is done by grown-up adult men, and that they have regular establishments for the accommodation of the customer. This is a grand idea. The customer not only has a comfortable seat to sit in while his brogans are being rubbed down and shined up, but he also enjoys the luxury of a shelter, which is ample protection against the heavy summer rains and winter snows, which, I believe, prevail very extensively here. “Pardon me if I make any blunders in giving my views of San Francisco.[6] Footnote 6: As the reader may have already gathered, they have no rain in summer or snow in winter. “I have perceived, in the course of my perambulations, that they were moving Kearny street further up the hill.[7] I didn’t like to ask any questions concerning it, lest I should be considered green; but I supposed that the reason was that it had slid down at the time of the earthquake here, a few years ago. Footnote 7: An allusion to the widening and improving of that street. “I have heard so much about the rough state of society here, that I am surprised and delighted to find that law and order are as strictly observed here as in any city of the States. From what I have heard in times gone by, I was led to anticipate that I should hear a bullet whiz every time I should step from my door, and that I should find a fresh dead man lying at every corner. I am glad to find, however, that the streets are entirely clear of such obstructions, and that men are not killed here, except in cases of absolute necessity. I highly approve of this orderly state of things. I don’t deny that it is quite a pleasant pastime to a new beginner to help kill a man or two each week; but, as is the case with every other enjoyment, the novelty soon wears off, and one gets tired of it.” I carried a letter of introduction from a gentleman in Philadelphia to Mr. J. M. Foard, of the “Golden City,” San Francisco, and was very cordially received. “Mr. Foard,” I said one day, shortly after my arrival, “I am very fond of the water——” “Not as a beverage, I hope,” he interrupted. “Not as a regular beverage; but as a medium of navigation. I love riding on the water. I would like to go out and take a row.” “Where?” he asked. “On the harbor,” I replied. “Don’t do it.” “Why?” “You are not familiar with our harbor. It is an unsafe one for an inexperienced boatman. Even some of the most skillful lose their lives. It may be calm and smooth as a river one moment; the next, the tide may change, the wind rise against it, and it may become so boisterous, all at once, that you might imagine it was ready to boil over. Don’t venture out in a small boat. We have a list of drownings to record every week, and should be most unhappy to place your name in our next week’s list. Don’t go!” “I won’t,” I replied, fully impressed with the dangers of the harbor. I meant it.