From the church we wandered out into the sun bathed cemetery, old world, deserted and neglected. The first grave that caught my eye was engraved with the name of Arguello, governor of the County. He was the brother or the father of the girl Concha whom Bret Harte has immortalised in his poem called: “Concepcion de Arguello.” Further on, another grave known as that of “Yankee Sullivan” a prize fighter who had died at the hands of the Vigilante Society--“a native of Bandon Co., Cork, Ireland,” so the inscription ran. I repeated to myself “Bandon ... Bandon” my own little Irish village town--and my childhood up to seventeen welled up in my heart and memory. The Irish valley, and the river, woods, and hills ... my friends the poachers, and the village drunks who used to frighten me so on the lonely road on Saturday afternoons! I remember now--that our gardener, and our keeper, and the coachman whom we children loved, had left us one by one. I used to wonder what it meant “to emigrate”--I vaguely understood they were leaving for “the States,” but what sort of state that was I did not know, but I remember how they said goodbye; big, strong men, with tears in their eyes impress a child. I stood there before the grave of this inhabitant of Bandon, and felt absurdly sentimental. It is a long way from Bandon to San Francisco. We lingered over-long, and had to hurry away, arriving at the St. Francis Hotel extremely late for lunch. Afterwards Mr. de Young took me to his museum which he has presented to the town. It has the most perfect setting, in the middle of the Park. We did a lightning rush through it for we had less than an hour. Sculptures, paintings, prints, enamels, ivories, textures, furnitures and minerals, he showed me a motley collection arranged with care and taste. From here we rushed back to the Hotel, being arrested on the way for “speeding,” and Mr. de Young left me in the hands of a detective to see the town! We started off first to the city gaol; I suppose a great many people have seen the inside of a gaol, but I had not. It hit me with the full force of a first impression. We arrived there in a jocular mood, but that mood was dispersed the moment we stepped out of the elevator onto the prison floor.