people of whom he will learn to form the very highest estimate. That first dinner, after the eternal bean-coffee, boiled tea, tinned meats, dried vegetables, and “salt horse” of one’s ship, in a neat _restaurant_, where it seems everything on earth can be obtained, will surprise most visitors. An irreproachable _potage_: broiled salmon (the fish is a drug, almost, on the Pacific coasts); turtle steaks, oyster plant, artichokes, and green corn; a California quail “on toast;” grand muscatel grapes, green figs, and a cooling slice of melon; Roquefort cheese, or a very good imitation of it; black coffee, and cigars; native wine on the table; California cognac on demand; service excellent—napkins, hot plates, flowers on the table; price moderate for the luxuries obtained, and _no waiter’s fees_. The visitor will mentally forgive the boatman of the morning. Has he arrived in the Promised Land, in the Paradise of _bon vivants_? It seems so. In the evening, he may take a stroll up Montgomery Street, and a good seat at a creditably performed opera may be obtained. Nobody knows better than the sailor and the traveller the splendid luxury of such moments, after a two or three months’ monotonous voyage. And, in good sooth, he generally abandons himself to it. He has earned it, and who shall say him nay? The same evening may be, he will go to a 300-roomed hotel—they have now one of 750 rooms—where, for three dollars (12s. 6d.), he can sup, sleep, breakfast, and dine sumptuously. He will be answered twenty questions for nothing by a civil clerk in the office of the hotel, read the papers for nothing in the reading-room, have a bath—for nothing—and find that it is not the thing to give fees to the waiters. It is a new revelation to many who have stopped before in dozens of first-class English and Continental houses.