“There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
  To bless the turf that wraps their clay.”

After your visit to the Presidio you will naturally desire to go to the Cliff House, that world renowned resort on Point Lobos south of the Golden Gate, and about seven miles distant from the City Hall.  Thousands frequent this favoured spot annually, and especially on Saturday afternoons is it thronged.  You can reach the Cliff either by the street cars going by Golden Gate Park, or by the electric railway which skirts the rocky heights of the Golden Gate.  This last was our route, and the return journey was by the street railway.  A Mr. Black and a Mr. Norton, two of San Francisco’s prosperous business-men, were going thither also, and, seeing that we were strangers, they with true California courtesy gave us much information and showed us favours which we valued highly.  As we sped westward, on our right was Fort Point just rising above tide water with its granite and brick walls and strong fortifications and powerful guns guarding the entrance to the Bay of San Francisco.

Close by the Cliff House, and north of it, are the famous Sutro Baths, always well patronised; and the lofty, vaulted building in which they are located impresses you greatly as you enter it.  It stands on the shore of the sea, reaching out into the deep; and the waters, which fill the swimming pools of various depths, flow in from old ocean in all their virgin purity.  Here you will find all the best equipments and conveniences of a bath house.

After bathing you may ascend to a long gallery of the building, where is a museum with a valuable collection of Indian relics and stuffed animals and archaeological specimens, and even mummies from old Egypt in their well preserved cases.  The view from the heights above the Cliff House is magnificent.  Almost at your feet, about two hundred and fifty yards from the shore, are the Seal Rocks rising up in their hoary forms from the sea and against whose sides the waves dash from time to time in rythmical cadence.  Here are hundreds of sea-lions, young and old, basking in the sun or disporting themselves in the waters, and ever and anon you hear their roaring, reminding you that here is nature’s grand aquarium.  As you look northward you see the rocky shores of the ocean for miles, while to the south your eyes rest on a receding beach; and in a direct line some twenty miles westward are the Farallones or Needles, a group of seven islands consisting of barren rocks, the largest of which, comprising some two acres in area, has a spring of pure water and is surmounted by a lighthouse.  Here too are vast numbers of sea-lions and wild birds of the sea, which make these islets their home, nothing daunted by the billows which roll over them in wind and storm.  Surely it is a picture of the steadfast soul in the midst of commotions, when the waves of the sea of human passions “are mighty and rage horribly!” As you look out toward the Farallones,