of the tall chimneys.  All San Francisco laughed at this explanation until it learned that a corroboration of the theory had been established by an assay of the dust and grime of the roofs in the vicinity of the Mint.  These had yielded distinct traces of gold.  San Francisco stopped laughing, and that portion of it which had roofs in the neighborhood at once began prospecting.  Claims were staked out on these airy placers, and my cousin’s roof, being the very next one to the chimney, and presumably “in the lead,” was disposed of to a speculative company for a considerable sum.  I remember my cousin telling me the story—­for the occurrence was quite recent—­and taking me with him to the roof to explain it, but I am afraid I was more attracted by the mystery of the closely guarded building, and the strangely tinted smoke which arose from this temple where money was actually being “made,” than by anything else.  Nor did I dream as I stood there—­a very lanky, open-mouthed youth—­that only three or four years later I should be the secretary of its superintendent.  In my more adventurous ambition I am afraid I would have accepted the suggestion half-heartedly.  Merely to have helped to stamp the gold which other people had adventurously found was by no means a part of my youthful dreams.

At the time of these earlier impressions the Chinese had not yet become the recognized factors in the domestic and business economy of the city which they had come to be when I returned from the mines three years later.  Yet they were even then a more remarkable and picturesque contrast to the bustling, breathless, and brand-new life of San Francisco than the Spaniard.  The latter seldom flaunted his faded dignity in the principal thoroughfares.  “John” was to be met everywhere.  It was a common thing to see a long file of sampan coolies carrying their baskets slung between them, on poles, jostling a modern, well-dressed crowd in Montgomery Street, or to get a whiff of their burned punk in the side streets; while the road leading to their temporary burial-ground at Lone Mountain was littered with slips of colored paper scattered from their funerals.  They brought an atmosphere of the Arabian Nights into the hard, modern civilization; their shops—­not always confined at that time to a Chinese quarter—­were replicas of the bazaars of Canton and Peking, with their quaint display of little dishes on which tidbits of food delicacies were exposed for sale, all of the dimensions and unreality of a doll’s kitchen or a child’s housekeeping.

They were a revelation to the Eastern immigrant, whose preconceived ideas of them were borrowed from the ballet or pantomime; they did not wear scalloped drawers and hats with jingling bells on their points, nor did I ever see them dance with their forefingers vertically extended.  They were always neatly dressed, even the commonest of coolies, and their festive dresses were marvels.  As traders they were grave and patient; as servants they were sad and civil, and all