of the body into which they put their drugs.  Finally they prevailed upon an eminent Chinese authority to give them a list of the remedies generally used in the Chinese pharmacopoeia, and this was privately circulated.  For obvious reasons I may not repeat it here.  But it was summed up—­again after the usual Californian epigrammatic style—­by the remark that “whatever were the comparative merits of Chinese and American practice, a simple perusal of the list would prove that the Chinese were capable of producing the most powerful emetic known.”  The craze subsided in a single day; the interpreters and their oracle vanished; the Chinese doctors’ signs, which had multiplied, disappeared, and San Francisco awoke cured of its madness, at the cost of some thousand dollars.

My Bohemian wanderings were confined to the limits of the city, for the very good reason that there was little elsewhere to go.  San Francisco was then bounded on one side by the monotonously restless waters of the bay, and on the other by a stretch of equally restless and monotonously shifting sand dunes as far as the Pacific shore.  Two roads penetrated this waste:  one to Lone Mountain—­the cemetery; the other to the Cliff House—­happily described as “an eight-mile drive with a cocktail at the end of it.”  Nor was the humor entirely confined to this felicitous description.  The Cliff House itself, half restaurant, half drinking saloon, fronting the ocean and the Seal Rock, where disporting seals were the chief object of interest, had its own peculiar symbol.  The decanters, wine-glasses, and tumblers at the bar were all engraved in old English script with the legal initials “L.  S.” (Locus Sigilli),—­“the place of the seal.”

On the other hand, Lone Mountain, a dreary promontory giving upon the Golden Gate and its striking sunsets, had little to soften its weird suggestiveness.  As the common goal of the successful and unsuccessful, the carved and lettered shaft of the man who had made a name, and the staring blank headboard of the man who had none, climbed the sandy slopes together.  I have seen the funerals of the respectable citizen who had died peacefully in his bed, and the notorious desperado who had died “with his boots on,” followed by an equally impressive cortege of sorrowing friends, and often the self-same priest.  But more awful than its barren loneliness was the utter absence of peacefulness and rest in this dismal promontory.  By some wicked irony of its situation and climate it was the personification of unrest and change.  The incessant trade winds carried its loose sands hither and thither, uncovering the decaying coffins of early pioneers, to bury the wreaths and flowers, laid on a grave of to-day, under their obliterating waves.  No tree to shade them from the glaring sky above could live in those winds, no turf would lie there to resist the encroaching sand below.  The dead were harried and hustled even in their graves by the persistent sun, the unremitting wind, and the unceasing sea.  The departing mourner saw the contour of the very mountain itself change with the shifting dunes as he passed, and his last look beyond rested on the hurrying, eager waves forever hastening to the Golden Gate.