set all the south portion of the town at an angle that
is rather a relief than anything else that I know of. Who wants to go on
forever up one street and down another, and then across town at right
angles, as if life were a treadmill and there were no hope of change
until the great change comes?

Happy Valley! I remember one cool twilight when a "prairie schooner,"
that was time-worn and weather-beaten, drifted down Montgomery Street
from Market Street, and rounded the corner of Sutter Street, where it
hove to. You know the "prairie schooner" was the old-time emigrant wagon
that was forever crossing the plains in Forty-nine and the early
Fifties. It was scow-built, hooded from end to end, freighted with goods
and chattels; and therein the whole family lived and moved and had its
being during the long voyage to the Pacific Coast.

On this twilight evening the captain of the schooner, assisted by a
portion of his crew, deliberately took down part of the fence which
enclosed a sand-lot bounded by Montgomery, Sutter and Post Streets;
driving into the centre of the lot; the horses--four jaded beasts--were
turned loose, and soon a camp-fire was lighted and the entire emigrant
family gathered about it to partake of the evening meal. On this lot now
stands the Lick House and the Masonic Hall--undreamed of in those days.
No one seemed in the least surprised to find in the very heart of the
city a scene such as one might naturally look for in the heart of the
Rocky Mountains and the wilds of the great desert, or the heights of the
Humboldt. No doubt they thought it a Happy Valley; and well they might,
for they had reached their journey's end.

A stone's throw from that twilight camp, on the south side of Market
Street, stood old St. Patrick's Church. It was a most unpretending
structure, and was quite overshadowed by the R.C. Orphan Asylum close at
hand. Both were backed by sandhills; and both, together with the sand,
have been spirited away. The Palace and Grand Hotels now stand on the
spot. The original St. Patrick's still exists; and, after one or two
transportations, has come to a final halt near the Catholic cemetery
under the shadow of Lone Mountain. It must be ever dear to me, for
within its modest rectory I met the first Catholic clergyman I ever
became acquainted with; and within it I grew familiar with the offices
of the Church; though I was instructed by the Rev. Father Accolti, S.J.,
at old St. Ignatius', on Market