is still there." The laughter-making and laughter-loving Phoenix has
long since gone to his reward. Of the Oriental Hotel scarcely a
tradition remains. The Tehama House--what there is left of it--has been
spirited to the north side of Broadway within a stone's-throw of the
city and county jail. The cliffs of Telegraph Hill browbeat it. It is,
one might say, the last of its race.

Another hospice--if it _was_ a hospice--I remember. It stood on the
corner of Clay and Sansome Streets, and was a very ordinary building,
erected over the hulk of a ship that had been stranded there in the days
of Forty-nine. I saw the building torn down and the bones of the hulk
disinterred years after the water lots that had been filled in for
several squares, between it and the old harbor, were covered with
substantial buildings. When that bark was buoyant it had weathered Cape
Horn with a small army of argonauts. They had gone their way to dusty
death; she had buried her nose on the water-front and had been
smothered to death in the mire. Docks, streets, grew up around her; a
building had snuffed her out of sight and mind. The old building gave
place to a new one; the bark was resurrected in order to lay a solid
foundation for the new block that was to be. In the hold of this
forgotten bark was discovered a forgotten case of champagne. It had been
sunk in mud and ooze for years. When the bottles were opened the corks
refused to pop, and nobody dared to touch the "bilge" that was within.
All this was on the happy hem of Happy Valley--and still I was not
happy.

XI.

THE VIGILANCE COMMITTEE

It was May 14, 1856. I chanced to be standing at the northwest corner of
Washington and Montgomery Streets, watching the world go by. It was a
queer world: very much mixed, not a little fantastic in manner and
costume; just the kind of world to delight a boy, and no doubt I was
delighted.

"Bang!" It was a pistol-shot, and very near me--not thirty feet away. I
turned and saw a man stagger and fall to the pavement. Then the streets
began to grow dark with people hurrying toward the scene of the tragedy.
I fled in fright; I had had my fill of horrors. The pistol-shot was
familiar enough: it punctuated the hours of day and night out yonder.
But I had never witnessed a murder, and this was evidently one.

When I reached home I was dazed. On the witness stand, under oath, I
could have told nothing; but very shortly the whole town was aware that