Its
comfort is like that of a royal home. There is nothing inn-ish about it.
Remembering the chief hotels of many places, I am constrained to say
that I have never, even in New York, seen its equal for elegance of
appointment, attentiveness of servants, or excellence of _cuisine_.
Having come to this extreme of civilization from the extreme of
barbarism, we found that it actually needed an exertion to leap from the
lap of luxury, after a fortnight's pleasaunce, and take to the woods
again in flannel and corduroys.
But far more seductive than the beautiful bay, the heavenly climate, the
paradisiacal fruits, and the royal hotel of San Francisco, were the old
friends whom we found, and the new ones we made there. With but one
exception, (and that an express-company, not a man,) we were received by
all our San-Francisco acquaintance in a kind and helpful manner, with a
welcome and a cheer as delightful to ourselves as it was honorable to
them. Need I say whose brotherly hands were among the very first
outstretched to us, in whose happy home we found our sweetest rest, by
whose radiant face and golden speech we were most lovingly detained
evening after evening and far into the night? A few days ago when we
read that dreadful message, "_Starr King is dead_," the lightning that
carried it seemed to end in our hearts.
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