THE GOLDEN GATE by C. M. Snow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Dec 11, 1901

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 27, No. 50.

THE GOLDEN GATE.

By C. M. Snow

On the evening of August 5, 1775, the little sailing ship San Carlos entered the “pillared passage” now known as the Golden Gate. It was a more dangerous undertaking than the captain of that Spanish vessel understood. The waters that pour through the Golden Gate were as swift and strong then as now; the treacherous currents were unknown; and the sunken rocks had never been charted or touched by drill or dynamite. A little launch, dug out of a redwood tree and propelled by oars, was sent in ahead, and the ship followed not far behind. When darkness dropped down over this body of water which had never before been stirred by a vessel’s prow, the San Carlos dropped anchor in the lea of an island to which was given the name Nuestra Señora de los Angeles (Our Lady of the Angels). That appellation clings to it still in the name Angel Island. But the name Golden Gate was not given to this passage from the bay to the ocean until, in 1848, Fremont placed the name on his new map of Oregon and California. He states that the advantages of the bay for commerce suggested to him the name Chrysopylæ, or Golden Gate.

The progress of the settlement by the Gate was slow. In the year 1848, the year that gold was discovered in California, the little town of San Francisco (Saint Francis) contained, by actual census, only 459 persons, exclusive of the soldiers; and this was three quarters of a century from the time when the Spanish became particularly interested in the site. It is a somewhat striking coincidence that the year in which this outlet to the sea received the name Golden Gate, the precious metal began to pour in from the mines; for in that year (January, 1848) gold was discovered in California. The news of that discovery traveled as fast as news could travel in those days; and not many months elapsed before adventurous spirits from nearly every nation in the world were swarming through the Golden Gate, or sweeping like a conquering army down through the wreck-strewn passes of the high Sierras. Homes and business were abandoned, caravans quickly made up, and though hostile Indians lined the way or stormy seas lay between, nothing could stay the progress of that enthusiastic host which strewed the wrecks of fond hopes from the Mississippi to the Sacramento, or buried them uncoffined in the mighty deep. If they came by sea, the Golden Gate was to them the jeweled portal to the paradise of wealth. If they came by land, the last pass of the Sierras was to them the golden gate to the land of their golden dreams. The sturdy ones endured months of hardship; the weaker ones were buried by the way. Fortune seemed to smile on some; others fell at the hands of the roving savage. Some fell victims to the fever of the isthmus; others escaped the fever, but went down in the worthless hulks pressed into the service of the transportation companies. Thousands reached their goal in safety; others perished at the very portals of the Golden Gate, or their wrecked hopes were swallowed up in the vessels that bleached their bones along the coast from Brazil and Cape Horn to Mexico and Point Bonita. There were hardships,—they expected them,—hardships all along the way; but beyond the hardships lay the realization of the golden dream. There were dangers, and they realized

them; but beyond the dangers lay the Golden Gate and the glittering sands, where fortune slumbered, only waiting the persistent knocking of the drill and pick, or the jar and clatter of the rocker and the miner’s pan, when she would awake to open to them the door of their fondest hopes.

THOUSANDS made fortunes, and thousands were ruined. Thousands went back with their wealth; others never went back, but lost their all, bartered their souls and lost again; still others, with the frosts of many winters in their hair, are searching, delving, testing, turning hither and thither, hoping ever that the next pan will give up the yellow key to the fortune whose quest they can not forsake. From stream to stream, from plain to craggy cliff, this insatiate army trudges, with hope for its knapsack and golden dreams for its pillow. One by one their comrades are sounding taps over the tired dreamers, and they are laid away. They looked to the Golden Gate as to the portal of a temporal paradise; but the bitterest disappointment has been the portion of thousands of the rank and file of that mighty host. The promise which hope made them was never fulfilled. They had staked all and lost.

HOW DIFFERENT is the hope which the Gospel holds out to man. It has its golden gate; it has its glorious reward beyond the gate; and there is no disappointment to the seeker. There are hardships to be borne; but they have been borne by Him who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life, and He has promised His unfailing help to every one who will undertake the journey. There are stormy seas to cross; but Jesus Christ is the Pilot from the port of sailing to the anchorage inside the harbor bar; and no vessel which He pilots will ever founder at sea or be thrown upon the rocks and lost. There is absolute certainty in this. He who sails with Him must leave all, it is true; but in leaving all, he wins all, and there is no hazard, no uncertainty, no unfulfilled hopes, no disappointment when the voyage is done. True, some have set out upon this voyage and have not gone through. But they broke chart and compass, dismissed the Pilot, and took the wheel themselves, or gave it into the hands of him whose ambition was the ruin of their souls. They have foundered in the fog and stress of storm, or in the darkness have run upon the reef and perished.

THE promise of Christ is, “Him that overcometh will I make a ‘pillar in the temple of My God, and he shall go no more out; and I ‘will write upon him the name of My God, and the name of the city of ‘My God, . . . and I will write upon him My new name.” Rev. 3:12. Beyond the golden gate toward which the Christian journeys there lies the absolute fulfilment of the most glorious hopes the heart of man has ever harbored. Here men have striven, struggled, journeyed under deepest privations, passed through dangers hidden and revealed, dangers which threatened life itself,—all for a few ounces of gold and the joy they expected to find in its possession during a few short years. But what of that better hope which God has set before the race? He tells us, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, ‘neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God ‘hath prepared for them that love Him. But God hath revealed them ‘unto us by His Spirit.” 1 Cor. 2:9, 10.

HAVE you seen your brightest earthly hopes fade and wither, and become the plaything of the winds of misfortune? The brightest hopes the child of earth can picture for himself are pale and insignificant beside the hopes which God holds out to the humblest suppliant of His grace—and His are real. It may have been best for you that the hopes you built have crumbled. It was best, if these were blinding your eyes to the unsearchable riches of God. The golden gate toward which your longing eyes had looked, and through which you had hoped to pass, may have been a portal whose passage would have been your eternal ruin. We can not afford to wreck our hope of entering upon the enjoyment of the riches and glories of heaven and of the earth made new for the sake of the fleeting pleasures of a transient life. The golden gate toward which the Christian looks is the pearl-hinged gate of the city of God. Beyond that is life everlasting; beyond that is the fruition of hope long deferred; beyond that is the companionship of the Christ who bought us with His blood. For “God Himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall ‘wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, ‘neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for ‘the former things are passed away.” Rev. 21:3, 4. Blessed hope! Glorious consummation of the promises of Him who has loved us with an everlasting love! C. M. SNOW.