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Let our Mottoes be: HAPPY HOMES AND THE GOLDEN RULE.
Sincerely,
GEO. W. BRYAN.
THE LURE OF THE PAST
THE PRESENT AND FUTURE
By
GEORGE W. BRYAN
HISTORICAL AND DESCRIPTIVE OBSERVATIONS
AND IMPRESSIONS OF THE PAST
PRESENT AND FUTURE
Illustrated
LOS ANGELES
E. G. NEWTON COMPANY, PRINTERS
1911
Copyright, 1911, by Geo. W. Bryan
MISS BERTHA BRYAN.
To My Daughter
WHO HAS BEEN MY INSPIRATION WHILE WRITING, MY
COMPANION WHILE TRAVELING, AND MY PARTNER
IN ALL MATERIAL THINGS, THIS BOOK IS MOST
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
THE LURE OF THE PAST
THE PRESENT AND FUTURE
This narrative of incidents might have been written about other families who crossed the plains in the fifties, but of the many who made the trip, a very few stayed to develop the vast resources of the state of California. Of those who stayed, only a few are left to tell their experience of pioneer life, and they have lived more than four score years and will soon join those who have gone before.
This story as related to me by one of these pioneers begins in Kentucky, in the year 1845 and ends in California, in the year 1911, sixty-six years, two generations, twice the average life of man. There have been many changes in that time. Young people of the present time can hardly realize the hardships, the privations, the obstacles encountered and overcome by their ancestors sixty years or more ago. Then I ask you to go with me on this pilgrimage, that we may share together the joys and sorrows, the sunshine and shadow that make and mar the life of every family.
Go with me in fancy and imagine you are standing on a high hill which extends from Cairo on the west to Ashland, Kentucky, on the east, a distance of six hundred miles or more. This hill is not continuous, but broken only where some smaller river empties its water into and becomes a part of the great Ohio river. The month is October, and the year is 1845. As we stand on this
October 21, 1845 was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, but you could gaze at the sun through that Indian Summer haze that never fails to come in the month of October in the middle west, and that great body which is the source of heat and light to our planet seems like a ball of fire hung in illimitable space. To my mind, October is the month among the twelve that most vividly shows the analogy of the seasons to human life from the days of childhood to that of old age. The summer is ended, the crops are garnered and preparations are being made for the coming winter. Nature, creative energy of the material universe, with the aid of man has done her part in furnishing the material blessings to mankind and is now preparing for a season of rest whereby the lost energy may be recovered and when spring time comes the vitalizing
So is life, in the spring time life seems one perpetual round of pleasure and happiness. Youth and young manhood assert their exclusive or peculiar privilege and look forward to the summer of life, with a longing born of impatience. What marvelous achievements are in store for them, their ideals are the highest conception of perfection in all created things and the privilege is theirs to obtain them and use them as their own. And now comes the summer of life, the reality. How few measure up to the standard of their spring time ambitions.
“Life is like a mighty river
Rolling on from day to day,
Men like vessels launched upon it
Sometimes wrecked and cast away.”
Not always or necessarily so; there is no danger if the Divine Master be the pilot. He will guide the vessel along the seductive channel of life into the haven of rest. Good deeds, faith in the pilot and the Golden Rule are the helmsmen that will aid the pilot in bringing the vessel into the harbor. It may have been wrecked, but never cast away, if these principles have been strictly adhered to. And at the end of the hurry and bustle of life, when the autumn of quiet begins to steal over one's being and the hair is tinged with gray and the step is less buoyant and the eyes have grown dim, these are only harbingers of the inevitable change from the Summer to the Autumn of life. But how thankful we should be for this opportunity to examine ourselves and if possible make amends for our short-comings.
When we look back over our Summer of life and
Happy must be the person who from the Winter of life can contemplate the past with the thought that, day by day the best had been done, according to the light that had been given and who can realize that if it were possible to live this earthly life over again it could not be different from what it had been. Surely there is nothing more to wish for in this world than that at the end of the journey there will be peace and rest.
On a sultry day in July, a young man of perhaps eighteen years old was walking slowly along a country road toward the river, which could be seen a few miles away, from the higher elevations in the road. He was a sturdy fellow, his broad shoulders fully developed and well proportioned body showed physical strength. His eyes were cast down, but that broad brow and clean cut face showed mental power. His personality showed he was a lad of sensitive feeling but inflexible will. One of those who, wherever found will always be on the side of right and justice. He carried a bundle in which was contained all he possessed of this world's goods, a change of clothing. He looked neither to the right nor left. His very soul was bowed, not with shame but with sorrow, for he had said goodbye to that mother he loved so well. He was leaving the home of his childhood, because he
He quickened his steps that he might reach the river before the day was gone, and already the shadows had begun to lengthen, showing plainly that the afternoon was passing. When he reached the river, he tied two pieces of timber together with bark taken from a hickory shrub,--on this raft he placed his clothing and pushed it to the opposite side while he swam behind it. He reached an uncle's home, who lived a few miles from the river, a short time after night had fallen. He told his uncle he had left home never to return and that he wanted work. His uncle told him he had a field of oats that were ready to cut and that he would give him two dollars and fifty cents for the work. When this job was done he received his first wages as a hired hand. A few days later, he hired to two Quaker brothers who owned a farm
The young man saved his money, he had no bad habits, did not use tobacco in any form, did not drink intoxicants or play cards. He was a model young man. He owned a splendid saddle horse as that was before the day of buggies and automobiles. He wore good clothes and his moral excellence, his strength of character, his uprightness, his personality were the charms that gave him ready admittance into the best society.
When he was twenty-three years old he became acquainted with a young lady who lived in a village six or seven miles from where he worked. She was charming, intelligent and refined. She was twenty years old, her face and form were beautiful and her character was unquestioned. Her parents were well-to-do, in fact among the wealthy families of the village or surrounding country; they were above the average. The young man thought he was highly favored when he was permitted to call at the young lady's home to take her to places of social amusement or to church, for she was a member of the village church and seldom failed to attend the services.
Time passed, the young man was very happy, and the young lady seemed glad and encouraged his attentions. But the time had come when he must know his fate. He had made up his mind he would ask this young lady, to him the fairest of them all, to go with him on life's pilgrimage, that they might have joy and sorrow together, that success or failure should be theirs in common, that he would ask her to walk side by side with him as he fought the great battle of life. No doubt came into his mind what the answer would be when the momentous question was asked. But, strange to say, when he told
Three months had passed, no token or sign of reconciliation; they had not met since that memorable evening. One Sunday morning he mounted his saddle horse and rode along the highway not caring which way he went. He gave the horse the rein, while his mind was busy in reverie or meditation of what had taken place in his life in the past year. He felt lonesome and forsaken, the one for whom he would have given his life had rejected him--why stay here longer, he would go West and try to forget the one who had caused so much joy and sorrow. “Hello,” some one said, “where are you going this morning?” He looked up and saw that he was entering the village. In answer to his friend's question, he said: “I am out for a morning ride.” “Well,” his friend said: “there is preaching at the church this morning, you had better go.”
“All right, I believe I will,” the young man replied.
After the service, while he was standing in front of
It is a pleasure to think of young people as sometime being happy in a home of their own and all that home life means. Some there are who through youth and on to old age are toiling always, no limit to their endurance and no respite from a strenuous life. They build a home,
These young people planned better than they knew, a long and eventful life was before them, the unhappy days of the past were overshadowed by the joys of the present and the probable happiness of the future as they should journey hand in hand up the pathway of life to the summit and then quietly down to the valley of old age and to rest. Slowly and happily they wended their way to the home of the young lady, where on that quiet and holy Sabbath day, they sought and received the sanction of her parents to their betrothal.
On that beautiful twenty-first day of October, in the year eighteen hundred and forty-five, at the pleasant home of her parents, Mary Gregg Herndon placed her hand in that of William Evermont Bryan and the minister of her own church pronounced the beautiful ceremony that made them husband and wife. They had a bright future before them; to them would come, as they have to all others, the joys and sorrows, the privations and success of life, but why dwell on these, the future would take care of itself, the present is the auspicious time in which to live.
For several years these young people lived on a farm, a few miles from Carthage. In 1850 they bought a half interest in a general store in the village to which place they moved to make their future home. But the partner in the store was not the kind of man he ought to have been, and while Mr. Bryan was away boating on the Ohio river from New Richmond to Cincinnati, the store proved a losing investment. In the winter of 1853, they made up their minds to go to Missouri and cast their lot with the
How sad it is to leave the home of childhood, of youth and young manhood to go out into the world to dwell among strangers. If it is sad for the man, it is doubly so for the woman, since for the vast majority of them the woman's home is her world, and to give up a pleasant home and sever the ties that bind one to pleasant associations is a trial that makes the bravest grow faint. On March 15, 1853, this family bade farewell to their relatives and friends and embarked on a steamboat at Cincinnati for St. Louis, little dreaming how long and how far they would travel and what privations they would endure before they had a home again as pleasant as the one they had left.
They took with them a team of fine horses, a wagon, some household goods and a family of four children, two sons and two daughters, the youngest daughter being at this time three months old. At St. Louis, they added to their stock some agricultural implements with which to farm after they reached their destination. After staying at St. Louis for a few days they took a boat for St. Joseph, Missouri, a distance of over four hundred miles up the Missouri river. This was a slow and tedious trip for the channel is ever changing, the water is muddy and the current is swift, but they reached the port in due time. They stopped with a cousin, Hunt Bryan, who
They bought four yoke of oxen and all the provisions they could haul, consisting of bacon, beans, flour, sugar, coffee, rice, hard tack and a cooking outfit such as campers usually use and bedding enough to make them comfortable. Disposing of their household goods and leaving
When they left Fort Kearney, they followed what was known as the Mormon trace, up the Platte river. After several days' travel on the plains they had gone into camp for the night when one of the worst storms came up that they had ever seen or dreamed of, rain, hail and wind which raged for hours, blowing the covers off the wagons, soaking their clothing through and through, the hail cutting the hands of the men while they tried to hold the covers on the wagons. The stock were stampeded and half of the next day was spent in getting them into camp. A sad experience to begin with! This emigrant train is now going up the Platte river and for many miles they will pass closely along the south bank. Broad plains are the principal features, skirted in places with low abrupt hills.
A brief description of the river seems necessary at this point, as its source is in the Rocky Mountains and is confluent with the Missouri river, a few miles south of Omaha. The Platte is a treacherous river, the channel is continually changing, caused by the vast quantities of sand which are continually floating down its muddy tide.
Crossing the Plains in 1853.
When the feed for the stock was plentiful, the emigrants would travel but a short distance in a day; if it was scarce, they would make longer drives. There were plenty of buffalo on the plains. Indians would come to the camps and beg for food; often they would be refused, for the emigrants must take care of their store of provisions, for there were no supplies to be had on the way.
About two weeks after leaving Fort Kearney, on account of a misunderstanding, Mr. Bryan and family left the train of a Mr. Burril, who did not prove congenial, and joined the train of Mr. Kimbal from Illinois. The latter was a man who had made three trips across the plains before and who proved to be a perfect gentleman. He was taking across the plains about twenty milch cows, and the milk was a great help and satisfaction to the children as well as the older ones. And now our emigrants are fully launched on this broad thoroughfare with the first rays of the morning sun piercing the rear of their prairie schooners, and as he sank below the western
There was an almost unbroken train at times of emigrant wagons. Some would be met coming back, discouraged and homesick. These were the days and these plains the place that tried men's mettle; there was danger between civilization and the land of their desires. There was no trouble to find the road across the plains, for the sign-marks were the bleached skulls of cattle that had perished the few years previous, and many mounds could be seen where some poor emigrant, overcome by sickness the year before, laid down here and gave up the fainting spirit to Him who gave it, or perhaps gave up his life while defending his wife and children from the savage Indians, who attacked the train in the gray dawn or darker night. This trail lead from old Fort Kearney on the Missouri river to Newport Kearney on the Platte, through Nebraska to Fort Laramie in Wyoming, then to Fort Steele and on to Salt Lake City in Utah. At Fort Steele, the Mormon trail leads to the southwest, and the Lewis and Clark trail to the northwest. Independence rock and the Devil's gate are close together. Some say that Lewis and Clark passed through Devil's Canyon in canoes, but Mrs. Bryan says it would be impossible to go through and come out alive. She climbed to the summit of the gate and looked down. A sight greeted her eyes never to be forgotten. The channel was narrow and the water went dashing, tumbling and churning itself into foam against the jagged rocks, so that a canoe would be dashed to splinters in a short time.
Crossing the mountains from the foothills at Fort Laramie is not a difficult task. You would hardly know or realize the fact except by the rough and rocky road
Two young men had been sent by Mr. Kimbal after the cattle and when coming up to Ragtown from their camp, which had been made a half mile away, they saw a young man with an ox and heard him trying to sell him to the owner of the trading post. The young man told the storekeeper not to buy the ox as he belonged to his boss. The one who had been caught in the act of trying to sell something that did not belong to him turned on his accuser and, pulling out his gun, shot him, killing him instantly. This tragedy caused quite an excitement in the camps of the emigrants and Ragtown, but the man was never punished for his crime. The death of this young man was a sad incident and one that caused great sorrow among the emigrants, with whom he was intimately associated.
At this time and place, an event of unusual interest occurred to Mr. Bryan and his family. Their supply of bacon was exhausted. One of his fellow emigrants had told him he would let him have bacon, but when he went after it, another of the party said, “We have none to spare.” “All right,” he said, “I will try the trading post.” When he went into the store he asked the proprietor if he had any bacon to sell. “I have none to sell,” he replied. “But,” said the man, in a casual manner, “where are you from?” He told him he was from Kentucky,
And now, after a few days' rest near Ragtown, our emigrant train broke camp and started into the foothills and across the great Sierra Nevada Mountains. The peaks of this range are not as high as those of the Rockies by several thousand feet, but the passes are more dangerous, and it is a historical fact that more people perished in the Sierras than in the Rockies during the emigrant days to the Pacific Coast. After several days of strenuous, disagreeable and dangerous traveling, the summit was finally reached. At a short distance south of Lake Tahoe, soon after they had gone into camp on the summit, one of those mountain storms came up and caused more suffering than at any time during their journey. Some of the men had gone with the stock a mile or more from camp, as there was no forage nearer and the stock must be provided for. First it rained, then sleet, then snow; the wind blew a gale, and cold--you cannot imagine how cold. The men at the camp built
And now on the 15th day of September, 1853, six months from the time they left their pleasant and comfortable home at Carthage, Kentucky, we find the Bryan family at a mining place called Virginia flat in Eldorado county, California, with four yoke of oxen, two horses, a wagon, four children and three dollars in money. No doubt they were glad to be at their journey's end for the present. After coming a distance of perhaps three thousand miles, through heat and cold, under clouds and sunshine, by water and land, across plains and deserts, over mountains and through valleys, surely they were entitled to a rest. They moved all their goods into a cabin built with three logs on a side and covered with shakes or boards. Their household goods consisted of their bedding, clothing and camp outfit which they had brought with them. And yet they were happy, for they had been well and hearty. Mrs. Bryan said she had walked two-thirds of the distance and was feeling fine when they got to their new home. However, the pleasure at reaching their destination was only to last for a brief period, for the great problem of making a living must be met and overcome. Mr. Bryan was anxious to find his brothers. He visited many mining camps and made inquiry without success. Finally one day a miner asked him where he was from and when he told him Kentucky, he told him there was a man working at a certain place they called Kaintuck who might know of his brothers. When he
Mining in those days was very uncertain. It was done by washing the gold dust from the dirt in what they called rockers, long Toms and sluices. Do not think that gold dust means tiny particles like sand; it means particles ranging in size from that of a pin-head to a good-sized nugget. Some people made fortunes, but the vast majority only a living. Mr. Bryan's first work was to go after the goods of an emigrant who had been stranded by losing his team. On this first trip he was gone ten days. After that he hauled supplies from Sacramento to the miners in the mountains and to the trading posts scattered along the trail of the emigrants. These long drives after their long trip across the plains caused his oxen to get so thin that he was compelled to take them to the valley between Placerville and Sacramento to forage for a living and take on flesh.
The winter of 1853-4 was a memorable one for the Bryan family. They were in close quarters, but had plenty to eat, although of the commonest kind. The master of the house was gone much of the time, having found a light wagon by the roadside that probably had been abandoned by prospectors, which he would hitch his horses to and haul many a party of miners from one camp to another to attend dances or other amusements, for which service he was well paid. Like all other winters in the past, this winter came to an end and found them in good health and ready to work at whatever they could find to do. They traded their team of horses for a ranch of fifty acres, in the hills, two miles from Virginia
They lived on this ranch for five years, having built a comfortable house, but the land was not productive. Potatoes and other vegetables would not materialize. In the meantime, the ox teams were kept busy hauling supplies across the mountains to the mines, and shakes and shingles back to Sacramento. Hay was selling at eighty dollars per ton and rather than take the hay from the oxen the family used pine leaves for bedding. Mrs. Bryan washed and baked bread for the miners and timber men. The children peddled milk to the miners; in fact, every one worked, as well as father. Whenever they had money enough, they would buy a cow.
In 1855 their youngest son, William, was born. In the fall of this year Mr. Bryan, with a partner, went prospecting for gold. At one place they dug a hole several feet deep and, not finding that for which they were seeking, they concluded to leave their picks and shovels in the hole to hold their claim, go home and return the next year. On returning the next year, they found their claim had been taken, and they were told that the parties who had worked their claim had taken out ninety thousand dollars by going a few feet deeper.
In the year 1859, having sold their ranch, they moved to Clarksville, about thirty miles towards Sacramento, and ran a small dairy. In 1860 they bought a timber claim from Mr. Chandler, who had a contract to furnish logs to the Atlantic mills and lumber company. This mill was in the mountains near Sly Park, fifty miles from Clarksville. The family moved to the timber claim, except the two oldest boys, who were left at Clarksville to look after the dairy. About this time they took a claim on quite a large tract of land in Sacramento county, fourteen
In October, 1862, Damarius, their youngest daughter, who was now nearly ten years old, was stricken with diphtheria and after a brief illness the Master took her home. She was a beautiful child and her kind and amiable disposition had so impressed the family and all who knew her, that her absence was sorely felt. In the fall of 1863 they moved to the ranch to stay, having built a comfortable house. They were soon farming on a large scale and also engaged in the sheep-raising industry and, besides, they kept hauling freight with mule and ox teams. The virgin soil produced phenomenal crops, of wheat as much as forty bushels and barley fifty bushels to the acre. At this time, about the close of the Civil War, and for several years after, grain sold for good prices. Their ranch consisted of four thousand two hundred acres, besides they owned eight hundred acres on Deer Creek about eight miles from the home ranch. They dealt in cattle extensively, and from all their resources they realized a handsome return in a financial way; in other words, they were making plenty of money.
In the spring of 1867, Mr. Bryan, with his wife and
Mr. Bryan and his sons continued farming and in the sheep business until 1876, when he divided his land among his four children, reserving four hundred acres in the center of the ranch for himself. He often made the remark that when he most needed help was when he first started in life to make a home for himself and family. And as he had been eminently successful, with the help of his wife and children, in accumulating enough of this world's goods to make them all comfortable, he felt it a duty he owed his children to provide them with a home, as they had been so devoted to his interests and helped to make what he had.
In 1880 he and his wife left the ranch and moved to Alameda. He invested ten thousand dollars in real estate on Pacific avenue. This money he had received on a ten-year endowment policy. He was twice elected a member of the board of trustees and was sought after again to serve on the board, but declined. The building
In October, 1895, they celebrated their golden wedding anniversary, surrounded by their children and grandchildren, named respectively as follows: Maggie C. Morris and children, May and Will; Alonzo W. Bryan, wife and children, Lessie, Bert and Archie; Elijah H. Bryan, wife and daughter Vivian; Wm. F. Bryan, wife and children, Macie, Hazen, Ralph, Arthur and Edna. This was a memorable occasion and one never to be forgotten. As the parents glanced at the joyful and loving faces around them, their eyes grew dim with happy tears and their memories wandered back to the time, a half century ago, when they first plighted their troth and took up life's burden together. A bountiful dinner was served to all present and in the evening many friends called to extend hearty congratulations. Among the many presents received was a gold watch to the mother and a gold-headed umbrella to the father from the children, and a gold berry spoon from the grandchildren. A touching feature of the gathering was a second ceremony performed by the Rev. J. J. Martin, pastor of the Santa Clara Avenue M. E. church, when once again the happy couple plighted their troth.
Mr. and Mrs. Bryan made four trips to the east, the
I have often thought the most beautiful and perfect life was the one in which a man and woman joined by the holy bonds of wedlock could travel hand in hand up the eastern pathway of life until the summit is reached and then down the western slope, hand in hand, to the brink of the river where the loved ones on the other side are waiting to welcome them home. A beautiful life, no discord, no fault-finding, no severe criticism, but love and harmony and encouragement and good cheer. That seems to me to be the ideal life. How many live it?
Wm. E. Bryan was a man of sterling integrity. He was one of those who lived not for himself alone, but to make the world about him better and happier. Those who came in contact with him in a business or social way felt the force of his personality and respected him for his positive convictions on public questions. He was not afraid to express his opinion on any subject vital to the betterment of his country or his fellow men an ideal husband, father and citizen. On July 22, 1909, he passed to his reward at the age of eighty-seven years and nine months. Truly, a good life well lived had come
And now in the conclusion of this history of pioneer life in the West, and down to the present time, June, 1911, may I not ask you citizens of California this question: Do you not owe these men and women who crossed the plains sixty years or more ago a debt of gratitude? Aye, more, you owe them a benign and reverent benediction in their old age because they have made it possible for you to live in a State in some ways the best in the Union; therefore, I charge you not to forget the pioneer settlers. I love to listen to Mrs. Bryan as she tells of her long life of joy and sorrow, of adversity and prosperity, and best of all is to hear her say that through all these experiences she has never lost faith in God. Sometimes the clouds of poverty and privation would almost shut out the sun of Righteousness, then the sweet words of comfort would come to her mind, “All things work together for good to them that love the Lord.” The clouds would roll away and peace and happiness would fill her soul. And now in her eighty-seventh year, at her pleasant home in Alameda, surrounded by her children and grandchildren, who are a source of great pleasure and comfort to her, we find her waiting for the Master to say, “Well done, good and faithful servant, come up higher.” Waiting, but not idle, remarkably strong in body and mind, she is busy every day visiting the sick, comforting and aiding the needy
Crossing the Continent in 1991.
A good book, whether a novel or not, is one that leaves you farther on than when you took it up. If when you have read it, it leaves you just where you were before reading it, with no finer outlook, no clearer vision, no stimulated desires for that which is better and higher, then it is in no sense a good book. If when you have read this book, you do not feel that you have advanced even one step toward a stronger and better life--it is in no sense a good book. In every book there ought to be a thought in it that will help the reader, for as the writer has given his thoughts to the world, it ought to be for some definite purpose. If for money only, the writer has failed; if for love of humanity each succeeding book is better, this is true as you know of some modern writers.
We will find as we look back on the journey of life up to the present time, the moments that stand out prominently before us and the moments when we have really enjoyed life are the moments when we have done things in a spirit of love and have done things that we feel have been a benefit to a fellow being. But, oh, how we try to forget the mean things we have done! They, too, stand out prominently before us at times, but they have been blotted out to a certain extent and, although the scars are there and will always remain, yet the better life has healed them over. Surely we should try to make the world better, and if we only persuade one soul to lead a better life we leave the world better than we found it.
Last night I read in a book written by a noted English author these words: “Fools! They were living in the
After you have lived three score and ten years you will see the many mistakes you have made and wonder why you made them. With the experience of our ancestors handed down from one generation to another, and with the marvelous progress made along educational lines, it seems strange we are not wiser in living. And after all, people now are the same as they were seventy years ago. The difference between then and now is in what people have done in a material way for the benefit of mankind. It is said, then there were giants in oratory, such as Webster, Clay, Calhoun and others, in comparison with whom ours are mediocre. Then the primeval forests were being laid low by the woodman's ax, the smoke was curling from the chimney of the pioneer's cabin, now where the mighty oak and kindred trees stood and defied the storms of the centuries past the golden grain waves and nods like an ocean billow. The log cabin home and the fort, like corral for the comfort and protection of the domestic animals, have been replaced by the comfortable modern home and the pretentious barn. Then the horse
How we people, who have lived a half century or more, wish we were young again. This is certainly a glad era in which to live, and yet we realize that “There is no snow falls lighter than the snow of age, and none is heavier, for it never melts. The old man may sit and sing, I would I were a boy again, but he grows older as he sings.” Men who are living today, seventy-five years old, remember these conditions existed, as we have stated them, sixty-six years ago. Our country has made phenomenal progress in that time, and we wonder what the next half or whole century will bring to the children of men in the way of improvements over the present time.
It may be that airships will be as common as streetcars and as useful; and by telepathy friends can converse
The editors of newspapers fifty years hence will be welcome to copy from The Lure of the Past anything they find of interest to the reading public. They may want to tell their readers of conditions in this country in 1911 as we tell of conditions as they were in 1861.
Fifty years ago this spring the pent-up fury of a great nation had burst like a Vesuvius. For ten years or more Congress had tried in vain to settle the vexed question of slavery, but instead the situation became more acute. The tense lines binding the Union together could not possibly hold much longer. The compromise of 1850, in which the fugitive slave law was incorporated, was the beginning of the end. Then followed the wonderful novel, ‘Uncle Tom's Cabin,” published in 1852, and without doubt that book was one of the vital forces affecting the history of that time, and if it was written to stimulate the mind of the fanatic to greater zeal as an advocate of anti-slavery, it served its purpose well and, although it was fiction pure and simple, everybody read it and many believed it was as true as gospel. Later, the Kansas-Nebraska bill, the repeal of the Missouri Compromise, the Dred Scott decision, the Kansas war, John Brown's exploit at Harper's Ferry, all of these things helped to fan into flame the smoldering embers of disunion, which like some loathsome disease had filled the minds of the anti and pro-slavery adherents both North and South.
At San Francisco, in 1915, four years hence, our great country will celebrate the completion of the Panama Canal. When completed it will be the biggest engineering project in the world and will have cost half a billion dollars. At the special session in 1911 the House of Representatives voted an appropriation of three million dollars to begin work of fortifying the Canal, which when fortified will be a bulwark of strength. It will also insure peace to strengthen our coast defense. Fifty years hence, some of the children and grandchildren of people living today will be talking of celebrating the victory over the Lost Cause, and the elevation of a human race from bondage to freedom. But we hope the generations living at that time will have something to celebrate that will give patriotic joy to the whole nation, rather than a part. It seems like a good thing to be an editor of a metropolitan newspaper. We have in mind two editors, one in a city on the Pacific Coast, one in a city in the Middle West. These men are great writers. Their editorials on any subject are worth reading, but the editor of the Middle
While it is a good thing to be an editor, it is better to be an author, a writer of books, the kind that to read them rests the body and mind, the kind that makes you forget yourself and your little world and sometimes brings tears to your eyes. A very safe way to gauge the quality of a book is by the effect it has on the reader. If there is no tender chord of our being touched, no tear dims the eye, and no better impulse is in our nature, then either the book or the reader is to blame. It might be a stony heart like Shylock's that could not be softened by a Portia's mercy speech, or it might be the fault of the writer. Of course the newspapers and magazines are a part of our being; they are indispensable, but they cannot take the place of books. There are so many kinds of books and yet they could be grouped into three classes, at least that is sufficient for our purpose. The inspired Book, remember, is not classed with the three, for it is far superior
Have you read Hugo's “Les Miserables,” said to be the masterpiece of this famous author? Of course you have, every reader of fiction has. If any of your literary friends should ask you, have you read Dumas, Thackeray, Scott, Dickens and the whole list, you would not like to say no; perhaps some read them on that account, while others do so because they enjoy reading them. Let us take “Les Miserables” for a specimen copy of that class of books--while reading it, did it rest your mind and body? Did the twelve or fifteen-page description of an old French building appeal to your fancy? Did you throw the book down and say, how tiresome, and in a few hours pick it up and commence reading again? And how about Jean Valjean? Did you ever know or hear of a man whose conscience hurt him so long as did his for taking a loaf of bread to feed his sister's starving children? Can you imagine a man living today, who has become a millionaire in twenty or thirty years, being troubled about such a little thing as that “wee small voice” called conscience? We wonder if Fels, Carnegie and Rockefeller have had a vision? If conscience has been the cause, we hope it will affect others, and the result be satisfactory to those who give as well as those who receive. What impresses one most in this masterpiece of this great author is his description of the battle of Waterloo, a wonderfully vivid and truthful portrayal of that decisive and hard-fought battle. But his vindictive arraignment of Napoleon as a man is as strong language as could be used in
We wonder if these declarations of Hugo in such high-sounding language are applicable to any person since the days of Napoleon. We hope not, and yet in our own country there are a few men who seem Napoleonic in their ambitions. When we read books like “Ben Hur,” “Uncle Tom's Cabin,” “The Prince of the House of David,” we never forget them, and perhaps they are the kind we ought to read; the trouble is, there is not enough of them. If we go to the public library in any city, shut
If it is good to be an editor and better to be an author, it is surely the best to be a preacher. This is a profession in which we can all take a part, not in the pulpit, not to perform a marriage ceremony, not to be ordained and invested with ministerial functions, but we can preach by precept and example. Do we have to proclaim from the housetop that we are followers of the lowly Nazarene? Do we have to publish to the world our every act of charity, of love, of good-will to be philanthropists? Do we justify ourselves with the thought that we have no
The adversary of good depends on Sabbath desecration for his first lesson in leading men and women out of the path of rectitude, and if he can induce his followers to work on the Sabbath day under any pretense, calling it business, he has proven himself a good teacher, for he is aware of the fact that as long as they obey his instruction he can use them for his unrighteous purpose, which is to lead them along the broad way that ends in eternal night and without hope. Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” Another formidable weapon used by this adversary of good is the saloon. After Sabbath desecration, the lessons are easy; first is drinking at a fashionable resort, next gambling, then blasphemy and murder, causing crushed hearts and neglected children, and finally the blear-eyed sot fills a drunkard's grave. What a deplorable picture of the life of a man made in God's own image, and yet it is true just because a man lacks the will-power to let the accursed stuff alone. It wrecked my home when I was a boy and sent my father to a premature grave and it will wreck your home and cause
Why this great unrest among the laboring classes of
Oh, it's the bummest place I ever saw; do you know, I only get fourteen dollars a week, and if ever I can save money enough to take my wife and three children back where I came from, I will go in a hurry and be glad to get away from this place--unrest. In another city, you talk with a fruit and vegetable huckster. You say to him, yours is a very good business, you make a good living for yourself and family, do you not? “It's rotten,” is his reply, “everything is going wrong.”
“There are only two classes of people, the rich and the poor. The government runs the machine, the material is put in the hopper all of the same quality, but when they come out, on the one side are the rich, on the other the poor,” but listen: “I will tell you something. In a few years the socialists will be in power, then equality in all things”--unrest. In another city, you talk to a mechanic; you say, my friend, you are in a union that insures you steady work at good wages, it must be a good thing to belong to a union. “Perhaps you are right, but listen, if I did not belong to the union, I could not get any work to do, so you see I was forced to join the union in order to get work, and now I am not busy all the time, but I tell you that years ago, when wages were lower, I had more money at the end of the month than I have now. Why? Because rent was less, foodstuffs of all kinds were cheaper, clothing was cheaper and, above all, I was independent”--unrest.
In another city you go into a factory where hundreds of men are toiling day after day. They do not look happy,
There are three lessons I would write;
Three words as with a burning pen,
In tracings of eternal light
Upon the hearts of men.
Have hope. Though clouds environ now,
And gladness hides her face in scorn,
Put thou the shadow from thy brow;
No night but hath its morn.
Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven,
The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth,
Know this--God rules the hosts of heaven,
The inhabitants of earth.
Have love. Not love alone for one,
But men, as men, thy brothers call,
And scatter, like the circling sun,
Thy charities on all.
Thus grave these lessons on thy soul--
Hope, faith and love-and thou shalt find
Strength when life's surges rudest roll,
Light when thou else wert blind.
And so we find it, everywhere, not everybody in that condition of unrest, but a vast majority of our fellow-citizens are the happiest people on earth; they are not rich, neither are they poor, they have pleasant homes, they have a business or profession, trade or occupation by which they can make an honest and independent living. They have good neighbors and kind friends. They have the satisfaction of knowing their lives have fallen to them in pleasant places, yea, that they have a goodly heritage and they should praise God from whom all blessings flow.
And now, we have moralized, eulogized and theorized all for a purpose to get you to stop and think. We have only written what you know, but you are so busy solving life's problems and adjusting them to your way of seeing things, that even sympathy is obscured, and you turn a deaf ear to the pleading soul who has been less fortunate than you in fighting life's battles. How many tragic stories could be written of persons, could we lift the veil that hides like a curtain from our gaze their joys and sorrows, their good and bad impulses, their every act through every phase of life and finally to write of them as those who with beaming expression of face, with stately poise, with lofty mien and with eyes of deepest solicitude, all indicating the struggle is over, the victory won and henceforth nothing bad shall mar the beauty of life.
The problems of life are an every-day fact; what perplexes you and gives you anxious thought for your present welfare and future happiness is readily solved by your friend and neighbor, not by environment, not by heritage, nor financial success, nor greater intelligence, but by righteousness. If it exalts a nation, why not a human being? Solomon said, “Righteousness exalteth a nation; but sin is a reproach to any people.” Rev. Sam Small said he thought Solomon knew better what a nation needed than any other man that has ever lived, except Theodore Roosevelt. We ought to be the greatest nation on the earth, and are in some ways. If we were immune from every other nation, we could live for a thousand years on our own resources, every man could make a living for himself and family unless he was too lazy to work, or kept out of the reward of his labor by unjust laws, or physically disabled. Being free, it is a pleasure to think about the freedom we have, if we are so fortunate as to have the money to pay for it. There are a few things left that are not in the trusts. The air we breathe is free, the sky, the clouds, the song of the birds, the sunshine and shadow, and we ought to be thankful there are so many things that money cannot buy.
Almost everything that is sold is in a trust, or controlled on a similar basis. For instance, take brooms, a useful and very necessary commodity; the factories send their agents to the farmers in Illinois who raise broom-corn, and buy their crops long before they are matured. When the crop is delivered in the fall, and there is no more to buy, the price goes up double what they paid, and a twenty-five-cent broom will sell for fifty cents. That's a legitimate business, and what are you going to do about it? You will do just what you do when you
If we are not satisfied with these conditions, we will have to make the best of them, and be as happy as we can, and adjust ourselves to the new conditions as they arise, for none of us would go back even a half century and face the difficulties and lack of modern conveniences, so let us be hopeful and contented. And after all, out greatest happiness does not come from our desires being satisfied, but rather the denial of them for the sake of some high purpose in life. Did you ever know a young man who wanted to be a lawyer, was educated for that profession and after he was converted, gave his life work to the ministry, giving up his chosen profession; and do you suppose he was unhappy because his desires had been thwarted and denied? No, his supreme joy must have been in his purpose to do a great and noble work for his Master. There are many examples besides Saul of Tarsus of this kind. Have you known sons or daughters to forego the pleasure and happiness of a prospective home of their own to take care of a widowed mother or orphan brothers and sisters? If so, their happiness was in the denial of pleasure for a high purpose in life called duty
As the writer works day after day, new thoughts come into the mind, they lead on and on, the imagination can travel across the continent while the telegraph operator touches the key of his instrument, and yet there is a thought that lingers with a man day after day as he works. It controls his life, sometimes it brings success, often failure as the world judges a man's life. General Grant had the thought at Petersburg, and it brought success; General Lee's was the same and it brought failure. You will find in every book, in every sermon, in every business, in every walk of life that success is always the
Besides the central thought, there is another that lingers in our mind, it is ever present as we write. Like Banquo's ghost, it will not down; not stupendous in its significance like the first, for surely if there is anything divine in man, it is the thought that impels him to do all he can to make the world better and happier. But this auxiliary or subsidiary thought, call it what you please, has helped us to write this book different from any you have ever read. In writing a preface and placing it here instead of in the front is an innovation. No excuse is offered for a book like this, the object in writing is for pity, love and money--pity for humanity as we see it reckless and extravagant in its desires for pleasures of things worldly that will not satisfy the soul; love for all things that make the world better--the church, the home, the school, the results of their teaching and influence; money for the publisher and the poor. The only authority enunciated in this book is derived from character, age and experience--character, that peculiar quality of a person that makes reputation and standing; age, that means to us almost the alloted three score and ten years. What a wonderful thought age is; there is
Yes, you will find this book different from any you have read, and if you do not agree with us in what is in the book, of course you have the right to your opinion. We could have written a story, and if we are ever convinced that our illustrious namesake ever told a story in all his life, even after the episode of the cherry tree and little hatchet, then conscientious scruples will be cast aside and we will hesitate no longer, bUt try our hand at story writing.
We have given you the history of the simple life, lived by a man worthy of emulation in some ways, not perfect, as perfection is not possible, but it was a life far above the average. Then we have tried to show the difference between then and now, in many things that relate to our country and ourselves and now we are going to give our observations and impressions of things as they are, or
Away back in 1872 is when life began for us. A man never lives until he marries the woman he loves and settles down to make an honest living for the two or more, if they are blessed in that way. Of course a man can stay stuck away in a hotel or rooming house, he can imagine he is having a nice time and enjoying life, but he don't know anything about the happy, contented life until he has a home of his own. On the bank of the far-famed and historic Brandywine, not the one of revolutionary historic memories, but the one the Hoosier poet has in such a graphic manner described in verse as an ideal stream in which to find an “Ole Swimmin' Hole,” water as clear as crystal and cool as the spray from the snow-fed falls of the Yosemite, truly a picturesque and romantic stream fed by a thousand springs that never fail or grow weary. Today our mind goes back to pleasant scenes, back nearly forty years, when life was worth while, and as we stand near this memorable stream in fancy, what a beautiful picture is spread out before us. As far as the eye can see on every hand are well-kept farms, comfortable homes, hospitable neighbors, good roads, two churches a mile away, the district school house at the cross roads, a sure monitor of intellectual attainment, the mill and smith, the clouds and sunshine, the heat and the cold, the rain and snow, the seedtime and harvest, the work and rest, the comfortable home and all the word home implies, not merely a place to eat and sleep, but a place made sacred and happy by its very name, a synonym for paradise on earth. Much might be written of the quiet, happy, restful country home in contra-distinction to the city home, but only those who have lived in both know the
Let us tell you of one of those hilly counties. It has never been cursed with a saloon inside its borders. No denizen of this picturesque domain has ever graced the spacious corridors or donned the uniform of the State penal institution called the penitentiary. The door of the old log jail is seldom closed on a criminal; if perchance it does, it is merely to allow the person incarcerated time to reflect on his condition, to let his angry passion become normal, to pay his fine and to be a free man once more. And, strange to say, eighty per cent. of the voters in this county are Democrats, not the kind that are supposed to represent the party in Congress, but vote for the interests regardless of party pledges, principles or platform. And how to account for this model and incomparable county in morals and uprightness would be a mystery, until it dawns on us that they belong to the party they say can't read. Franklin, the county town of Johnson county, differs very little from other towns in the State; you will find the court house in the public square, the churches, the public school buildings, the brick streets, the mud streets mixed with a little gravel, the beautiful homes where the bankers live or the prosperous professional or business men, or perchance the retired farmers, and the cozy homes of the other class, who are happy and contented in the possession of even a humble home. Nor
We love to write about the Hoosier State. It was our home so long, we would like to tell of its wonderful resources, of its gold, its coal, its oil, and natural gas, its immense factories, the largest at South Bend and Gary, its poets and writers of fiction, its patriotism in time of war, etc. How we would like to boost a State as good as that, everything about it is good except the climate, and it is as uncertain as its politics. Many States are just as good, but we do not know them so well. If it is such a good State, why don't you stay there? You would naturally ask that question, and we will answer, a personal matter, but it will do us no harm, and may do you good. More than two years ago when in beautiful Greenlawn cemetery we laid to rest, to await the resurrection morn, the best part of my life, the one who for thirty-seven years had been my comfort and inspiration, who had shared my joys and sorrows, who had shared with me her plenty in my poverty and the one who made me a better man. What I am today, in up- rightness of character, in honest motives and integrity, I owe to her. Not that I was a bad man, but she made strong the weak places in my being by kind counsel and Christian example. Sacred are these words to the memory of a beautiful life. In a spiritual sense, a flower of time of rare colors and sweetest fragrance will bloom through all eternity. What a precious thought is the
As we sat in our lonely home, we talked of the past, of the home life and its joys and sorrows, of kind friends and neighbors and their sympathy; we made our plans for the future, we would be even more than father and daughter, we would be comrades; we like that word, it sounds like you were so congenial, of the same spirit, sympathetic and agreeable, try it with your child or friend and enjoy the effect; we would be an inspiration
After a strenuous life of manual labor, of business or of pleasure, when the hands, the mind or the heart, the seat of affection grow tired and refuse to perform their accustomed duties, then the family physician will prescribe rest and recreation. Perhaps in a different climate you may find the elements that will recreate you after a life of toil; vain hope, the change will do you good, but the vital power expended from toil of body, brain or heart year after year will not return though you eat and drink with the fabled gods, though like a seer you could look through the veil and see the fabled elysium, though you had mastered metaphysics like an Eddy, or had a vision like the youngest and most affectionate of our Master's
It is very pleasant when you leave home to travel knowing that you need not hurry or worry and that you can spend thirty days making a trip that could be made in six. It seems strange why so many people travel. No doubt there are many causes, some for pleasure, some for business, some to visit relatives and friends, some that they may have something to tell when they return home, and again it may be that the travel microbe gets into their system and forces them on their journey whether they
Comfortably seated on an interurban car running from our home city to the capital city, thoughts like these came into our mind. Could the Irwin family use their surplus money in a better way than to build a road for the benefit of the public? They are servants of the people in a way, they build the road, equip it with comfortable cars and power, build stations at every city and village they pass through, buy the right of way from the farmers and then we, the people, pay a small sum, not Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, Indianapolis, Ind. See Page 66
You will find in this up-to-date city one of the finest terminal stations in the Middle West, where cars come and go to all parts of the State every hour in the day and half of the night. Every convenience and comfort necessary to the traveling public are found here. A square west, the magnificent State House looms up grand and sublime, a fit temple in which the executive, judicial and legislative bodies can sit and perform the duties peculiar to any office they may hold.
Two squares east of the state house is the soldiers' and sailors' monument, which stands colossus-like in the center of a circle, a silent tribute to the patriotism and heroism of the Indiana boys in blue who gave their lives a sacrifice on the altar of the Civil War, and not in vain, for as the years go by we see the wisdom of the god of battle giving the victory to the boys in blue, and yet we fought on the other side
One square north from the monument you see the Federal building, covering a square or block. Step inside and you will find one of the most conveniently arranged post offices you were ever in. A lobby runs through the building and the offices are on either side finished in marble. It will impress you as being a building that will stand as a monument for years to come, showing the generosity and good-will of Uncle Sam for the Hoosiers. If you ever visit the capital city of Indiana, you will be impressed with its wide streets and avenues, its splendid churches, its solid business blocks, its beautiful parks, used for rest and recreation rather than to beautify the city. Take a spin north from the monument and see the ideal homes; this in indeed a home city, clean and healthful. Compare the per capita net debt of seventeen dollars
In the Cosmopolitan Magazine for June, 1911, in an article entitled, “What are you going to do about it?” written by Alfred Lewis, are these words, “How many men are in the Senate on their merits? How many on their money, or some corporation's money? Had merit, had popular worth or popular preference been the test, would a toga have been given to vacuous Guggenheim? --the unspeakable Root ?--the dingy Kern ?--the inadequate Pomerene ?-the oily Bailey ?--the frigid Lodge?--the meager Wetmore? But why extend an inquiry that should run through half a Senate roll call?” What we would like to know is, why John W. Kern does not merit the toga he wears? And why if popular worth or popular preference had been the test, he should not have been elected to the Senate? Mr. Kern received the unanimous vote of his party at the State convention showing that he was preferred to any one else. If there is any man
The distance from this city to St. Louis over the New York Central is two hundred and fifty-three miles through many up-to-date cities and towns. As we look out over the fertile fields as far as the eye can see, we remember that Illinois is the banner State in the Union for the production of corn and oats, then it has Chicago and Cannon and Lorimer, all powerful factors in bringing this great State to the fore in finance and politics. Now we are at one of the largest, most conveniently arranged and most comfortable union stations in the Middle West. St. Louis
This city is noted for several things worth mentioning, for its very narrow streets, near the river, its beautiful parks, its broad and well-kept streets and avenues on the higher ground, and it is the fourth city in population in the United States, six hundred and eighty-seven thousand and twenty-nine people living in an area of sixty-one square miles, when some cities with half the population are scattered over an area of a hundred square miles or more. A very compact city, indeed. But what impresses the stranger most forcibly in coming to this city is Anheuser-Busch beer, Liggett and Myers' famous brands of tobacco, and Swift & Co. packing houses, just as we see Chicago a city of mail order business, New York City a distributor of emigrants and searcher for dutiable goods, and Philadelphia a staid, old and immaculate Quaker city. The people of Missouri are no doubt proud of their metropolis and do not have to be shown that it is a fair city.
The distance from St. Louis to Kansas City is two hundred and sixty-four miles over the Burlington route. The Kansas City depot is hardly worth mentioning. Why a city of two hundred and fifty thousand people, and a great railroad center, must be humiliated and made ashamed of the facilities for the accommodation of the traveling public is more than we can understand. Such a mob! we hope never to be in another like it. It reminded us of the World's Fair at Chicago on Chicago day, not as many
From Kansas City up the Missouri river through St. Joseph to Rulo, a distance of one hundred and five miles, we are six hundred and twenty miles from Indianapolis, and due west from Columbus, Ohio. Here we leave the Missouri river, and glad we are, for there is nothing about this river that charms the tourist; swift, muddy and dangerous-looking, changing its channel every day, the water swirling and eddying, then swiftly gliding on and on to be at last taken to the bosom of the Father of Waters, to be transformed, purified and made a part of that majestic, placid and mighty river. From Rulo, Nebraska, the Burlington road runs nearly due west to Denver, a distance of five hundred and fifty-nine miles. Passing along the southern border of Nebraska our thoughts wander to then and now, and we note the change. Stretching away on every hand, a fair domain, we see splendid farms on which are built comfortable homes, substantial outbuildings in which to garner the three hundred million bushels of wheat, corn and oats raised annually in this fertile State of Nebraska. Cities, towns and villages are in evidence on every hand. On and on we go until the sameness of the scene becomes
Denver, the capital, the railroad and commercial center of the State of Colorado, has a population of two hundred and thirteen thousand. And when we think of Colorado being the centennial State and Denver being less than a half century old, we marvel at its phenomenal growth. We had an impression that Denver was a city set on a hill and not different from other cities. We found it situated in the valley of the South Platte on the eastern bank at a point where the one time rolling prairie land gradually sloped to the westward and several miles east of the base of the Rocky Mountains. Take an auto sightseeing car and after you have seen Denver you will agree with us that it is the finest and best built city you have ever seen. It is made of brick and stone and iron. No wooden buildings are allowed inside the city limits. The mountains extend north and south as far as the eye can trace their rugged heights. The highest points, Long's Peak to the north, Pike's Peak to the south, and the “dome of the continent,” Gray's Peak, in the center, are in full view towering far above the tops of the surrounding mountains.
The mountains are grand, majestic and sublime. They are not like the eastern ranges; you do not see the ivy, laurel, cedar and pine trees in profusion that make the eastern mountains a thing of beauty. But the Rockies are what the name implies--rocky, rough, rugged and
Swinging Bridge, Royal Gorge, Grand Canyon of the Arkansas. See Page 74
As we go south, running parallel with the grand old mountain range, which looms up twelve or fifteen miles on our right, fifty miles south of Denver, we cross the Arkansas divide, where the water flows north into the Platte and south into the Arkansas river. We stop at Colorado Springs and visit Manitou and drink from the famous soda and iron springs. From here starts the cog road, by which the ascent is made to the summit of Pike's Peak. Manitou is a picturesque place, nestling at the base of Pike's Peak. A little creek ripples through the place, cottages are hid away among the trees, rocks and gulches. Store after store filled with curios are in evidence as you traverse the one street and many of the buildings seem to be a part of the rugged rocks.
Colorado Springs is a quiet city of thirty thousand people and like many western cities depends largely on tourists and health seekers for a living, yet there is much wealth in this city; fine homes and an air of prosperity is prevalent everywhere you go. From here you have a magnificent view of Pike's Peak. As we gaze on its snow-capped summit pointing to the sky, over fourteen thousand feet above the sea level, we are awed by its immensity. But as we turn away, the slogan of the gold seekers in years gone by comes to our mind, and we can hear them say in voices hoarse and vibrant, “To Pike's Peak or bust.” There are many attractive surroundings to this famous resort which the tourist will not fail to see and enjoy.
Going south, the next city of importance is Pueblo, a
The city is rightly named, for it stands at the entrance to the Grand Canon of the Arkansas river. Here is located the State Penitentiary of Colorado, and the warden, Mr. Thomas J. Tynan, has been more talked of and written about than any other man holding a like appointment in any penal institution in this country; and why? Because Mr. Tynan believes that the greater number of convicts in his prison are not habitual criminals from choice. He blames drink (the accursed traffic again) for ninety per cent of the crime committed by the prisoners in his care. He gives his prisoners a “square deal,” works them out doors in building roads, puts them on their honor and treats them like men instead of brutes, and makes them feel like they may yet be somebody. These prisoners, many of them perhaps, never had their mothers lay their hands on their heads and say as they left their homes, “Good-bye; I will pray for you and I want you to be somebody.” We all pity the boys or girls who have no ties that bind them to something good in their childhood days. One man
Soon after leaving Canon City we were invited to take a seat in an observation car as the train would soon enter the Royal Gorge, in the Grand Canon of the Arkansas, which is the most famous canon in the world. Here the granite walls are twenty-six hundred feet high, smooth and unbroken by tree or shrub. Man becomes dwarfed and dumb in the sublime scene, and nature exhibits the power she possesses. At one point the gorge is but ten feet wide, where the road bed had to be built out from the walls, and the famous hanging bridge constructed. While nature has ever been the servant of man, it has also provided a way for him to overcome all obstacles. In this case had not the Arkansas river plowed its way through this rocky pass and from the great divide its source down to the fertile valley thousands of feet below, there would have been no road built through Tennessee Pass and down the Grand River on the western slope to the valley on the opposite side of what seems like the spinal column of this great continent. A distance of two hundred miles or more you see rocks and rocks and mountains in any direction you look and pass through sand dunes and barren plains, fertile valleys made so by irrigation, and then more rocks. Why go to Egypt to see the pyramids when you can see them by the score from Denver to the Pacific Coast? As we pass through this sublime majestic scenery, we think of Sinai, Nebo and the Mount of Transfiguration and feel that we must go to the mountain top to meet our Creator, where nature rules supreme, let our minds soar above the highest peaks and he will meet us and give us peace. Then return to the
As we sweep around and through the Rocky Mountains and gaze from the car window at their rugged immensity, their grandeur and vastness, their colossal and gigantic appearance, we are reminded of a story we heard of a German farmer in Illinois, and we wondered whether on seeing these mountains he would exclaim “the mountains show the handiwork of God,” or would he be indifferent to their greatness as he had been to other creations of man and nature.
The German farmer had a friend in Chicago who had insisted on him coming to the city to spend a week, and told him he would show him the city in all its metropolitan greatness. So one summer in the month of August, after the wheat and oats crop had been safely garnered, and being too early for the fall plowing and sowing, the farmer concluded he would visit his friend in the city. The next morning after his arrival his friend took him to State street. Pointing to the skyscrapers, he said: Did you ever expect to see such buildings over forty stories high? What a magnificent sight; nothing like it this side of New York! Isn't it grand?” But there was no response from the German. except “Yah.” Then he took him to the beautiful parks for which this city is famous. At night they went to one of the best theatres. There was no sign on the countenance nor speech of approval by the stolid German that he appreciated what he had seen or heard. “Well,” said his friend to himself, after they had parted for the night, “there is nothing here that interests him or causes him even a moment of
Salt Lake City, the capital of Utah, in some ways is a beautiful city. The streets are wide, bordered with shade trees and laid out at right angles. The squares are larger than the average city. As we see the city in an auto, we are more impressed with the guide's talk than with the propelling power of his machine, for it balked on every up grade, but the guide's tongue loosened to the
From Salt Lake City we skirt the eastern shore of the great Salt Lake for a distance of thirty-six miles and come to Ogden. A glimpse at the lake and your eyes turn not, a body of water surrounded by mountains and valleys. The density of the salt makes the water so buoyant that sinking is impossible and, of course, floating is the favorite pastime. The average depth of the water is twenty feet, the length is one hundred and twenty-six miles by forty-five in width. The lake has no outlet for the water which is continually flowing in from several rivers and evaporation absorbs the vast volume. It is said that the water in the lake gets higher as the years go by.
At Ogden we change from the Denver and Rio Grande, bag and baggage, to the Southern Pacific Railroad. The Denver and Rio Grande has carried us over some rough roads, but they are careful and have few accidents on this road. From Ogden we cross the Great Salt Lake, a distance of thirty miles, on trestle and fill-ins, and now if one could go to sleep, say, at nine o'clock p. m. and not waken until three p. m. the next day, it would be as well, for about all we see for several hundred miles is vast desolation, barren plains, gray and reddish rocks, glinting beds of alkali, sage brush with mounds of sand around them held by their fibrous roots, and at long intervals we
If the state of Nevada had to depend on its agriculture and it alone, it would be slim living, but it is rich in minerals, and it has Reno. a city that gets much free advertising, for it has been made famous by divorces and prize fights; but we must sit up and take notice, for we are right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and in a short time we are in California.
These mountains differ widely from the Rockies. We were impressed with their beauty more than their grandeur. We saw the fern and laurel, the pine and cedar around the horse shoe, one side several hundred feet higher than the other. Slowly we go up and up; then we look down and see beautiful Donner Lake, called the “Gem of the Sierras,” three and one-half miles long and an average width of one mile and at the deepest point sounded is about two hundred feet deep. It is surrounded
State Capital, Sacramento, Cal. See Page 82
The city of Sacramento has a remarkable history, ravaged by fire and flood more than once. Not only have they rebuilt their city, but have built the ground on which it stands ten feet higher than the original site, and it stands today a quiet, prosperous city, showing what the perseverance and indomitable will of the American citizen can do. The streets are broad and run at right angles. There is a quiet, restful beauty about this city that makes one feel like it would be a good place to stay.
The State Capitol grounds impress one as being the most beautiful ever, covering a space of four squares. The splendid building in the center is a feast for the eyes, a thing of beauty and a joy to behold; not so with the park on the north; there is not much beauty there, but it makes the contrast greater. The Potter art gallery is worth going to see; what a pity that it was not located on the park near Capitol Square. Our impressions of the fine paintings were not of the highest by the time we got back to the center of the city. See Sutter's Fort and we are ready to leave the city, not that we are tired of staying, but as tourists we must see all we can.
As we go from Sacramento to Stockton, a distance of forty miles, we get a glance of the beautiful California valleys, with which the state abounds and without which the state would be no better than a desert. We were impressed with the magnitude of the grape industry, car after car loaded with grapes standing on the side tracks ready to be taken to the wineries to be made into old port. These grapes were not in boxes, but piled on the flat cars like loads of gravel. Stockton, a prosperous city of thirty-five thousand, is not different from other cities except its wide streets and clean appearance. What impressed
It has always seemed strange why railroad companies build their depots in the most unsightly part of the city. The first impression made on a stranger's mind on entering a city is the one that lasts; perhaps not a safe criterion, yet it is true. We have in mind one place that far exceeds the city in beauty, and when the name of the city is mentioned the panorama unrolled and made to pass before the mind is the style of the structure of the depot and its beautiful surroundings, and for the benefit of those who are interested will say that place is Santa Barbara, of which we will tell you later. Yes, the first impression is the one that lasts, and many times the one on which you can depend.
When we get off the train at First and Broadway in Oakland we are impressed with the opposite of beautiful
Berkeley is the home of the State University of California, nestling at the foot of the Berkeley hills. Here we find a college campus, unique and primitive in many ways, paths leading in every direction, across bridges, through groves of trees and shrubs of many varieties, flowers and ferns, cactus and palms in profusion; it is a lovely place. The impression made on our mind by these grounds is one of satisfaction and lasting remembrance, for it is so different from any we had ever seen. Up on the hillside, hid away as though it was ashamed to be seen, is the Greek Theater. It reminds us of the Coliseum at Rome in the time of Nero, on a small scale. It is made of concrete; mother earth is its base and the firmament is its cover. It seats nine thousand people and its accoustic properties are unsurpassed. Nature formed the place for the Greek Theater and W. R. Hearst furnished the money to build the seats and stage. It is surrounded with forest trees of many kinds. It is worth climbing the hill to see. And Piedmont Park must be seen to be appreciated as well as the palatial residences at the base and up on the side of the Contra Costa mountain, east of Oakland.
We take a street car in front of the City Hall in Oakland for Alameda. When we get on the bridge built across the estuary the car stops; what is the trouble? We see now; the bridge swings around to let a steamer or two pass through, and while we wait these thoughts come crowding through the mind. If we were in business we would be worried about waiting on this bridge,
But no one said anything about the common people or the poor, except in Salt Lake City the guide pointed out the cabin of an old darky on one of the beautiful residence streets, who refused to sell for love or money, and that old house no doubt will stand as a monument against progress and modern civilization until the owner climbs the golden stairs and enters the new Jerusalem. It must be nice to be a millionaire; we would like to be one. If we were we would buy the Southern Pacific and put a stop to the graft and avaricious propensity of that great corporation, for if all you hear and read of this monster on the coast is true it is surely a holy terror and a menace to civilization; but I am free to confess that we were treated nicely while traveling on this road. The trainmen and agents were uniformly kind and courteous at all times. We have just read in the papers that the state has come into its own by or through the election last fall the corporations have been dethroned from control
But the bridge is closed and we rush into Alameda like a whirlwind, making up for the time lost at the bridge. As we pass through this city of twenty-five thousand people we are impressed with its beauty. its quietness and wide, clean streets. Alameda has more beautiful homes with well kept lawns filled with lovely flowers, more shade trees and less business than any city of its size we have ever seen. When the steam power trains that circle the island every half hour are replaced by the electric, you can almost hear yourself think. A gentleman from this city was introduced to a lady student of the State University and he told her he lived in Alameda. “Oh, yes,” she said, “in the ‘city of the living dead,’” and, after all, Alameda is just what it was intended for--a quiet, healthy, attractive and pleasant residence city, with plenty of good schools and numerous churches. The only blot to mar the beauty of this fair city is the many saloons that do business seven days in the week. What a shame. But perhaps the city needs the money paid for licenses to keep the schools going--some places they call it blood money.
We take a car in Alameda for the pier which extends out into the bay for more than a mile. Here we pass through the ferry building and go into the ferry boat, either on the upper or lower deck. What splendid boats; there is room for hundreds of passengers, comfortably seated.. The palatial appearance as we enter one of these boats for the first time leaves a pleasing impression. As we leave the pier, Goat Island looms up about
We are at the ferry slip and pass out through the commodious ferry building and stand looking up Market street in San Francisco, the metropolis of California. We must not judge this great city and its nearly half a million people by our first impressions. It would not be just or proper. Every nationality on earth, inhabitants from every clime seem to be around and we wonder what these thousands of loafers do for a living, dirty and blear-eyed denizens of the slums. There is a feeling of fear and pity that comes over us that we want to get away. Anywhere is better than in this good natured but motley mob. But there is something fascinating about the heterogeneous crowd of humanity, and as one strolls along the dock and for a few squares back and sees the vice and degradation on every hand one is filled with compassion for these poor, weak men, who are sorely tempted by the accursed saloons that seem to be the prevailing business in this part of the city. No wonder this city gave such an overwhelming majority against woman suffrage. No doubt thousands of these men have no higher conception of life than to drink whiskey or beer and have long since forgotten their mother was a woman. Seeing this part of the city reminds us of a story of a Methodist preacher's five-year-old boy. When the preacher returned from the annual conference he told his family he had been appointed
So we take a car and go out on Market street and get off at the Emporium, and we feel like we were in another city. The hustle and bustle, trade and traffic of these busy people along Market street and on the streets running at right angles from one side of Market street and not at right angles on the other showed plainly the first impression would not hold good at all times. If Golden Gate Park could have been made on the bay instead of the ocean, what a different view when the stranger came through the ferry building. We rode on the cars and climbed the hills, went to Chinatown and out to the Aviation Meet and almost saw the biplane light on the battle ship and fly away, but the most pleasing sight to us was the Golden Gate Park and the Pacific Ocean. It is useless to try to describe our feelings.
As we gaze out over the dark blue ocean for the first time the waves of grief beat in on our lonely heart. and like a fog creeping up from the bay to hide us came our one great sorrow, and this beautiful poem of Tennyson same into our mind. Never before did we realize so fully the great love he had aid tile sorrow he felt for his friend buried near the sea:
The Pacific Ocean.
“Break, break, break
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But, O, for a touch of a vanished hand
And a sound of a voice that is still.
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.”
When the tourist comes to San Francisco in 1915 and wanders through the park, where the great Panama Exposition ought to be held and then goes out to the Cliff House and gazes out over the mighty deep, the picture will come into his mind of Balboa on yon mountain top, kneeling and with arms uplifted and hands pointing toward heaven as with grateful heart he utters the one word, “Eureka.” Take a look at the seals a few hundred feet away, then return to the park and we could spend days and days looking at the many interesting and lovely things kept here for the benefit of the people. San Francisco is rugged and irregular, it could not be anything else, for those eternal hills are there to stay and to make a city like this it must be built on the hill, for the valley is full. But they have the finest harbor in the
There are many interesting things to see in and around this metropolis of the West. The United States Mint, Chinatown, The Presidio, a large military reservation containing twelve hundred acres and overlooking the Golden Gate, Sutro Heights, Seal Rocks, the Cliff House, the Ocean Boulevard, and the beautiful Golden Gate Park are all worth seeing. The tourist can spend several weeks here and see something new every day. As we cannot go any farther west on the land, we will turn our faces toward the southeast and travel down the coast from Oakland to San Diego. We are rather anxious to see the much talked about and much boosted Southern California.
We take a train at Oakland. Of course, it is a Southern Pacific train. We run down to San Jose, pronounced San Houza; we wonder why words are not pronounced like they are spelled, or spelled like they are pronounced in this western country. What if they are Spanish, we like English better. The Santa Clara Valley, in which San Jose is situated, has been made famous for its fruits and especially for the quality of the prunes. All dealers know the Santa Clara prunes are the best in the world. Fine apricots, peaches, pears and cherries are grown in this valley. The city is up to date, good streets and fine business blocks, and judging from the residences we conclude there are some of the residents, if they are not millionaires, they are very prosperous in this world's goods. In stepping from the street to the sidewalk, we
Between these two cities, a distance of two hundred miles, we see some fertile valleys, but for miles and miles the country is as barren as the Nevada desert; huge rocks and low mountain ranges are seen on every hand, through tunnels and over the Coast Range Mountains down to the last named city. One night at this place is enough, for as the name would imply, it was, is now and always will be Spanish, unless some American progress is infused into this sleepy old town. Just as the day was breaking and long before the majority of the quiet people of this quiet town had roused from their slumber we had breakfasted and boarded a train that came thundering in from over the mountain and we are off for Santa Barbara. Soon we are at the coast; here we see for the first time from the car window a sight not soon forgotten--the great Pacific Ocean on our right, the Coast Range of mountains on our left. At times we see the water lashing the beach, and as the train moves on the huge waves spend their force against the solid rocks, now a spur of land juts into the ocean and the water is hidden;
And after all, this old world will roll on through space, year after year, generations will come and go, the wheels of progress will move on, the world will be far more beautiful in appearance fifty years hence than it is today, the change will be far greater than in the last half century. for there will be many more people to make things come to pass. But the question comes up, will people in the
The Grant Hotel, San Diego, Cal. See Page 94
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While our minds are busy with these thoughts the great engine pulsating and throbbing like a living monster pulls up in front of the depot at Santa Barbara, the city of climate and flowers. When we leave the train the lovely surroundings make pleasing impressions on the tourist. A short distance away is the Hotel Potter. It is situated in the midst of a floral park, with broad drives and walks, with many kinds of blooming flowers, shrubs and shade trees which make this building and park the most beautiful except one we have seen on the coast. Then we see near the railroad track beds of flowers that make a pleasing appearance, and the station building is a thing of beauty and comfort. As we go north we see the rugged Santa Ynez Mountains back and to the left of this little city of twelve thousand people. What a place for the poet, the painter, or, in fact, the artist of any kind; here are romantic and picturesque surroundings and here they could get inspiration and elevating influence. Nowhere else have we seen so many flowers; even the humble homes vie with the more pretentious, and the mansion of the wealthy is not adorned with a fairer picture than is seen around the home of the humble cottager-roses, roses, roses everywhere.
“This world in which we live is mighty hard to beat--
We get a thorn in every rose, but ain't the roses sweet?”
We turn our faces south and walk to the beach along the boulevard and up to the Plaza, and with hundreds of other people listen to the Italian band discourse music that seems to be thrown out on the channel, comes back
I wanted to go to San Diego. I went to the Hill Street Balloon Route Station and bought a round trip ticket via San Pedro by steamer. The agent said the car would leave at 9:15, so I made myself comfortable and watched the clock, and when the time was up I said to the gatekeeper, “What about the car to make connection with the steamer at San Pedro?” “Oh,” he said, “the car starts from Sixth and Main streets.” Well, they missed the fare and I missed the ride on the steamer; who was to blame? The Santa Fe is just as sure, much quicker and the same price. Bidding my partner goodbye for a few days. I boarded a train at 2 p. m. and at 6:30 p. m. I was in San Diego, a distance of one hundred and twenty-six miles.
If you have read John S. McGroarty's vivid portrayal of the growth and possibilities of San Diego and vicinity you will say with me it is a masterpiece in its allurements to the unwary. I wish for the sake of the good people of the coast that my first impression of the various cities I have visited was as romantic and ecstatic as those who have lived here and written so much and sung their praises so highly. But I cannot see it that way; perhaps if I had lived here longer I would see the possibilities of this great state in a different way from what
San Diego is a good city and when we read the booklets sent broadcast throughout the country and handed to every tourist on the trains coming in and going out of some of the coast cities, we wonder at the beauty, the splendor and wonderful resources of the city and its environments. It awakens feelings of admiration for the writer as well as the place described, and we wonder if our impressions will respond and we will see the real thing just as the writer has tried to describe it. Some Los Angeles Court House, Los Angels, Cal. See Page 99>
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After staying here a few days and seeing what l thought was worth while, I returned to Los Angeles, the home of the tourist. My partner was ready to take a trip to 'Frisco by water, so we went to San Pedro and took passage on one of the steamships plying between those two ports. To me it was a very pleasant trip, for I was one of a few who were able to take the meals when they were ready, but when we got to the dock at 'Frisco the passengers were all able and very willing to disembark. This was our first experience on an ocean steamer, and we will not soon forget it. After ten weeks in the bay cities we stood on the docks at 'Frisco ready to take a steamer for San Pedro. As we passed through the Golden Gate we stood on the upper deck noting places of interest on the shore, and it was made doubly interesting because the captain, by the way a splendid man, to whom we had been introduced before leaving the dock, pointed out to us and told us much about the coast as well as the ocean. He showed us the charts made by the government. Three hundred miles out from San Francisco the water is three miles deep. The ocean has been sounded in every direction by the government and the greatest depth ever found and recorded is in the North Pacific, where it exceeds five miles in depth. It would take two Pike's Peaks to reach from the bottom of this depth to the top of the water. The bottom of the ocean is similar to the land in topography. It has plains and hills and mountains. All the hidden rocks and dangerous places along
The voyage from 'Frisco to San Diego is considered the safest on the Pacific Coast. In many places the largest vessels could go for miles within a few hundred feet of the shore with perfect safety, owing to the abrupt declivity of the coast ranges of mountains lying near the ocean. We got acquainted with the operator of the wireless telegraph. He explained to us how a message from the land or from another vessel would be taken up by every wireless instrument for hundreds of miles. It is a wonderful invention. The signal of distress is S O S, and when sent through the air and caught by the wireless operators the vessels can go to the rescue. It was a pleasant and interesting trip for us and we extended to the captain operator and steward thanks for courtesies shown us. Every passenger was able to do full justice to the elaborate and well prepared menu and therefore it it was not a money-making voyage for the steamship company, for they count on half or more of the passengers not being able for their rations. Do not fail to make this trip--you will not regret it. The tides and the winds have much to do with the pleasure of the journey on the vessel. From North to South is the better way.
When you leave your home in the East to visit in the West, your friends will say to those who have not made the trip, be sure and go to Los Angeles, Long Beach, Pasadena and the towns in that part of the state, and never mention a word about any other city. We wonder why? After visiting ten or twelve cities on and near the
Los Angeles is the home and distributer of the tourist. One hundred thousand people are here six months out of the year; they crowd the churches, the hotels, the rooming houses, the Chamber of Commerce, the theaters, the streets, and I was going to say the saloons, but I am not posted on that phase of the tourists' appetite. No other city of its size could take care of this army of people; no other city in this state or perhaps any state is erecting as many large buildings. They are in evidence in every part of the city. It is said that these large buildings pay the owners a larger dividend than anything else in which they could invest their money. Ninety per cent of the citizens are from other states and act as though they were not ashamed of their former home. We said to a man from New Mexico, “This is a pretty good California city.” “Yes,” he said, “this is a good city, but it is an eastern and southern city.” A tourist from Iowa said the reason that he liked it so well here is because the people are so friendly and sociable. He said up in San Francisco they call the eastern tourist “two-bit” people. That is equivalent to “thirty-cent” people in the East. Los Angeles is a city of audiences and automobiles, of beautiful homes, boosters, banks, bungalows, churches, cafeterias, balloon routes and climate, and so on down the list, but greatest of all for tourists.
And now can you tell why the people come here? It may be to prove the old adage correct, “birds of a feather
There are many sight-seeing trips out of this city, but the tourist, although a stranger, will soon learn the wishes of these very pleasant, well-mannered and courteous promoters of the various side-line trips for pleasure and recreation; he will join the crowd, and few indeed will regret the time and money spent. There has been a vast amount of money invested on the coast so that the tourist could be properly entertained, and from the unlimited patronage bestowed on these daily excursions one
A Pleasing Sight. Snow and Flowers all the Year near Pasadena, Cal. See Page 102
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In entering Pasadena we were impressed with the beauty of its location, and as we traversed its streets with its many fine residences and well kept lawns thought it a remarkable city in some ways. It has a population of thirty thousand people. It is located in a picturesque valley, and from the center or business part of the city on either hand the ground rises gradually for several squares, and when we stand on a plateau stretching away to the base of the mountains that loom up in every direction, standing sentinel-like around, we see the most beautiful of the cities we have seen on or near the coast. In location, beautiful homes, adornment of parks and lawns, with its flowers, shrubs, fruit and shade trees, it stands preeminent as an ideal city in appearance, and why not?
Next we will go to the far famed Long Beach, rightly named “Queen of the Beaches,” a city of twenty-three thousand people, located twenty miles south of Los Angeles and on the Pacific Ocean. Land locked, but not with mountains, over the fertile valleys, we see in the far distance the snow-capped Sierra Madre Mountains; looking seaward we see the Catalina Island in the distance, and water everywhere, even beyond the ken of vision, and as the huge billows come rolling in and send their spent
While at Long Beach, visit Catalina Islands; the price is high, but the pleasure is great. Take a trolley or Salt Lake train to San Pedro, a short distance up the coast,
here you will see the land-locked and sea-walled harbor where the government is expending millions of dollars in creating a harbor for the commerce of the world. Take one of those magnificent steamers and in two hours the twenty-seven miles from the mainland to the island is covered and you stand on the shore of a picturesque ocean mountain gem, twenty-two miles long and from one to eight miles wide. Its highest peak has an elevation of twenty-two hundred feet. It is a beautiful and enchanting spot, with its varied scenery, its smooth beaches, its lofty cliffs, canyons and rugged mountain peaks. Many are the attractions on this lonely island, but the one the tourist wishes most to see is a view of the submarine gardens through glass-bottomed boats. These gardens have been accurately and forcibly described by some writers as follows: “Floating over the
To the merchant doing business east of the Rocky Mountains in California fruits, the brand of these two cities on boxes of navel oranges sent out from either city is a synonym for the best of its kind in the United States, and the tourist who fails to see these fertile valleys covered with thousands of acres of orange and lemon groves will miss one of the most pleasing sights in Southern California. Go with us first to Redlands, located at the extreme eastern end of San Bernardino Valley. Westward
“Lift up the rose, the rose sublime,
The sweetest flower of every clime,
Swept tranquilly by every breeze
Always with grace, always with ease.
They're blooming on the garden wall
Beneath the whispering trees for all,
Kissed by the dew from eve 'til dawn,
Then by the sun's rays smiled upon.”
Redlands is indeed a city of beautiful homes, both in architectural beauty and ornamentation. No city of its size, that we have seen, can compare with it as a home city. Now let us go up to Smiley's Heights and gaze at the snow-capped mountain peaks, at the vast expanse of orange groves, the city of delight and to us the city of a pleasant memory. And now we are off for Riverside,
But why linger around and write so much of the beauty and pleasing appearance of these California valley cities, made so attractive by flowers and shade trees, by the architectural beauty of the homes and public buildings,
As we came from Riverside to Fullerton we saw thousands of acres of English walnut trees and the largest we have ever seen. On many the branches extend from the body of the tree twenty feet either way while the top is cone shaped with dense foliage. In these valleys are grown apricots, olives, loquats, grapes, alfalfa, oats, barley and sugar beets and ornamental trees, shrubs consisting in part of roses, honeysuckles, poppies, palms, China berry trees, pepper trees and magnolias. Wonderful in the endless variety of its products. And now we invite
Bridal Veil Falls, Mt. Lowe, Sierre Madre Mts., Cal.
We will leave Los Angeles at 8 a. m. and return at 9:30 p. m. Of course we could return sooner, but there are a few things at Mt. Lowe that we must see after old Sol goes to sleep out in the briny deep and before he shows his face above the eastern mountain. It would be superflous to give a detailed account of the trip from Los Angeles to the summit of Mt. Lowe, six thousand one hundred feet above sea level. A mere outline must suffice and will answer our purpose, which is to show you some of the beautiful scenery of valleys and mountains, nowhere so harmoniously blended as in Southern California. In making this trip you will pass the county hospital on the right with its great buildings like a city set on a hill, you will cross the trestle over the Arroyo Seco high above the tree tops, you will pass the ostrich farm, a place made beautiful by semi-tropical plants; on this farm roam flocks of these monster birds, whose only claim to beauty is their awkwardness, and woe be to the person who stand in front of one of them and receives a kick frontward from their mulelike hoof. If they were trained, what marvelous football players they would make, you could imagine a ball flying through space a half mile or more. You pass through Pasadena, a city of wealth and refinement, millionaires everywhere. How do you suppose a common everyday sort of a man would feel who was compelled to live in a city whose only claim to recognition from the world was its wealth. And as we see more of the world, its poverty, its unrest, its universal longing to become rich, its greed and graft, its hypocrisy and deceit, its incessant clamor for pleasure its ever-increasing concentration of wealth, its many vices and few virtues, you will exclaim and with cause. “What a
Now on the tableland we are at Altadena, with its homes of beauty, set in ample grounds, wide views of valleys and close views of rugged mountains. A little farther and higher we come to the poppy fields, where in the springtime they are like a cloth of gold, and the air has a freshness like the hills. Now we are winding
On the crest of the plateau is the great searchlight, brought from the Columbian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago. It has a history. “It was made by the General Electric Company to demonstrate that the United States could rival Germany in the construction of these great lights.” Well do we remember being seated on the grass near one of those quiet lagoons while we watched first presumably the same flashlight as the picture of President,
To visit the Pacific Coast and not see and inspect one or more of the Spanish Mission churches would he an
Let us go to San Gabriel, that means Saint Gabriel. It is located twelve miles from Los Angeles in the San Gabriel Valley, said to be one of the best valleys in the state. The oldest orange grove in the state is found in this valley. Yesterday, July 13, 1911, by the courtesy of the owner, we were permitted to pluck ripe oranges from a tree forty years old. Seedlings, of course, but they were large, sweet and juicy. Near this grove, about a mile east of San Gabriel, is located the home for the orphans of Masons. It is a magnificent building, situated on a plat of tel, acres of land, planted with orange and lemon groves. shade trees and flowers which make it a pleasant home for the thirty children now being cared for by that great order, of which we are all so glad to be a part.
We want to tell you about the grape vine; it is 136 years old. Its branches cover an area of 9,000 square feet; that means it covers a lot 60x150 feet. Its foliage is so dense that the sun's rays never penetrate in the summer time The fruit is used for wine and jelly and the crop is abundant every year. The trunk is in three sections, but if solid it would be two feet in diameter. It used to belong to the Mission church, but is owned now
There are twenty-one Spanish Mission churches in California. The first one built at San Diego in 1769, the last one near San Francisco in 1796. When you have seen one, you have seen the counterpart of them all. Most of them have fallen into ruins. The ones at San Gabriel and Santa Barbara are the best preserved. The one at San Gabriel looks like it will stand for centuries to come, and no doubt the walls will, for they are five feet thick from the foundation to the top and made of brick and mortar and plastered on the outside. Much of the plaster has scaled off, which gives the building an antiquated appearance. As we enter this old one-and-a-half-story structure we see relics of by-gone days from Spain. others from Mexico; some worth while, many not worth mentioning. An old painting brought from Spain in 1771 represents the Trinity, the Father on the right, the Son on the left and the Holy Spirit is the picture of a dove above and between the others. A confessional, old and worn from constant use for more than a hundred years. A baptismal font, made of copper, where twelve thousand Indians have been baptized by pouring water on their heads. A crucifix, probably eight feet long, with a wooden Messiah nailed to the cross, to be carried in the procession on Palm Sunday, which was brought from Spain in 1771. Vestments 137 years old, and they looked it. The old cedar doors were hung on pivots instead of hinges. The oldest book in the library was a Latin Bible
We have given you this chapter on Spanish Missions because the Pacific Coast, and especially California, is now, has been and for all time to come will be very closely interwoven with the old fathers who named the towns, the rivers and mountains, and who in the year 1542 pitched their tents at San Diego and proclaimed to the world a discovery that has meant so much to humanity. And now we will leave them with you; they are here to stay, their rights are undisputed and will be respected as long as they conform to the laws of this great state. During the Exposition year, 1915, when San Diego and San Francisco will celebrate the opening or completion of the Panama Canal, the Spanish Missions will be brought very much to the front, and you will hardly be allowed to forget that Pacific Coast history began at San Diego. Cabrillo arrived in 1542, the Mission Fathers came in 1769.
Once more, and for the last time, we invite you to take another trip with us; we have kept the best for the last--that is, it is the best for the money--one hundred miles for one hundred cents; an all-day excursion, not tiresome, but pleasant and restful, made so by an experienced
One goes through Hollywood, a beautiful suburb near Los Angeles, through the largest oil district in the southern part of the state and on to the National Soldiers Home. Here is where you see the good being done on this trip. We see what a grand old government we have and how good it is to these three thousand old war veterans who make their homes here. With massive barracks and numerous government buildings set in a park covering seven hundred acres, this place is aptly termed the “Old Soldier's Paradise.” We asked one of the old veterans where these men came from, and if they were happy. His answer was: “They came from every state in the Union, and this home is not like having a home of your own.” How true! And the thought came to our mind, “Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.” But these veterans will not need a home here much longer. Not many years hence they will have answered
Now we are at Santa Monica, eighteen miles from Los Angeles. Nature and man have combined to make Santa Monica a city of rare attractions. Nature gave it its wonderful combination of mountain, valley, beach and ocean. It is one of the most beautiful residential cities of the Pacific Coast. The cars pass along an immense boulevard for two miles overlooking the sea, and an exclusive attraction for the passengers on this trip is the “Camera Obscura.” At Playa Del Rey we get a fish luncheon, and why not? You can sit at the table and fish out of the window and listen to the lap, lap of the water as it gently beats against the sides and under the floor of the dining hall.
Next we are at Redondo Beach, celebrated not only as a pleasure resort, but a port of no small magnitude. This is the first port of call for some of the steamships south of 'Frisco. Here is found the largest hot salt plunge bath house in the world. Seven thousand bathers can be accommodated at one time. Fishing is a favorite pastime, as nowhere else on the coast do the fish bite more frequently. A little farther up the coast and we come to Moonstone Beach, where the fun begins. As the water goes out, follow, and just as you stoop to pick up a moonstone here comes a wave and runs you back beyond danger. The experiment is tried time and again; finally a wave will take you unaware, soak your shoes with water, and then you are willing to quit without capturing any precious stones, and if you get any to bring home, you
And now for Venice of America, the wonderland of the West; the most completely equipped amusement and pleasure resort on the Pacific Coast, sure enough gondolas, Venetian Villa City, scenic and miniature railways and the monster racing coaster, the large aquarium, the great auditorium and many other places of interest and amusement, all of which make Venice a worthy rival of her Italian namesake and a very pleasant place to remember as our last resort before starting on our homeward journey. A day spent in pleasure, amusement and recreation; was it a day lost? Is a day of rest lost? To lie on the grass under the trees and listen to the murmur of water, and watch the clouds float under the sky and hear the happy song of the bird and the drone of the bee as it extracts the honey from the flower and communes with nature and nature's God is to rest and live for one brief day. Then back to the daily toil, rested in body and mind, happy and contented to do the work assigned.
Last year we visited a factory where twenty-seven hundred men worked day after day from morning till night--great brawny men, with muscles of steel; they seemed a part of the mighty machinery, working with an accuracy and precision that was well nigh perfect. Some there were of these men, whose average life was four years at the work they were doing. Foreigners, of course, but they were splendid specimens of physical manhood; no pigmy could stand the work for a day. We, like many
“We must give that reception, mamma,” said Clara. We owe so many favors, how shall we ever return them all unless we begin entertaining pretty soon? And yet I am tired of it all. I do not enjoy anything any more. I feel like I would enjoy being away from it all for a whole year. Here we have invitations to some social function every afternoon for about two weeks. I do not suppose we can entertain for a while, and, to tell the truth, I am glad of it.” Her mother replied: “I cannot understand why you do not enjoy yourself; it seems to me you have everything to make you happy and contented. You are beautiful and one of the most popular girls in the city, and you have everything you want.” “Yes, but it is the same thing over and over; parties are all very much alike. My friends all say about the same thing to me, and often I feel like I am wasting the best part of my life in this endless and never-ceasing round of social events for pleasure and amusement. I would like to do something worth while to make others happy, who are less fortunate
While this conversation was going on, Mr. Hastings. the husband and father, was seated in his private office in deep meditation. “Why have I not the courage,” he thought. “I can do no good by living. True, I could make a moderate salary, but not enough to satisfy a family that has always been used to having every wish and want gratified, and I cannot face my wife and daughter and tell them that everything is gone--everything, and they will have to give up their life of luxury and ease their beautiful home; tell them they are penniless paupers. I can't, I can't. If I take my life I can leave them fairly well provided for, enough at least until Robert gets through college; then he can help them. I will write a note and tell them all. It will be a terrible shock to them, but it will be better than living in poverty.”
While he was writing, Mr. Moore came to the office door, receiving a response to his knock to “Come in.” He said to Mr. Hastings on entering his office: “Had you forgotten the church committee meeting? It is time for it now.”
The two men hurried away, Mr. Hastings thinking he would finish his writing when he returned. A few minutes after the men had gone Robert Hastings came into the office on his way home from college. “I'll help my father a while with his correspondence, or until he returns; then we will go home together for dinner. I know he will return soon, for his desk is all littered up, and that shows he was called away suddenly. He never
“When I came in,” said Robert, “I thought I would help you with your writing, as I often do; then, when you came, we could go home together. I thought I would finish the letter you had commenced. But oh, father, when I read it I could not realize that it was true!”
“Yes, my boy, it is true, and it is killing me to think that my family must suffer and be impoverished because your father has been shipwrecked in the financial storm that is sweeping over our country.”
“Oh, it is not that, father, but to think that you would plan to take your own life for our benefit in a financial way!”
“Yes, my son, it was my love for my family that tempted me to take my life, because I could not bear to see them want for anything.”
“Father, can't you realize that you are more to us than all the money you could make or save for us? Then, think of the wrong you are doing in the sight of God!
“Robert, you will never know how much you are to me; you have saved my life. You have shown me my weakness, when I ought to be strong. You have put new hope into me, and now I can go with you and tell your mother and sister, and we will begin life's battles again, but in a different way.”
When Mr. Hastings and Robert reached home, they went to the library. Robert left his father seated on a couch, while he went to find his mother and sister. He found them rather impatiently waiting to be taken out to dinner, for it was past the hour. Robert told them his father was in the library and wanted to see them, as he had something to tell them. They followed him into the library; Mrs. Hastings seated herself on the couch by her husband, while the son and daughter were seated near, that they might not lose a word of what their father had to say. Mr. Hastings lost no time in the sad recital, and in a subdued voice he told them all. How he had lost all his wealth, going into the minutest details that they might understand how it could be; and how he had hoped to leave them comfortably provided for, had not Robert, as by a miracle, prevented him. Mrs. Hastings
And so they talked and planned together for the future, until Clara became very enthusiastic about what she could do to help her father, and Robert told of his hopes for success in his chosen profession, after he had worked his way through college, and Mrs. Hastings said: “My dear children, I thought at first that this was the crisis in my life, the decisive moment when my trouble would begin, but I believe it will prove a blessing. We shall learn to see the real purpose of life, and thus we will have more sympathy for others. Already we are brought nearer to each other than we have ever been before, and I realize as never before this hour, how all alone your dear father has been fighting the battle to keep his dear ones from poverty, and we all realize that he has done all he could for our comfort and happiness. So let us make the best of our changed condition, and hope for a bright and happy future.” Mr. Hastings arose, and taking his wife's hands in his, said:
“Your words have been a source of comfort to me. Henceforth we will be one in thought, as well as in deeds.”
We have observed in the past that the man who was in the habit of going security for a friend was always a loser before he made up his mind to refuse.
That being in debt caused more worry and more suicides than all other causes combined.
That your best friends were more willing to give you advice than to loan you money.
That the man seldom marries the girl he loved when he was a boy, except in novels.
That the happiest married people on earth are the mail and wife who hide no secrets from each other.
That the man who takes stimulants to make him strong physically is weak intellectually.
That the man who frequents a saloon is not as happy as the man who has the will power to stay away.
That the man who succeeds in business and has the most friends is the one who gives sixteen ounces for a pound.
That the defeated candidate for office finds out how many liars there are.
That good health and a conscience devoid of evil intent are specific antidotes for unhappiness.
That men who own factories and pay their employes living wages and a per cent of the net profit never have any strikes or discontent. Take Proctor & Gamble at Ivorydale, Ohio, as an example.
That some people complain as much when the cost of living is low as when it is high. especially the farmer.
That during the civil war the meanest men and the most unprincipaled were placed in authority over the prisoners of war, both North and South.
That in 1855 there was only one millionaire between the Allegheny and Rocky mountains.
That the preachers fifty years ago could tell as near where Heaven is as the preachers in 1911 can.
That while “Money is the root of all evil,” it is a power for doing good.
That the civil war was the foundation on which was built civic licentiousness and graft.
That many commissary officers went into the army poor and came out with thousands of dollars.
That it is immaterial how a man made his money; the question is, what is he worth?
But why write of the present? It is ever with us. It is a matter of history today that President Taft visited this city yesterday, and tomorrow not even the newspapers can tell for sure what will come to pass. We have written of the past much and truthfully. We have extolled the present as the days have come and gone, and tried to show you the vast difference in then and now, of the new thought, new religions, new politics, new promoters, new problems, new schemes, new organizations, new friends, new fashions, new associations, and even two new states. We will leave the present with you. It will soon be the past, and of the future we have guessed at just as accurately as we knew how.
We observe that of the future we know nothing definite. From observations of the past and present we are led to believe that the aim of the human family is to spend eternity in heaven. What or where heaven is, different peoples have different conceptions. But the civilized and
Now there is silence in the memory of the aged pilgrim. It would be a sacrilege to disturb him while his mind lingers on, to him, that beneficent being, mother. Sacred is her memory, not only to him, but all the children of men respond in sympathy and love and devotion to that word, the primordial principle on which our characters have been built.
Mother and wife--synonyms for love and joy and peace and happiness, and all that makes life worth living. Again the old pilgrim rouses from the long silence, and for the last time before he launches out on the ocean of eternity, he speaks of what might have been had he known the
‘Tis yet high day, thy staff resume,
And fight fresh battles for the truth;
For what is age but youth's full bloom,
A riper, more transcendant youth!
A weight of gold
Is never old,
Streams broader grow as downward rolled.
At sixty-two life has begun;
At seventy-three begin once more
Fly swifter as thou near'st the sun,
And brightest shine at eighty-four;
At ninety-five
Should'st thou arrive;
Still wait on God, and work and thrive.
GEO. W. BRYAN.
Los Angeles, Cal., October 17, 1911.