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A JOURNEY
TO, ON AND FROM
THE “GOLDEN SHORE,”
BY SUE A. SANDERS
DELAVAN, ILL.:
TIMES PRINTING OFFICE,
1887.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by
SUE A. SANDERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washinghton.
TO THE
GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC
IN GRATEFUL MEMORY OF FOUR YEARs' STRIFE,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
AS A
FEEBLE TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE.
My Dear Friends and Comrades:
In placing before you this Journal of my travels to, on and from the “Golden Shore,” I would not for a moment that you should think I have come before the people as a public writer, or flatter myself with any such ability.
It is only through repeated requests and earnest urging that I have finally consented to its publication. All whom I met in my travels, and all from whom I have heard since my return, have requested copies of the Journal, and several have offered liberal inducements to insure its circulation among the excursionists to California. And now, as printed matter, it becomes the property of my friends only, to whom the composition is freely given, with a charge only to insure the necessary expenses of printing.
And should it accidentally fall into the hands of critics, I ask, in return for satisfaction gained, a copy of their first effort, as a companion piece to mine. And if my friends to whom this journal is dedicated, think my efforts have paid them for the reading, a postal card acknowledgement of their estimate of its real value would undoubtedly make a fine collection of varied opinions to insure its circulation through the Old World; but if, on the other hand, my readers are not satisfied of value received, they will please return their copy to these headquarters and in return receive an appropriate chromo.
Fraternally, in F. C. & L.,
SUE A. SANDERS.
Delavan, Ill., June 1, 1887.
After a day of excitement, consummating arrangements, gathering, packing and locating trunks, satchels and lunch baskets, greetings and good-byes, we leave our home at 5:30 p.m. in company with our family, a few neighbors and friends for the regular passenger train on the P.,D. & E. R.R., which is to start us on our journey to a country never seen before but one we have longed to see, one whose noted scenery has been the pet object of our life.
The day has been extremely warm, the thermometer standing at 95 degrees in the shade, making our Pacific traveling dress a little too comfortable for a Illinois July climate; yet half smothered we arrive at the depot and find many friends waiting to extend the friendly grasp and wish us a happy journey, and safe return to home and loved ones. Among those who gather with us to part to-day, we find the most of our dear old B. D's, whose faces, to us, are always sweet, and whose memory we ever cherish as dear. We take them all by the hand and reluctantly say “good-bye;” last we kiss the baby lips of our darling Bernie, and the train moves on and we are borne from home scenes and many kind friends. The conductor notes our long faces as he gathers tickets from Mrs. Abbie A. Newman, Carrie A. Briggs, Julia C. Schureman and ourself, and turns twice as he passes, wondering where we four women can be going to have such sad faces in the possession of Peoria tickets, which insure passage to a place, that, to so many, seems a Jerusalem in itself. The parting scene, to many, seems gay, and perhaps it is to a certain extent, for the side jokes are many, and hilarity generally prevails, yet we feel a sense of loneliness that we never experienced before, and as the train flies over the prairies, we sigh for relief that the parting scene is over and the good-byes all said. Thirty miles are soon made and we step from the train at union depot, Peoria, Ill., where Mrs. M. A. Mann, J. B.
Mrs. Schureman and Briggs register at the Peoria House, Mrs. Newman is met by, and escorted to the home of Mrs. Duncan, and we join our friend, Mrs. Mann, who makes us very welcome in her comfortable home, 111 Flora Avenue. Mrs. Mann and myself spend the evening, to a late hour, talking over O.E.S. and W.R.C. matters, which on this occasion seem to be foremost in our minds. The night is warm and sultry, yet we at last sleep, and dream of scenes from shore to shore, in which strange and familiar faces come and go alike, and morning brings no cooler breeze than that by which we fell asleep, when the clock on the mantle down stairs struck twelve times and ushered in
After a night somewhat restlessly spent, we awake in sunlight, finding no change in temperature, but a sultry, oppressive atmosphere around us. A cup of fragrant coffee refreshes us, and gives new strength to think of a long journey about to begin. We spend the most of the day fanning hot air into our face, while Mrs. Newman attends church and Sunday school and declares she is very comfortable, (yet we don't believe it.) Mrs. Briggs and Schureman pack, unpack and repack their lunch baskets and satchels to make room for a large “angel food cake,” which has been donated for lunch on this occasion.
Mr. and Mrs. Simpson, of Peoria, call to see us and remain until the hour arrives for us to meet our party at the C.,B. & Q. depot. Bidding our friends good-bye, and excusing them from accompanying us to our train on account of the extreme hot weather, we take a car and are soon with our party of four, who arrive ahead of us and form the acquaintance of our big brother Ed. and his wife, who now become two of the six. Tickets are secured, trunks checked, lunch baskets unchecked, sky parlors in the sleeper obtained, a few honest thoughts expressed to a party of gentlemen who would invite four ladies to accompany their party on a long excursion and assign them all sky parlors, (Hopkin's choice of berths in a sleeper,) a few gentle reminders of courtesy and gallantry of Peoria excursionists, and we are ready for a start.
Having all our lives been used to climbing, and knowing that to attain “we must grasp the branches, not the blossoms,” we accept ourcome first or not.
Satchels, parasols, hats, canes, &c., well stored away, we are finally well settled for our journey in the sleeper, “Panama,” which follows an engine out of Peoria at 5 o'clock p.m. We now have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the “Panama” party who are to travel together to the Pacific coast. In our autograph album they register as follows: Mr. and Mrs. B. S. Meals, Mrs. J. Miller and daughter Daisy, Capt. John Reardon, Maj. Chas. Quallman, James C. Dolan, Mrs. Troyer, Mrs. C. W. Tripp and daughters Myrtle and Mina and little son Henry, Miss Etta Proctor, S. D. Lawder, R. Rouse, Mrs. F. Bell and daughter, little Marcia, all of Peoria. E. M. Pike and wife, of Chenoa, Ill., Wm. Wiley, of Hanna City, Ill., Jas. Copes, F. Krutch and M. S. Conger, of Rose Hill, Ill., and Mrs. Sue Amsbary, of San Francisco, Cal., besides us four from Delavan, who make up, considering none of them are over possessed of beauty, one of the livliest as well as ugliest parties that ever crossed the continnent.
At Knoxville, Ill., we welcome to our number, according to a previous arrangement, Mrs. S. M. Bradford, of Pontiac, who becomes congenial to all our plans at once, and we judge her in full, by the size of her lunch basket, even if her satchel does bear the mark of our State Penitentiary.
We arrive at Galesburg before dark, where we are set on the sidetrack to await the coming of the Headquarters train, which arrives in due time, filled with a jolly set of old soldiers, their wives, daughters and friends, who each and all join in the good cheer of the occasion, which expels at once the thoughts of a weary journey, and makes us buoyant with hope of a very pleasant time.
As we walk up and down the platform we find our train has been well decorated, especially the Headquarters car, and we are here introduced to Mr. A. C. Cole, the decorator of the train, and at once make him see the importance of giving special attention to the appearance of the “Panama,” which bears the choir of the Illinois G.A.R. train, for already they have raised their voices in song, “There's a Land that is Fairer than Day.” We hear the cry “All aboard,” and away we go on our journey.
We next turn our attention to our lunch baskets. The porter adjusts the tables and we select from each that which best suits our
But here comes the conductor for our tickets, and behind him a little black-eyed man, tastefully attired in a suit of black, who, with a handful of checks, strings, keys and pencils, calls for our sleeper tickets. He looks at us and seemingly takes in our dimensions and wonders how we ever expect to ascend to our upper berth. We look at him too, just as pitifully as possible, and ask: “Is there no remedy?” His sympathetic smile is enough and we allow him to pass on. Later there may be a remedy, but there is nothing but hope in perspective. Our big brother, Ed., finally proposes and we exchange quarters. He occupies our berth and we sleep down stairs.
We are constantly detained by hot boxes on the cars so that we do not reach Burlington, Iowa, until 10 o'clock at night. As this is the nearest we have been to moistened breath as we cross the “Father of Waters.” Evening gone we dodge our turn for the dressing room, don our crinkled Mother-Hubbards and retire for the night; but restlessness and groans soon prove that there are more hot boxes within than outside the sleeper. After sweltering some two hours in a hot, dusty berth, we hear the call for water from our big brother. We hasten to his assistance in part recompense for his having accepted our sky parlor. He drains the cup, and now the cry comes from all quarters, “Me too,” and as they reach their long fingers through the parted drapery to grasp the welcome draught we feel that they can but always bless the “Relief Corps” who came to their assistance so early in the journey, and we are amply repaid for our trouble, by having such an opportunity to exemplify the principles of the order which we are going to California to represent.
Mr. Pike is not only troubled with heat but the ants in his berth prove a great annoyance, insomuch that he groans aloud, and wonders “where the ants' nest may be,” but the cry comes from all quarters. “Put him out if he don't keep still.” Having refreshed the party with water, and our heart with charitable acts, we at last fall asleep, and the train rolls on through Iowa, where rain is known, and
We awake much refreshed, cool and comfortable. We await our turn for the dressing room and are ready for breakfast at Creston,
Arriving at Pacific Junction at 10 o'clock, a.m., we walk upon the platform to rest our limbs and take in the foot-hills of the Missouri river. A pair of hands cover our eyes and we turn to greet an old friend in the person of Mr. B. F. Funk, of Bloomington, Ill., whose genial countenance always expels gloom and bespeaks contentment and happiness on all occasions. After having sung “Marching through Georgia” led by our chorister, Newman, we follow Mr. Funk to the state room of the “Malaca” and meet his amiable wife, whom we learn to love and appreciate more and more as the hours roll on. We are here introduced to the mayor's friends, whose autographs appear on our list as follows: Gen. P. S. Post, wife and daughter Hattie, Col. W. W. Berry, wife and little daughter Ethel, G. A. Busse and wife, H. P. Thompson and wife, James A. Sexton, Col. Distin, wife, son and daughter, and the Springfield party, among whom we recognize at once our friend, Josephine P. Cleveland, whose smiling face always adds merriment. She is possessed of as many budgets and band boxes as ever was Mrs. Partington in her best array, besides she has in command one Dr. Patten, of her city, who, to our party, becomes famous as a “Manitou guide” before separating from us. His hilarity we shall not soon forget, though we can't just see why he so often wishes that some of our party would die, unless he be fleeing from wrath and recognizes too many in authority. We also meet our Department President of the W.R.C., Mrs. Clara W. Harral, accompanied by her husband, who, with his wife, became very genial and pleasant throughout our journey. We cross the muddy Missouri river, after which we follow the valley of the Platte river until we reach Ashland, then on to Lincoln, a beautiful city of about 30,000 inhabitants, surrounded by a beautiful farming country, and presenting to the tourist at once the spirit of enterprise. Here the boys and girls avail themselves of ice cream and buttermilk, while the choir stand upon the platform, and in response to the call for Logan, who is not on the train, sing the old and familiar war songs, until the train has left the city.
Here we meet an old soldier, from Illinois formerly, by name Geo. Austin, Co. G, 30th Reg't Ill. Vol., now a resident of Nebraska. He hands us a list of all the Illinois soldiers who reside in that state, and as he speaks of the past and bids us good-bye, tears fill his eyes, and
As ours in the Headquarters train from Illinois, and as it is generally supposed that Logan is on this train, we are met at all stations by bands of music and crowds of people anxious to see the great hero, and while glad of the chance to see the people as we pass through the country, we can but feel sorry at the disappointment that prevails when we tell them Logan went another way. We accept their endeavors, however, as best we can, smile on them for Mrs. Logan, and then rally our forces and sing those songs which thrilled the hearts of veterans when our country was in danger, and which still echo the sentiments of every true patriot.
Arriving at Sutton, Nebraska, a large crowd assemble and bring a lovely basket of flowers for Logan, which is accepted in his name and placed in Headquarters car, and from which we pluck a little leaf and flower for our collection. As the sun is setting we arrive at Hastings, a lovely town, where, in a little park near the track, hundreds have come to see Logan, but again disappointment prevails. As we stand on the steps, taking in the lovely town and surroundings, we are recognized by several who were friends of our sister Mary, who came here to live when first married. We extend to them all the sisterly hand and answer all queries as to our sister, who must have left many warm friends here when she concluded Illinios was the better place to live.
Again we sing and on we speed, farther and farther west. We arrive at Holdridge at dusk, where we take supper. A very large crowd have assembled. We are now too hungry to sing, but having refreshed ourselves with a nice supper, and walk upon the platform, we, in obedience to the command of Gen. Post, our Department Commander, do sing, and as the train leaves the city the strains of music echo east and west from the voices of those who stand on the train and at the station. This is the jolliest crowd we have met yet, for they all seem happy and full of genuineness. At 9 o'clock we arrive at Oxford and again the scenes of the day are repeated. As oft as we are met so oft we give them cheer.
Twenty minutes are spent here in song and exchange of cards. The cry is “All aboard,” and now we are off for Denver. Just before retiring for the night our little manager of the Pullman company
We are awakened by an armful of sunflowers being tossed into our berth, fresh with dew, from the prairies of Colorado. We call the porter who adjusts the upper berth and devises a dressing room for our accommodation. We don our clothes as fast as possible, pin a trio of sunflowers to our breast, and hasten to the platform to catch our first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains. We breakfast at Akron, after which a very pleasant forenoon is spent riding over the rolling prairies of Colorado. Little Marcia and Henry are extremely jolly this morning, making merry at a game of horse driving, a pastime so pleasant for children in general. Our sister, Eunice, is sick all day with headache, and feebly reclines, while our friend Dolan, in the rear of the sleeper, constructs himself into a right-angle triangle and scowls because he must cough in place of talking. The Major maintains his dignity and passes upon one of our party the greatest compliment of her life, which she accepts in the spirit it is given and herein records as sacred to the memory of the Major.
We are surprised as we approach Colorado's “fountain of youth” to find so large a cemetery, so well stocked with marble, for we have almost learned to think that people never die in Denver. For the sake of the reputation of the city, it might be well for the railroad company to change its course, or the city to move their marble.
We arrive at Denver at 12 o'clock. While looking after our baggage and checking our lunch baskets we are pained to learn that one of our party, Mrs. Amsbary, has lost her pocketbook (tickets and all) a fact we can scarcely believe since she professes to be so well posted in the tricks of traveling. Yet such is the case and all of the gentlemen rush to the front to see what the matter is, and all retire as readily, save the Major and Captain, who render every assistance possible until the lost pocketbook is found where carelessly dropped
We follow the directions of a burly hackman and carriage to the Windsor where we expect to find comfortable quarters, the Major having the entire party in charge, but upon a little investigation we find that the very best we can do is a sky parlor at $4 per day. Having had considerable experience already in this line of accommodations we decide emphatically for a change, in which our immediate party and some fifty others acquiese, and we soon register at the Alvoid, a very nice place, “and let ourselves down gently on $1.75 per day.” [Briggs] To some members of the “Panama” party our change of hotels seems abrupt, and some think we have given them the cold shoulder, but this idea is farthest from our mind, for already we have become favorably impressed with all and their pleasantries have become so much a part of our own that a general good feeling prevails among all. Our immediate party occupies rooms 39 and 41 second floor where we store our satchels, arrange our toilets, partake of lunch and start out to take in all that is of interest in the city of Denver. First we must attend to our tickets and re-check our bagggage, for to-morrow we leave this road and continue our journey over the Denver & Rio Grande narrow gauge.
At the depot among the ten thousand trunks and chests we claim and re-check our baggage, after which we come in contact with a whole regiment of conductors and ticket agents, all using their utmost endeavors to instruct and please us; while we query and quiz, fret and worry the poor men until patience almost ceases to be a virtue, yet stoic-like stand these modern Jobs, still explaining and repeating their answers to our many inquiries, The only faith to which we cling after all is that which we have placed in our Pullman guide and Superintendent Johnson of the D. & R. G. railway. As much as we dislike to see Mr. Butler scowl we cannot blame him now for here comes a long, good-natured occupant of the “Michigan,”
Transfer complete, and under the direction of Mayor Dolan, of Peoria, we take the street cars for North Denver which overlooks the city and gives us a fine view of Pike's Peak which we think we can reach in a half hour's walk but which is really twenty miles away.
Denver is a beautiful city of some 75,000 inhabitants, built mostly of stone and brick. It contains the usual amount of fine buildings. One in particular we are lead to observe, and that, Tabor's Opera House, the largest in the world, excepting one in Paris, France. This building cost $850,000. The County Court House occupies an entire block, with buildings and ground. There are two large smelting works here, but we are told by a policeman that it will not pay us to drive there so we return to the city, while swarms of boys infest the cars with papers containing the account of the hanging of a man, which has taken place on an island in Cherry Creek this p.m. We here learn that our Manitou guide, in order to see all in Denver, had hired an Irishman to carry him across the creek, on his back, to see the execution. We visit many fine stores and invest in a few Colorado specimens, return to our hotel and dine at six o'clock; after which Capt. Reardon orders a carriage and we all take a most enjoyable ride around the city, returning in time to hear Logan's address to the multitude, but the hall is full for two blocks and we are unable to secure seats at any price; so we press forward a step at a time and are finally wound up in a dog fight, from which we are extricated with difficulty and return to our hotel to post our journals, enjoy a good night's sleep and be ready for Manitou in the morning. We dream of varied experiences which have taken place already in a three days' journey.
After a very warm and uncomfortable night, having been awakened twice to administer to our sister, Bradford, who is not well, and once to view Venus, Pleiads and Hyades, as they put in their lovely appearance in the eastern horizon, we rise at 5 o'clock and commence going through our satchel, preparatory for our toilet, which is finished in due time. We are called by our sister in 39, who has come to the conclusion that false frizzes are a nuisance and has cast the same in the waste basket, and already we have her own hair beautifully frizzed on our lightning crimper. Mesdames Briggs and
Not far from this place we see at our right another abrupt mass known as Anvil Rock, which one of our party declares she can reach in a three minute's walk, but which B. F. Funk says is eleven miles away, the fact of which we accept, since we thought to reach Pike's Peak by foot trail from Denver this morning before breakfast.
Already since we became passengers on the D. & R.G. and call the roll of the jolly occupants of the “Panama”, we find a strangenessnon plus and the party are rather inclined to take sides. As for us we remain neutral, feeling assured that time will make all things well and the right prevail.
Arriving at Colorado Springs a part of our company stop here, while the rest come on to Manitou, where we arrive at 11 o'clock a.m. Here we find hotel accommodations very scarce, so we stack our satchels and lunch baskets and content ourselves on the covered depot platform until our commanders, Dolan and Pike, return, having found accommodations for all at Hotel de Washeau. Here we all dine together, after which carriages are ordered for an afternoon's drive in wonderland, and before quite ready to start we come near being swindled out of our carriage and guide, for just as we come down the steps of Wausheau a party of six gentlemen offer one dollar more than we have agreed to pay, and seat themselves in our carriage; but the vehemence of our man Dolan causes them to alight and our party take the places which they have secured and we set out for the most enjoyable ride of our life. Mrs. Newman, Capt. Reardon, Mrs. Amesbary, Mr. Copes, Mrs. Bradford and myself occupying one carriage, Pike and wife, Mrs. Briggs. Messrs Dolan and Conger and Dr. Patten the other.
First we drive to Iron Springs along the course of Buxton's Creek flowing so musically over and around it rocky banks, viewing in the distance Cameron's Cone, Engleman's Canon and Gog and Magog. At the springs we quench our thirst from the water which tastes like fermented liquor or effervescing drink. Returning we next follow Fountian Creek up the Ute Pass, through Wild-Cat Canon to Rainbow Falls, which are said to be the most beautiful falls on the eastern slope of the Rockies, we descend some 50 steps and are seated on the tumble-down rocks in the mist of this lovely waterfall. We gather a few leaves and flowers, take one farewell, impressive look at this picturesque scene, ascend to to our carriage, and are driven back by the gentle falls of Minnehaha and the cottage of Grace Greenwood, all the while viewing Pike's Peak in the distance and the mountains covered with snow. Our guide makes himself remarkably interesting by his aptness of description and laughable jokes, illustrating Colorado farming by driving us to a “Mountain wagon tongue.”
Next we are driven to the “Garden of the Gods,” a place described and photographed perhaps more than any other in or among the
The Manitou entrance to this garden is really, though, what might be called a back gate, as compared with the east entrance to this wonderful place. As we enter from the west we first see a mass of sand-worn rock, covered with New England evergreens, while at the left stands an immense rock, the smallest side down, on which is carved hundreds of names. This immense mass, weighing hundreds of tons, is so evenly poised, on a very small point, that it is well named “Balance Rock.” We almost tremble as we pass, for fear this wonderful rock may tumble. We again pause for a few specimens of leaves and rock in memory of the place and turn to gaze with admiration on the Garden which lies in the valley beyond, and the east chain of mountains which rise to protect this sainted spot. A very pleasant road meanders through this garden, and, as we ride along over this comparatively level ground, we are astonished at the promiscuous piling up of rocks which remind one very much of a child's playhouse in a rocky New England state. In fact it seems that, instead of nature, human hands have placed these rocks, of varied hues, in the places they now occupy. And as the domicile of man has never been planted here, nature's solitude remains unbroken. As we ride along through this world renowned “Garden of the Gods,” we are pointed to certain rocks, by our guide, which we at once see, resemble the following living or inanimate objects. We note them as follows: Sea Lion, Lion Head, Irish Potato, Sailor's Capstan, Porcupine, Lizard, Horse's Head, Alligator, Toad, Bee-hive, and the Grundy family. Having looked the old lady and gentleman Grundy squarely in the face we pass around behind them, where a back view presents a facsimile of the Siamese twins; next comes the Eagle, Duck, Frog, Lady-in-White, Elephant, Painter's Pallet, Seal, Bear, etc., etc.—in fact images too numerous to mention. At last we approach the eastern gate-way of this garden, a spaceway some fifty feet wide opens
While in Echo Canon we look back through this marvellous gate and view Pike's Peak and the signal house on top and snow-lit summits below. A little farther on and we stop at Hartigan's restaurant for a rest and refreshments. Here we find milk, buttermilk and lemonade, of which our party and many others partake freely.
While sitting on the porch viewing the scenery which lies around us, carriage after carriage filled with tourists pass by, among whom we see the occupants of the “Panama, whose faces are aglow with delight at the wonders of the garden. We see the sweet faces of Myrtie and Mina, and little Henry waves his baby hand; and to all we extend the grand salute as brothers and sisters from all parts of our nation taking in the sights of wonderland. Next we visit the gypsum beds, from which we select a fine specimen for our cabinet; then onward to Glen Eyrie and Palmer's mansion, which lie between the Ute Pass and Queen's Canon. Here we came in full view of an immense obelisk, known as “Major Domo,” and formed of the same red sand-stone as the gates of the garden. It rises solitary and alone to the height of three hundred feet, and has a swell on top which excels the lower part of the shaft and makes the whole structure, in appearance, outvie the leaning tower of Pisa. Beyond a seeming rough stairway of rock we view, among them, Gen. Wm. J. Palmer's residence, which is in exact finish and unison with nature's beauties, formed in this rugged canon. Here, also, we see a beautiful playhouse, built of logs and twigs in rustic style, where the children may be happy. And now, being filled with enthusiasm, we break forth in song: “I love thy rocks and rills, thy woods and templed hills,” when lo! in accordance to our unanimous desire, between us and Pike's Peak there gathers a real thunder storm, and we are obliged to lower our curtains, turn Mrs. Amsbary around, cover up our driver with the cushions and place Mr. Copes edgewise on the back seat, where he becomes, at this time if never before, a great inconvenience. A little peppering of hail merely adds to the merriment of the occasion for a jollier, happier set of tourists never rode
So we arrive at “Wausheau,” hungry as usual, where we all drink tea together and talk over our afternoon journey, through scenes which seem as mimicry of the awful convulsions which sent Pike's Peak 14,000 feet Heavenward, and opened canons which we drive through and pause to admire to-day. As we hear from our party located at different hotels and lodgings, they are, most of them, between the hours of 5:30 and 6 o'clock, found doing a little washing, notwithstanding the rules and regulations, tacked upon the doors, prohibiting the practise. Washing strung upon the curtains and lamp brackets, we all start out to see the beauties of Manitou itself, through which winds a street 80 feet wide, fast becoming a magnificent thoroughfare. In the center of the village we find the largest of these natural effervescing springs, enclosed in parks. The first is in a rustic pavillion called “Shoshone. Very near is another called “Navaho,” and but a few feet from this “Chalybeate.” Across the street is Manitou Spring covered with a spring house, joined to a bazar where are kept specimens and relics of all kinds. This spring has a rock curbing, around which a small boy walks all the time, dipping of the mineral draught for many who taste and turn away, while many come to enjoy. There are nine of these springs at this place all of which contain waters of different chemical qualities, viz: Carbonates of lime, soda, magnesia and iron, and sulphates of soda and potash, and chloride of sodium.
We stroll by starlight, down the sylvan path, through Lovers' Lane, to the park, pausing as we cross the many rustic bridges, which span the gurgling stream, to listen to the music of the waters we may never see again. The different hotels and all the specimen stores are visited, and just as we return to our hotel for the night the caravan of donkeys come in from their trails with a multitude of tourists, tired and worn, who lazily leave their saddles and limp to their lodgings, while the wee little animals drop their heads and seek their homes to renew strength for the morrow, when again they must carry the anxious tourist to the highest summit.
And now while we write we are seated around our table with one little miserable, smoky lamp, posting our journals, and friends, and putting in the press the many leaves and flowers we have gathered since our arrival in Manitou. Our lunch baskets are all repacked, Mrs. Amesbary escorted to solitary quarters, the “lunch basket riot act” read, Capt. Reardon furnished with needle and thread to secure his buttons, Pike's pants rehemmed. Newman's drapery adjusted, Briggs'
At 7 o'clock we are ready for transportation, having already become used to traveling by sections. Our friend Dolan arrives at Washeau just in time to extricate and secure the numerous lunch basket of the “member in solitary quarters,” thereby causing her to add to her list one more gentleman in the Panama party. Brother Pike scrambles to the platform just in time to reach the train, having slept at the foot of Pike's Peak and been delayed by waiting to see the sun rise over the summit. The same train that is to bear us away from this enchanted spot brings our gallant Logan and his noble wife, who take us by the hand, with cheery smile, glad good morning and friendly grasp, and we step to the train and are now again comfortably located in our narrow guage sleeper, “El Moro,” on our way to new sights and scenes farther on toward the setting sun. Five miles are soon made and we are at Colorado Springs, where the rest of our train party are in waiting to join us. Little Henry and Marcia come dancing on board as light and fresh as the morning, and we again welcome these little lumps of sweetness and innocence, for two better children never traveled over the “narrow guage.”
Miss Etta Proctor, of Peoria, remarks as she comes on board with hat in hand, and a bouquet of sunflowers and golden rod pinned to her bosom, that this car suits her very well if it is only long enough, while Mrs. Troyer responds, “If you have any width to spare please pass it this way.” As for us, we need both, so shall have to divise ways and means. Our friend Funk and wife attempt to be very neighborly and occupy the same seat, which they succeeded in doing by both sitting at the same time. “Little West Virginia” has become much attached to our car, and receives a warm welcome as an “orphan boy” going to California, as a delegate-at-large, to represent his state in National Convention. Our train decorator is on the alert, stringing his bunting and tassled badges, thus giving the general idea that all on this train are members of the G.A.R. or W.R.C. Our Department President looks as bright as a new dollar, while her husband declares she shall go to the top of Pike's Peak if he has to carry her there, and Josephine appears in trouble now, for she is
At 8:30 we are all aboard and again on our journey. The forenoon is spent in riding through a beautiful valley, along the base of the eastern Rockies, in the bed of the low, flat Platt river, fringed with cotton-woods, and Pike's Peak in view for many miles until lost in nearing the summits of other peaks, where sunshine rests, while shadow prevails elsewhere. We arrive at Pueblo Thursday morning at 10 o'clock, where we look around for a few points of interest for our journal, finding that this is a city of some 20,000 inhabitants, known particularly as a railroad centre, and the Bessemer steel works, among the largest in America. Here we are accosted by a tourist, whom we have never met before, asking if we are the “Bible woman;” if so, we are wanted on the platform. This being the first knowledge of the epithet thus applied to ourself, we make a little investigation and find that we have been thus named in consequence of always carrying a copy of a congressional report in which to press leaves and flowers for our herbarium; and now we are called to see and note in our journal the facts of a section of a large tree, lying on the platform, eight feet in diameter and 380 years old, the largest we have ever seen. We note the same, walk up and down the platform inquiring of friends who reside here, join in the songs of the occasion and on to Canon City.
But here come the conductors again, looking after our general comfort, and already we have found genial hearts in these representative men of the D.& R.G., for to the traveler there is no one who claims a place in the heart more than the pleasant conductor of a railroad train who is affable and pleasant in the discharge of his duty, and we feel particularly to thank the officers of this road for having the judgment to secure such pleasant men as we find in charge of our train, and now again we become the terror of our little Pullman man, who never scowls until he reaches us, and this time more than ever, for as he takes an upward look at that destined sky parlor of
After leaving Pueblo we continue our journey in a westerly direction, along the valley of the Arkansas river, which has its rise 10,000 feet above the sea, but the elevation is reduced one-half in the first one hundred and fifty miles of its descent from the mountains, and now along its banks we begin to see immense plateaus, as if piled up by artistic hands, in all conceivable shapes imaginable, and we here pause to collect what few facts we know of geology, and assign these wonderful distributions to the fact of the Arkansas river's bed having once extended from bluff to bluff, and through time found many different bottoms. Right or wrong in our conjectures, the remarkable geological formations are very interesting to us, for nature's forms, in whatever shape, are by us always admired. The railroad men call these deposits “sand butts,” so we presume this is the right name for them. The scenery grows grander and more scenic as we near the grand canon, around and through which our little narrow guage safely wends its way, until we reach the Royal Gorge, the narrowest place we have to pass through in Grand Canon.
Having crossed a little bridge suspended from the granite walls on either side, our train stops in this wonderful place that all may have an opportunity to see the far famed granite walls of Colorado's majestic canon. On all sides, from every car, the passengers came out like a swarm of bees, and settle upon the immense rocks over which rush and foam the cold waters of the Arkansas. A few specimens are gathered by many, we secure a small piece from the granite wall which rises 3,000 feet to our right and beneath, in a little eroded rock we gather a few tiny weeds for our collection. A large, admiring, happy party sit upon these tumbled down rocks and bathe their hands and faces in the foaming waters and one soldier actually
The sound of a shrill whistle which sends rings of smoke heaven ward warns us to “all aboard” and as we leave this majestic place we see above, tons of rock which at any moment are liable to fall, causing death and destruction to all before them, and we feel a sense of thankfulness that each revolution of the wheels carries us nearer the end of what might be considered a very dangerous place. And now we have passed through “Royal Gorge,” a place we may never see again, yet we here note in our journal wonderful, wonderful place, and close our eyes to form a picture in our mind which time cannot efface.
Full fifty miles we follow the Arkansas river, rushing over boulders and mountains of rock, on all sides the mountains covered with low shrubs, sand and snow. As we approach Salida the scenery becomes less wild, the most of the time presenting a landscape of knolls covered with evergreen underbrush. In the mountains after leaving the Royal Gorge, a heavy storm prevails the most of the day, which occasionlly comes near enough to give us a slight sprinkle, and which in the distance we much enjoy.
High in the crevices of Grand Canon we see in the niche of a rock, what the porter tells us is an eagle's nest, the like of which we have have never seen before. It seems to be built of sticks, long weeds and heavy grass, but the distance above us is so great we cannot vouch for the material of which it is built. It is enough for us to know that we look upon a real eagle's nest.
We arrive at Salida at 2 o'clock, p.m., a picturesque town of some 3,000 inhabitants, situated 7,000 feet above the sea at the junction of the Leadville branch of the D.& R. G. railroad. Here, just beneath snow capped Rockies we stop for dinner, and here it is that our friend Funk immortalizes himself as the man of strong lungs, for the “Monte Cristo” waiters are a little slow in attending to his order, which causes him to raise his voice in tones of thunder demanding attention. The ladies tremble and gentlemen cling more closely to
We return to our train, which he are told must now commence the ascent of the Rockies proper. While availing ourselves of a good dinner the train is being arranged to carry us over the mountains. It is divided into two sections. The first is composed of one engine, a baggage car and the “El Moro” sleeper, of which we are an occupant and which takes the lead in the ascent. The second is composed of six sleepers and three engines, which puff and toil behind us, often lost from sight by diversified ridges, valleys and rocks, which at times lie thousands of feet below and between us. For thirteen miles, after leaving Salida, we ascend the mountains at the rate of 210 feet per mile, so inclined is the track at times that we see only the stack-pipe of the engine behind us, as it seemingly struggles to follow us upward. We sit upon the back end of our sleeper in company with our party and endeavor to enjoy as best we can, that which lies before us. The scenery grows more and more magnificent and less obstructed by mountain sides, so that to our view appears miles and miles of cone shaped summits and timberless tops of towering ranges, which show us that we are among the heights that must be familiar with the clouds. And while lost in the wonders of the Rockies, we at times see the white sunlight shining upon the far off Sierras, which must be crossed before we reach our destination.
Onward and upward we ascend until among the clouds, we look back and down upon the other section of our train, whose merry occupants respond to our endeavors by waving hands and handkerchiefs until lost in woods, ravines and snow-sheds, “Darting forth at times from hidden view, like a child at play at Peek-a-boo.”
The grandeur of this scenery so sublime, has melted some of our party to tears, for here are seen works of man and God, never witnessed before; and now at our right stands old Ouray, whose towering height stands between the head waters of the Arkansas and Gunnison rivers. Slowly and safely the steeps are conquered and we stop at Marshal Pass, at 4:30 p.m., 10,852 feet above the sea, beneath and around which a rough granite ocean lies, around whose towering heights we seemingly see four lines of railroad, terrace above terrace, the farthest almost indistinct to our view, and these are merely loops of the spiral path which has brought us hither.
In the midst of our happiness scenes have occurred to-day which have made us sad, for among us there is one whose lungs are unfitted for this high altitude, and such has been the effects of the atmosphere upon her that at times her life has been dispaired of, but
We sigh for the sick and leave her in the care of gentle hands and hasten down the hillside with the many to gather a bouquet in memory of this elevated spot. From the side of the pass where our train stands we break off a piece of granite, and mark for our cabinet, take a little run to see how we can breathe two miles above the sea, and hurry back, for here comes the other section of our train, whose occupants are ready for a side-hill ramble among the rocks and flowers, and now as they alight, we join in that grand old song, “Rock of Ages cleft for me,” etc. The two sections of our train are joined and with one engine we now commence the descent of the mountains, and the scenery presented is as fine and picturesque as that which met our view as we climbed the top and rested at Marshal Pass. On both sides of old Ouray, east and west, have been seen a multitude of little mountain steams winding their several ways over and through rocks and crevices, all going to fulfill each their part to help form the great rivers that flow through and water our prairie lands.
We descend the mountains alongside of the head waters of the Gunnison until we reach the city of the same name, which is famous as the headquarters of the Gunnison mines. It is a place of about 3,000 inhabitants, and stands 8,000 feet above the sea. Here, we have been told, we can get supper, but already the “El Moro” party have spread their lunch, and are only waiting for coffee at Gunnison. We are at the point of deciding which of us shall get supper, when sister Bradford, who has been wrestling with her lunch basket for a full half hour, comes back and invites our party of six to take supper with her, the invitation of which we are more than glad to accept, so we select each our own knife, fork, spoon and cup, and avail ourselves of the generous hospitality, but for the sake of the profession we will never tell what sister Bradford found in the top of her lunch basket. Suffice it to say, it was something akin to the penetentiary mark upon her satchel.
Just here Col. Distin solicits some of our excellent lunch, which we
While standing upon the platform at Gunnison we hear parties talking as to the dangerous descent we must travese during the night, which has made some of our party a little nervous, but life or death, we are booked through, and now is no time to stop for thoughts of a better life. Just as we begin to think of retiring for the night a call comes from the front car for the “El Moro” choir to join in an evening concert, to which we gladly respond. The arm “scrap book” and “jubilee songs” are enjoyed by the entire car, which ends in a sort of an African revival, Col. Distin in the lead. But the hour is late and we must begin to devise means and ways for a night's rest in our “narrow guage.” Dr. Pease of the “Michigan,” a practical physician of Massilon, Ohio, exchanges sleepers and berths with a “Panama” party that he may watch the sick sister of our car during the night, and we
We step upon the platform while all are asleep and are told by the porter that we are now just crossing the Utah line, somewhat behind time in making this point. While we have slept the train has moved on, ever bearing us over many dangerous and beautiful places, which the darkness of night has hidden from view. Yet, in our study of the country over which we have passed at night, we find that after leaving the Black Canon we rode away from the Gunnison and climbed Cedar Divide, where by daylight we might have had a fine view of Uncempahgre Valley at our left and south and a full view of the celebrated Book Cliffs at our right.
Arriving at Delta we again travel along the valley of the Gunnison, continuing our route until we reach Grand Junction where this beautiful stream empties its waters into the Grand River that rises in Wyoming Territory, both going to help form the Colorado, which empties its waters into the Gulf of California. Just before reaching Grand Junction we pass the Ute Reservation which was given in trust, so often betrayed by the tribe of Indians whose name the immense tract of land bears. We continue our journey along the valley of the Grand until we come to the Utah line, and a new day of hot, dusty, disagreeable travel commences. From 4 o'clock in the morning until nearly noon we are crossing the great Utah Desert, which forms a part of the great Uintah Valley, Green River basin, or the great geological tertiary sea, with the Uintah Mountains on the north and great canons of the Colorado on the south; and this is the valley where Prof. Marsh has made his great discoveries of
For a change of program we walk the length of the train and find the passengers generally quiet. The ladies have their heads done up in tissue veils with lover's bows in front, The gentlemen have pulled their silk caps over their wigs and assumed their dusters, and little Marcia has actually cried. She knows not why, but nature can scarcely comfort a child when with the thermometer at 90 ° she must shun alkali waters and know not why.
The gentlemen have held many “secret sessions” during the day in the front end of our sleeper and in consequence of which, perhaps, our gentlemen do not look as thirsty as some we see in search of water. Our Department President is sick in the “Malaca” unable to sit up. The ride through the desert is too much for one so frail. And as for us we seek a bottle containing the effervescing elements of soda water. We visit the “Malaca” and Headquarters car and treat our immediate friends, who drink freely and seem to enjoy our beverage, insomuch that it becomes almost as popular as Peoria corn juice dealt out in broken doses at “secret sessions.”
And now we have arrived at Green River, having come some one hundred miles since we left the Grand, through a rolling, uptipped desert, leaving the celebrated Book Cliffs on the north bank of the Grand. Just after passing that point where the Gunnison unites with this mountain stream, we cross the Green river north of where it joins the Grand to form the Colorado. The scenery now has a marked change, for we are approaching Castle Canon, and already in the distance we see two towering shafts of sandstone rising to the height of 500 feet as if to guard that country which lies beyond this “castle gate.” This canon is one of sublime beauty, differing in
Passing through the lovely gorge we are in the heart of the Wasatch Mountains, having just passed through Castle Gate, which much reminds us of the gate posts of the Garden of the Gods. One post is four, and the other five, hundred feet high, both having been richly dyed in the hues of a setting sun, which forms a lively contrast with the evergreen shades which lie beneath and around the rocky columns. Through this gateway the Price River and railroad pass side by side in close communion—the one, struggling over rocks and underbrush, as if to evade the power of steam which nears its maddened waters. Now we are in the shadows of huge rocks which continue for miles on our journey. Soldier's Summit stands at our right, a high prominence, solitary and alone; on, on, through the alkali districts, passing the Red Narrows and Spanish Fork canon, each and all characterized by beauty and grandeur, until we near Springville, Utah, where, for the first time during the day, we begin to see a little verdure and civilization. Telegrams have announced our coming and here we find a good dinner awaiting. The platform is full of both Mormon and Gentile children selling all kinds of fruit, flowers, boiled eggs, milk, coffee, etc., etc., and we supply ourselves for the rest our journey to Salt Lake City.
After leaving Springville we journey for many miles through the Utah Valley, lying circled by mountains as if guarded from the outer world, with Utah Lake in plain view, a beautiful sheet of fresh water near whose banks lie Springville and Provo, two flourishing Mormon towns. This lake of pure, fresh water is almost shut in by the Wasatch and Oquirrh Mountains, a range of low hills lying between the fresh water lake and the great Salt Lake north of it. At the south we behold Mt. Nebo, towering 12,000 feet above the valley with its snow capped summits, while at its base lies the verdure of a tropical climate.
Arriving at Provo we almost feel that we are again in America, for upon stepping to the platform we find a very neat little city of 5,000 inhabitants, regularly laid out with fine streets, houses, trees and everything to attract the attention of even an unobserving traveler, who has breathed a desert air for fifteen long hours. We walk on the platform and breathe once more the pure, moistened air, gather some leaves and flowers, and interview the children as to schools,
Before leaving the train a list of the passengers on board is obtained which appears in printed circular the next day as follows:
HEADQUARTERS ILLINOIS DELEGATION,
En route to 20th National Encampment G.A.R.
SALT LAKE CITY, JULY 31, 1886.
NAMES ON TRAIN.
Col. W. L. Distin, Quincy
Mrs. W. L. Distin, Quincy
Miss Distin, Quincy
Wm. Distin, Jr., Quincy
Miss Dickason, Danville
P. S. Post, Dept. C., Galesburg
Mrs. Post, Galesburg
Miss Post, Galesburg
W. W. Berry, P.D.C., Quincy
Mrs. Berry Quincy
E. D. Swain, P.D.C., Chicago
T. W. Scott, A.Q.M.G., Fairfield
Mrs. Scott, Fairfield
Miss Scott, Fairfield
H. P. Thompson, A.A.G. Chicago
Mrs. Thompson, Chicago.
Clarence Thompson, Chicago
Mrs. A. A. Newman, Delavan
J. M. Copes, Peoria
M. S. Cowger, Rose Hill
John Reardon, P.P.C., Peoria
H. C. Cassiday, Joliet
J. C. Dolan, Peoria
Chas. Quallman, delegate, Peoria
W. A. Martin, Chicago
Mrs. G. A. Busse, Chicago
D. H. Gobin, Springfield
Mrs. D. H. Gobin, Springfield
J. L. Hesser, Riverton
Robert Martin, Springfield
Mrs. Meals, Peoria
Mrs. S. M. Bradford Pontiac
E. M. Pike, P.P.C., Chenoa
Mrs. E. M. Pike, Chenoa
B. W. Maires, Trenton
J. S. Litzenberg, Wilmington
C. H. Wells, Chicago
H. H. Hunt, Chicago
Mrs. H. H. Hunt, Chicago
Mrs. Clara Harral, President W.R C., Aurora
Mrs. Sue A. Sanders, Delavan
Mrs. C. Briggs, Delavan
G. A. Dayton, Towanda
F. Taylor, New Berlin
Mrs. Taylor, New Berlin
A. Pease, Massillon
Mrs. Julia Schureman, Delavan
Edwin Lake, Chicago
C. T. Barnes, Chicago
Mrs. Barnes, Chicago
T. McGinnis, Chicago
James Galloway, Wilmington
Mrs. Galloway, Wilmington
W. V. Doan, Wilmington
Mrs. Doan, Wilmington
E. R. Campbell, Chicago
Chas. E. Sinclair, Chicago
A. H. Pike, Chicago
Jas. Bryant, Towanda
A. W. Burnside, Chicago
H. M. Hooker, Chicago
G. F. White, Chicago
Mrs. S. Stose, Chicago
Mrs. L. W. Sheperd, Springfield
B. F. Funk, del., Bloomington
Mrs. Funk, Bloomington
B. Funk. Jr., Bloomington
James A. Sexton, A.D.C., Chicago
C. F. Matteson, A.D.C., Chicago
G. A. Busse, A.D.C., Chicago
John Frith, delegate, Watseka
Mrs. Firth, Watseka
Mrs. C. M. Tripp, Peoria
Mrs. J. A. Bell, Peoria
Miss Myrtle Tripp, Peoria
Miss Mina Tripp, Peoria
Miss Etta Proctor, Peoria
Mrs. G. Miller, Peoria
Miss Miller, Peoria
R. Rouse, Peoria
S. O. Lander, Peoria
William Wiley, Peoria
D. Meals, Peoria
Miss J. Cleveland, Springfield
J. M. Harral, Aurora
G. J. Cottrell, Quincy
Mrs. V. L. Finley, Quincy
H. S. Scoffield, Burlington
R. T. Van Horn, Burlington
Mrs. Van Horn, Burlington
J. S. Smith, Farmington
Mrs. H. V. Greenlief, Farmington
Mr. Amos Green, Farmington
W. Joseph and wife, Farmington
D. K. Watson, Clayton
J. R. Herring, Canton
Frank Funk, Bloomington,
S. A. Cole, Chicago
H. B. Greenlief, Farmington
E. T. Martin, Kansas City
S. F. Shaw, Parkersburg
M. P. Schrock, Chicago
J. Clifton Butler, charge of train for C.,B. & Q. R.R.; every detail carried out as promised.
E. D. Swain, T. W. Scott, W. L.
Distin, Com. on Transportation.
We arrive at Salt Lake city at 3 o'clock, p.m., Friday. Gathering up our satchels, lunch baskets, shawl straps, hats, parsols, etc., we stand upon the platform a complete fac simile of Mrs. Partington, looking for “Ike;” before and and around us are hundreds who have arrived just in time enough in advance to get their faces washed and to give our train a hilarious reception.
Among our many features the only clean one is our eyes, which, as they gaze into the multitude, first rest upon the form of Dr. Hughes, of Springfield, Ill., whose body already through hearty laughter has assumed a right angle triangle, who tells us we look healthier than when installed into office last February. And here we all stand just as dusty as we can possibly be and hundreds are having any amount of fun at our expense. Little do we care for we have the satisfaction of knowing that we are no worse looking than they when they landed. But the band has commenced to play that same old tune, “Marching through Georgia,” and we all join with the band in the good cheer of the occasion.
Not having dared to wash our faces or taste a drop of water since we crossed the Utah line, we of course feel the need of immediate transportation to some place, when water comes from heaven. From among a small regiment of hack drivers we select one who
But the call for supper comes and we are ready to respond, after which our party of eight take a street car and ride up and down the principal streets of the city so wonderfully over-rated and arrive at the skating rink, G.A.R. headquarters, just in time not to be able to hear Logan tell the Mormons what he and “Uncle Sam” thinks of them. While leaning against a picket fence adjoining the rink we observe on the porch of a house within the yard several vacant chairs near an open window of the rink where, it seems to us, would be a pleasant, comfortable place to listen to Logan, so we embrace the opportunity and are invited to be seated by the lady of the house, whom we find to be a very pleasant Mormon lady, and from whom we gather some important information. This is the place where Logan made the assertion that Salt Lake was the only place in America “where Jews were Gentiles and Saints sinners,” to which our hostess laughes outright, and we venture to ask her how she likes to hear such talk in her own sainted city. She at once becomes very talkative and instructive, ready to tell us of their faith, religion, abuse, domestic habits, etc., etc. Logan is forgotten and we embrace the opportunity of our life to interview a woman of the genuine Mormon faith. We learn many importont things of which we never heard before. But as all are not, perhaps, as much interested in doctrinal points of Mormon religion as ourself, we record in our mind and not our journal what we have learned to-night while sitting on a Mormon porch in a genuine Mormon city. To the music of the band we seek our hotel and retire for the night to rest undisturbed until awakened by the bright sunlight of
So at 5 o'clock we find ourself sitting upon the upper porch of the Clift House, posting our journal, looking on the main street of the Mormon kingdom of America. On the east, towering upwards are the Wasatch Mountains, between which and us, several hundred feet above the city, stands Fort Douglas, with the glorious old stars
Many little, cool streams come bounding from the mountains to the city, finding their way through troughs along the sides of the city streets, their rippling music ever refreshing to the worn and dusty tourist. We pause to mail a postal home, refresh ourself with a cool draught from the mountain spring and back to the city. On the way we meet our little Cassiday the sole occupant of a fine turnout with a colored driver perched on top going to see the sights, a strange characteristic for a single man when so many ladies are traveling alone. He greets us with the military salute and on to Fort Douglas.
On our way to the city we are pointed to what is known as Emigration Canon which cuts the mountains in two and the place through which Orson Pratt and his companions came when the site for the city was first seen. Through this same canon Brigham Young came with his early pilgrims and by the same route the early emigrants all came to this spot where undisturbed they might have and enjoy the religion for which they left home, friends and country. Pilgrims crossing the sea methinks were no firmer in their belief of
From a lovely tree which stands by the fence we gather blossoms of the pepper tree which are beautiful even when pressed. We look at the Endowment House and we are content for no sinner ever enters its sacred portals. Here all marriages take place, both monogamous and polygamous; here all christenings are celebrated, but at the present time the building is closed for their great leader has been obliged to hide himself, to escape the laws of the country, which tell him he must obey and be content with one lawful wife. Next we drive down Temple street to visit the great church buildings of the city. The Tabernacle is not unlike the pictures which all have seen It is 250 feet long and wide in proportion, with ceilings 100 feet high and a capacity for seating 12,000 people comfortably. The acoustic properties of this building are so pure that a whisper can be distinctly heard from one end to the other of the assembly room. A pin dropped can be heard distinctly at the further end if all is quiet,
Here we find the largest pipe-organ in America. It has 2,800 large and small pipes. Over the mountains and through the country this immense music box was drawn by oxen, before the railroad spanned the western world. Our companion is anxious to try its wonderful power, but the gleam of patriotism upon her tanned face is enough to assure the watchful saint that it would be a violation of woman's faith for the “Georgia” tune to vibrate upon its sacred wires, for Mrs. Newman was at this time, if never before, indeed a sinner.
The assemby hall is another large building with a capacity of seating 2,500, is elegantly furnished and contains some very fine and expensive paintings. Near by the Tabernacle and Assembly Hall, stands the great Mormon Temple in course of construction. It was commenced in 1853 but cannot be completed until the forty years have elapsed for its completion which will be in 1893, providing “Uncle Sam” does not conclude before that time to turn it into a United States Mint, or a hospital for wounded soldiers, who have there fought to abolish polygamy and defend the sacred laws of our American Republic. At the present time we find 200 men pegging away at the syenite brought some thirty miles, to be moulded for this wonderful structure. When completed two towers will soar 200 feet heavenward from the top of the building. We pause to interview our guide and select a piece of the material for our cabinet and are now driven to our hotel for dinner, where we all join in social chat of our forenoon's ride, at the dinner table, after which we seek our rooms and sum up in our journal what we have seen and learned in part, of this great city. We can but state right here that to us seeing has not elevated the place the least in our estimation as to what we had expected to see in Salt Lake City.
This city is inhabited by 15,000 Mormons and 10,000 Gentiles, making a population equal only to small central cities of our own state. The streets are broad, and at present cleanly, the houses mostly built of wood, many old, and presenting a careless and dilapitated appearance; yet there are many fine buildings, built of brick and stone and we might suppose that professional painters lived in the most of them, by the lack of paint on the outside. The great Utah valley of which we have ever formed such lovely mind pictures, loses its value and magnificence as we sum up all we have seen in twenty-four hours' ride and stay in the city. While its fruit, orchards, farms, etc., are fine, the valley is small compared with the great alkali
Heavy breathing assures us that sisters Newman, Briggs and Bradford are asleep, so closing our journal, we too are soon “wrapped in the arms of morpheus,” dreaming of sad, Mormon faces, alkali deserts, mountain dust and Mormon faith.
A loud rap at our door by a gentleman of our party, who says: “Ladies, you have just thirty minutes to reach the train.” A general hustle ensues and in due time, we, baggage and all, assume our respective places in our narrow gauge sleeper, where we again meet every member of our “El Moro” party. Some are affable and jolly, but the Denver divide has not yet closed, for the stately “good morning” to an “ignorant set” assures us that “all is not gold that glitters.” We however continue our own even way, fully assured that rope enough will hang the strongest criminal, and so in the midst of affected dignity we leave this sainted city and are on our way to Ogden.
Twenty miles are made, and we find ourselves sidetracked on the shores of Great Salt Lake, a wonderful inland sea, which in dreamy silence tidelessly slumbers in the midst of the great Utah valley, whose surface lies at an elevation higher than the Alleghanies, and whose waters are some sixty feet in depth. Here we are informed by Mr. Butler, our Pullman guide, that two hours will be given for a bath in the lake, and hundreds at once check their valuables and don their suits for the briny swim, whieh proves very enjoyable to all, excepting Pike, whose first dip is to fill his lungs with salt water which causes him to weep regretful tears. The sensation of a bath in Salt Lake can only be known to those who experience its effects, for the waters are extremely heavy and salty, much more so than this jolly set of tourists thought when, with josie jackets and knee pants, they descended the steps from their dressing rooms and waded the briny waters. They remind us of a lot of school children going out to catch frogs, yet all alike seem to enjoy the royal fun, but if anyone ever tells you that you can't sink in Salt Lake don't you believe it, for one of our party came near being drowned before he had passed the guide ropes. He found that a headlong dive into Salt Lake was like falling into a brine barrel and taking a long breath; so with eyes, nose and mouth full of briny water, he comes to the top fully convinced of the fact that a 240 lb. man might possibly sink in Salt
Having spent our allotted time for a bath we drip to our dressing rooms and take a fresh water shower bath, don our clothing, secure our valuables, and with hair hanging down our back assume our sleeper, and are soon on our way to Ogden. While our companion makes a few sketches in her journal we note the surroundings of Salt Lake.
All along the railroad we see men gathering salt that has been left by evaporation of waters flooded from the lake, for all around the soil is such that no vegetation exists in the vicinity of this inland sea, the only green things we see, that grows near, are frogs, which numerous boys are spearing with long pointed poles. We bring our humane principles to bear on them, but when told they are catching them to sell we save our breath for more cruel scenes we may find farther on. But we must note a few items in regard to this great lake from which we have just emerged. As we stood with the rope gang tossing in the waters, we gathered some sand from the lake bottom, which, when placed to our tongue, was as salt as the mineral itself, and we are led to wonder and recall facts as to the cause of this. And we pause to ask if this great sink was made and excavated by a great continental glacier, and then filled by mountain streams and rendered salt, because the evaporation exceeded the supply. If such be facts, then in the future this now lake will be a great salt deposit, and who knows how many generations will pass away before that time comes. The lake itself if quiet compared with other waters, for no high dashing waves reach its briny shores. Perhaps there was a time when it occupied all the land between the mountains which surround it.
We are now eighteen miles from Ogden traveling along a narrow plain which lies between the dead waters of Salt Lake and the sawlike peaks of the Wasatch mountains. The valley, however, is very fertile, and many little sparkling streams come singing down from the mountain canons, across the green meadows, and now as our train bears us from sight of this lake we still wonder why, of all the inland waters of America is this one salt and without life. Science and geology alone must solve the mystery, while we speed on to new sights and scenes.
And now we are at the end of the D. & R.G., but before we leave our little sleeper “El Moro” which has bourne us safely over so many dangerous places, carried us to and from so many lovely,
At 5 o'clock p.m., Saturday, we arrive at Ogden, the second city of importance in Utah, it being a great railroad center with a population of some 7,000, nestled in cozy homes at the foot of the mountains. Not far from the depot, where hundreds are now promenading the platform and waiting for the train that shall continue us on our journey, stands a small tent covered over with flags, on front of which is painted in large letters “Welcome, G.A.R.” This little tent, emblematic of days gone by, whose recollections are foremost now, though simple in structure yet made beautiful by America's banner, is sufficient to assure us that even here the true loyal spirit prevails, undaunted and without fear. We take a walk along the platform, place our journal against the side of the depot and note a few points that present themselves. The Michigan headquarters train has just arrived, bearing Gov. Alger, of Michigan, Robey, of Maine, and our own gallant Logan, who remain in private quarters until all things are made straight and we continue our journey. The passengers, however, occupy the depot platform with us and all become friends at once bound for the same destination. Among the Michigan passengers we meet two representatives of the W.R.C., Mrs. Hampton, the past Department President of the state, and Mrs. Louise Robbins, of Adrian, the delegate-at-large to represent them in national convention. We are favorably impressed at once at the appearance of these ladies and the vaulted opinion we form of them thus early in our journey is only strengthened by better acquaintance, for we find them ladies of character and intellect, ladies whom the state of Michigan can well be proud to claim.
Major Quallman, of Peoria, and Messrs. Ruhl and Baughner, of Virginia, have constituted themselves a lunch basket committee and have already commenced to locate the same. Up to the present writing they have already lifted 500 baskets and 400 shawl straps in and out of something less than 100 cars, in hopes at last to find the
While the gentlemen care for the luggage of the most fascinating the platform is completely stacked with the traps of married women and old maids, who in turn stand sentinel over the same. As for us we place ours against the wall and trust to luck for its safty and and venture as far as time will allow to catch a sight of Ogden. We note a few facts and return in time to take our turn at being weighed and find that our avoirdupois is just ten pounds more than ever before, all probably owing to the weighing more than to general improvement.
Our Peoria Dolan has stretched himself across the platform and is trying to sleep. We place our shawl under his head and for a few moments brush flies while the sick man tries to rest from the fatigue of his journey. Our Pullman man is nearly distracted, not with his business, but on account of not having but one tongue to answer questions. Of course every passenger wants the best berth in the best sleeper and he of course promises the best to all. And even we are in hopes of a change, for thus far we have possessed ourself of amiability for him to note, thinking perhaps a reward will come before our journey is completed. At the rear end of the depot we find Ben. Funk and Major Sexton teetering on the baggage truck. Col. Distin has pinned an extra badge on his coat, seated himself on the railroad bank and is humming in plaintive tones “Tenting To-Night.” Our decorator is stringing bunting and our companion is gathering weeds for our herbarium, while the other half of our quartette have seated themselves at the table in the dining room to avail themselves of a square meal. At the north end of the depot there are eight beer kegs which are occupied by Rouse, Lawder, Reardon, Meals, Copes, Cowger, Cassiday and Pike. The usual amount of backing, switching, blowing off steam, whistling, etc., has been done and the cry is “all aboard,” so we gather ourselves up once more and are located in sleeper No. 2 of the Central Pacific railroad, which is much wider than the one we have just left and which better suits our general comfort, though still destined to up-stairs apartments which we had hoped to exchange, but as we note the long, dignified faces presented us, which looked so pleasant at the beginning of our journey, we smother our rebellious feelings and
Our train, that leaves Ogden at 7 o'clock Saturday night, is composed of an engine, baggage car and thirteen sleepers, among which is Gov. Algers' car of which our Logan and wife are occupants, who now join and travel with us to the “Golden Shore,” and who before retiring for the night pass through the entire train and bid us all a kind good night.
The amiability with which we clothed ourself an hour ago has become terribly ruffled and we now stand ready to denounce every point of politeness heretofore extended by the Peoria party, for the gallant Major has effected a change in his berth which not only adds insult but injury to our heretofore pleasant quarters, for in the exchange we are placed opposite one who may have served well his country in its hour of peril (and for that alone we strive to endure), but whisky and tobacco never did make for us a pleasant combination; and all our persuasive powers fail to accomplish a change, and so we retire and sleep 'mid the fumes of tobacco and rattling of long-necked bottles with silver collars.
We rise at an unusually early hour for us, call the porter who adjusts the step ladder, and we descend while all are asleep, and endeavor to seek the level of our naturally happy disposition in the morning air of Nevada, having just crossed the Utah line. The sun is just rising in the eastern horizon and its lengthened rays extend far across the great desert we are now riding over. And this is the great state of Nevada, whose unnavigable streams, after flowing short distances are lost in picturesque lakes, sinks or porous soil. A state of volcanic structure, of strange deposits and uninviting landscape to the tourist, yet withal interesting to the extreme in its wonderful make up and striking contrast to the home of the tourist who may perhaps sometime become dissatisfied with his lot in life. We arrive at Elko at 10 o'clock Sunday morning, where we all get breakfast. The dining room door of the depot hotel is held ajar by a true specimen of woman, who counts noses as they pass through the door until every chair at the table is filled, and then bars it against all others until first come are first served, while through a ticket window at one side she assures the howling crowd that all they need is patience to secure a good square meal before the train leaves, and by the looks of her determined countenance we conclude that patience is just as good as anything else to possess on this occasion, and we
Leaving Carlin we enter the twelve mile canon, where red,
Very much refreshed by our stop and dinner at Humboldt we continue our journey along the river, crossing it at Granite Point where we leave it to embosom itself in the quiet Humbolt Lake, whose waters are forever swallowed up in the great Humbolt Sink. Carson Lake also loses its waters in the same great sink. We have arrived at Mirage, a side-track at the top of a low range known as Antelope Mountains, which form the divide between Pyramid Lake and the great Carson and Humboldt sinks. The sun is just setting and strange as it may seem the air is actually cool and all feel much refreshed after a very hot, dusty day's travel. We become very much interested in a little story the pleasant porter is telling of Pyramid Lake, which lies on our right some twenty miles away, receiving its name from the fact of a rock 500 feet rising directly out of the lake. Some ten years ago an exploring party visited this island rock but were frightened away by the numberless rattlesnakes which held the pyramid fort and expelled all intruders by frightful hisses and prolonged rattles. And now as we review the day's journey it seems that ever since we struck the Humbolt River we have been traveling over seemingly treacherous ground, for on both sides of us have been numerous sinks into which the streams have all flowed and been forever lost. This station where we now stop is noted for its optical illusions, which have deceived so many weary, thirsty travelers, who thought so soon to reach cool shade and refreshing draughts. It is not our lot to witness one of these
We come forth from the sleeper to enjoy the morning air, and find that we are at the foot of the Sierras. The sun is coming up extremely warm, but we feel that the day must be pleasant for we are to assend altitudes higher than this. One by one the passengers come forth to regale themselves in mountain air, and view the little city of Reno, situated on a flat covered with sage brush, some twenty-fivepompadour roll and high drapery we could not distinguish her from the nut-brown race, for she indeed has already become tinged with the color of the aristocratic tourist. At 7 o'clock we leave Reno and travel along the course of the Truckee river through pleasant fields and winding paths until the way grows narrow, and our course seems ascending, the scenery grows more beautiful and we view with interest the growth which covers mountains, from grassy base to evergreen summits, and it is up and through these varied scenes that we are now wending our way.
Our patient of Marshal Pass is again getting short breathed, but in time she seeks a horizontal position and is comparatively comfortable, though her numerous watchful friends already hover around. The Truckee river comes rushing along over a rocky bed full of mountain trout which we are informed is quite an article of commerce at Truckee, 200,000 lbs. annually being taken from the stream. And now we have arrived at Truckee, an important lumbering town in the heart of the Sierras. We stop for a change of engines, collect a specimen for our collection and are again on our way toward and through the forty miles of snow sheds, which on this occasion cause many sour tourists to grumble because by them a complete view of nature is shut from sight, they having no thoughts farther than the present to consider the importance of these great and expensive sheds, which alone secure safety to the traveler over the Sierras in winter. For forty miles these sheds have been built at an expense of some $500,000, intervening alone with tunnels through the mountains. We, in full appreciation of the kind act of the C.P.R.R. Co., who allowed us to spend the night at Reno in order to pass over the
Now but a short distance from the picturesque Donner Lake we leave the beautiful Truckee and turn our attention with an admiring party toward that beautiful lake of silvery water which appears so bright for a few moments and is then lost among the peaks of the Sierras. It was here near this lake that Starvation Camp once stood, which perhaps among the many scenes of suffering in early the pioneer life of California, is the most renowned, and made so more from the fact of every tourist's mind who passes here being turned to the facts of the starving of the Dinner family and party which consisted of about one hundred persons en route for California and who were overtaken by one of those terrible snow storms when near Donner Lake. There were many children among them, all of whom perished, with most of the men. Some of the women were saved and this little lake at the top of the mountains receives its name from the fidelity of Mrs. Donner, who chose to die with her husband rather than escape with the children and leave him to perish alone. When spring came and the snows began to melt, the corpse of the husband was found tenderly cared for by her hands while she had perished alone. Having just passed the high and rocky walls of Donner Lake at our left we are now riding through Strong's Canon, fast nearing the summit of the Sierras. Leaving the lake some eight miles behind we now pause at Summit, the highest point of the C. P. railroad, 7,000 feet above the sea, yet one can scarcely believe the fact for the green pastures and verdant
After leaving the summit the most of the afternoon is spent in the varied scenes of the Sierras—singing streams and winding canons that open upon us as we journey on. The scenery is beautiful as well as grand, for unlike the Rockies we see verdured hills in place or barren peaks covered with rock and sand, and each revolution of the iron horse brings us nearer the great Sacremento Valley. Snow sheds grow shorter as we approach Blue Canon which presents the steepest grade on the line of the road it being about 120 feet to the mile. Through the canon the scenery becomes beautiful and interesting, for we have passed snow sheds and tunnels and are now enjoying sights that have not presented themselves before, as we are now in that part of the Sierras known as the gold bearing mountains of America, where so many have both lost and gained wealth. We are now constantly in sight of flumes and hydraulic mining which have long since taken the place of what was once known as “placer” mining or washing out the gold with hands in place of running water. As our train moves on we go from side to side of our sleeper to see how completely the whole country has been washed out by these artificial streams in searching and finding gold, in consequence of which the red soil has been left uncovered and every mark of vegetation destroyed which may require ages to replace. Farms in these lovely valleys have been completely ruined by the debris which has been cast upon them by this process of mining, which legislation has failed to check, and as we descend to the valley we find the once clear and sparkling brooks fresh from the mountains now turbulent streams of muddy water. After leaving Gold Run we pass over a muddy water gorge which lies 500 feet below us and are told that we are are very near Cape Hern, and we step to the platform to see the celebrated place and view the mechanism of man which has wound the railroad around the mountains in solid
Just before reaching this city we are introduced to Mr. R. Rouse, of Peoria, who asks us if we can draft resolutions. We inform him that we have done such a thing and might possibly again. Pencil and paper are furnished and, in accordance with the general desire of the “El Moro” passengers, we draft some fitting resolutions complimentary to J. C. Butler, the gentleman whom the Pullman Car Co. have sent to show us courtesy and favor to our destination. Before we arrive at Rocklin the resolutions are completed and signed by every member of the “El Moro” party, and at Rocklin presented with reading and applause to Mr. Butler, who responds with seeming delight that his endeavors have been, by us, appreciated, though so often we have seemingly censured him for sending us up stairs to sleep continually. As the train moves on the resolutions are passed to our neighbor car and signed by every member. This is as far as time will allow for other signatures, yet we have no doubt but what our appreciations are the united ideas of the entire train. We are again solicited to draft resolutions for Major Quallman, which we gladly do, and embody in the same the fact of his being the boss lunch basket depositor, notwithstanding the fact he has never lifted ours one single inch; the nearest of ever coming to it was when he tumbled over it in the aisle, when on his way to convene a secret session. This
At 7 o'clock p.m. we arrive at Sacramento, the capital of California; supper is waiting and we hasten to secure a seat at the first table. The crowd at the depot is simply immense, so that it is almost impossible for us to reach the dining room, yet we succeed by holding fast to each other in single file. We secure supper and return to the train from which Logan is making a few remarks. As the train moves on we join the throng in the good old song, “Marching through Georgia,” while, standing on a pile of trunks, some patriotic soul waves a tiny flag and hurrahs for Logan. We continue our way through lovely valleys until lost in darkness, and we all join in the sociability of the evening until we reach Benicia. The weather seems very much cooler, and we assume our warmest clothing. Our whole train is now on the ferry boat at at Benecia, occupying three different tracks, and we are crossing the largest ferry of the kind in the world. We stand on the boat outside of the train and look upon the waters we are crossing over, and are told it is Sacremento River, and that we shall soon land at Point Costa. At Benecia we are introduced to the uncle of our sister Bradford, who meets her here and instructs us as to the points of interest we now pass in darkness. Near by is Mare Island where the San Francisco navy yard was once situated, and Vallejo, the old state capital. We reach Oakland at 10:30 p.m., board the ferry, cross the bay, and are now in San Francisco. We have, after nine days travel, landed on the golden shore. Mrs. Bradford, the important sixth of our number, goes with her uncle to his home on McAlister st., while we take a carriage for the Grand Hotel, the Headquarters of the Department of Illinois. We find that everything is full to the utmost, so we must look farther for accommodations. The hour is late and we are tired, so, seated in the parlor, we await the return of Pike and Reardon, who conduct us to the Brunswick House where we remain for the night.
We awaken in San Francisco, the sun has already entered our room across the darkened roofs of other buildings and we hasten our toilet, for the day is too full for leisure. We are surprised on entering the dining room to find the most of the occupants of our sleeper seated at the breakfast table who bid us a formal good morning.
We are now ready for the program of the week which commences with a grand parade of the Grand Army already convened in the city. We take seats on Market street where we can watch the town
While standing here we are interested in an old lady whose sweet motherly face alternates with smiles and tears until suddenly she enters the ranks, embraces the soldiers and actually kisses them as they march along, and we wonder at this seemingly rash act, but
The parade being over we return to our rooms, transfer the contents of our trunks and satchels to closets and drawers, arrange our toilets and go down to dinner, where we are notified that callers await us in the parlor, and we are pleased to meet old friends whom we have not seen for years—Mr. Pierce, wife and daughters, also Mrs. Anna Wood, formerly of Rhode Island and later a very sucessful teacher in our own town, now resident and teacher at Oakland. We are delighted to meet these old friends so far from home, and make good use of our tongues for a few moments, all talking at the same time. They have come to give us special welcome to California and Oakland's hospitalities. They leave us to call again with arrangements for the future, and we join our party to attend the grand reception given by the G.A.R. to Logan and Sherman. All visitors are ushered to the galleries of Mechanics' Pavillion, and we await the coming of “the boys.” The doors open below well guarded by policemen, and to the music of several silver bands, the Grand Army come in procession. Never before have we seen a grander sight than this. Four abreast they march up the broad aisle to the music of “Marching Through Georgia,” and “Tramp, Tramp, Tramp,” etc., and
We awaken at 5 o'clock and are the first one up and ready for the day. While waiting for breakfast we post our journal and pen a short item for our home paper, the Delavan Times. Our companion is evidently growing vain, for at least ten extra minutes have been spent this morning in rolling up her pompadour. Breakfast over we leave our companion to visit the city and coast and with our friend set out for a morning walk. The weather is such as would warrant a storm at home, for the fog is thick and darkening. Our morning frizzes have collapsed in the moisture which gives us the appearance of a “country cousin.” The only alternative in this moist climate is a five by ten veil which we procure at once and pin across our forehead. We visit headquarters for mail and find a letter from home. We note the hour hand on the clock in the steeple which tells us it is ten o'clock. Across the street, waving in the fog is a white banner on which is printed “Headquarters of Woman's Relief Corps.” We ascend two flights of stairs and are in “Irving Hall” whose large entrance presents a very attractive appearance. The stage is draped with two large flags of the Union, above which, in letters of evergreen, are the words “Fraternity, Charity and Loyalty.” On either side of the President's chair are two large and beautiful floral badges of G.A.R. and W.R.C. which have been presented by Appomattox Corps, of Oakland. The chandaliers and galleries are festooned with flowers. A row of banners to designate the seats of each state delegation are hung from the wall. It is announced from the platform that each delegate to the National Convention will be presented with a souvenir badge by the general committee of management of the G.A.R., which consists of a clasp from which is suspended by a yellow ribbon, a Maltese cross. The clasp and cross are both solid silver. The clasp is a bear, emblematic of the coat of arms of California; the
Six o'clock finds us at the breakfast table. While waiting our order we read the morning paper and note the death of Samuel J. Tilden, at Greystone, yesterday morning. We pass from the dining room to the parlor and find several cards of friends who called in our absence yesterday. In company with our friend, responsive to instructions from the Tazewell County Veteran Association, we call on Gen. John A. Logan, at the “Baldwin.” The bell boy answers our call and we send our card to the General who has not yet arisen. This is Santa Cruz day and we have no time to wait, so leave our business in black and white and hasten to see our friends who are off for Santa Cruz. We are deprived of this excursion because a
We are awakened at an early hour by the continual noise from the street, for whatever may be said of the slow movements of the Californians they “drive like Jehu,” and in consequence of the cobblestone pavements which are so necessary in this place owing to the destroying moisture of the climate, carriage wheels and horse's feet make more noise than in most cities. At the breakfast table we meet our Quaker friends upon whom the frosts of many winters have left their silver traces. They greet us with smiles and as they observe our silver badge, ask its significance, and when told why we wear the emblem the reply is, “Thee does well to honor thy brave.” We see by the morning paper that home friends and country are suffering from a continued drouth, while we enjoy a cool and refreshing climate. We again visit headquarters and meet many friends at the postal drawer looking for letters from home. A few moments social chat with many friends assure us that we miss much we might enjoy by not being able to attend the reception at Monterey to-day and visit the old capital of California in a very old Spanish city, yet business must precede pleasure and we attend convention all day to gather information from the legislation of learned ladies that may result in good to our own home auxiliary of the G.A.R. At five o'clock we leave convention for our lodgings where we post our journal and put to press a few blossoms we have gathered during the day. As we go down to dinner we meet our companion who has just returned from the beach with an armful of rocks and sea-weeds she has picked up on the shore, for all day she has been out sight-seeing and taking in the wonders, while duty has kept us in the convention. At the foot of the stairs we meet a gentlemen of our party who has come to make arrangements for Chinatown to-night. We concur with the plans and agree to meet the party at the Grand Hotel at 7 o'clock. After dinner we return to our room and find our sister has just come in from an extensive shopping tour, having made purchases all the way from Chinatown to the looking-glass store on Market street, We examine the plunder and guess it is all right but give little attention to shopping matters now, for that we can do when our visit to California is in the past. Precisely at 7 o'clock we
As we peep through the blinds at 5 o'clock, a heavy fog hangs between us and the large, red sun, just above the eastern horizon. The busy city is astir; up and down the street are already seen the blue coats of the old boys. The bands have commenced to play andSanta Rosa, Amador, Garden City, Oakland, Aurora, Tamalapas, and James M. Donahue, the first six to accommodate the G.A.R. and W.R.C.; the first of which is the flag-ship of the day, and the last for visitors who may desire to accompany the excursion. We find our ticket for the Santa Rosa, the flagship, which bears the gallant Logan, and is to pass beyond the Heads. With due thanks for the highest favor of the excursion, we make a change of tickets for the Oakland, for on this vessel we are to meet our Yankee cousins, of Portland, Maine, whom we have not seen for years, but whom we have constantly sought ever since we commenced our journey. We pass and repass thousands hurridly seeking the vessel that corresponds with their ticket. We stand on the deck of the Oakland, while passengers come in swarms and listen to the bands playing our national airs, and are agreeably surprised to find ourself among so many home friends on the Oakland. We pass around the cabin, where we meet our cousin, who has already come on board and is looking for us. He presents us to his wife, whom we have never seen, but whose affable ways at once win kindred love. We present them at once to our friends and the sextette becomes a double quartette for the day. At 10 o'clock the whistle sounds loud and long, the gangway is removed and seven vessels, on which are more than as many thousand souls, sail out on on the Bay. As the flag-ship takes the lead every band joins in the good old tune of “Rally round the flag.” The morning fog has cleared and the warm sun reflects upon the peaceful waters. Across the bay lies the beautiful city of Oakland, where long piers stretch toward us as if to give us welcome, while to the south lies the littleOakland pass over the gangway and follow different directions. Lost from the crowd, our immediate party decide to visit Chinatown, which vividly brings to our minds all we have seen and heard of the “heathen Chinee,” and as we pass up and down and through their greasy, dirty, crowded quarters and learn that all their dealings add nothing to American trade or home axchange, we can but join in the spirit of the Californian—that of disgust—for everything they eat, drink and wear comes from China, except perhaps it be the hog, which the Americans ought to have legislated out of the country long ago. Some of our party drink at their tea houses, but as for us we prefer tea at an American table. We visit some of their banking houses and obtain autographs of Chinese bankers said to be worth half a million. While their shops and markets seem low, smoky, crowded and dirty we can but note the fact that the Chinamen themselves look very cleanly. Their cues and their low wooden shoes reveal white drilling stockings or clean deformed feet. Among them we see very few women and children, and they clean and well dressed in Chinese costume. The children seem very bright and reach their little hands in friendship. We try to talk to them but they understand nothing but our smiles. Many of our party with policemen visit their quarters at night and their lodgings four hundred feet under ground. We are content in daytime to see one house of ten rooms where seven hundred live and sleep, and this they say is very respectable living among Chinamen. Chinatown well done we take the California street cable cars and ride the full length of this beautiful street to admire the loveliest part of the city, where on the elevated foot-hills of the coast range stand the finest residences. And now we bid farewell to our cousins, L.M. Webb and wife, they to fullfil their California program of sight-seeing and we ours, and finish our
On our table lie several invitations for to-night, but our friend says sleep is her program to-night and our companion and sister acquiesce, so the only alternative is for us to do likewise for our brother's ticket is to a meeting of comrades alone. So at an early hour, amid the patriotic music of many bands, we retire and try in dreams to enjoy once more the program of the day.
Having slept rather late this morning we are all up at the same time and considerably out of repairs from the hilarity of yesterday. While pinning up our jaded drapery and frizzing our hair the program of the day is decided. Our relatives and companion being somewhat more religiously inclined than ourself, propose to take in some of the large churches of the place and “kill two birds with one stone” by pretending to be devout while they study San Francisco's architecture and the paraphernalia of her church-going people. We and our friend after receiving perhaps just rebuke for saying we can attend church at home, decide our program for the day and at eight o'clock we set out to see all we can of San Francisco. We walk down Geary street to Market and take a car for Telegraph Hill, a high promitory that overlooks the city and bay. The morning is lovely and the bay is dotted over with vessels sailing from side to side. Here we remain on hour to view the surroundings, and find we are not the only people who did not go to church to-day, for every car that climbs the angle of 35 degrees brings to the top a new party of sight-seers, all of whom are well behaved people, like us, making the most of their time while in the city. We cling closely to the
At an early hour we meet our landlady and settle our bill for the week, just fifteen dollars, after which we secure a baggagemaster to transfer our luggage to our new quarters. By previous engagement we are to meet our friend in Oakland, at the foot of Broadway, at 9 o'clock, in order to be ahead of the vast crowd that assemble for grand reception there to-day. We hasten to the wharf and take the Piedmont for Oakland. Never having crossed the Bay before in daytime, we are not aware of the fact that a two mile pier extends out into the Bay, from Oakland, where trains connect with the ferry; we therefore, on landing from the boat, take seats in the depot while the train moves out and leaves us. We approach the depot master and in just as pretty a way as possible ask him how long before the train goes to Oakland? He assumes an impudent air and says “That is the train going now. Don't you see it? Can't you read?” Feeling that we are rather verdant we question him no farther but listen to the same unkind, ungentlemanly remarks to others and come to the conclusion that he is not glad to see us or is tired of so much reception. So, to put in the next half hour until the train goes again, we write some postals home, which we mail in the Wells Fargo Express box and rouse the ire of the old man at our greenness, and he again
Our friend arrives and joins us in lunch after which she conducts us to the grand banquet hall where the hundreds are already seated at the tables. We soon find room for one more and are found foraging a pot of beans from an army chaplain which he has appropriated to himself. The grand dinner we receive to-day through Oakland's hospitality is but a repetition of the many of which we have already partaken, and as souvenirs we are are told to carry away the tin cups from which we drink our coffee. Before leaving the hall we are presented with a chromo of a large canteen, on the top of which are the words, “Welcome Comrades;” beneath, a squad of soldiers under the flag; crossed arms in the center with a “live-oak” beneath the trademark of the city, all suspended by the Grand Army badge, in the center of the star of which there is a bird's eye view of the city which gives us such cordial welcome to-day. The day is very warm, yet we always find it cool in the shade in California, so we sit on
At 6 o'clock we and our companion are up and ready for breakfast.
We are awakened this morning by the good-byes of our brother and wife, who leave for Gurneysville to join us at the Geysers tomorrow. After indulging in a few moment's of stolen sleep we hasten to make ready for the day with program so full of interest. At 7 o'clock we stand on the deck of a steamboat, while hundreds come to take passage. Everybody seems happy and free from care and ready for the enjoyments of the day. The vessel, comfortably crowded with a crew of jolly tourists leaves the wharf at 8 o'clock, sailing north through the steamboat ship channel, across San Pablo Bay, a distance of eighteen miles, and lands at Vallejo at 9:15 when we board the train already in waiting and commence our journey through the celebrate Napa Valley which extends in a northerly direction between two spurs of the Coast Range that terminate at Mt. St. Helena, the highest point of the mountains. This valley is
After a warm, sultry night we rise at 6 o'clock, and, for the first time since leaving home, feel very tired. At 7 o'clock we take the train tor San Francisco, returning through the same lovely valley as of yesterday, until we reach Fairfield, then south to Benecia, where we cross the waters that connect Suisan and San Pablo Bays on a steamer that bears the train across.
We arrive in San Francisco at 10:30 o'clock where we at once report at headquarters for our mail. Finding none we return to our rooms in a full realization of the fact that all of our immediate friends have left the city, and we are comparatively alone and long way from home. While at dinner we arrange a program for the afternoon. Our companion dicides to visit the mint and other places in company with Mrs. Troyer, of Peoria, whom we have accepted as a very warm and pleasant friend.
We and our friend decide to once more visit the Pacific beach and bury our lonliness in the sand. We hasten to the wharf to find a friend (who leaves the city at 3 o'clock) to secure some knowledge of exchange of tickets, after which we take a car and arrive at the Cliff House at 3:30, p.m., where hundreds are walking, sitting and visiting. We walk up and down the shore for a long distance in hopes of finding something that will be interesting for our cabinet, but all our hopes are summed up in one poor little rusty button-hook, for indeed nothing but an occasional sea-weed can be found. We purchase a sea-urchin and star-fish from the stands at the Cliff House, and then sit on the sand and watch the children go in and out with the splashing waves until the long whistle summons all to the last train for the day.
Once in the city we again visit headquarters, where we meet Gen. Post, wife and daughter, B. F. Funk and wife, and Sargeant Sexton, with whom we join in general discussion of the extensive wine drinking in California. We all agree to disagree and bid them good-bye, for to-morrow we all leave the city, going in different directions. Already we have decided to meet our relatives at the Geysers. We return to our room where we find our companion posting her journal. After supper we again do a little washing and then sit down to sum up in our continuous journal, our stay in San Francisco.
It has now been ten days since we first set our feet upon the golden soil, and to-morrow we leave the city undoubtedly forever. The
Having overslept ourself this morning we find we are too late for the boats to the Geysers, where we were to meet our brother to-day, so we change our program and decide to visit Yosemite Valley, We hasten to the Grand Hotel and secure our tickets for the trip, procure our exchange on home tickets by the way of Los Angeles, receive our mail and hasten to prepare for the journey. Just one moment too late we meet Gen. Busse, who tells us of vacant berths on the steamer for Portland. One moment sooner and we might never have seen Yosemite Valley, but we are too late for Portland and in time for the valley. Trunks and satchels are checked to Los Angeles; lunch baskets and surplus food donated the drayman who transfers our baggage. One little hand-bag contains all we take with us, save what we carry on our person. We settle up with our landlady, post our friends as to our change of program and future intentions, and stand on Eddy street and listen to the parting words of a body of comrades who have, during the week, made their headquarters jolly at all hours of night with hiliarity and song.
We take a car for the wharf and stand once more on deck of the Piedmont, and take our last farewell look at the city on the “Golden Shore.” The vessel crosses the bay at 2:30, p.m. While waiting at Oakland Pier for our train, we meet many of our friends starting for home, who come to say good-bye, and as their train precedes ours we again feel that we are left alone. We wave them from sight, mail a few more postals in Wells' Fargo Express box, in memory of the “cranky old man,” board our train and are now nicely situated on the sleeper “Merced,” on our way to the world renowned Yosemite.
We at once make the acquaintance of those who are to accompany
Mr. and Mrs. J. Davidson, and Mrs. M. A. Thayer, Sparta, Wisconsin; Alice Natile, New Orleans, La.; Mrs. A. R. McPhetus, Bloomington, Ind.; Mrs. M. L. Pratt, Cambridge Port, Mass.; Henry Tetlow and wife, Philadelphia, Penn.; Anna E. Kreight, London, Ontario; Mrs. Wm. Sanborn and Miss Augusta Taylor, San Francisco, Cal.; J. A. Cooper, wife and four children, Denver, Col.; Judge Benson Wood and wife, Effingham, Ills.; Prof. Hitchcock, of Amhurst University, ourself, companion and friend, with a few others whose autographs we fail to procure, make up the jolly party.
As usual, and in accordance with our general luck since starting from home, we again occupy a sky parlor. Mr. and Mrs. Wood are our nearest neighbors. Leaving San Francisco we travel north and east between the spurs of the Coast Range and San Pablo and Suisan Bays, until we reach the valley, through which the S.P.R.R. extends. The scenery is very interesting, with barren hills and rolling mounds at our right, and dark, blue waters at our left, until we pass Antioch and enter the great San Joaquin valley, which lies between the Sierras and Coast Range, terminating at the celebrated Tehachaja Pass. This valley is about two hundred and fifty miles long and from twenty to one hundred and fifty miles wide. Unlike other beautiful valleys through which we have traveled in California, this one seems to be a vast deposit of sandy soil, owned by capitalists who cultivate thosands of acres of wheat each year, thus keeping the land from the emigrant, who would gladly make the whole valley one vast fruit orchard, wherein people might live and brighten the now desert appearance of this great valley. The eyes become weary with sameness, for the hay fields have vanished, and the only verdure is an occasional tree and tufts of alfalfa which only thrive through.
We supper at Lathrop after which, weary with sameness of scenery, we climb to our rest while the train moves on. At 11 o'clock our sleeper is sidetracked at Berenda, where we must remain for the rest of the night. In vain we try to sleep, but the heat is so oppessive that rest is impossible, though our companion seems perfectly at home. We call the porter and ask him to open the doors and give us air, but he informs us that we are now where it is necessary for our sleeper to be kept locked and well guarded, which gives us a slightly nervous sensation when we contemplate danger, yet we as soon be killed as smothered and insist that the doors be opened.
We call the porter at 5 o'clock who adjusts the step-ladder and we are the first to seek the morning air, for a warmer night was never experienced than the last. We stand upon the back end of our sleeper and look off into space, for we are midway the great San Joaquin Valley. A depot, freight-house and hotel are all the buildings we see. West of us lies a wheatfield extending north and south as far as the eye can reach; east, a vast plain covered with white, sandy soil and an occasional low shrub or scrubby tree.
Above the distant Sierras the sun is just climbing. Everything is calm save the steaming engine that is to carry us to Raymond. Up and down the track walks a lone man, who tells us the Los Angeles train is two hours late and we must await its coming. One by one the passengers come out on the steps and ties, all looking weary and somewhat discouraged when they think of the journey before them. A long whistle and the north-bound train arrives and we are again on our way eastward, toward the Sierras. Twenty-five miles are soon made and at 9:15 we stand in the white sand over shoe top at Raymond. As we take in the situation we at once seem to realize that trouble has just begun. The country around is rough and broken, covered with sand and gnarled oaks. At the foot of the hill is a large stable and sheds for horses. At the end of the railroad track a freight-house stands on stilts, around the platform of which a half dozen men are sitting laughing at our disappointment. Not far off is what they call a dining-hall, built of saplings covered with canvas, through which the heat rays of the sunbeam strike us most unmercifully. The breakfast is passable, the price increasing, yet now is no time to take issue, so we endeavor to adapt ourselves to circumstances and make the best of everything. Under a pine tree there is a bench on which is a wash-pan, of which some avail themselves; as for us we jam our bonnet to the other side and await our turn in the stage. Up the hill comes No. 1, 2, and 3 stages with just room to accommodate the party, just thirty in all. No. 1 leads the
These stages are very heavy conveyances, drawn generaly by four to six horses, according to elevation; sprightly, yet rather lean in appearance. We are all aboard now and off to wonderland. At first we try to be jolly, for everything is new and we have indeed become tourists. We shut our eyes and close our mouths to the clouds of dust that surround us for every turn we hope to strike harder and moister soil, but the farther we go the worse it gets, so we smother our feelings and think we will enjoy as best we can this trip of a lifetime. Five miles are scarcely made when we almost wish we had never started, for of all the jolting and shaking up that human being ever experienced this is the liveliest, for we are obliged to hold our thin friend in position to keep her from injuring her sense by bumping our head against the top of the stage. Our companion, however, has again bared her face to the sun and bade defiance to weariness. The stage seat grows narrower and we soon begin to realize that we have been a little too accomodating in allowing the Prof. to occupy our seat in the stage, so we venture a hint for exchange which is not taken; so, at the end of ten miles, when we stop for a change of horses we assume our own seat assigned us in San Francisco and continue our journey with comparative comfort.
We ride for a long distance in sight of the Haley & Gambetta Minning Mills, pleasantly located among the mountains on gently sloping side hills covered with grass and trees. The scenery grows grander and more exciting as we ride along over this wonderful turnpike, built at the expense of twenty millions of dollars. Though continually ascending the mountain heights of the Sierras the grade is almost unnoticable.
Through our continued journey we ride along the alarming precipices where perpendicularly at our feet we see nothing but space, with mountains and valleys beyond. The thundering stage rolls along over its hollow sounding road within a few feet of precipices of rock, which the least disturbance to well trained horses might hurl us to death and destruction at any moment. Occasionally we approach a mountain valley beautifully green with grass and grove-like timber, that for a moment reminds us of home and causes us to
We stop at a wide turn in the road, where, down over rocks through moss and ferns, comes a rippling mountain stream from which we drink and are much refreshed; then on, on, higher and higher, now descending at a breakneck speed we arrive at Grant's, where all stop for dinner and a change of horses. On the side of the hill stands a long, low cottage, in neatness supreme, behind which the mountains rise peak after peak as if to guard from the outer world the happy resort of the tourist. We step from the stage to a long porch where a general shake, brush and wash up ensues. We meet our host, a little, old, jolly man, with three black-eyed daughters. We are escorted to a bathroom for a general wash, after which we enter a dining-room as neat as wax, and enjoy a yankee dinner. We stand upon the porch and look down and up to mountain heights, over which we must pass before our journey is ended. We walk down to the celebrated white Sulphur Springs and gather a tiny blossom in memory of the welcome inn, twenty-three miles from Raymond. The three stages, drawn by eighteen fresh horses, come galloping down the hill and stop in front of the porch. We are soon comfortably seated and continue our journey onward. The sun is extremely hot and the dust terrible.
Our Cambridgeport sister wishes she was afloat in the Charles River, and openly declares she never will be clean. Mr. and Mrs. Tetlow, in the full possession of the disposition of the founder of their Quaker city, continue in patience and forbearance, while our noted Prof. seems to scowl disapproval at our national airs, which we try to render in song. The “Frisco” ladies are closely veiled and seem to study our true inwardness, for since we claimed our just rights in assuming our place beside them in the stage they seem to think us too numerous to be familiar.
We are now climbing Chauchilla Mountain, whose summit is reached in six miles travel, and the scenery which we now behold is said to surpass any mountain scenery on the continent if not in Europe; certainly no stage ride can be more grand. We now commence our gradual descent toward the Emerald Valley, on all sides surrounded by the loveliest evergreen forests on grassy slopes decorated
As the short rays of the sun predominate we behold a sunset we shall never forget, the sight alone of which has amply paid us for the day of dusty travel. We look through a canon, beyond which the loveliest of sunset skies seems to have assumed a horizontal position, looking like the face of a lake painted by nature's artist with choicest dyes. Our exclamations are those of joy, and we note at once this gorgeous sunset seen while crossing the Sierras, and form a picture in our mind that will be pleasant to remember in time to come.
Having been late in leaving Berenda we do not reach Wawona till 9 o'clock at night, so the last part of our day's stage ride is by moonlight, and the coolness of the evening has made us all very happy. The steeps around us are growing less and danger is farther back, unless, perchance, we meet the dreaded “roadster” who may possibly claim our valuables before we reach Wawona, but the faithful six, obedient to our driver's skill, soon land us on Emerald flat, four thousand feet above the sea, one of the pleasantest places on earth. In front of Clark's Hotel, with a capacity for hundreds, we stand and are brushed by Chinamen, while the many who have preceeded us join in general hilarity at our expense, for a dirtier set never landed at Clark's. We are escorted to rooms 39 and 40 in the cottage where a surplus of water is furnished for our convenience. Our clothing is well shaken from the long porches and we return to the hotel over a moonlight walk and enjoy a splendid supper. We meet many tourists with whom we exchange cards and mutual appreciations of our journey and then return to our rooms for the night. While interviewing the chamber-maid, she hands us an envelope picked up at our door, which, on being, examined proves to be the complete stock of trip tickets that shall insure safe transportation of our companion to her journey's end, to home and loved ones. We place them among our own valuables, congratulate ourself that Providence has raised us up to care for her tickets, else her now happy soul might be ruffled with anxiety if we ever again reach the railroad from which we are now thirty-two miles away.
We sleep to-night in a cottage of many rooms in Emerald Valley, surrounded by mountains. Everything is calm, save the musical fountain that acts in front of our cottage. Our companion, unconscious of of her mightbe serious loss, sleeps long and well and
We are kept awake the most of the night by the continual bustle occasioned by the incoming and outgoing stages, for the drivers whistle makes the valley sing and the partitions that divide the rooms of the cottage are so thin that a rap at a door or a snore from a slumberer is heard though several rooms away. Six o'clock finds us ready for a fesh start on our journey, though the past day's stage ride has made our back the object of much attention. We walk upon the long porch that surrounds the cottage and find among many strangers our own party busy shaking the dust from their clothing. We interrogate our Cambridgeport sister as to how she feels this lovely morning? She bangs her dress against the railing and says “Fool that I am to come here when I might have spent the summer on the Atlantic coast and kept clean.” Having thus given out the promptings of honest though we are next interviewed by our friend of the Quaker City as to what we think of the way one of the thirty-three snubbed us all the day before in our journey over the mountains, at the same time informing us that her husband may not be very smart but that he is at least civil. As she has spoken our sentiments exactly we give her to understand that we too have been somewhat annoyed at the persistency by which our companion has tried to draw out and amuse our dignified tourist. Yet she sees no harm in being snubbed and at the breakfast table starts out in a new direction to elicit his conversational powers; so while she plays the agreeable to dignity we avail ourself of mountain trout and sweet potatoes and confiscate all the extra biscuits within long reach and roll them up in our handkerchief for lunch.
While waiting for the stage we try to form a picture in our minds of the mountain scenes around us. By moonlight we entered this beautiful valley and morning finds us surrounded by mountains and forests and instead of the accustomed song of the morning bird we hear only the music of the stream that ripples in front of the porch and sparkles in the fountain. We walk down the mountain lawn and gather some little flowers for our collection while up the hillside roll the thundering stages and now in front of the door await our coming.
The three Augustas occupy the back seat, where they form a very
At noon we stop for a change of horses. We step inside the large barn to shelter us from the sun and observe one of our party looking around in stalls, barrels and boxes as if in search of hens' nests, and ask what she is looking for, when to our surprise this good sister from the cap of Pilgrim's Rock and the shadow of Bunker Hill informs us that she is looking for a man—a man to swear for her. We ask her if she has forgotten that this is the Sabbath but are told it is no worse to swear on Sunday than any other day and that somebody ought to swear, and she thinks a man would be most apt to do the subject justice. We again load ourselves into the stage and are on our way, only ten miles from Yosemite. Now ten miles may be a short distance to lovers riding on the boulevard, but over bumping rocks, along beside chasms of death and destruction, enclouded in dust, hungry, tired and sick, ten miles is a long distance to travel.
Yet we continue on, for backward we cannot go. We try to sing but our hearts are lost to song. We have to laugh, however, when we gaze on the face of our companion who now looks like a cat that has crept down a chimney as she drinks in the mountain scenery. We turn to our friend with face like a school-boy after his first game of marbles, while she is told by Augusta that “she would not have a nose like hers.” The whole party in fact look like children who have walked in the middle of the street on a hot summer day as they cling to the back of the seats and brace themselves in self defense,
The miles grow longer and longer, the precipices deeper and grander, until at 3 o'clock p.m. we halt at Inspiration Point, 6,000 feet above the sea and look for the first time on the rocky columns that enclose Yosemite Valley, which lies imbedded between
It has been styled by tourists the “Monarch of Rocks” and most matchless piece of masonry on earth. Although this rock seems smooth and square from base to summit it is possessed of many horizontal surfaces too high to be discernable. Near one corner of this towering mass we see what are known as Ribbon Falls, but at this season water flows down at intervals, yet we see the worn rock, the discolored pathway of the mountain stream that is sometimes called the “Virgin's Tears.”
At our right we behold in genuine reality a picture seen from childhood. On the west side of Cathedral Rock there flows a stream of water nine hundred feet to the valley. Three hundred feet from the bottom it falls on a mass of slanting debris that sends it rushing over continuous cascades through rock and forests on the mountain side until it reaches the peaceful valley. And now as we ride along we come in full sight of this misty waterfall known at Bridal Veil Falls, whose waters, from the valley, resemble a dense and falling mist which sways to and fro in the wind like the flowing drapery of a summer bride, a companion picture of which is not found in any mountain scenery on earth. And now we pause at the foot of these lovely falls and listen to the continuous roar in upper air, occasionally broken by the sway of the waters. We drink from the ice cold stream, gather a fern from the rocky base and onward still to
We have now wound down and around the mountain sides until we have reached the level valley which, but for the prison walls might seem a prairie grove, and now we ride between the heights known as the “three graces” at our right and the “three brothers” at our left, rising respectively from three to four thousand feet in upper air, covered at their base with forest evergreens, through which, over a mossy carpeting, flow many little rock bottomed brooks, each adding its little part to swell the valley stream. We now look up at the watch tower of the valley, known as sentinel rock, whose granite spire towers 1,000 feet above the valley wall and whose height alone exceeds by far all the master works of man.
It is 4 o'clock when we arrive at Leidigs and find accomodations for only two of the thirty-three Our California friends accept the vacancy, and we bid them good-bye to see them no more, but for Augusta cherish the kindest remembrance for her genial manner and homeopathy prescriptions which healed the sick and cheered the weary.
Next we stop at Cook's but find everything full to the utmost; our last resort is Barnard's, where we soon stand and are swept off by the Chinamen. We are assigned rooms on the second floor in the northeast corner of the hotel proper, where from a spacious porch that surrounds the building, we look down upon the ice cold Merced river, and are in constant view of Yosemite Falls, only half a mile away, and feel to rejoice that here alone we find accommodations.
We at once commence a program for our stay in the valley. First we take our usual bath, so necessary on all occasions in California summer climate, but now more necessary than ever before in all our lives, for dirt is no name for the condition we now present as we pound the mountain dust from our clothing. Our heads resemble a pig's back in harvest, and frizzes are unknown—in fact the only clean feature is our eyes, kept open by continual winking. At 5 o'clock we meet our party at dinner, when introductions become necessary for recognition. We partake of a very excellent dinner which we very much enjoy, after which we form a party and set out on foot for Yosemite Falls. We cross the Merced on a rustic bridge, climb a fence to a green, grassy cow pasture, crawl through a hedge and are
We are joined by little Miss Alice Natile, our New Orleans friend, whom we have all learned to love for her rare intelligence and cultivated refinement scarcely found in a miss of sixteen summers. She enters with the party into the joys of the rare occasion. We take off our shoes and stockings and bathe our feet in the sparkling waters, and then with less fear of slipping, we climb still higher the pile of massive rocks on which the waters fall. As the sun has set and evening shadows begin to fall, we sit in silence and drink in the beauties we shall never again see, perhaps, save in the realms of thought and remembrance.
We miss our companion and for fear some unseen danger may have befallen her, we raise our voices for her response and elicit distant echoes; we climb a little higher up the rock, and think we are near the valley wall, but when we our companion in child-like dimensions, whose attention we fail to attract with our combined voices, gathering flowers in a recess of solid rock, a little back and at one side of the Falls, we come to the conclusion that she is farther off than we anticipated and that distance here is even more deceiving than in Colorado. Our companion sees us and joins us on the dark, gray granite rocks that lie at the foot of the Yosemite Falls.
The sun has long since given way to evening shadows, when, reluctantly, we leave this majestic place and turn our steps hotelward We return alone over the elevated walk of the lowlands along the Merced and, while downward looking, easily imagine ourselves visiting some country friend, for up the road a small boy drives the cows, and the valley farmer gaily whistles as he stables his weary team. As we cross the bridge we meet a resident of the valley who points us to the seemingly impassible trail east of the falls, over which the Indians climbed when driven from the valley. We reach the hotel just in time to retaliate the hilarious receptions we have received while journeying to the valley, for the Cleverdale stages have just arrived with another dusty party not unlike all others. Among the many dirty faces we discern the eyes of our friend, Rev. Mary Girard, of Clinton, Iowa, National Chaplain of W.R.C. We join the sisterly shake of hands, then leave her to her toilet, while we join the evening songs of mirth unceremoniously taking place on the wide veranda.
The evening is warm and pleasant, we sit on the porch in front of our room and listen to the constant, lonely roar of the highest waterfall in the world, and try to realize in full the favored opportunity of sitting so near the world renowned Yosemite. Our stage party join us in general admiration and pleasant hours too quickly pass when filled with associations of culture and intellect, unfettered by worldly pride and feelings of caste and rank, alone made excellent by morality, virtue and natural genuineness.
While we enjoy the very thought of being here, happily we wander homeward and join in the song and sentiment of the sweetest and truest words that were ever penned—“Home, Sweet Home.” So at 12 o'clock we close our doors and sleep 'mid the gentle murmur of the Merced, the distant roar of Yosemite and echoed tones of “Home, Sweet Sweet Home” now sung by the tourists of the cottage that joins us on the west.
We are awakened by the rattle of stoves and clatter of Chinese dilect, for the kitchen is not far from the rooms we occupy; and as time is so precious now and opportunities so grand, we stand on the porch at 5 o'clock, spellbound with reverential silence. Hundreds of snow-white ducks are already afloat on the peaceful Merced, and the milkmaid closes the bars as she leaves the cows in pasture. The mountain guides are stirring up the hostlers to make ready for the day. The “lone Indian” crosses the bridge with a string of trout which he leaves at the kitchen door. Our friend makes a hasty toilet for once while our companion with unencumbered care and innocence of last transportation, looks heavenward at the mountain walls and wonders what agency placed them there.
We are joined at breakfast by our party, some of whom have just returned from a morning walk to the falls, and we all join in thankful expressions that patience and endurance landed us safely here. Breakfast over we await conveyances for a ten mile ride through the valley. So at 7 o'clock our party of eight are on their way to see the sun rise on Mirror Lake. Up the valley the happy party enjoy the morning air. We walk carefully down the rocky debris and stand at the waters edge, and while we gaze upon the placid face upon which the towering heights of either side are so beautifully reflected, we at once recognize the appropriateness of the lakelet's name, for the face of a mirror could be no more calm than the surface of this little lake. We are now in the narrowest part of the valley with North Dome at our left, rising some four thousand feet above us, beyond
Party after party arrive at the lake until fifty or more await the rising sun. A little boat is tied motionless on the shore, while near the bugler stands and invites our attention to the wonderful echoes that respond to his musical endeavors. Save the notes of the bugle and the voice of our continual explorer, who has crossed the lake by going around it, reverential silence prevails among all; and now, while we look at the granite walls we join our voices in song as never before, and sing the words that echo Columbia's fondest tie, “I love thy rocks and rills, thy woods and templed hills.” It is almost 8 o'clock and a hundred eyes are upward turned to the peaks of North Dome over which the “King of Day” is just making his appearance. We change our position and three times hail with song the rising sun over the peaks of the eternal hills, and now we look upon the lake's face where a perfect picture of the valley, heights, evergreen bases and rising sun seems extended as far below as above the level on which we stand and as the sun rises higher and shines upon the lake the reflection becomes more grand, thought more sublime and reverence is melted into tears, found in the eyes of many. We again raise our voices in song, “Nearer my God to Thee,” every word spoken and echoed as if in unison with heavenly love. Rev. Mary Girard stands on the shore between reflected and genuine sublimity and offers a prayer every word of which is significant of the scenes around us and the cause that has brought us hither. She thanks God for the blessing of the morning and asks that we may all live with grateful hearts towards America's soldiers, who made our country free that we to-day may in safety see and enjoy this beautiful scenery wrought out by power divine.
We sit upon the rugged shore of this peaceful lake and note in our journal our present surroundings. On either side are North and South Domes, whose wonderful heights and close proximity enclose the lake that lies between and send their forms reflected, down, down to the bottom of a seemingly very deep lake. We look beyond the mighty Domes and our searching eyes reach “Cloud's Rest,” over which a little cloud has just passed as if to verify the significance of the name given this last mountain in the valley which
Our driver is becoming impatient, for time is very precious, so while we enjoy the loveliest and grandest scenery of earth, we natururally turn back to domestic life and friends who may never these scenes behold, and once more to the accompaniment of the bugle echo the tones and words of “Home, Sweet Home,” then reluctantly leave the sainted place for other scenes in a ten mile's drive.
We retrace our steps and pass near the Royal Arches, imbedded in the solid sides of Yosemite's vertical walls, while opposite are seen projections that might once have filled the arch. We pass the rural spot where the park commissioners are erecting a fine hotel, which we are told, by another year will be open for the accommodation of tourists. We ride the length of the valley through groves of spruce fir, pine and manzinita along the meandering course of the Merced River, whose source is the high Sierras and which by innumerable cascades and waterfalls reaches the valley where kindred ice cold streams help form its crystal waters. We pass the “Hermit's rocky home,” and though we are told that through the occupant's vein's courses the blood of noble birth which might welcome him to social life, yet when we study his rocky home whose maker and builder was nature alone, we can but think of a pure life within the granite glen, a life conversant with nature alone, unfettered by worldly care or pride or gossiping surroundings. The little dog that barks at his rock-hewn door guards well his master's numerous pets of beasts and birds that roam in peace within.
Though thirty-five years have passed since the Indians were driven from the valley, we still meet an occasional relic of the tribe, with his gun and fishing tackle, and pass his rustic store house, built of sticks and leaves, where are stored his winter acorns.
Having taken the circuit of the valley we alight at Barnard's, where, in front of the hotel, are thirty-three horses already waiting to carry the party to Glacier Point. From a little store near by the party avail themselves of large straw hats, which they tie in a double scoop under their chins. Three hardy guides assist them to their saddles, and the party is ready for a start. Unluckily for ourself and friend we are unable to secure horses for the trail, the party is so
We stand on the porch and hail the incoming stages, bringing another dusty party. They follow their satchels to the platform where another dusty shake ensues, after which they register and are asigned rooms on the second floor of the cottage. Among the arrivals of the day we read the name of Jenny June, whom we meet later in the social conversation of the dusty ride and lovely scenery encountered to reach the valley.
It is now noonday and the sun shines down upon the sultry place. We sit upon the shady side of the long porch and notify our home friends of our present situation, after which we bare our feet and wade the Merced River, but the mountain pebbles are sharp and the waters icy cold, so our romance is short lived and full of fun.
In company with our friend we take a dusty walk, mail our letters at the little postoffice decorated with stereoscopic views of the mountain scenery, converse for a short time with the little postmistress, who has lately arrived from yankee land, visit the little country store where is kept everything from a toothpick to modern frizzes, walk by the rustic chapel, gather leaves and flowers for our herbarium and sit again on the porch of the hotel to await the mountain
We sit in social review of the day's events until the supper bell calls us together in the dining room below, where many new faces are seen that have arrived through the day, each one of which is full of marked intelligence and refinement, such people as will appreciate and learn of the wonders around us, and in home life become educators of the present and rising generations. Again we walk through the little town in search of new sights and knowledge. We cross the street from the hotel, and are in the “big tree” parlor, a building of several rooms for the accommodation of parties spending the
Just before retiring, we stand in company with our friend on the cool porch and view Yosemite Falls by moonlight; reluctantly turning away to our rest; but sleep is impossible, so we sit by the open door and look out upon the calm, still night. The moon behind the evergreens casts shadows across the Merced. Above in silvery moonlight, Yosemite's waters fall, and over mammoth tumble-down rocks, they rush solemnly along. While filled with joy and thankfulness that fortune has brought us here, we feel a sense of sadness that so soon we must leave the place forever, and wonder to ourself if the time allotted here has been spent to the best advantage. So, in midnight reverie, we review the topics of the day and again close our eyes to sleep with a revolving panorama of scenes pictured on heart and mind.
At 5 o'clock we settle our bill and await our breakfast, which, owing to the fact that we are about to leave the valley, is considerable thinner and less numerous than the morning before, for in the place of trout we pull at the meat on bones of mutton that bleated in the canon when the Indians were driven out, so we confiscate a biscuit for lunch and on the porch await the stage that is to carry us over the mountains. We take our last long look at the granite walls, above which, at Glacier Point, the stars and stripes are waving, though we are so far below it looks like a handkerchief fluttering in upper air. We pause in review of other heights upon which we have looked and read and make a few mathematical calculations to store away in memory, which, though true, may often startle us with thoughts of exaggeration, when we speak of the wall and heights of
Though, owing to the fact of the joyous associations, patriotic demonstrations, lovely valleys, deep canons, rolling mountain heights, perpendicular walls and waterfalls, that have been constantly before us the last month, we scarcely realize these rare opportunities of a lifetime. So we fix in our mind, as well as our journal, a simple fact of perpendicular height, sent heavenward by the powers of nature, ten times higher than America's memorial shaft, and while we sigh a fond farewell to Yosemite's lovely valley, the thundering stage of six-horse power comes rolling up to the door. Comfortably seated with our companion and friend we stop at Cook's for the rest of our party who are to journey with us to-day, none of whom we have ever met before. They register in our autograph album as follows: E. A. Dubey and daughter Jessie, and Stephen Burrows and daughter Hattie, of Brooklyn, N.Y.; George Creamer, Baltimore, Md.; W. C. and Harry Richardson, Chicago, Ills.; John Woods of Darwen, England, all of whom we find pleasant and agreeable.
So now we are on our way to Los Angeles, doubly happy to think we came and saw and shall have conquered if we again cross the Sierras in safety. At 8 o'clock a.m. we again halt at Inspiration Point and take our last long farewell look at the world renowned Yosemite; then onward through nature's avenues of mammoth evergreens of spruce and pine, which embalm the air with nature's perfumes, up hills and down dales, around curves and over chasms, we continue our dusty way, with no thoughts of fear though everlasting destruction awaits the least accident that might occur to the rolling vehicle or the faithful six that whirl us along.
At 10 o'clock we reach the seven mile grade. Our driver, heretofore so pleasant and conversant of passing scenes, commands for himself silence, for his whole mind and attention must be given to the task of landing us safe at the foot of the grade. This is the place where, one year ago, a timid woman gave our driver ten dollars extra to walk his horses over this mountain, which in the kindness of his heart he did at his peril, though he reached the foot in safety, there making a vow he would never again so risk his life, for safety is
Occasionally we see the stages ahead of us actually tip as they round the curves, we wave them safety and follow on. Our noted Englishman who has been traveling for seventeen months through Europe, Australia and the Sandwich Islands, becomes very interesting in relating his travels, the one fact of which we place in memory; that of all the scenery he has met Yosemite caps the whole. In combination with his wonderful store of knowledge, he possess the disposition to amuse and propounds to the party many conundrums that fill the stage with laughter.
So now we are safe at the foot of the grade where man and horse are refreshed from the mountain brook, and we gather some leaves for our blank book and lovely ferns to press. A few miles farther on we meet the incoming stage, where it is necesary for us to alight until they have safely passed, for the road is narrow and the precipice at our right immense. We climb the grade at our left and cling to the trees for safety. The stages have safely passed and again we load up and continue our journey. We arrive at Clark's at 12 o'clock, where we are again swept off by the “heathen Chinee.” Our host, Clark, takes in our dimensions and calls for an extra broom, while at least fifty tourists join in a general laugh at the position of our bonnet and dilapidated condition, so on the principle of “no fool no fun,” we join heartily in the hilarity of the scene. We again register and are assigned our previous rooms in the cottage, where we take a passable wash and enter the dining room for dinner. Our first glance, however, at the tables assures us they were set for the passengers of the outgoing stages, for again we wrestle with mutton and all that was left from breakfast. The cry is all aboard and as we subsist principally upon scenery now, we seize our satchel and broken handled parasol and again climb into the stage. Our companion, however, more used to ruling than being ruled, leisurely ties her bonnet over her vertical frizzes, and pulls her last foot in the stage as we whirl around Wawona park and are off for Mariposa Grove, nine miles east of Clark's. Again over dusty, winding roads, around
The sides of the most of the large trees have been used for fire places by the Indians, and the charred remains extend far up their sides, and still they live; but for twenty years no Indian has dared fire one of these trees, for the Government now guards well these giants of the Sierras. Many of these trees are apparently young and thrifty as the evergreens in our city parks, all reaching the enormous heights of from one to three hundred feet, and as straight as a die. We stop at the log cabin of the guardian of the grove and obtain genuine specimens from Mariposa, gather cones two feet in length, pick some mountain flowers, then climb to the stage to continue our journey. A Normal school girl of our party expresses a wish to note the names of the largest trees, while our Englishman kindly dictates
Here, in place of silent rocks we gaze on living trees, and none may tell the rise and fall, prosperity or decay of nations, or geological disturbances that may have been since these trees first stood sentinel to the surrounding forests; and now, as we leave this gigantic grove, again we raise our voices in song, reverential of the past and suppliant of the future. “Let music swell the breeze and ring from all the trees sweet freedom's song.” We arrive at Clark's in time for supper, hasten our toilet by the removal of dust, launch our mammoth cones in the fountain spring for moisture, and enter the dining room to find again new arrivals and mutton chops. We walk through the parlors of spacious dimensions, where, seated at numerous tables, are many tourists posting their journals and friends at home. We pencil a card of few words and join the party for the studio where are found numerous views, landscapes and photographs of Emerald Valley; and romantic and picturesque scenes of the surrounding Sierras.
We promenade the long walks by moonlight and listen to the musical tones of the piano that echo the valley through. We sit on the porch in front of our door in peaceful silence and wonder if moonlight scenes were ever more fair, for on all sides the mountains roll heavenward and guard us from the outer world. No excitement prevails, no startling news, and cares and anxieties are unknown, for every tourist seems lost to the world and wrapped in nature's wonders.
Within this Emerald vale we have no fear, for education, refinement and culture keep us safe with unlocked doors, and, as we lie on our pillow to-night with closed eyes, silently reviewing the scenes and associations of the day, we can but think how blessed the earth if purity of thought in this valley to-night could encompass the world around.
After a night of general disturbance, occasioned by the late incoming stages, the watchman raps the second time at our door and
We register at a hotel, the only house in the place, and find firstclass accommodations. We now have time to think and talk over our situation. We find our clothing, which we have worn a week, anything but tidy, our hosiery perforated and shoes worn off at the
Early dawn finds us moving along through Tulare Valley near the lake of the same name, a place where every year many come in search of health. We are particularly interested in the account given us by a passenger of the part of Tulare Valley known as the Artesian District which comprises a tract of land from ten to fifteen miles wide and thirty-five long, lying some six miles north of the lake. There are over a hundred of these wells ranging in depth from 300 to 500 feet. A large part of the valley seems a treeless, fertile plain over which run many pleasant streams, while we see many dry, sandy sloughs where water seems once to have been, and though so near the mountains on both sides no stones fetter the soil, and the earliest fruits of the season are found in this fertile valley. On our right is an immense grove of oaks—nature-formed
We now ride through sandy plains where no type of vegetation save the ungraceful Yucca meets our eyes. We notice that some of the passengers call this tree a palm and some a cactus, but, by referring to our knowledge of botany, we find it neither, but a strange, straggling mixture of its own, well fitted to grace the barren, uninviting country through which we now pass. On inquiring we find that, like everything else, this awkward specimen of the vegetable world is good for something, for its spiral bark is stripped from its ten to twenty feet trunk and used for paper making, and is said to make a superior class for bank-note use. At noon we arrive at Mojave Junction, the only eating station we have struck since we entered the San Joaquin Valley, and are consequently very hungry. We re-check our baggage for Los Angeles, pay extra storage and hasten for our dinner, but find that, owing the “California deliberate movements” of the baggagemaster we have just time for a glass of milk; so now we are again on our way around “Robin Hood's barn” to reach Los Angeles. The Yucca grows more numerous and the white sand deeper as we journey on, occasionally we strike a fertile spot where civilization seems to reign. We pass several bee ranches where many men and women are busy caring for the crop of honey, and preparing it for the market, but we have no desire to live or
We have now arrived at San Bernardino, where, on a beautiful plain at the foot of the hills, lies a lovely little city of 6,000 inhabitants, noted for its unsurpassable climate and orange groves, where hundreds of Artesian wells project water that flows in refreshing streams along otherwise dusty streets and thrifty orchards. We reach San Bernardino summit at 6:30 p.m., and now, in the next twenty-four miles, we descend from snow to orange groves.
Here is where the Mormans first settled in 1847. Here the oldest orange groves were planted of all the valley. Arriving at Colton we stay for supper and find numerous boys ang girls peddling all kinds of the choicest fruits of the place. We obtain a supply for the rest of our journey, and now travel west to our destination, reaching Los Angeles at 11 o'clock at night, tired and weary with a twenty-four hour's ride through an almost desert country to reach the renowned and celebrated haven of health for invalids. We step from the train and are met by our friends who, after a mile of street car ride, land us at the Stevenson House, where we find pleasant rooms and comfortable lodgings, We bid good night to friends and are soon asleep in Los Angeles.
At 5 o'clock we are ready for breakfast, and as meals are not served at this hotel for travelers, we are directed by our landlord to Popular Restaurant where we once more recognize a porter house steak, of which we partake with double relish, for we are far from the side hill sheep pastures of the Sierras. We claim our baggage at the transfer office, hastily make our toilet, and are ready for the day. At 8 o'clock we await the train for Santa Monica, one of the finest resorts of the Pacific coast. The train is long and filled with passengers going to the coast to spend the day. We ride through continual orange groves and fruits orchards loaded with fruits of all kinds, oranges, figs, lemon, plums, olives, peaches and grapes, until we reach the little town of 1,000 inhabitants which lies upon the sandy bluffs around the horseshoe curve of the Pacific coast.
Here we find a happy place to spend a summer day. Along the coast is a village of tents which are homes for the hundreds that are spending the summer here. A long canopy built of boards extends along the shore, where, protected from the sun, we may sit and watch the many as they go in and out of the water. Here on the sands are
We breakfast at Popular restaurant at 7 o'clock, after which we walk to the general ticket office and secure sleeper accommodations for our home journey and for once we are on time and thus avoid the necessity of being obliged to again occupy “sky parlors.” Returning to our hotel we find a carriage in waiting for a trip to the Ostrich Farm, seven miles from the city. Passing through the old Spanish part of the town we ride over roads rough, hilly and winding, with sand at least a foot deep along the banks of the river, beside the irrigating tunnels that carry water to the city. All along the road men are engaged in manufacturing and placing of cedar boxes on the the mountain sides, through which a larger and more constant supply of water can be obtained. In our four hour's ride we pass many lovely little fruit orchards lying along the river where men and women are busy gathering and packing the fruit for market. We stop at a gate that connects two larger fields of white sand, in one of which are some fine shade trees, where we leave our horses and walk down to the gate that admits us to the ostrich farm.
A raw, green Dutchman pockets fifty cents and we pass through, walk a long distance through the same old California dust, and stand at the double fence that surrounds the ostrich pasture, around and through which walk thirty-five of these mammoth birds, the most ungainly, awkward, homely looking creatures we have ever seen. We query the guide concerning them, but all he can say is “yah;” a pretty specimen of a guide to interest tourists who spend time and money to visit the place. We accost a stranger standing near who seems to know something about these animals. The extra fence, he says, is to prevent people from being kicked by the birds, but we think it is to keep tourists from stealing the feathers, though we can't for the life of us see where they could get them, for the poor birds are naked from knees to hips and bill to wings, and what few feathers are on them hang in loose drapery over their awkward backs; but it is sufficient for us to know that we have seen a genuine live ostrich farm in California, where undoubtedly in time the common farmer will number his ostriches in his invoice of live stock, for the dearth of plumes is always owing to the lack of food in countries where they are reared, for a half starved bird never produces fine feathers, and in the fact we have learned to-day that it not only
We walk through the park and visit the homes of the various birds, parrots, squirrels, monkeys, etc., but find nothing on the whole farm but what can be seen at home, save the ostriches and surrounding hills. The country is rough and broken and slopes to and from the foot hills that extend across the country. We are unable to say what kind of a place this might be in wet weather, but now, while rain is not known, all we can say is: dust, dust; why the people of Illinois' prairies know nothing about dust, not even in July when there has not been a drop of rain for three solid months. We now retrace our steps toward Los Angeles. All along the roads are the tents of workmen (employed in making and placing water troughs) from the top of which floats a little flag, while under a tree near by the men are eating their dinner. The patriotism displayed in the waving of this little flag on the tent of the workmen speaks to us more than the finest banner from the highest pinnacle. So we sing once more, as we pass it by, “Three cheers for the red, white and blue,” while the men rise from their seats and wave us out of sight among the trees that shade the banks of the Los Angeles. We arrive in the city at 1 o'clock and secure dinner and then devote the rest of the afternoon in visiting places in and around the city.
We find this place a continuous garden of about six square miles of land laid out in beautiful streets, running around blocks, many of which are parks in themselves, containing many lovely homes. In place of houses built in blocks, its finest residences, which are many, stand in the midst of lovely lawns surrounded by hedges of flowers, cypress and evergreens which, summer and winter alike, are profuse with blooming fragrance, while beside the street we see the graceful pepper tree and tall eucalyptus. Aside from country orange groves we see the yellow fruit growing throughout the city. We ride by the University of Northern California which stands in a thicket of loveliest foliage. We are pointed to mountains only ten miles away that in winter are covered with snow, while oranges blossom here.
We pass by Sunny Slope, a perfect realm of beauty, among groves and vines. In an eastern home there is much fascination in the very name of orange grove, yet it loses half its force when reality is experienced, for, in place of sitting on the green grass while the golden fruit drops around you from among the deep green foliage, a field of sand lies beneath, on which a blade of grass is not allowed to grow. To sum up the town we might call it a little paradise made doubly
We supper at 6 o'clock, then take the cars for a cable ride over the foot hill grades to the city's utmost limit, where we see the blue Pacific, twenty miles away. We secure lunch and fruits for our home trip and return to our hotel to pack our trunks for the last time, for to-morrow morning we start for home. Our cones are tied, our seaweeds wrapped, trunk strapped, our satchels laden, lunch boxed and we are ready for an early start. We visit with the many tourists in the parlor, some of whom we have met before; we all unite in common admiration of California's noble people, and regret much that nature has placed so many desert regions between us and them. We retire at 10 o'clock and take our last night's rest in glorious California.
We breakfast at 5 o'clock this morning, settle our bills and are ready for a start. The “Buss” driver cries “all aboard” and we are on our way to the depot where we arrive safely with our numerous baggage and await the clerk to secure our checks, who remarks as he lifts our trunks that we must have a Chinaman inside and guarantees the safe passage of all such baggage. Poor “John” is snubbed on all sides and wanted nowhere. We are now nicely situated in the sleeper “Mt. Vernon” and at 6 o'clock the train moves slowly from the depot. We stand on the back end of the train and sigh a fond farewell to Los Angeles, its lovely homes and orange groves, its tropical fruits and trees, its ever fragrant blossoms, its mild and beautiful climate, its mountain shadows and ocean breezes, withal a happy place where December's cold and summer's heat combine to form a mild retreat for the invalid from all climes.
Here the weary forget hardships and life becomes a continual May profuse with ever-blooming roses. As we round a curve that hides from view the last spire of the “Angel City” and valley scenes and life fade away toward the scorching desert sand, we recall the grand and unselfish welcome California gave the nation's army while they strewed their path with flowers and in our hearts place one more fond remembrance of glorious California and her most hospitable people.
We locate our satchels and lunch baskets, tie up our hats and parasols, don our thinnest garments and prepare to be as comfortable as possible, for the day bids fair to be very warm and already we breath the desert dust that must continue while we ride through regions of Cacti, concrete and lava, in all of which, though
The oppressive heat of a long and restless night, spent in a close sleeper, finds us somewhat weary, as we step to the platform to breathe the morning air. Our train, too, seems tired as it slowly ascends the grade of “Arizona Divide,” up which it has faithfully toiled during the last night. We are rejoiced to know we have passed the desolate region and again rest our weary, longing eyes on green grass and mountain evergreens, for we are now in Arizona, where once more the scenery becomes diversified and picturesque. The sun gladdens the distant hills, while shadows protect us from its scorching rays.
At 9 o'clock we arrive at Williams' where we stop for breakfast. We join the “double quick” rush of the passengers and are soon seated at the table upon which a first-class breakfast is served. With our eye on the conductor of our train we avail ourselves according to our capacity, and, while he finishes his breakfast, we note our surroundings in black and white. We find we are six thousand feet higher than at midnight, and, in place of smothered air on the low banks of the Colorado, we now enjoy the mountain breeze where
We board our train, now drawn by three engines and continue our journey. At Flagstaff we are within eight miles of the home of the famous “Cliff dwellers,” which is found in the sides of the walls of an immense canon, which have at one time been the shelter for the people which might have populated a large city. These dwellings occupy the strata between hard rock, where a space has been left by the erosion of soft rock about half way up the sides of the canon. The occupants of these homes have long since passed away and no one may tell from whence they came or whither they have gone but enough is left to prove to us that they possessed habits of industry, and, according to fabrics woven in forms, their wheels for spinning, flowered pottery, and working utensils of stone, we know they must have been people of common intelligence; and the articles they used then are among the Pueblos to-day. These extinct races become more curious and wonderful when we study their homes and know they sought places of safety and defence from enemies which must have surrounded them. The scenery here is very fine. We pass near the grove of petrified trees which covers a thousand acres. The trees of these woods have fallen and petrified and assumed all the colors found in nature, which, as they lie scattered in fallen masses over the ground, represent the precious stones with which we ornament to-day. In the distance we see clouds which look like rain, and only the traveler through desert sands can truly appreciate a summer cloud. We pass near many canons and steep precipices at the base of which lies green and pleasant valleys, and at noonday stand on the steps of our sleeper to note the deep and and rugged fissure known as “Canon Diablo” or the Devil's Canon. As the train moves slowly over this deep ravine over two hundred
The distant clouds are coming near as we journey on and the afternoon finds us among heavy clouds that shed abundant rain, the first we have seen in four long weeks; in fact the fall of water is so great that the train men predict a “wash out” no great distance ahead. We travel through a country of pine forests and open plains, the great and silent record of the primeval world with a story of past ages written on Arizona soil. This was once a part of the Paleozoic Sea, which extended from pole to pole, on whose waters no vessel ever sailed or man ever trod its shore, yet life, long since extinct, remains in concealed and petrified forms to prove the facts of the once existing inland sea. We journey on and on, near, around and through the eroded forms that turbulent waves made cliffs, to attract the traveler's eye and fill his mind with wonder.
It is with no small degree of interest we note the fact that nearly every house we see is built with a double roof, and by this we do not mean two coats of shingles. The house is built and roofed the same as the first and held in position so that the air may circulate freely between the two. We have already formed favorable opinions of Arizona and but for this double roof arrangement we might be induced to locate here, but passengers on a moving train know very little of the scorching rays of an almost tropical sun.
We dinner at Holbrook and then onward and upward toward the “continental divide.” We pass many Indian villages which lie at the base of the brown rocks, the wigwams built of limbs and brush, the cross sticks over which hang the skins of their prey. The garden fields and jaded ponies bespeak more of life and real happiness than many homes of the white man we saw while traveling through Nevada and Utah. As wild and romantic as this country may seem now we feel assured that time and emigration will develop its resources to wealth and position of any state in our Union, for to-day we see it as nature left it when the great sea sought other channels and the dry land appeared. At Acoma we pass a canon three miles wide with perpendicular sides which is descended by a serpentine path to where the canon opens into a beautiful valley through which wends a mountain stream whose banks are studded with evergreens and grassy meadows slope to the surrounding hills.
A long passenger car is arranged near the station for a dining room. We climb some narrow steps and find a good supper spread before us. Here we meet our friend the Englishman who journeyed with us from Yosemite. He recognizes us at once and asks of our travels, and says he is just from the canons of the Colorado. The evening is spent in social conversation and song. At 11 o'clock our companion says we must retire and so we obey orders and are soon behind the screens where we put in most of the night in coughing, until we secure our friend's bottle of Pond's Extract, which in due time brings happy relief, not only to us but the occupants of our sleeper, who have all night wished we were overboard. Our train stops at 2 o'clock, we know not why, but in quiet we sleep till morning.
We awaken this morning to find our delay caused by the “washout” predicted at the time of the enjoyable shower we passed through yesterday in Arizona. We are now at Albuquerque, where we have been since 2 o'clock this morning, having passed over the land of plateaus whose elevations are probably original rock, laid in water many thousand feet below their present altitude, losing not their horizontal structure during their elevation, the mountains which surround them in angles and spurs, being caused by immense quantities of rock violently forced through the plateaus by volcanic agency; for in their structure we recognize the same old granite rock. This place is the metropolis of the upper Rio Grande valley. We try to ascertain how long we are to remain here, and find we have ample time for breakfast and a survey of the city. We find an old and a new town, the former the most interesting on account of its quaint dwellings and foreign appearance. The soil is sandy and, at present, covered with water, through which we wend our way to secure a greasy breakfast.
We are disturbed by the bustle of local passengers who hasten to their stations leaving us in possession of the dressing room at 7 o'clock, where we make ready for the day, while our friends are yet asleep. The conductor announces the fact that we breakfast at Coolidge, Kansas, just across the Colorado line, so we awaken our friends who “dress up” for the occasion, in clean socks and handkerchiefs. We enter the station dining room where a steaming breakfast awaits us. Once more the smell of fragrant Rio and surloin cut tempts our wavering appetite, and we partake of all that is set before us in accordance with the facts. We return to our sleeper to find the trio hold the fort alone, where we spend the day in general reception to our many friends who have crowded quarters in the through sleeper to Kansas City. Our little Orr, in the general activity of his body, has worn himself nearly threadbare, and is the source of much amusement for the passengers; yet, with all, he enjoys a good appetite on all occasions and at all times. An accident has occurred to the Captain's satchel, one over which he seriously grieves, not so much for the disfigurement of his paraphernalia as for the loss of the “souvenir”
At 3 o'clock there is a general bustle for we are nearing the place for change of cars, so we select our clothing from the general deposit, wash our face with a towel which “Peck's bad boy” has held under the faucet until the porter leads him away by the ear, strap up our satchels, throw our lunch baskets out the window and are ready to claim our baggage when the tired party alight at Kansas City. And now we stand among hundreds of passengers who have come from all directions during the night over twelve different railroads which focus here, and so, with satchels and shawl-straps in hand and bonnet on one side of our head, frizzes upright, looking like a last year's bird's nest, we represent one of the many nationalities which surround us. We stack our luggage on the platform, leave our friend on guard, and await our turn for re-checking our trunks.
While waiting we are wonderfully amused at the innocence and suspicion of a poor old lady, who says: “This is the first time I have ever bothered these plagued railaoads and now am going to travel right. They needn't think they are going to put my trunk in that cattle car for I intend to take it right along with me so I can watch it.” The baggagemaster, however, gives it a boost for the truck; but, no sooner does it land, than the old lady yanks it to the platform with a jerk, and gives vent to her opinions of these railroad thieves. While doubly assuring her that it will be all right, he again places it on the truck and wheels it up to the car. The old lady watches him load the contents of the truck into the car, but, just as he gives her chest a tip, she seizes it by the strap and says: “No you don't, you rascal; that trunk goes right along with me.” She pulls the paper out of the check strap and starts down the platform toward the coach, dragging the trunk after her, 'mid the shouts of laughter and swearing of the baggagemaster. The conductor comes along, secures the trunk, assures the old lady she will get left and assists her to the train, where she leans over the steps, as she sees her trunk placed in a front car, and says: “Never you mind, old fellow, I know everything that is in that chest, and just you take anything if you dare. I'll find out as soon as I get to Kidder and make you suffer for it.” We at last secure our checks and with our friend enter the coach where sits the old lady, indignant with rage at these pesky railroads and their set of thieves. She sits in the middle of a seat, on one side of which is a basket sewed up with cheese cloth, on the
We can but feel amused at our surroundings while our tired friend seeks the front end of the car and adjusts her chair for a sleep, while we conclude to sum up the last of our journey with the events of the day. It is August; just the time of year that Missouri people hold their annual agricultural exhibitions, so at nearly every station we find a crowd going to the fair. Men, women, children, satchels, water-proofs, gossamers, canes, parasols, umbrellas, plug hats, etc., etc. and young men with their best girls dressed in white and slippers old men with tobacco juice running down the corners of the mouths, women with children in arms and by hand, fathers with pipes in their mouths followed by boys teasing for nickels who are dressed up in long pants and vests, looking like so many clothes pins, all followed by a mob who farm in Kansas, but eat and drink in Missouri when water is scarce and whisky plentiful. As we arrive at stations the passengers alight, one foot at a time, dragging their offspring after them. The men run their hands down their butternut pockets and face the train with mouths ajar, while the women locate their babies on the left hip and start up the street toward the fair grounds, with from three to six small children scuffling dust behind them. Arriving at Kidder we stand on the platform and wave our Michigan friends (who have accompanied us this far) a fond farewell, and as the train moves on we see the old lady, surrounded with her budgets, going through her trunk to see if all is there, while the train men and passengers are laughing outright. Nearing Chillicothe we encounter the passengers of another fair. We occupy a seat with one of the boys, who, during the next ten miles, amuses the crowd by whistling through an improvised flute he has made from a tin dipper handle he
Arriving at Laclede we enjoy a hearty dinner after which we return to our train and are once more on our way. The little ones have fallen asleep and we now have time to note the beauty of the rolling prairie of Missouri, over which we travel so rapidly, for, notwithstanding the bushwhacker name Missouri must ever wear, we can but praise its lovely land and place it a little ahead of any we have yet passed over, for we fully believe that enterprise and intellect alone will make this state the pride of the Union.
We cross the “father of waters” at Quincy at 6 o'clock p.m., and and once more in our loved state of Illinois. Here we obtain supper, after which our friends take through sleepers for Chicago. They locate their baggage in their new quarters and return to bid us a parting good night and secure the promise of a visit should we ever come to Boston, for when morning dawns they will nearing Chicago, while we are only thirty miles from home.
The night drags wearily, for a change of cars in the night deprives us of sleeper, so, at 11 o'clock we arrive at Galesburg, where we stand on a side track two solid hours awaiting a train. Our friend occupies a whole seat and is soon asleep. We silently nod until the arrival of the train to which our car is attached for Peoria. At 2 o'clock, tired and weary, we sleep in Peoria.
A loud rap at our door at 5 o'clock awakens us from heavy sleep where in dreams we have reviewed the past. Reluctantly we leave our rest, feeling for the first time really tired since we left home six weeks ago. Nodding and gaping we look through the blinds and our sleepy eyes rest upon the low waters of the Illinois River, over which Peoria's clouds of smoke and dust are sluggishly rising between us and the morning sun. As we pack our satchels for the last time we recall the many cheerful faces which met us here, with whom we joined and traveled to the Pacific coast; and notwithstanding the “Denver divide” we can but cherish in our heart the kindest feeling toward all and wish for them many returns of the happiness that accompanied our journey through. For the last time we lift our satchels to the train which at seven o'clock bears us from the
Thirty miles are soon made and at 8:30 a.m. we step from the last train and are soon in our own quiet home in Illinois, in the midst of broad prairies dotted with thousands of parks which from length to breadth represent in full the poetical valleys of California on a grand and unexaggerated scale. Though no high mountains shut in our fields or deserts lie beyond, our picturesque river bluffs are quite sufficient to remove the seeming monotony which some might claim among our thousands of acres of wheat and corn that now has ripened and is ripening to support the grandest state in the Union.
An now, having recorded a somewhat broken and disconnected account of our travels to, on and from the “Golden Shore,” in company with many different parties casually joined from thousands of tourists among whom we have found and enjoyed the society of those of highest culture and refinement, we once more take up the realities of a busy life, while we store away in memory events, wonders, sights and scenes as will tend to brighten the journey of time and form a store house of thought, from which in old age, we may recall many happy events to brighten our flickering lamp of life
California is still accessable and each year will undoubtedly, from time to time, record longer lists of tourists to the Pacific shore. Many may come and many may go, but in all probability the Grand Army of the Republic will never again parade in her lovely valleys, recipient of her grandest of hospitalities, for we are constantly reminded in our everyday life, that our honored heroes are indeed passing away. Over the zenith, they now march down the shady slope of life, their bowed forms and silvered locks assure us they are fast ripening for eternity. One by one they pass death's portals and are ushered to the eternal camping ground; while behind they leave a principle that tradition shall emulate when the marble has crumbled to soil and records are no more. From our liberty stained soil their heroic principles, unfettered by selfishness or gain, shall emanate to brighten and bless future posterity.
Each tender flower we drop in springtime in memory of our heroes will leave a tender principle as sacred as its fragrance, to vibrate on the patriotic harp of time, when the Grand Army is no more.
So, in delightful memory of a six weeks' tour with the Grand Army of the Republic, and their honored auxiliary, the Woman's Relief Corps, to attend the Twentieth National Encampment, whose every moment was one of happiness, we close our journal at the end of a trip of a lifetime.
THE END.