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THE ROUND TRIP
FROM THE HUB
TO
THE GOLDEN GATE
BY
SUSIE C. CLARK
AUTHOR OF “A LOOK UPWARD” “TO BEAR WlTNESS” ETC.
COPYRIGHT
SEP 19 1890
25886
WASHINGTON
BOSTON MDCCCXC
LEE AND SHEPARD PUBLISHERS
10 MILK STREET NEXT “THE OLD SOUTH MEETING HOUSE”
NEW YORK CHARLES T. DILLINGHAM
718 AND 720 BROADWAY
Copyright,
1890,
by Susie C. Clark
THE ROUND TRIP
PRESS OF
American Printing And Engraving Co.
CHAPTER
I.
Departure
II.
Through Canada to Chicago
III.
Across the Plains to Santa Fe
IV.
Over the Desert to Paradise
V.
Pasadena
VI.
Psaadena—Its Environs
VII.
Los Angeles—Santa Monica
VIII.
Santa Barbara
IX.
Riverside
X.
San Diego
XI.
En Route
XII.
San Francisco
XIII.
Oakland
XIV.
The Rainy Season
XV.
Sonoma County
XVI.
The Lick Observatory
XVII.
Santa Cruz—Monterey
XVIII.
To the Yo Semite
XIX.
In the Valley
XX.
Homeward Bound
XXI.
Salt Lake City
XXII.
The Scenic Route
XXIII.
How We Spent Memorial Day
XXIV.
The Home Stretch
A CERTAIN
dear little lady, who was so unfortunate (though she might not agree with our representation of the case) as to marry a naval officer, and consequently spent her days migrating from one port to another, on the eastern, western, or southern shores of our republic, according to the transient location of her husband's ship, that she might gain occasional glimpses of the glittering shoulder-straps and brass buttons of her truant lord, once gave to us as her profound conviction, this maxim: “If you want to be uncomfortable—
travel!
”
We could not gainsay her then, but can see plainly enough now, that the confession ranked her as one who has never placed herself under the espionage of those successful managers, Messrs. Raymond and Whitcomb, who make of travelling a science and an art, whose trains furnish every feature of a home but its usual stationary quality,
But California is much nearer Boston than it was in '49. The journey thither is hardly now considered much of a trip. The Raymonds certainly leave you no anxiety in regard to it, and little to do but to fold your arms and be taken care of. The start is made from the station at the foot of Causeway street, which structure seems a relic of some feudal age, and makes a refreshing oasis to the artistic eye amid the square, stiff, red walls of its democratic surroundings. Its stern exterior and battlemented towers, with its moat and draw-bridge might have served as a castle of the Norman conqueror, although his outposts of defence were not adorned by such mazy network of electric wires.
The Fitchburg's straight and narrow path runs through classic ground; Cambridge, earliest home of letters, name indissolubly connected with memories of Longfellow, Agassiz, Holmes, Gray,
“Where first th' embattled farmers stood,l
And fired the shot heard round the world,” the opening of that history, written in the nation's heart-blood,
se second chapter is marked by the granite shaft which rises from Charlestown's hill. Fair Walden's placid wave recalls the gentle soul who built a lodge upon its shore and learned his lessons in Nature's school. The tall hemlocks and whispering pines that fringe its banks, chant no requiem in our ears for the departed great—Emerson and Hawthorne, Thoreau and Alcott—whose fellowship they have enjoyed, but murmur thanks that some there are in every age who understand their song and interpret all their mystic lore in words that our duller ears can reach.
Darkness begins to settle as we enter the lovely Deerfield valley, veiling the winding river and diversity of hill and glen, the grace of outline and brilliancy of autumnal foliage. But here the courteous conductor invites us to the dining car, where
Later on, our commodious section is converted into a tempting couch, and just as we are composing ourselves to rest thereon, no less secure in the protection which never faileth than we would be in the familiar home-nest, a parting glance of inquiry toward the outside world reveals a giant mountain wall directly athwart our path. Even our iron horse pauses for the moment, as if dismayed, then with two or three exultant neighs plunges straight onward, for the giant opes his heart and lets us in. Mind has conquered matter, as it always must, being its parent. Ten minutes or more are required for the gloomy, passage, but what do those ten minutes represent? What years of patient toil, and herculean obstacles overcome,
“Ere first the locomotive wheels Rolled thro' the Hoosac tunnel bore.”
First projected in 1825, the tunnel was discussed in legislative halls for a quarter of a century, was laid repeatedly on the table and partially forgotten, only to be revived, for the matter—like Banquo's ghost—would not down. A royal road to the West was the coming need, and in 1851 the work was begun. The State appropriated $2,000,000, but the actual expense was ten times that amount,
After bustling, noisy North Adams, with its ever clanging bells, has been left behind, the silence of slumber reigns in our narrow borders, while with ever increasing pace we speed onwards, finding ourselves at early dawn, or late starlight, in the region between Syracuse and pretty Rochester, a country whose lazy canal-boats mock the demands of our modern commerce, and where the sun rises gloriously in the northwest, or so it seemed from the sightly observatory of a Pullman pillow.
And the evening and the morning were the first day!
IT
has been said that the Raymonds always give their patrons more than they agree to, and therefore their California excursionists were not surprised on the second day out to be taken through London and Paris before proceeding on their American tour. But travelling in foreign countries has its disadvantages. For instance, we are nothing if not literary. Correspondence with friends at home is a trade well followed in our midst, and at every stopping place mail boxes are eagerly sought for, in which to deposit these friendly greetings. At Hamilton, Canada, a most enticing letter-box was seen, and a lady of the party who shall be nameless, was delegated to skip across the intervening tracks with a freight of postal cards. On the way thither, the thought that she was in Canada bid her pause, but recalling that the same cards when mailed in Boston reached Canada in safety she thought it a poor rule that would not work both ways, so she
“They won't go!”
“Won't go? And why?”
Explanations followed, and at this juncture a sleepy Canadian shuffled up and offered to put extra stamps on the whole batch when the collector should arrive. Gratefully, the lady took from her purse some brand new pennies, bright and glittering as gold pieces, but the man removed neither hand from his pocket to receive the same. Then she tried him on some this-year nickels, but with an extra puff of his old clay pipe he grunted out:
“They're no use to me.”
Growing exasperated, she next sought for dimes, ten cent's worth of pure silver the world over, but the provoking individual was still unmoved. Here the incensed American citizen made a stand. She assured him in good strong English, which at least he did have the grace to take, that his miserable Canadian dimes were in very bad odor with us; the Post Offices wouldn't take them, the West End conductors refused to look at them, and that her dimes were the only legitimate dimes in good and regular standing, but just here the courteous agent of the party, who unlike the average policeman, is always round when wanted, appeared on the scene and straightened out the matter beautifully.
At twilight of our long Canadian day we were ferried across the St. Clair river to Michigan, and the stars and stripes once more waved over the brave and the free. We even fancied that the American bird clapped his wings and crowed with especial zest and fervor upon our entrance next morning into boisterous, rampant Chicago.
And where in all this fair land is there anything just like Chicago—so masterful, rich and proud—the young Leviathan of the West? Rising from her cleansing fires in massive, stately grandeur, she uses the heroic scale of measurement in her every expression of life. She builds her warehouses by the mile, her palaces cover leagues. She is already making confident preparation, to hold here the World's Fair of 1892. For, she reasons, what would the trans-atlantic visitor know of the wondrous length and breadth of our country if he landed in New York, and saw only the Exposition?
The beautiful Lincoln Park, with its Lake boulevard, hopes to add ere that date still another to its many attractions in an artificial drive across the water, 800 feet from shore, parallel with the Park. Wealth is plentiful, merchants princely, and Western hearts generous. A new statue was placed in the Park, a week ago, a bronze figure of De La Salle, a discoverer of hardly less note than Columbus, for did he not discover Chicago? It is
The Park visitor can hardly fail to visit the tank of sea-lions, as his attention is drawn thither by the constant, hideous barking noise with which these unpleasant, slimy creatures seek to relieve their rudimentary minds. One cannot help the query cui bono while gazing on these strange useless connecting links in the great chain of life. It is as if Nature paused, in sportive mood, while ascending the ladder of creation to use up waste material, the refuse of more decided types, of fish, and dog and ape. The imprisoned germ of a soul which vitalizes the shapeless lump we call sea-lion is certainly very restive under its present imperfect expression. It writhes uncomfortably, and yearns impatiently for its next higher transmigration, which, we know, will surely come.
Chicago's Public Library occupies commodious quarters on the top floor of the city's magnificent Court House, with many stations in various other districts. The streets of Chicago are noticeably more uncleanly and filled with refuse than the thoroughfares of a certain thrifty New England city we could mention, but the visitor who dared to comment on this state of affairs was assured
FROM
Chicago, our course lies straight as the crow flies across the prairie State of Illinois and through its acres upon acres of corn fields, to Rock Island and the Mississippi. This noble river, broad, placid and beautiful, is crossed at sunset, while it still reflects the sky's warm glow in its every ripple. Its sister river, the Missouri, reached at daybreak the next morning, is more churlish. Yellow, tawny and turbulent, she veils her unloveliness with a fog so dense that her width can hardly be discerned from the height of the bridge, and Kansas City on its rugged bluffs is entirely blotted out. Indeed the precipitous heights on which the place seems perched, are so exaggerated by this deceptive haze that we now credit the legend of a cow who here fell out of a pasture and broke her neck.
From this point onward we enter upon the plains and cross many leagues of level, unfertile, but to unaccustomed eyes, most interesting stretch of country. Its chief vegetation consists of clumps
Herds of cattle are occasionally seen, though what they can find on this yellowish grey soil by which to support life is a mystery. That some have failed in the struggle for existence, bleached bones and skeletons along our path sadly testify. A stray emigrant train, drawn by patient oxen, threads tediously the old Indian trail, and in the distance, on our Western boundary, is a background of snow-capped mountains, the Spanish peaks, the Custar range, and at Trinidad the adjacent and awe-inspiring Fisher's Peak. It seems a few rods away, but we are assured it is 14 miles distant by actual measurement, such is the deceptive brilliancy of this glorious air. We are favored with many different views of this Gibraltar-like fortress as we skirt its borders, and, dividing our attention on the other side is another lofty eminence, surmounted by a monument, and known
Then, leaving these heights, we ride for miles and yet other miles, without a tree or rock in sight, the land level as if it had been rolled, until it reaches and touches the distant sky. Just before twilight we reach Las Vegas Hot Springs, and here we become still further the recipients of the Raymond generosity, for a telegram from Boston directs that after spending a few hours at the Springs, (to test the boiling waters and climb to the turret of the pretty hotel, a veritable Hall of Montezuma, to enjoy the charming view), we are to be treated to a side trip not down in the bill, and move on during the night to Santa Fé, that we may spend Sunday in that quaint old town, the oldest in the country, for it ante-dates St. Augustine by some years, the Spaniards finding
Who can ever forget a Sabbath spent in Santa Fé? Even now in its freshness it seems like an impossible dream of the middle ages. We were first invited to Fort Marcy at 9, to witness Guard Mount (whatever that is), and inspection of guns, the soldier who owned the cleanest one being appointed boss of the squad for the day. (This is not a strict quotation from Hardee.) A very fine band is stationed here, and gave excellent selections of sacred music, greatly appreciated by their impromptu audience.
We next visit the Cathedral at the hour of mass, feeling as if we belonged to another race than that of the devout worshippers here assembled, while still realizing that we are all children of the same Infinite Father. The women all wore black shawls over their heads, gathered under the chin with a peculiar grasp of the left hand. We then seek the little Presbyterian church established here and attend its service, after which we stroll about the narrow streets, designed only for donkey travel, or
burros
, as the tough little creatures are called, these primitive thoroughfares boasting no sidewalks but are lined with low adobe houses, whose unattractive exteriors are often a mask to conceal the home within, the pleasant court-yard
In the
plaza
, a park in the centre of the town, stands a monument to the bravery of those soldiers who fell fighting the rebels, the only inscription which includes that word “rebel,” in the country.
The Ramona school for the education of Indian children, under the auspices of the A. M. A., is located here, as also a governmental school, and the University of New Mexico. The Territorial Capitol building is very fine.
But the most interesting thing we learned at Santa Fé was that in a low building fronting on the
plaza
, erected in 1581, Gen. Lew Wallace, for some time Governor of New Mexico, penned his famous “Ben Hur.” No wonder that he described Jerusalem scenery and characteristics so accurately, for its every quaint and ancient feature here abounds, even to the mountains that are round about Jerusalem, surmounted by the peak, 12,000 feet above the sea, which never, in winter or in summer, doffs its eternal crown of snow.
PASSING
from New Mexico into Arizona during the night, the tourist opens his eyes when the next morning dawns, upon a still wider stretch of plains, on longer areas of sterile waste, until he feels ready to exclaim: “Is there no end to this country?” And yet the monotony never becomes wearisome to this merry party, who seldom fail to pour tumultuously out onto the platform of every little station where we stop to take on water or ice, and if time permits, the town is invaded, stores visited, shanties inspected that often bear signs of disproportionate size, labelled “Palace Hotel,” “Big Lunch, 5 cts.,” or “Aunt Hannah's Pioneer Store,” this proprietress being, she affirms, a Boston lady, who having kept the store 53 years, is desirous of selling out and returning to her native city, a decision of which our Eastern capitalists on the lookout for investments, should become cognizant. Most of the towns in this far West are lighted at evening by electric
At noon, the wild Canon Diablo is passed, an utterly barren gorge of rocks and on the iron bridge which crosses it, the train pauses a little longer than some weak nerves prefer that all may inspect this natural wonder. And now the San Francisco mountains rear their heads across our horizon, and the scene grows wilder. Flag-Staff is passed (so-called because on an adjacent peak, Gen. Fremont hoisted the American flag), and here also is a quarry of red stone used by Los Angeles builders. Then for some time we wind around Williams' Mountain, a grand height, with the tombstone to the old pioneer whose name it bears, plainly visible on its summit, and just before nightfall we thread our narrow, tortuous course around Johnson's canon, a dangerous chasm, whose precipitous depths, and jagged outlines, as viewed from our narrow perch on the mountain's side, we are glad to leave behind.
“The Needles,” a narrow pass, which with the Colorado river forms the boundary line between Arizona and California are passed at midnight, together with the eastern portion of the Mojave desert, but there is desert enough to hold out into another day, and still wider, sandy, barren, alkaline plains greet our waking eyes, salt lying in places white as a hoar frost, the only attempt at
But sterility reigns only without. Far too regularly the announcement is made that “Lunch,” or “Dinner is now ready in the dining-car”; a summons often greeted with a look of comical dismay that expresses: “have we got to go through that ordeal so soon again?” For the presiding genii of that dining-car might well be arrested for cruelty to animals, so abundantly do they provide the choicest viands to this indolent, un-exercised, over-fed, pampered freight of livestock.
At noon we begin our ascent of the Sierra Madre range of mountains, rising 215 feet to the mile amid the sublimest scenery on every side, until we reach at the summit, Cajone Pass, which is grand beyond description, and begin our descent toward the San Bernardino valley, or as some one
Speculation has been rife all day as to what time we shall “get in,” as if we were on shipboard in a trackless waste of water, instead of an ocean of land; the passage of an eastward-bound overland train is calculated upon, as to what time it left Los Angeles, and now the hour of separation for this jolly family approaches. Maps and chatteis are collected, autographs exchanged, farewells are waved to a carload of tourists that leaves us for the Redlands, a fruit-bearing district, of whose fertility and rapid growth we have heard such glowing accounts from some of its residents, our pleasant travelling companions, most of them New England people of sterling worth; we also take leave of another coterie, who branch off into the Pomona valley, and at dusk, we too alight upon “the crown of all the valley,” fair, unrivalled Pasadena.
CALIFORNIA
is not all a Paradise, for we have traversed miles of dreary, barren waste within her borders, but if there is an Edenic garden on earth, one fit for the occupancy of the primeval pair, that spot is Pasadena. It is true we know not what awaits us in other portions of this Golden State, but we are constantly meeting people who having tried a residence in all other localities, return delightedly to this beautiful San Gabriel valley.
Along its northern borders stretches the Sierra Madre range of mountains, a barrier that effectually protects the city nestling at its feet from every rude, cold blast, and adds to it yet another blessing, that of pure water, the principal supply coming from Devil's Gate, though one would naturally look for fire from this source rather than cooling springs. The charm also of grandeur and sublimity, Pasadena by this proximity, does not lack. With David, we “lift our eyes unto the hills,” for we cannot help it. They entice us, they appal us, they command our reverence, they
On a lofty summit of the range, known as Wilson's Peak, has been recently established the Southern Pacific Observatory, for which Messrs. Alvan Clark and Sons, are manufacturing what it is expected will prove the largest lens in the world.
Sixteen years ago last summer (in 1873), a little colony from Indiana emigrated westward to select a location for a new home in the then barren wilds of California. Arriving in Los Angeles in August, they thoroughly examined localities in San Diego and San Bernardino counties, but finally selected the present site of Pasadena as offering the greatest advantages of soil, water and scenery, and the world now applauds the wisdom of their choice. But when our pioneers first settled here, in all this region now teeming with fertility and luxuriance of fruitful growth on every hand, not a tree existed, save two or three live-oaks, and the whole plateau was one sheet of flame under the reign of the golden poppy, so common in California.
When a name for the little colony was sought, that of Indianola was discussed as indicative of its origin, but to the late Dr. T. B. Elliot is due the suggestion of Pasadena, an Iroquois word signifying the “Crown of the Valley,” a title which by every right it holds.
With a rapidity of cultivation almost incredible to Eastern experience, the town is now one vast garden and orange grove, though this latter designation seems to us a misnomer. A “grove” to New England ears suggests a spontaneous growth of tallish trees which cast a shade upon the greensward, or tangled underbrush beneath. There is no shade in an orange orchard, and if there were,
The eucalyptus tree, a native of Australia, abounds here, and is a rapid grower, although it reveals much indecision of purpose, as to whether it will prove itself first cousin to the willow or the poplar, two and often three distinct types of leaves, in shape and color, appearing on the same tree. It invariably begins existence in a different frame of mind from that which maturer reflection dictates.
And who shall describe that graceful, airy growth, that sensitive plant aspiring skyward, known as the pepper-tree? Each leaf a pendant fern, of the most delicate spring green, massed together in luxuriant clusters, and drooping a little like the weeping-willow though not so much, while
Miles of low cypress hedge, that lends itself so readily to any device of the pruner's knife, to arches, gateposts surmounted by urns, vases, or baskets with graceful handles, adorn or enclose handsome residences everywhere. And of the flowers one hesitates to speak unless the pen could be dipped in rainbow dye. Climatic conditions being here so perfect and so exceptional, only the lightest frost two or three times a year being ever experienced, no fires necessary in an ordinary season, even at Christmas, open doors and seats on the veranda being enjoyable save at evening or early morn, plants of all kinds have nothing else to do but grow without ceasing, missing thus the customary experience of their Eastern sisters who are seized by the nape of their slender necks just as they get into the mood of
Growing on then, year after year, it is no wonder that geraniums and rosebushes here become trees bristling with brilliant petals, that fuschias and lantanas grow beyond recognition, that arbutilons above our heads swing their myriad bright bells upon the air, that smilax spontaneously reaches the eaves, that ivy-geraniums cover stone walls, arbors, anything their delicate fingers can twine around, that heliotropes grow trunks that bid fair to rival that of an elephant, that dense flower-crowned hedges of callas mark boundary lines, that—that—in short, that Nature having lost all run of seasons, and her usual methodical habits of alternate rest and action, runs madly riot, being drunken with new wine—the wine of the elixir of life.
THE
chief criticism we have heard of Pasadena is that there is not enough of it. But we have found it too wide in extent, its attractions too numerous to speedily exhaust. Day after day we thread its thoroughfares, or take its intersecting lines of horse or mule cars; we drive into the adjoining country, but our list of unvisited lions is still a long one. We make no allowance in our delightful excursions for unfavorable weather, since day after day the sky is as clear as if it had been swept, the sun warm as June, making outside wraps unnecessary, and yet while basking in this sunshine which knows no shadow, Pasadena reports no case of sunstroke, no mad-dogs, or thunder showers. Its people are mostly of Eastern birth and thence, it goes without saying, most intelligent, while possessing that warm, open-hearted cordiality so characteristic of this genial clime, a spirit too often crowded out by the nervous tension of our own work-a-day atmosphere.
One of the first out-lying attractions to command our attention is naturally “The Raymond,” and
Extending our drive beyond “The Raymond,” through fertile ranches, given largely to orange,
The little Mexican village of San Gabriel is a most uncanny place. One breathes more freely
A most interesting place to visit, at the other side of Pasadena, is the Ostrich farm, this “handsome” climate proving favorable to their successful culture. Three birds have been raised here from babyhood that are now fourteen months old and seven or eight feet high; the rest of the brood are Australian emigrants and can rest their chins on a nine foot pole, although but four years old, and no ostrich reaches his full growth till he attains the age of seven years. Strange ballet-dancer kind of a bird, as awkward in pose as a novice in her first tights, and yet moving with a certain majestic dignity of bearing that is “very like” a camel. The carriage of the long ungainly neck also, and the construction of the foot reveals this early companionship of the desert. How interesting are these connecting links in the great chain of life, links forged by the marvellous wisdom and diversity of the Creative Mind.
The ostrich has a clear liquid dark eye, as large as a calf's though with far more expression, which displays a peculiar scintillating flash; he has a broad flat head, a beak of generous proportions, short tongue and no teeth, and when a dozen pair of these piercing eyes, from the top of long, swaying, animated lamp-wicks hover in the air above and around you, or examine your hat-trimming as well as your hands for stray kernels of corn, the effect is rather startling. It is likewise most amusing to see them fill their mouths with water from the tank, then slowly raise their heads to allow it to run down the yard or more of gullet, its passage being plainly visible to the attentive observer. What would not the gourmand give for an organ of taste thus elongated?
Feeling doubtless that they were on exhibition, with their reputation at stake, a few of the birds showed their paces, flapped their wings, and executed a
pas seul
, with a strange mixture of awkwardness and grace that was suggestive of nothing more than Dixie as “The Flower Girl.”
The kindly old gentleman who has the troupe in charge gave much valuable information concerning the birds, and corrected many mistaken opinions regarding them. They are plucked of their feathers about twice a year, or once in seven months, they lay about ten or twelve eggs in a season, which are invariably hatched by the sun
No letter from Pasadena ever omits to extol this locality as a health resort. The present notice must therefore remain incomplete, for we who are enfranchised from bondage to the flesh, whose real habitat is the realm of spirit, recognize no East or West, no favorable or unfavorable physical conditions, being freed therefrom, and dwelling, in any land, “forever with the Lord” of all health and wholeness.
IN
the early and prosperous days of the Spanish Mission in California, soldiers were stationed at the various sanctuaries whose service it was to forcibly capture converts from the native tribes and awe them into submission, indeed it is recorded of one worthy father, who was very skillful in the use of the lasso, that “riding at full gallop into an Indian village, he would select his man as a slave-driver would his human chattel, he would lasso him, drag him to the Mission, tie him up and whip him into subjection, baptize him, Christianize him (?) and set him to work, all within the space of one hour; then away for another, without rest,
such was his seal for the conversion of infidels.
”
What wonder that such “conversions” resulted in the degradation and ultimate extinction of these tribes, for, savage foes as they proved to other assailants, they strangely enough made little resistance to these peremptory measures of the holy fathers. Superstition holds such potent sway over the untutored mind.
Eventually it became necessary to provide some place of residence where the Mission soldiers who had so valiantly served their time, and who still desired to remain in this country, might retire with their families. For this purpose an order dated at San Gabriel Mission, August 26, 1781, was issued by the Governor of California—Felipe de Neve—directing the establishment of a pueblo, or town, upon the site lately occupied by the Indian village, Yang-na. This new town was to be under the especial patronage and fostering protection of “Our Lady, the Queen of the Angels,” and to be known by her name,
La Pueblo de la Reina de los Angeles
, a title since shortened to the City of the Angels, or Los Angeles.
Situated in a level plain of wide extent, with high mountain ranges at her back, and an ocean at her feet, while on either hand stretches the most extensive fruit-bearing country in the world, how could this fair city fail to thrive and flourish and grow as if indeed all good angels smiled upon her? She numbers to-day 80,000 inhabitants, and her miles of broad level avenues are filled with fine buildings and noble residences that might serve as architectural models, including a City Hall and Post Office of which she may well be proud; they abound with granite blocks, hotels and stores stocked as choicely as the emporiums of our Eastern merchants, indeed we have seldom visited
It uses the adjacent port of San Pedro for its already extensive commerce with Alaska, Mexico, and the islands of the sea, but a favorite beach-resort, thirteen miles distant, is Santa Monica, where an enjoyable day can be spent. It was here that we first sighted the broad Pacific. Balboa must look to his laurels, we too have discovered it. And it is like the Atlantic as are two halves of an orange. There is the same uneasy restlessness, and tumultuous heaving and throbbing of its mighty heart, the same ceaseless moan and sob and wail, the embodiment of everything that is sad, dreary, cruel, and pitiless, its
miserere
possibly for the many brave souls it has dragged down and crushed with greedy embrace. Obedient to the same attractions, paying court to the same fickle lunar dame, whether in coquettish mood she veils her face or illuminates these watery depths with the broad fulness of her radiant beams, the Pacific, like her ocean twin, beats time in regular rhythm to the anthem of the universe, with her
But looking landward we at last mark a difference. The Nantaskets and Reveres of our Atlantic coast boast no mountains like this Santa Monica range which runs down one arm of the little bay quite to the water's edge. Their sweet breath likewise fills all the air. The briny, fishy odor which our olfactories can recall is to a landsman most blessedly conspicuous by its absence. The usual barren waste of beach-resorts, their scanty verdure, the puny spindling trees that struggle bravely to eke out a half-existence are here replaced by an adjacent garden whose boundary hedges are a thick mass of blooming Marguerites, whose taller growths are date-palms, banana trees, and magnolias bearing their huge white waxen flowers upturned to the sun, inviting the bees, the butterflies, and humming-birds to bathe, at will, in their chalices of fragrant nectar.
Shells of new varieties abound here, and there is one other oddity noticeable. Old Sol has lost his bearings, like everything else, in this land of topsy-turvy. We have been accustomed, in regarding the ocean at mid-day, to have the sun and the long lane of light which he casts upon the wave, and which every separate ripple delights toright
hand. Here he had the effrontery, as we face the Pacific, to offend our sense of fitness by pouring forth all his glory upon our
left
hand, and seems to guide his course directly toward the East. If we turn about and get
him
in the right quarter of the heavens, the ocean is
behind
us; our mariner's compass is de-polarized, and at last we realize that we have indeed crossed the continent.
The little town of Santa Monica close by, boasts a pleasant park, an extensive ostrich farm, and three miles away in a verdant plain, occupying three spacious red-roofed buildings, is the Soldiers' Home, whose inmates have so dearly bought the comforts they now enjoy. A farmer whom we pass is ploughing with three mules abreast, a large blue heron flies startled from a reedy swamp, strange looking creature with his long legs and bill to float in the air, other unfamiliar voices warble in our ears, mocking-birds call to us from their leaf-embowered nests, while warm, fragrance-laden breezes efface the memory of bare, leafless trees and chilling blasts which we have known at this season. In this land “where everlasting spring abides, and never-fading flowers,” we wonder if indeed it can be November anywhere.
FROM
earliest childhood the praises of Santa Barbara, more than of any other spot in California have been chanted in our ears; it has been pictured as the most favored haunt of Flora and Pomona, the chosen resort of poet and artist who find in its golden,
dolce far niente
atmosphere that inspiration sought in vain in harsher climes. It has offered health to the invalid, peace to the restless and broken in spirit, wealth to the investor, a perpetual delight to the visiting traveller, such as no other locality can, because forsooth, there is but one Santa Barbara in the world. Extravagant anticipations are rarely realized. Perhaps we had expected too much, or it was unfortunate that we did not visit this spot prior to our acquaintance with Pasadena, the contrast to that city's immaculate neatness and lavish cultivation being here so marked.
Yet charms Santa Barbara undoubtedly possesses of a very high order. Its climate is perhaps without a parallel. Unlike many other southern
It is also “beautiful for situation,” covering the pleasant slope from the base of the Santa Ynez mountains, which form its picturesque background, down to the lovely Bay, not unlike the Bay of Naples in contour, whose misty horizon line is broken twenty miles away by three verdant islands, one of them being used as a ranch by the largest sheep owners in the world. There is also here a pretty curving beach, too rocky however for comfortable bathing, with a swiftly-running surf that
Santa Barbara is a city of one street, leading straight as an arrow from the terminus of its long ocean pier (where steamers pause daily en route to San Diego or San Francisco), for two miles out toward the mesas, or foot hills. This unshaded thoroughfare has a fine smooth asphaltum floor, making a pleasant cleanly, though noisy driveway, whose borders are devoted almost wholly to business. Leading from this main street are short side avenues where pretty residences abound, though far less attention is paid here to the adornment of grounds than in the Eden to which our eyes have been recently accustomed. The Arlington
Of the 8000 inhabitants which Santa Barbara boasts, the foreign element in its population is, at present, very large, about a dozen swarthy Mexican faces being met to that of every white man. This brings a rough, rowdy, surly atmosphere to the promenade most unwelcome, indeed quite unbearable to the spiritually sensitive. In fact, here as elsewhere the lady pedestrian is the observed of all observers. Woman usually drives, (a span at that), and like Jehu driveth furiously, or she rides. Equestrian exercise, for both sexes, is begun we should judge at the tender age of three years, and thereafter steadily followed at a break-neck pace. One gentleman here owns a saddle upon which by his order $4000 of Mexican coins has been affixed. Single equipages are the exception in California. Horses must be more plenty here than in Mass., for grocers, butchers, milkmen, even the John Chinamen, in collecting for their laundries, almost invariably drive a span.
The old Mission Church of Santa Barbara ispadres
who hold services regularly. Founded as it was, Dec. 4, 1786, which happened to be the feast-day of the somewhat obscure saint Barbara (a daughter of Dioscurus, in ancient Bithynia, beheaded by her father because of her persistent allegiance to the Christian faith), her name was given to this Mission and to the Presidio, the first old town, or fortress, which was 1000 feet square, enclosed by a high adobe wall. The walls of the church are eight feet in thickness, and we heard rumors of a garden in the rear of the sanctuary to which the appreciative eye and contaminating presence of woman is never admitted. There is also a cemetery, originally intended for the burial of Indian converts. The Indian population was once very large in this region, and no locality is richer in Indian relics. To this day the place is very slightly tinctured with the flavor of Uncle Sam's dominions, for when we offered to a fruit dealer an ordinary one dollar greenback, it was greeted with shouts of merriment, a thorough examination on all sides of the paper legal tender, with an amused estimate of how long a time had elapsed since the recipient had seen “one of them things afore.”
The surrounding views are very fine, and to enjoy one of the loveliest panoramas this mundane
We reach the peak suddenly at last with a surprise that no exclamation can exhaust. Before us the glassy bay, beyond the illimitable depths of the broad, calm Pacific, at our feet and on either side the loveliest of valleys. Santa Barbara on the right is a delight to the eye, while on our left stretch the fertile fields of Carpinteria, and of Montecito, where we have viewed the largest grape vine in the world (measurements become tiresome), of Summerland, where the Spiritualists of this coast have founded a colony, on to Buenaventura, where was established a still earlier Mission, while behind and around us and them rise a succession of jagged peaks, that make of our own hardly-won height, a pigmy in comparison. We look down into fruit orchards, into acres of pampas-grass
“What shall I see if I ever go
Over yon mountains high?”
PASADENA
has a twin, and her name is Riverside. They are both “in verdure clad” right royally, and possess many attributes in common, resembling each other more closely perhaps in age, in rapid growth, and many minor characteristics than any other two cities of California. Pasadena is much the larger place; and while conceding to it a superior situation, a beauty of adornment, and a home-like charm found nowhere else, we must grant to Riverside the palm of fruit-culture. The acme of orange-fruitage is certainly attained here, both in extent and in quality. The orchards are indeed “groves,” the trees being so large and full as to completely overshadow and hide the residences, which we know exist somewhere in their green depths.
Riverside is situated in San Bernardino County, seven miles from Colton. This county, by the way, is the largest in the United States. Within its borders fifteen States the size of “little Rhody” could be placed without crowding. The Santa
Water is never allowed at the immediate base of an orange tree. Furrows are ploughed five or six feet from the trunk of each tree, and two or three feet apart, making perhaps three furrows between each row of trees, these furrows all connecting with each other throughout the grove, for miles in length, so that when the water is admitted from the outer surrounding channel, as it is once in thirty days during the summer, it flows gently round in little rills, where it can be
Lemons, olives, apricots, and pomegranates are also extensively grown, and raisin culture is an important feature of Riverside industry, a quarter of a million dollars accruing last year from this product alone, which is of a quality to compete most favorably with foreign importations. The White Muscat grape is cultivated for this purpose, and if the printer renders the word Mascot, the mistake would not be a bad one, for such it has proved to many a lucky owner. The vines are planted about three feet apart, giving 660 vines to the acre, they are trimmed back to the dry stump each fall, and require comparatively little care. After the grapes are picked they are spread, while still in the field, in so-called sweat-boxes, though they do not really sweat. The moisture of the grape permeates the mass, softening the stems, and after two or three days they are sorted into three different grades of excellence, dried, winnowed, and packed; and most interesting is it to watch one or two hundred girls, with deft fingers arranging the layers in boxes ready for shipment.
Riverside is some seven miles long and two or
The show-card of Riverside is of course Magnolia Avenue, the finest drive it is claimed in the
Yet a few miles away, overlooking this valley, rise the San Bernardino mountains which mark the boundary line between fertility and sterility. Janus-like they stand, looking down on one side upon all this verdure and wonderful productiveness, on the other side upon 23,000 square miles of desert waste stretching eastward and northward in alkaline plains, sulphur deposits, and arid barren sands.
“Lo, these are parts of His ways; but the thunder of His power, who can understand? He setteth an end to darkness, and searcheth out all perfection.”
THE
bay of San Diego, which forms one of the finest natural harbors in the world, was first discovered by Don Sebastian Viscaino, Nov. 10, 1602. He surveyed its waters two days later, which date happened to be the 260th anniversary of the death of San Diego, St. James de Alcala. The great explorer therefore christened his newly-found prize with the name of this patron saint, a choice approved and adopted by the Mission established here sixty years later, the earliest of the eighteen Missions founded in California, and the only one to accept a nomenclature already provided. Built in 1769, it was destroyed by an unexpected attack from the Indians in 1775; rebuilt in 1776, its only foe thereafter was the gentler but no less relentless destroyer—Time. It lies to-day a crumbling ruin, its roof fallen in, its arches open to the sky, its bells (which were cast in Spain) removed to the old village, six miles distant, where they hang suspended from a cross-beam, in the open air.
This Old Town, as it is called, the original San Diego, four miles north of the present city, is a most interesting place to visit, as being the site of the first white settlement in California, and one of the oldest in the Republic. It bears an impress of age and decay which is quite pathetic. A modern Indian school is fostered here, there is a store or two, and a motor car-runs through its one street twice a day, creating a little ripple in the prevailing stagnation, but otherwise it is filled with ruins of old adobe huts, of roofless jagged walls slowly dropping to pieces, as the numerous gophers burrow beneath them, or the harmless lizards dart in and out of each sunny crevice. One feels a veritable Rip Van Winkle in Old Town. Some of these lowly dwellings are still occupied, their doorways screened by smilax, or a dense thatching of the California morning-glory, whose large sky-blue blossoms climb in luxuriant masses to the ridge-pole, their white centres gleaming like myriad stars.
Overlooking the village, on Presidio Hill, is the half-obliterated embankment which marks the outline of Fort Stockton, a relic of stormier days. And a still more interesting link of modern reminiscence is the long low building fronting on the
plaza
designated by Mrs. Helen Hunt Jackson as the one in which Ramona was married. It was in Old Town that the gifted authoress heard the sad
The modern city of San Diego is regularly laid out with broad avenues, suitably numbered and lettered, and very level, excepting on its northern boundary where Florence Hill rises somewhat abruptly, crowned with fine residences. Its stores have an Eastern look, and the prices of goods are very reasonable. Its people are pleasant and affable, and many are of New England birth. The chief natural charm of San Diego is undoubtably its equable climate, its uniform spring-like temperature, in summer or in winter; added to this,
And one attempts the description of this exceptionable seaside-resort most reluctantly, for it must be seen and felt to be thoroughly appreciated. With a temperature that allows fruits of tropical and temperate zones to ripen side by side, with a bay and an ocean on either hand, its beach one of the finest in the world, its surf magnificent, and with a radiant sunlit atmosphere that no pen can ever portray, or brush transmit, what wonder that this location was chosen for that Aladdin's palace—the Hotel del Coronado, the largest on the globe. It is a unique structure, with an architectural style of its own, stretching itself easily and gracefully over seven acres of ground, enclosing thus a courtyard where rare flowers bloom beneath the dashing spray of fountains, and palms shade the walks that lead thither from the drawing and music rooms, from rotunda and many private dining-rooms that border this garden. When at evening electric lights shed their glamour o'er the scene, touching the verdure with such livid brilliancy, when choice music adds its charm to the
Many delightful trips can be enjoyed from San Diego, one to Lakeside, a mountainous district in the Cajone canon, another to Ensenada, Mexico, by steamer, or, the Mexican border can also be reached by a twenty-mile ride in an open motor-car along the Bay to National City (a stirring place which still shows many evidences of a mushroom growth), through its suburbs, where olives are extensively cultivated, and from which diverges the road to Sweetwater Dam, the city's reservoir, thence across a desolate country given over to cacti of various kinds and grease-wood bushes, whose oily roots are sought for fuel, to Tia Juana where one can visit the Government building and be officially stamped, or drive to the monument marking the boundary line between California and Mexico. Smoking seemsne comprends pas
” gesture and the one word “Mexicano,” albeit with gleaming teeth and the grace of a courtier. But Nature has a language which is universal. As Harry French in the Himalaya mountains heard with delight a rooster crow in unmistakable English, so we can testify that the wind sighs through the harp-strings of a stunted Mexican pine, with a real New Hampshire twang.
But one of the most charming spots to visit in the vicinity of San Diego, and one which the public has heard far too little about is La Jolla (pronounced
La Holya
, and signifying The Hole), on the Pacific coast north of the city. The route thither lies through Old Town, where we view again the mouldering embers of a life above whose grave no
resurgam
will ever be written, we see the two lofty date palms planted by the
padres
over 100 years ago, their 370 olive trees of the same age being also in good bearing condition, and, turning westward reach the coast at Pacific
The precipitous clay cliffs at this point are not only serpentine in outline, affording shelter to numerous bays and inlets, but they are cut by the action of the waves into caves, grottos and arches in which the surf holds high carnival, though at low tide the visitor can pass under fantastic natural bridges into these weird rocky caverns. Far grander however is it to sit on some high ledge above the tumult when the breakers are at their height, and watch them assail our fortress with deafening roar. Sometimes two rollers from opposite directions will strive to enter at once the cave beneath us, reverberating through the rocky chambers with an explosion like artillery, then after a moment's space, the spray and foam are thrown back into the outer air and high above our heads, transfixed there for a brief instant by a beautiful rainbow's arch, as if the sea-nymph whose home the rude waves had so roughly invaded, resentful of such intrusion, had tossed back a handful of her jewels after the retreating foe.
Indeed, color is everywhere dominant at La Jolla. Bright red and crimson mosses are washed up on the sand; the shells, even the minutest, are of brilliant tints, the water while very clear is in
Returning from a day spent at this delightful spot, we reach San Diego just as the sun is sinking behind Point Loma, whose white lighthouse is clearly outlined against the crimson background, a brilliancy which touches the myriad windows of the Coronado with flame, and is reflected in the placid waters of the bay, when, suspended above the horizon, in mirage, (a phenomenon common to this luminous locality), appears a three-masted ship with every sail set, being towed by an energetic tug into some shoreless harbor of the upper air.
AFTER
every enjoyable trip through southern California, one naturally returns again and again to peerless Pasadena, which like a sweet-voiced siren woos and attracts us, potently and irresistibly. Certainly no enchantress owns more willing captives, for Pasadena seems lovelier than ever since the recent showers have clothed her hills and lawns with richest verdure, and fringed her orange boughs with tassels of lightest emerald green. The old walks and drives offer fresh delights, while new ones still invite us. We visit the garden of Mrs. Dr. Carr, a lady well known as a botanist, who has collected in her extensive grounds a specimen of almost every tree, shrub, or flower known to temperate or tropical climes. On her lawn stands a large camphor tree, a cedar of Lebanon, (worthy to have been chosen by Solomon's builders), an Oregon cedar from the Columbia river valley, a red-wood, a variety of pines, palms, bananas with ripening bunches of fruit and curious blossoms suspended therefrom, while in another corner are persimmon trees
Pasadena has also, at present, an added attraction. The Raymond is open and its first winter occupants have arrived. The eminence on which the hotel so grandly stands, and the sloping sides of this charming height have received the last touch of adornment which cultivated taste and ingenuity could devise. Masses of color form effective contrasts everywhere, while beyond the garden beds, springing up from the lawn, are oleanders, double daturas and, azaleas willing to blossom out of doors as well as under glass roofs, interspersed with slender evergreens which cast dark slanting shadows over the
alfalfa
which forms much of the green sward in this latitude. And at evening, when darkness veils all this loveliness, the hillside presents a new phase of beauty which can be seen for miles around. Electric lights line every path and drive, winding about from base to summit like wandering fireflies, which with the lighted windows of the hotel remind us of that piece of pyrotechnic display frequently given on Boston Common, Fourth of July nights, called the illuminated Beehive, from which swarming bees dart out into the air and return on fiery wing.
But the warm afternoon's glow flooded the hill when we ascended to the open portals of this famous house, pausing as we went to admire the magnificent roses, the heliotrope trees so lavish of their purple bloom as to veil therewith their leaves, stopping often to wonder over some strange plant or new flower, turning even when the broad veranda is reached to gaze with glistening eyes upon the rare beauty of the more distant landscape, until half-reluctantly we seek the hitherto coveted pleasure of entering this charming place. And of course when once within the spacious portals the first thing we behold is the genial presence of Mr. Merrill, with “Crawford's” so plainly written all over his rotund personality. How natural he looks! And so strong is the power of association that instantly that part of us which is not anchored is whisked away to that grand old Notch among the White Hills, around which cluster so many pleasant memories. How desolate it must be to-day, swept by chilling blasts, with deep snows drifting about the closed doors and shutters and pleasant paths. Do those lovely cascades leap and splash and lash themselves into foam when no human eye beholds, no heart responds to their wild beauty? Do those mountain brooks ripple and purl and chatter in never-ending play, or has the Frost-king laid his icy fingers upon their breasts and stilled their merry frolic?
But the strains of other music, the fragrance of calla lilies grouped in vases near, recall us to a sunnier land as we are led from the rotunda into the reception room, thence through the ladies' billiard parlor and reading room into the long drawing room where the usual orchestral concert, given each afternoon and evening, is in progress. The musicians are grouped about the grand piano, about which rests a large pyramid of chrysanthemums; ladies sit around the room with their embroideries and fancy work, gentlemen drop their newspapers to toy with their glasses and listen to the choice programme, while the warm June (we mean December) sunshine casts long slanting beams through this beautiful room. Across the corridor is the spacious ball-room, with its little stage and proscenium arch for the dramatically inclined. This room is frescoed with very bold design in natural tints of brake ferns, palms, and cannas, which lend a most effective adornment to the place. Natural flowers fill every table, nook and vase, in tasteful combinations. They are placed as an appetizing feature upon every table in the dining-room, where the silver and dainty napery form a most effective background for floral display, as indeed they prove for the strawberries and cream served in mid-winter at the Raymond with the matutinal meal.
If winter were one long playtime hour, how
The route from Los Angeles to San Francisco runs through a sparsely settled, unpopulous but very picturesque region. The character of the scenery may be inferred from the fact that the railway pierces some thirty tunnels, so grudgingly do the mountain spurs relinquish the right of way. The passage through the longest of these tunnels, at San Fernando, requires nearly as much time as does our own Hoosac, though not quite two miles long, as for some reason, (perhaps from the shelving character of the rock hereabouts), the utmost care and the slowest pace of our iron steed is enforced. In direct contrast to these rocky walls which hem us in so closely, we next traverse the western corner of the great Mojave desert, a level
We could look up, up until the stars seemed
But the Loop? Well, it was longer than we expected, being some three or four miles in circumference, therefore the curve was very gradual. The loop is necessary because the grade of two adjacent defiles is of such different elevation, that the only way to pass from one to the other is by this little detour, the train in returning crossing its own track by a tunnel underneath the road-bed just passed over.
From this point onward we found one of the roughest bits of railway travel we ever experienced. We had to keep awake and
hold on
to remain in our berths. Precipitation into the aisle seemed momentarily imminent. Perhaps we missed the vestibule cars to which we have of late been accustomed, which reduces the friction of travel to a minimum. But we were not left without other Raymond provision for our comfort, even though travelling alone. Long ago in that Boston
Soon after daybreak, as we leave Lathrop, (this town bearing the maiden name of the wife of ex-Gov. and Senator Leland Stanford), we cross the San Joaquin river, the first river we have seen in California that has not been bottom side up, the sandy river-bed alone visible. The land is level as a prairie and beautifully verdant. Woods are occasionally seen which give a home feature to the landscape, although the growth is chiefly live-oak and eucalyptus. Green hills arise on the horizon as we near our destination, double-peaked Mount Diablo claims our admiration, a portion of San Francisco bay is skirted, and soon we alight, not in the metropolis as we had a right to expect, but in Oakland, whence we embark in a commodious ferry-boat and finish our journey by water. Could anything be more incongruous? To approach San Francisco from Boston by ploughing the blue waters of the bay and landing at the city's water-front, exactly as if we came from Japan I Is this not sailing under false pretences? In vain we are told that San Francisco is a peninsula, that the bay runs around it so completely that approach to it by land is impossible. We are still unreconciled.
SO
magnificent a harbor as San Francisco Bay, one in which the combined navies of the world might easily find commodious anchorage, demanded as a natural sequence that a populous and cosmopolitan city should be built upon its shores. The fact that the site chosen for the city was a succession of hills and ridges proved no insurmountable obstacle. We had heard that San Francisco was built upon one hundred hills. We have not counted them, but do not believe the number overestimated. And
such
hills! The usual comparison “steep as the roof of a house” does only partial justice to their acute incline. Nothing could climb some of them it would seem but a cat or a squirrel and yet up their successive and thickly settled terraces mount steadily and speedily the cable cars with which the city is completely honeycombed in every direction, naught but the tops of their roofs being visible to the observer at the foot of the hill. And, reaching the summit, the cars pitch almost perpendicularly
“Now we go up, up, up-y;
And now we go down, down, down-y,”
style of locomotion for miles all over the city. Exaggeration here is an impossibility, for it is all so utterly incredible, even while we gaze. To quote from a Santa Barbara stage driver: “What's the use of lying about this country, when the truth is more than any one can believe?”
And on these precipitous heights and the approaches leading thereto stand magnificent palaces, residences of the
elite
, the supplies for which, as well as their building materials must have been obtained, we naturally infer, by air-line from some other planet, since the streets on these upper terraces are grass-grown from curb to curb, except where it is cut by the cable track. These homes of wealth and refinement surround themselves often with beautiful grounds and gardens which flourish marvellously in this etherealized air, while from these summits the views of the bay and ocean and of the great city which stretches like a vast amphitheatre below us, are surpassingly grand.
Many of these hills have been leveled to fill up as many valleys, swamps and ravines, (so masterfullythis
statement will hardly be credited in suburban Boston, no cars in which human beings are packed like cattle in the shambles. One can ride without being trodden under foot, or being sat upon, without carrying the weight of one neighbor's bundles upon his knee, or the print of another's elbow in his side for an hour or two after reaching his destination. And yet what a noisy, tumultuous, wide-awake city it is, for it never sleeps. It is always up and dressed. If we arise at the “wee sma' hours ayant the twal',” and look from our casement into the street below, we see stores open, houses brilliantly lighted, cable-cars with clanging alarm-bell whizzing by, merry strollers whistling under our window, strains of distant music in the air, and the same features of activity that belong to daylight. Observance of the Sabbath is quite an obsolete custom, perhaps because of the foreign mixture in the population.
The richness of the city and the lavish display of its wealth cannot fail to impress the visitor. Such wonderful shop-windows, the like of which Boston, even at her holiday season, never dreamed,
And of Chinatown—that ulcer gnawing at the city's heart—this deponent speaketh not. It
The trip to the Cliff House and its attendant attractions is a deservedly popular one. The hotel occupies a rocky promontory on the coast outside the Golden Gate, upon which and the Fort that guards this open portal we look down as we wind our tortuous course about the bluffs. The heights above the Cliff House are occupied by the private grounds of Mr. Adolph Sutro, and are thrown freely open for the public to enjoy. A distinguishing feature of this extensive garden and park is the abundance of statuary with which
Returning to the city, a visit can be paid
en route
to Golden Gate Park, an enclosure of over a thousand acres, which only a few years ago was an utterly barren sand bank, but has now been magically transformed into a paradise. Its trees are so thickly planted that at times one seems in an impenetrable forest, the winding drives and paths lead the eye such a short distance before reaching the vanishing point. The landscape gardening, the ornamental beds in quaint designs have also this advantage, that they are made for the whole year and not for a brief summer's day. The extensive conservatories (for which the valuable collection of the late James Lick furnished
The Presidio, a military reservation of 1500 acres, occupies a lovely spot on the northern outskirts of San Francisco, just within the Golden Gate, and on the margin of the bay. The fortified island of Alcatraz is here a near neighbor, and some invalid members of its garrison were spending, on the occasion of our visit, a comfortable convalescence in the Presidio hospital. The officers' homes were exceedingly pleasant, being surrounded by lawns and gardens, and a little park whose serpentine paths were outlined with cannon balls. The quarters assigned to the horses of the cavalry and artillery were most comfortable, and the private soldier and guardian of our peace seemed to have no duty on hand more arduous than a game of base-ball.
The Spanish
padres
who, in California's early days so industriously and zealously planted their Missions at every point whose occupancy seemed of importance in the success of their purpose to christianize the land and to awe the native tribes
The Mission Dolores of San Francisco however (built in 1776), was not so far removed from the bay as it now seems, since so much land has been reclaimed from the sea by man's device and necessity, in fact, in a recent excavation for a cellar on Montgomery street, quite in the business heart of the city, the hulk of a sloop was found which had originally sunk at its moorings at the dock. A visit to the old Spanish quarter, with its relics of early settlement, offers vivid contrast to the lofty edifices of more modern sections. The sanctuary itself is the smallest we have seen of its kind and very quaint in its exterior. It is of considerable length though low in height, and its façade, of greyish plaster is very narrow with two short pillars on either side, and in niches in the pediment above the entrance are hung three small bells. Its roof is of the semi-cylindrical tiling, the floor of earth and the whole structure presents a very singular and foreign appearance. Adjoining it is an ancient burial ground where some of the earlier
Back of this old settlement rise the mission peaks from whose heights a new idea of the city's vast extent can be obtained. Near at hand a few adobe walls still stand; from thence the human tide swells on and stretches far and wide until its highest crest is reached on Nob Hill, where rise the palaces of the Floods, the Crockers, Stanfords and others to whom life has proved a financial success. One can almost see how the city grew and crystallized into its present form, which is still but a prophecy of its future greatness.
As an easy stepping stone from the Spanish
regime
to the days of the Argonauts, the forty-niners, one naturally turns aside to visit the beautiful building erected by the Society of Pioneers, and its relic-hall, where are collected not alone Indian and natural curiosities peculiar to California, but trophies from the entire world. Occupying a prominent place is the portrait of John W. Marshall, who on Jan. 19, 1848, first discovered gold in California, at Sutter's Mill,
SIX
miles from San Francisco, as the sea-gull flies, across the pleasant waters of the bay, stands the beautiful city of Oakland, with Alameda and Berkeley on either side. Oakland has been called the city of residences (or in slang parlance, Frisco's bedroom), and it wears the title appropriately. It has a diurnal population of about 65,000, and while possessing a thriving little business centre of its own, its wide level streets are chiefly occupied by beautiful villas and homes. The gardens which surround them remind us at this winter season of Pasadena taking a nap, and an opossum kind of nap too, a partial rest with one eye open, for Nature never sleeps in this wondrous land. Everywhere rose bushes are bristling with buds that await only a few more (lays of sunshine to expand, magnolias promise even earlier unfoldment, and the callas are already in their prime; indeed Oakland seems pre-eminently their chosen home, for every yard displays its abundant share of these snowy, mammoth
The social atmosphere of Oakland is genial, quiet, restful and receptive to the advanced thought of the day. For this and many other reasons the traveller is induced to cast anchor in this calm haven and taste the rare pleasure of a long sojourn in this lovely place, indeed a life-sentence could be delightfully served out, here. The climate, while not so mild in winter as southern resorts, knows no sultry weather in mid-summer. Its sky is often blue and serene when a small hurricane is blowing through the streets of the larger city across the bay. There is a beautiful lake in the eastern part of Oakland surrounded by handsome villas, and in every direction there are the most enticing walks and drives, one of especial charm leading out to Piedmont, situated as its name implies, on the foot-hills of the Contra Costa range. A more magnificent view than the one obtained
And as we gaze, thought reverts to two departures which these calm waters have recently witnessed. In the early hours of a smoky morning as we sat reading in the cabin of a ferry, a sudden shriek from our whistle, followed by a succession of piercing toots brought us to our feet to see what disaster was pending, when behold, close at hand lay the Japan steamer, Oceanic, with a tug at her side receiving on board a small piece of womanhood which then sped away for the Oakland mole,
The other young woman, who with a different kind of bravery stepped on board the Australia at high noon, bound for the Sandwich Islands, goes to return no more. The brick walls of San Francisco as they vanished from her gaze, comprised the last large city which Sister Rose Gertrude (Miss Fowler) will probably ever see, as her self-imposed exile among the lepers is for life.
A cloud of smoke which is seldom lifted hangs above San Francisco, but tree-embowered, garden-fringed, flower-crowned Oakland invites the admiring eye to linger long and tenderly upon all her verdant beauty, her broad level streets and beautiful homes. We heartily voice the apostrophe of that strange genius, poet, and large-hearted man, Joaquin Miller, who from his. almond-grove on a contiguous height looks down upon this fair city and craves no other retreat:
Thou Rose-land! Oak-land, thou mine own!
Thou Sun-land! Leaf-land! Land of seas
Wide crescented in walls of stone!
Thy lion's mane is to the breeze!
Thy tawny, sun-lit lion steeps
Leap forward as the lion leaps!
Be this my home till some fair star,
Stoops earthward and shall beckon me!
For surely Godland lies not far
From these Greek heights and this great sea.
My friend, my lover, trend this way;
Not far along lies Arcady.”
WE
have heard that the difference between the wet and the dry season in California is that in summer it never rains, but sometimes does, while in winter it is expected to rain, but usually does not. In Southern California we found it the prevalent custom of the elements to rain at night and clear off brightly each morning, but this particular rainy season has discounted the memory of the oldest inhabitant, and broken California's record for 30 years. We are glad to have seen it, and to know what “a hard winter” is like, in this locality. We have been amused when reference has been made here to the tough weather for it is nothing more than we are accustomed to, the year round, in New England. There, we never enjoy week after week, month succeeding month of perpetual unclouded sunshine, as it is the rule to expect in this golden land. Consequently, when a series of showers follow one another here, or two or three rainy days occur in one week, the wet weather is beyond precedent. But the rain is never frozen,
In higher altitudes of this broad state, where the rain has been frozen, in the mountain passes and gorges of the Sierra, where snow and ice have held potent sway, the winter that is now passing will long be remembered. For seventeen days we had no communication with the Eastern states. Water in
one
form made a barrier, which all the force of water in its most potent form could not overthrow. It was a contest between ice and steam with myriad snow-flake battalions as daily re-enforcement for the enemy. The victory was finally won by the strong sinewy muscle of brawny arms with a resolute will to direct them.
And now the winter, or the rainy season is considered past. The voice of the spring is already heard, the hills that surround San Francisco and Oakland are assuming the most delicate tints of emerald green. Daily, as we watch them, we see this living tide creep higher and higher up the slopes, and dip down into the numberless dimples and dales of the verdant range, reflecting the light at such different angles, holding also such wealth of shade that the effect is that of a huge chameleon. Wild flowers begin to appear abundantly.
The winter has afforded us in this neighborhood two new years' celebrations, one arranged and decreed by old Father Thomas and the other almanac makers, which was observed in regular Fourth of July fashion, with fish-horns and bells and parties of young people going from house to house and singing the night away under friendly windows; the other (decided by the new moon) occurred a fortnight later, in Chinatown, with a great popping of fire-crackers and explosive bombs, with decorations and an unearthly din, called by courtesy music, with much feasting and social
Since that festive date, our great and glorious United States government has shown its valor and prowess by deliberately strangling the life out of one half-witted little Chinaman, too foolish to understand the nature of his crime, or the justice (?) of his sentence, his only remark on hearing the verdict being “Me go back Chinee, all samee.” Following the execution, scores of little newsboys at an age which should exemplify the innocence of childhood, were employed to shout through the streets every detail of the revolting spectacle, which brutal and degrading recital sows in susceptible hearts the seeds of a harvest of crime which this country will inevitably some day reap.
No
murder, judicial or otherwise, ever encourages righteousness of thought or action.
The first excursion party to register at the Palace Hotel from Pasadena, recently arrived and report a charming winter at The Raymond, where everything is done for the amusement and entertainment
These newly-arrived friends gave fragrant proof that the orange and lemon groves of Pasadena are now in blossom. The buds of the lemon are quite mauve in tint, although the open flower is as snowy white as its more popular sister.
Everywhere in California at all seasons, the Eastern visitor notes with surprise the abundance of
time
which the resident has on his hands. How plainly we recall the nervous tension, pressure, and strain of that Boston atmosphere, the constant endeavor to crowd a few more duties into an already over-full day, in this easy-going land where nothing and nobody ever hurries, where even the
The same air of elegant leisure characterizes the management here of the postal department. King Wanamaker's business requires no haste in this country. A letter recently mailed in San Francisco to a friend three or four streets away, was delivered after an interval of two days and nights. Mail seems to be regarded with supreme indifference by the resident, who would accept the receipt of an important letter to-morrow, as complacently as to-day. In two southern cities in this State where papers and pamphlets have accumulated beyond the convenience of the carriers, they (the papers, not the carriers) have been deliberately burned in open bonfire, or dumped into the bay, a disregard for private preference, or the importance of current literature, which the transient tourist takes unkindly.
IT
is less in the large cities, where specimens of every nation, clime and tongue, with all conceivable amalgamations compose their cosmopolitan element, than in the outlying districts, the fertile valleys, or old mining sections, that typal California can best be studied. The next county north of San Francisco, comprising the Russian river and other valleys, is a vast garden in its productiveness, while it abounds in grand and picturesque scenery. It is a great fruit-bearing region, and its chief industries are the canning of fruits and the manufacture of wines.
To visit this valley we take a little steamer at her dock in San Francisco and sail up the bay along the city's water front, past cannon-bristling Alcatraz, in sight of the Presidio, crossing the roadway to the Gate through which the bland wind blows fiercely and the rough waves rock our boat like a cradle, still on by the little bay village of Saucelito, a veritable Downer's Landing for picnickers and yachtsmen, though unlike the latter
The first stopping-place of note is San Rafael, the Nahant for Frisco's wealthy merchants. It is a pretty place, with its fine residences almost hidden by tall trees, and its large and handsome Hotel Rafael. From this point the ascent of Mount Tamalpais can be made, an imposing summit which rears its head 2000 feet above the bay and commands a wide-extended view of land and ocean, of cities, towns and sister mountain heights. From this point, after the eclipse of four tunnels of considerable length, we emerge into the verdant Russian river valley of Sonoma county, and skirt its graperies, now trimmed back to the stump though soon to become fields of luxuriant foliage, blossom and fruit, we pass almond orchards in fullest pink and white bloom, wild oak groves whose branches are hung with long festoons of Southern moss, hill-sides covered with a thick growth of the evergreen mazanita and madrona trees, while back of these rise the higher coast range and the Napa mountains.
At Petaluma, so many homes are surrounded
We do not pass through Sonoma, where a U. S. garrison was maintained until 1851, and at which place the Bear Flag was raised. On the occasion of a recent Fourth of July celebration, the original flag was taken from its glass-case in the Pioneers' hall in San Francisco, was carried to Sonoma, where attached to a piece of the old pole it was once more flung to the breeze. One imagines that the old grizzly, so crudely represented on the banner must wonder what has become of all his companions, once so common in this region, during his long Rip Van Winkle nap. The stars and stripes were first hoisted by Gen. Fremont at Monterey, July 7th 1846, from which date the commercial history of the state begins.
Santa Rosa, which holds the county seat, is the prettiest town in this vicinity. It claims a population of 10,000, and has an interesting legend connected with its christening. Soon after the founding of the Mission of San Rafael in 1847, Friar Amorosa started forth in search of natives
Healdsburg, the next place of importance, a sleepy little town, is situated at the fork of Russian river and Dry Creek, a tributary whose turbulent flow at this season belies its name. There is here a pretty wooded eminence, named Fitch mountain for one of the early settlers, and more imposing heights beyond skirt the horizon. The extinct volcano of Mt. St. Helena, 4,850 feet high, though situated in Napa county is a prominent landmark, and bears evidence by the ermined mantle which now drapes its shoulders that its once fiery heart is cold and still, yet lava deposits in various sections of the valley give silent witness of former activity. On its summit also can be found sea-shells and other tokens of a submarine
Another height is known as Geyser Peak, at whose base are found the only geysers in California. To visit these we continue our journey northward to Cloverdale, whence a long stage-drive over a mountain road too narrow for the passage of but one vehicle, except in rare instances, (at which points we naturally share the solicitude of the old lady who wanted to. turn out and wait until a team came by), conveys us to our destination. Whether this terminus can be called Paradise or Purgatory, we have not determined. Grandeur and beauty of scenery above and round about us; below a wild mountain gorge whose trail can be followed a mile or more, or as far as the soles of one's boots can endure the unwonted temperature of mother earth, whose usually placid breast throbs, and trembles, mutters, moans and puffs in tumultuous unrest. We have never seen her in this mood before. Her gnomes are in rebellion, or are holding high carnival with elfish imps from some nether world. But their frolic is less boisterous than it was some years ago, their natural ebullition having been quelled by the visiting vandals who have dropped stones in these natural craters and tunnels, and thus diverted the upheaval into other channels.
In some of these geysers, large stones and
There is also in Sonoma county a petrified forest, the trees lying in two tiers over a tract a mile in extent, the largest single tree measuring 68 feet in length by 11 feet in diameter. When found, they were covered with volcanic ashes and atoms of silica.
Large stories are told in this region of the days when agricultural interests were sacrificed to those of mining, and the prosy occupation of farming found few adherents, when gold dust became the most plentiful commodity and three dollars worth of it was often paid for a watermelon, seven dollars for an onion (!) and a similar price for a quart of potatoes. To this day vegetables are far scarcer than fruit.
WHY
San José should be known pre-eminently as the Garden City in this land of gardens, or why it should wear that distinctive title was not quite clear to our minds until we remembered it received this christening before Pasadena was born, and also until we saw this productive Santa Clara valley where, it is estimated, there are more fruit orchards than in any other county of equal area in the republic. It is also a great centre for strawberries, and for vegetables of all kinds; indeed, the land for miles around is one vast garden.
The road leading thither from San Francisco runs through a fertile territory now in its fairest dress, the cultivated fields climbing far up the hillsides, the young grain making delicate shades of contrast in the chromatic scale of green, while near at hand our course passes through extensive olive and almond groves. Cherry orchards also abound, their leaves so lusty in size and thickness, the trees so altered in manner of growth by early
The city of San José (pronounced San Hosay) has numerous attractions, and is regarded as the Yankee town of the West, so many Eastern people having settled here. It was founded Nov. 29, 1777, by 15 people, and was once for a short time, the capital of the state. It is now an educational centre, the State Normal School occupying here 27 acres of lawn and flowers, with roses in fullest bloom climbing its brick walls. Located here also are the Santa Clara (Catholic) College, the Convent of Notre Dame, and the University of the Pacific. Business also thrives and it is proposed eventually to cut a canal through to this point, to advance the commercial interests of this fruitful region by giving increased outlet for its valuable products. We heard the usual story of one potato that was dug in this vicinity, which made further excavation unnecessary for the cellar of the house erected on its site, and as California houses very rarely possess a cellar of any description, we gave ready credence to the flattering tale. As a rule, both potatoes and apples are here inferior to those grown on Eastern farms.
The visitor to San José receives the welcome of an expected guest at the Hotel Vendome which though smaller than other noted hostelries of this state, is perhaps thereby the more cheery and
There are delightful drives in this vicinity, one to the Willows, a resort named for the trees which here abound in a beauty and luxuriance of foliage, a richness of emerald tint, an airy grace in the carriage of their flowing draperies which we have never seen them wear before. There is also the suburb of Santa Clara with its ancient mission, reached by a shady drive through the Alameda, which is Spanish for a road bordered by tall trees.
But the chief attraction of San José is of course Mount Hamilton with the Lick Observatory upon its summit, and a visit thither is an experience unique and delightful beyond description, a pleasure never thereafter to be forgotten.
Money is an excellent commodity, if its possessor owns with it a generous heart and an unselfish desire to benefit humanity. In various sections of this neighborhood we have met evidences of James Lick's benevolence, but his greatest gift, the crowning act of his life was the bequest of $700,0000 for this valuable contribution to modern science. In his early life, while accumulating in So. America the nucleus of his large fortune, he became associated with a Spanish priest who in their out-door life, deeply interested the prospective millionaire in the study of astronomy, and then and there was formed in the mind of this reticent young man, the resolve to provide hitherto unparalleled advantages for the advancement of this noble science. It may be that his most eccentric economy had this noble end in view, as indeed that early disappointment, in his only
affaire du cœur
with the miller's daughter, was conducive to an unencumbered estate, with whose disposal no legal claimant could interfere.
Mount Hamilton is situated between two ridges of the Coast range, in a locality and at an altitude most favorable for observation and study of the heavens. To mount to its summit and descend in one day and night, usually conveys to the tourist an idea of excessive fatigue, and people are often slaves to their expectations. They saturate their minds with thoughts of weariness, place anxious
Starting at noon from San José and reaching its suburbs, we gradually wind about the lowest foot-hills and along their slopes, rising at times about six feet in one hundred until this beautiful Santa Clara valley is unrolled beneath us like a rare mosaic of brilliant color and graceful outline. The fields are thickly dotted with flowers, the California
While still enjoying this beautiful valley view, a sudden turn in our winding course hides it from sight and we see it no more. Neither is that white dome on the far distant summit which is our goal, any longer visible. A city set on a hill
can
be hid by more adjacent peaks, and for a long hour we are hemmed in by gorges and wooded heights that afford a constant variety of wild and romantic scenery until Smith's Creek is reached, where a little mountain inn provides refreshment for the hungry traveller. From this point the Observatory, which seems to withdraw itself farther and farther away as we pursue, is in an almost perpendicular position above us, and still seven miles away, but easily and gracefully that marvellous road curves round and round across the face
We drove up to the door of this imposing temple of science just before seven, in time to see a glorious sunset, and to catch its reflection from San Francisco Bay, miles to the north of us. Still farther northward on a clear winter's morning, Mt. Shasta is visible, as well as other kingdoms of this world and the glory of them. The visitor to the Observatory can always be sure of a hospitable welcome and painstaking effort for his entertainment, even though the kind hosts must find it wearisome to answer the same queries and repeat so often the same explanations and information.
Saturday evening is set apart each week as the only opportunity for the public to gaze through the great 36-inch telescope, hitherto the largest in the world, though we hear its bigger brother is even now in the skillful hands of the Messrs. Clark. To have reception night happen on the first quarter of the moon, (the most favorable time for observation) and under a perfectly clear sky was our rare good fortune. Passing from the vestibule, we entered the large dome with a feeling of awe, as if we stood in the presence of royalty, for towering far above us was the monster
Wonderful was it to see the mammoth dome revolve with such ease under the direction of the presiding genii of the place, who with skillful touch also directed the telescope toward our satellite which held that evening high court in heaven. And how did it look? Well, very like its photograph, with much the unnatural whiteness and flowery appearance of plaster-of-paris, honey-combed as it is with volcanic craters. We, of course, improved this auspicious occasion to look intently for the man in the moon, but it must have been his night out, for we failed to discover him.
Leaving this lunar audience chamber we descended to the crypt below, where is the machinery which under hydraulic pressure furnishes
We next visited the smaller dome where the 12-inch telescope was focused upon the planet Saturn, and the kind and patient professor gave a running commentary on all the marvels which we saw. Most beautiful of all the heavenly bodies, especially serene fair Saturn seemed to-night with six of her attendant moons visible, and her golden rings casting deep shadows upon the planet, from the light of that same sun which also outlined the mountain peaks upon the moon's surface, and which we had seen disappear so recently from our horizon, although we caught its last luminous beams from the roof of this observatory, the highest point we have ever reached. The building is constructed with double walls of brick to
Other wonderful instruments here abound. There are comet-seekers, earthquake-recorders, the transit instrument, which furnishes that uncertain quantity—time, for the whole Pacific coast, as far east as Ogden; there is the delicate Meridian Circle instrument for determining the latitude and longitude of stars, and many more. We listened with breathless interest to our young chaperon's delineation of these marvels, we nodded (we hope) in all the right places, and dragons shall never draw from us the confession whether or not our intelligent comprehension of their intricate mechanism is perfect and complete. Photography is also a feature here, and the long corridors are lined with most interesting solar and planetary views.
When at last our visit to this enchanting place was ended and we stood on the broad door-stone ready for departure, can we ever forget the scene outspread before us? Above, the wide expanse of star-lit heavens, though from our lofty perch it seemed less above us than a part of us. At the horizon shy Mercury, so rarely seen by city residents, shone with ruddy glow accompanied by the paler lustre of our well-known Venus. Opposite, majestic Orion kept up his eternal chase after
But how that road did hold out, to be sure! Leaving the summit at 8.30, stopping only once to change horses, alighting here for a brief midnight stroll, (and for a most congenial interview with the wayside dog) we beheld as we neared the valley a new scene of beauty, a sea of fog beneath us, which under the magical touch of moonlight, seemed a frozen sea of ice, the dark outlines of the foot-hills serving as capes and promontories around which the white billows had congealed. We could readily imagine that our charioteer had transported us to the North pole, (we thought we discerned one end of it from the lofty perch we had just left) but as we descended, fair Luna slowly drew a misty veil across her face, it thickened until we saw her no more, or the electric lights on the towers of San José. But terra firma was reached, and at 1 A. M. we entered the Vendome, where a delicious and dainty lunch awaited us, a refreshing sleep, after which we
THE
narrow-gauge route, leading from San José to the city of the Holy Cross, runs through the Santa Cruz mountains, indeed at times through the bowels of the earth, long tunnels being a feature of this road; but for the major portion of the journey, the scenery is both grand and picturesque. We look skyward for the tops of the loftiest peaks, gaze down into wild gorges many feet below us, send quick glances into the cañons which we hurry by, and gain many charming perspectives both ahead and behind our winding path. The mountain slopes are at this time literally purple with the plentiful wild lilac which makes soft contrast with the fresh ferns and dark pines towering above them. From the valleys, narrow paths lead up to our level, made by the feet of burros who carry on their backs and sides huge loads of wood from the clearings below to the waiting freight cars.
Five miles this side of Santa Cruz the road skirts the edge of the Big Tree grove, and here
The redwood tree is found from the Oregon line to the Santa Cruz mountains. North of these boundaries is the Oregon cedar, south of this point, the Monterey cypress is indigenous. The redwood's manner of growth is to send up a multitude of surrounding shoots which eventually unite with the parent stem whose great size is thus due to conglomeration. All stages of this process can be observed in a stroll through the twenty or more acres of this natural temple. The largest single tree, known as Giant, is some twenty feet in diameter, its height is 300 feet, and its circumference is paced by thirty-seven masculine strides. In one of the Three Sisters, standing side by side, a stove is placed for the use of pick-nickers to this resort, but a majority of the trees are not hollow, being still it would seem in the freshness of youth. Alone and apart from his fellows towers Daniel Webster, a single tree, but less interesting than the groups of trees which spring from one base. The finest of these bears
The curving line of the Bay of Monterey is nearly duplicated by the mountain range 20 miles inland, and in this pleasant sunny strip of territory, Santa Cruz is situated. It is a quiet sea-coast town, with pretty residences and gardens, and attractive shops which display shells, delicate mosses, and other treasures of the sea. There are two miles of beautiful beach within the city limits, and in the cliffs beyond, the first sculptor, Neptune has carved grottoes and natural bridges, which richly reward a drive thither, although this natural curiosity does not equal the beauty of La Jolla on the San Diego shore. Congress has been recently petitioned to provide a breakwater for this pleasant
The lethargic little town of Monterey is the quaintest place we have visited since Santa Fé. It is one of the towns where we have to rouse ourselves occasionally to make sure we are not dreaming. The locality was first “discovered” in 1602, when Vizcaino landed here and took possession of the country in the name of Philip III. of Spain, naming it in honor of the Viceroy of Mexico, Gaspar de Zuniga, Count of Monterey, who was projector of this northern cruise. Over 160 years later, still prior to our birth as a nation, the hitherto unbroken silence of this primitive region was stirred by another inscription on history's page, the founding of the old Carmel Mission by Father Serra, president of the band of Franciscan missionaries. The mills of the gods grind slow, but with unerring purpose toward the advancement of the race and the survival of the fittest. So Monterey at last witnessed the Franciscan downfall, and eventually the first establishment in California of U. S. authority, Gen. Fremont flinging to the breeze in July, 1846, from a flag-staff still preserved, that emblem of progress and freedom, the stars and stripes. Many of Monterey's
Two miles beyond Monterey, upon a promontory of the bay, stands pine-shaded Pacific Grove, originally selected as the annual camp-ground of the Methodist-Episcopal conference, but so delightful did the site prove that a town of two square miles has since sprung up with hotels, schools, and a thriving population, greatly increased in summer by the anniversary exercises of various societies of all denominations.
But the tourist is not drawn to this locality by any of these attractions. He comes chiefly and solely to visit the Hotel del Monte, in comparison with which everything else sinks into insignificance. One approaches the description of this charming place with reluctance, realizing his utter inability to do it justice, the meagre inadequacy of the most unabridged vocabulary of adjectives to portray its loveliness. However free a rein be given to the reporter's superlative pen, exaggeration is still impossible. This world in itself known as Del Monte, is situated a mile and a quarter this side of Monterey in a natural forest of pines and live-oaks, this environment suggesting its name,monte
in Spanish being applied to either forest or mountain, so that the title is literally Hotel of the Forest. The building alone is beautiful, with its wide rambling façade, its long annexes on either side with their gracefully curved connecting corridors, and makes with its floral surroundings, the fairest of pictures, when viewed in chance sections through some opening in the tree branches as we ramble through the grounds. Within, the hotel is far more cosy than a place of such vast extent is apt to be; its reading and writing-room might serve as a family library, its drawing-room is most inviting and restful. The dining-room is more imposing, being large enough to seat 500 people, and its table-service of white frosted silver, suitably engraved “El Monte,”—The Forest—is of the finest description. There is not an unpleasant room in the house, and everywhere an almost painful neatness prevails. And ah! what sleep comes to the traveller here! The nights are a blank, a refreshing plunge in Lethean oblivion until the birds with enticing call lure us to an early walk beneath the umbrageous shades which they have chosen to inhabit. The mocking-bird is common here, also the blue jay with his jaunty comb.
Setting forth to explore these wondrous grounds, whose outer boundaries we may not hope to fathom, a wrong direction can hardly be taken, nor is there
Space fails to enumerate all the attractions of this sylvan retreat, but among them, and one of the proper things to do is to take the Seventeen-mile Drive, a road that includes a succession of beautiful views, both inland and of the ocean, also a visit to Monterey, Pacific Grove and the Carmel Mission. Inspiring scenes all, but on returning to the winding, shady avenues of the Del Monte we experience a fresh delight which is almost a surprise that the place is so surpassingly lovely. Can anything else compare with it? Does anything like it exist on this planet? Can even Paradise be fairer? If so, we hope the angel of Life, whom men call Death, will not tarry too long.
TO
spend season in California and not visit the valley of the Yo Semite is to witness the play of Hamlet with the omission of its title-role. To go or not to go? That was the question. It was an easy matter to decide, the trip seemed an easy thing to accomplish; the very affable agent of the Berenda route thither, at his office in San Francisco, makes of the journey by his glowing rhetoric all enjoyable pastime, he smooths every difficulty from the tourist's path, allows him to select the seat he prefers in the photographed stage-coach with its three spans of prancing steeds. He paints the scenery with masterly touch, portrays the unprecedented grandeur of the waterfalls after this winter of unusual severity, unblushingly declares the existence of new cataracts, and other remarkable features never known before in the memory of man, with other fictions of his fertile imagination which leaves our previous hesitancy and doubt as to the advisibility of so early a visit to the mountains without a leg to
The start is made from San Francisco at sunset on the Los Angeles train which however drops us at midnight on a side track at Berenda. The cessation of motion, with the noise and jerks of disconnecting the car arouses the traveller who after waiting an hour or two for something else to happen, lapses into uneasy slumber only to be again disturbed by the arrival of the engine which, with the customary snorting and explosive puffs, attaches itself to take us to Raymond, by which recent growth of the railroad, the stage route has been cheated of twenty miles.
From this point the tourist sacrifices all further personal choice of his comfort, or hours of rest and action. He is no longer a free agent. Fore-ordination and pre-destination absolute are the rules of his being, the only authority recognized in this locality being the supreme omnipotence of the Yo Semite Stage and Turnpike Company. It
Breakfast over, the
four
-horse stage drives up to receive its load and we eye it askance. We have heard from friends who had made prior visits to the Valley, of the comfortable stages used on this route, of their canopied tops that serve as much needed screen from the rays of California's sun. Earlier specimens of the genus stage may have been comfortable; we occupied one of a newer style. The canopy was there, in fact we made caput-al acquaintance with it at certain points in our ride quite as often as we tested the springs (?) of the seat. The stage had four seats, the backseat upholstered with enamelled-cloth all the way down; the middle seat with its minimum amount of motion; the front seat, easier than the rear but with a restricted range of view; and the much coveted seat with the driver, hot and sunny but
But we load into this commodious lumber-wagon and set forth by a narrow circuitous mountain road, in an atmosphere radiant and redolent with purity, brilliancy and all sweet odors. The breath of the hills is blown to us, the blossoms of the valley waft upward their fragrance. Gradually
On and still on we wind, soon gaining glimpses of snow-capped mountains so far away on the horizon that we cannot conceive our course includes those distant heights, that any route not threaded by steam could include so long a trip, but we learn that those misty summits comprise only the first “divide”; the first night of our journey being spent beyond those snowy peaks. At our second change of horses, we pass a quartz mill where the mountain has been tunnelled for the precious ore and the fair face of nature has been frequently scarred by the prospector's spade as he for a time follows a false lead. We pass the lively Fresno river and also an artificial log-flume built on tall trellises for 55 miles to convey timber from the wooded hills down to
Our afternoon's task is to climb by slow and painful degrees to the summit of Chow-chilla peak, near which as we reach it, a wonderful view is obtained of the San Joaquin valley, (the light sedge grass giving it the appearance of a vast desert), of the Coast range beyond, and of one little dark spot, so far away as to be almost invisible, which is pointed out as the Raymond we left—when? Can it be only
this
morning that we started, that but a half day has intervened between us and civilization, since the possibility was ours of occasionally looking upon a human habitation? But soon, nearer the height, we have a diverting novelty in the form of snow-drifts as high as the top of our coach, though the road-bed is bare.
The summit is reached joyfully, for now we begin the descent into the valley where our day's journey will end. But such a descent! The stage it seems is behind time, the driver's reputation must be preserved even at the expense of the necks or limbs of his passengers, and so theendure unto the end
, with also the firm resolution if life is spared to reach home (which now seems, doubtful) that we will advise everbody to postpone their visit to the Yo Semite until they get to heaven and can look down. We recall the remark of a dear lady who declared that she was never so near her Maker as when in the Valley. We certainly never expect to be so near Purgatory again as when on our journey thither. Other friends had assured us that the surrounding scenery as we rode along would make us forget every discomfort. The scenery is doubtless grand hereabouts, the monarchs of this forest among the noblest specimens we have ever seen. We remember gaining fugitive glimpses, as we came down to the seat occasionally, of several trees reeling and swaying across our spasmodic vision like tipsy revellers,
The sleep of the righteous visits every pillow at Wawona, a baptism of health and strength likewise descends as if from the mountains that surround on every side this cup-like vale, the alchemy of this rare elixir sweetens the sorely-tried disposition of the disgusted traveller and (as a natural consequence) restores to freshness the storm-tossed frame. What luxury it would be to lie in the early dew-fragrant dawn and let the restfulness and calm soak into one's consciousness but—we are bought with a price and our purchasers are
pro tem.
our masters. We must therefore be awakened at five, breakfast at six, and with dread and trembling mount another coach for the drive thence into the Valley where we are due at 2 P.M. Will it, at last, we wonder compensate us for all this misery? We have ceased to ask regarding distances, for miles mean nothing here.
But the ride of to-day is a great improvement upon that of yesterday. Our driver is careful and compassionate, the road is in better condition and the scenery is much grander and less monotonous. Following for a time the south fork of the Merced, we begin to wind about and ascend the last barrier which lies between us and our goal, reaching a height of over 6000 feet, gaining along the way, from Lookout and other points, wild grand views of deep gorges far, far below us through which the winding river cuts its way between the mountains. Around us is an almost unbroken forest of sugar pine, and yellow pine with its alligator-leather trunk, while every dead branch and twig is swathed with moss of living green, so kindly does our mother Nature heal every wound, and transform death into beautiful life. Light growths are few, though it is still early for flowers and ferns, but we see an occasional specimen of the wonderful crimson snow-plant. The
At our second change of horses about noon, we take the opportunity to run down the road ahead of the coach, for a restful change, we inspect the watering trough, the road, the trees which here allow such restricted range of view, when, speeding on lest the fresh horses overtake us too soon, suddenly, as if the planet had dropped from beneath our feet, the trees disappeared on our right, the sky rolled itself backward like a scroll to give space to a vast army of peaks and domes and mountains of granite, a double row, the verdant gorge between, and we realized with a gasp that was almost pain, that we were looking upon the marvellous Valley. We stood on Inspiration Point.
Majestic, solemn, awe-some in the massive sweep of its gigantic contours, in the wonderful stillness, the immovable calm that broods above it, as if here it was that God rested “on the seventh day from all that He had created and made, the heavens and all the host of them.” There are some moments, some experiences that come to us which are untranslatable in any human speech, and this was one. Stirred to the innermost
How long we might have stood there had not the coach arrived to pick us up, we cannot say. The driver kindly dissected the grand spectacle for us, letting us down easily to ordinary levels of thought and feeling, and explained that the massive buttress on the'left was El Capitan; on our right were the Three Graces, in the farthest distance the North, and South or Half-Dome, as if our stunned and bewildered consciousness could take cognizance of compass-points; over there was Cloud's Rest, so-called because clouds often hover upon it when other spots in the Valley are clear. The white ribbon let down several hundred feet from one of these heights is we learn Bridal Veil Fall, only to be enjoyed from a nearer view where its misty drapery floats airily and gracefully as the wayward zephyrs frolic with its gossamer meshes, and especially when the afternoon sun-beams, flooding it with their prismatic dyes, make of it a vision of loveliness too fair for earth. A smaller fall high up on the mountain's face is disrespectfully known as “The Widow's Tear” because, being supplied by melting snows, it dries up in six
As it is, the first mental impression and one not lifted until the second day, is that of overwhelming sadness. The burden of isolation oppresses us. Heaven itself is not so far away as are we from every mundane interest or association. If these stern gray ledges were not
quite
so high, if their magnificent proportions could be toned down just a little nearer our comprehension, if the cataracts were less tremendous in their daring leaps.
Ah verily, what is man that Thou art mindful of Him, or the son of man that Thou visitest him with such revelation of Thy matchless glory, Thy Creative Majesty?
THE
location of the pretty Stoneman House, built by the State, is well chosen. Almost the entire length of the Valley must be threaded to reach it, and when there, the visitor is surrounded by most attractive points of interest. On the left, Glacier point rises 7000 feet; on the right are the Royal Arches and Washington Tower, while the grand Yo Semite fall makes its three gigantic leaps apparently but a stone's throw distant, although if one wishes to make nearer acquaintance with its varied phases of beauty and decides to stroll down the road until he comes opposite to this mighty cataract, he will continue to stroll for some time and approach no nearer to its base than when it proved such an irresistible magnet from his seat on the hotel veranda. A beautiful view can be obtained from the rear of Barnard's hotel, and at this point the majestic roar, with the bomb-like explosions peculiar to this fall are constantly heard. It is a fascination of
On the hither side of the Yo Semite is the Indian Cañon up whose steep sides and rocky débris the Yo Semite tribe escaped when pursued by the Mariposa recruits, in May 1851, on the occasion of the first entrance to the valley of any white man. The depth of this defile, its rough and jagged features are wonderfully revealed when the morning sun manages to smuggle a few of his gilded beams into the wild gorge. In Winter the Valley's allowance of sunlight is but two hours long. The name Yo Semite, as is well known, signifies a great grizzly bear, not from any resemblance which the gorge bears to this animal, but
Speaking of sunrises reminds every Valley visitor at once of the marvellous experience at Mirror lake. It is doubtful if anywhere on the planet there is a lovelier spot than this crystal sheet of liquid purity, at the base of Mt. Watkins especially in the early dawn when it is still, as the Indians called it, a “sleeping water,” and not a ripple has as yet disturbed its dreamless rest. It is a visible expression of
“The peace at the heart of Nature,
The light that is not of day.”
Clear-cut as a cameo, the mighty peaks penetrate these watery depths, 4000 to 6000 feet below us, their scars and clefts repeating themselves with such startling vividness that effects not noticeable through the medium of the air are plainly discerned through the limpid wave. Some discolorations on a crag a mile perhaps above us are a train of cars and engine in that illusive nether world. A clothes-line with the washing all hung
The trips which can be made in the Valley are legion, and a week, at least should be devoted to them, though in this connection it might be well to advise the tourist to “put money in his purse” for to quote from a witty commentator, “Man brought nothing into this world, and if he stays long in the Yo Semite Valley, it is certain he will carry nothing out.” All that the hotels and Stage Co. do not get, the wily livery man will. The trails to Glacier Point, Eagle Peak and Upper Yo Semite are at the date of our early visit not yet open (the emphatic ten-days-old statement of the affable agent in San Francisco to the contrary, notwithstanding), but the most satisfactory and beautiful of all the excursions (we speak necessarily from limited experience) is that to Vernal and Nevada falls.
The trail from Tis-sa-ack bridge along Grizzly Peak, though hewn out of solid rock is almost wide enough for a carriage, and yet our well-trained steed prefers a footing so close to the edge that we seem to hang far over the steep precipice, but we do not demur. We remember that he knows far more about his business than we ever shall, and that if we are born to be hung or drowned we cannot possibly suffer harm on this winding stair. The Mohammedan fatalism would really be an excellent travelling companion, orperfect
trust which casteth out
every
fear, and never under any circumstances knows a shadow of trembling. In entering this grand cañon, we leave the Yo Semite behind, having Glacier Pt. one of its boundaries, at our back, the beautiful little Illilouette fall high up towards the clouds on our right, towering ledges on either side, and at their base the main current of the Merced river struggling over its rocky bed. We soon approach a bridge spanning the noisy stream and turning to cross it, that vision of beauty, the Vernal fall bursts suddenly, dazzlingly upon our view in the near distance, and takes our most ardent expectancy by surprise. Gladly we dismount at Register rock and clamber over and around moist boulders to approach nearer the foot of this crystal torrent as far as Lady Franklin Rock to which point, in 1863, that lady was carried in a chair. The Fall is not very hospitable in its welcome, it will not allow us to reach the “ladders” by which it is possible to climb to its highest level, for it drenches us and drives us back by a spray so dense as to be blinding and almost suffocating.
Returning, we again mount and thread a zig-zag trail backward, forward, and upward, this equestrian procession forming three or four tiers across the face of the mountain, each row being far above the next lower, when at last reaching the highest point, in a twinkling that takes one's breath away,
Beautiful beyond suggestion, grandest, most fascinating object in all the Valley, we could sit for hours and watch its changeful flow. The whole Merced river here falls over a mountain wall 617 feet high, although the water seems less to fall than to resolve itself into froth and foam, and float
“Now shining and twining,
And pouring and roaring,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,
And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending,
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.”
A house has sprung up here (Snow's), we hardly know how, unless it grew through a new law of evolution peculiar to this land of wonders. It was not yet open, so we spread our lunch upon an adjacent rock and quaffed nectar from the clouds, feasting our eyes meanwhile (the truest refreshment) on that lovely veil of silver sheen, suspended across the mountain's breast, on whose enchanting grace we hope sometime again to look.
Morning in the Yo Semite Valley! What a rare experience to return from the realm of spirit and take up again our physical instrument amid suchIs
the hour such? Alas, no; repose is an unknown quantity in this region. Even the border land of dreamlife is invaded by the hurrying and skurrying of departing guests, and when at last our time arrives, the porter's prompt reveille upon our door puts a speedy end to contemplation, or devotion. At no stage of the Yo Semite trip is an early departure less imperative than for the drive from the Stoneman House to Wawona, consequently with strange masculine inconsistency, the hour fixed by the “Turnpike” Medes and Persians is the earliest of them all. At quarter of six, with valises packed, and breakfast bolted, our four-horse team (Star and Keno, Girl and Sullivan, who lacks as yet the diamond belt of his godfather) stand pawing the ground at the door. We mount and hurry down the Valley, striving to impress indelibly upon our memories its every feature, we pass from its portals, climb again to the summit, jounce down the other side, and reach Wawona at one. The mid-day repast is immediately served and without a moment's opportunity even for customary ablutions, we are loaded into an open vehicle,
These
Sequoia gigantea
are a slightly different species from the redwood of the Santa Cruz region, which are classified as the
Sequoia semper-virens.
Their generic name was chosen to perpetuate the memory of Sequoyah, a Cherokee chieftain of remarkably advanced mind, he having invented an alphabet of eighty-six characters that his tribe might have a written language, the system being still in use. Our national heroes are duly remembered in the christening of the grove, with some of our scientists and poets. One tree known as the Telescope, allows a range of vision 125 feet upwards, its hollow trunk having been burned out, but sap enough still flows through the shell to support foliage. Many of the trees are
The succeeding night is spent at Wawona, a place with attractions of its own, the beautiful Chil-noo-al-na falls being near by, with other pleasant mountain excursions. The studio of Thomas Hill located here is an interesting place to visit, its gallery of art-treasures being freely open to all. The return journey to Raymond held less of the terrors which beset our entrance to this mountain pass, for the road had been put in excellent order by the faithful efforts of the road-commissioners aided by the warm dry breath of old Sol. But he was a little too ardent in his glances that afternoon. The heat for many long hours was intolerable, we had a foretaste of the dust which smothers the tourist of a later date, and when at twilight the Raymond inn dawned upon our horizon, with some real Pullman cars awaiting us near by, the sentiment of the party could only vent itself in the devout doxology “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.”
One of the most graceful things ever said of the Yo Semite was inscribed on the hotel register by James Vick, whose name is enshrined in the heart
This truly is the need of the hour. The “marvellous valley” is too far away. Candor compels us to confess (for we “cannot tell a lie”) that the trip thither is the most inhuman experience in the world. With a railway built even half way to its ponderous doors, the Cañon of the Great Grizzly Bear must long remain the Mecca of every traveler, the shrine at which all devotees of Nature will reverently bow.
WHAT
a glorious journey it is to sweep across our American continent from the Pacific coast to Atlantic shores, to climb over two mighty mountain ranges, cross a wide desert, to skirt the borders of inland seas both salt and fresh, to be ferried over rapidly-coursing rivers by boat or bridge, to whiz along prairies that are granaries vast enough for a world's supply, to cross thus a galaxy of states and territories with a portion also of Her British Majesty's dominions, and to enjoy all this from the luxurious environment of a palace-car, where choice viands are served with clock-like regularity,—what a rich experience it is! Can one ever realize the tremendous extent of this country, or its wonderful resources, its mineral and agricultural wealth until he views it thus from shore to shore? And when to other comforts is added the Raymond espionage which means the absence of all care as to the detail of the long journey, when with a vigilance that neither slumbers nor sleeps the “ubiquitous Lyon” numbereth
A possibly envious friend once said teasingly “no one who has any brains ever travels with the Raymonds”, recognizing thus the freedom from anxious personal supervision which such excursionist enjoys. Blessed then are the brainless ones, or those who having used their brains to good purpose have earned now the right to such reposeful recreation. Brains do not lie fallow while travelling. Plentiful opportunities occur for storing the mind with valuable information, every hour suggesting new thought, broadening the range of mental vision, which is all the clearer because not absorbed in petty cares concerning that which is least.
On a warm sunshiny afternoon near the close of May 1890, after a long and delightful sojourn in this fair Western land, we at last with great reluctance turn away from the Golden Gate and set our faces eastward. The calm blue waters of the bay seem loth to ripple their last farewell, for through inlet and cove they merge into San Pablo bay and thence to Napa creek, where Vallejo is seen four miles away, opposite to Mare island, an important western naval station, a verdant spot, a
At this point we reach Port Costa and our course changes for before we are aware our entire train with one other and their two powerful engines are quietly transferred to the largest ferryboat in the world—the Solano. Of course every one is on deck at once, for who ever knew a Raymond tourist to remain in his own car one moment after it became stationary, although with equal alacrity he melts from sight like the dew in his obedient response to the first call “all aboard.” Some twenty minutes are consumed in crossing the Straits of Carquinez, and at Benicia we resume our long landward journey, until at dusk we reach California's capital—Sacramento—where our accommodating intinerary allows us a stop-over of a night and half-day.
In only eight instances in our Republic is the capital of a state its metropolis and the capital of California is not its most attractive city. The portion devoted to residences is charming, and great attention is paid to floral adornment. We have never seen magnolia trees in fuller wealth of bloom than they here display, and contrasting with
The Capitol building sits grandly in its beautiful park and leaves nothing to be desired in its architecture or ornamentation. Its senate-chamber and assembly hall contain full length portraits of California's governors, the corridors and stairways are adorned with paintings illustrating early scenes in the phenomenal history of the state, while in the rotunda on the first floor is seen that notable piece of statuary, Columbus before Isabella, these two figures of heroic size, together with the kneeling page of the Queen, being carved from one solid block of marble by Larkin G. Mead, and presented by D. G. Mills to the
Art has in Sacramento another chosen home. A valuable collection has been donated by Mrs. Charles B. Crocker, who also built in her own grounds the handsome building which holds these treasures of painting and sculpture. The many rare gems which are here so attractively placed would require more time to properly appreciate and enjoy than we have at our command, but we still carry away many delightful remembrances to enrich future thought. In the position of honor in the main hall, beneath a massive painting of Yo Semite, rests the tie of California laurel and four iron rails which formed with the golden spike the last connecting links in that narrow shining bridge which spans a continent, to whose completion the efforts of Mr. Crocker lent such valuable
“Where two Engines in our vision
Once have met, without collision.”
“What was it, the Engines said
Pilots touching—head to head,
Facing on the single track
Half a world behind each back?”
“What
it was the Engines said,
Unreported and unread,
Spoken slightly through the nose,
With a whistle at the close,”
only Bret Harte heard, and translated for our duller comprehension and certainly no recent date has chronicled an event of greater importance, of vaster moment to the nation.
Leaving Sacramento at noon and threading the orchards and vineyards that encompass her about, passing beyond this smiling valley toward the foot hills where we view many traces of hydraulic mining (a method now forbidden by law, lest the hills themselves be washed away, and the lowlands become unfertile, the rivers unnavigable), we commence with keen anticipation the ascent by daylight of the Sierra Nevada mountains, two strong engines with labored breath attempting the upward grade.
If friends at home should try to mentally locate us now, probably the last point at which the wildest imagination could place us would be rounding Cape Horn; and yet this is the first experience we are called upon to enjoy. On a high promontory of the first range we ascend, a narrow shelf has been pecked away from the rocky heart of the mountain (at first by men suspended by ropes from the summit), now daily used as the main highway of this large railway system, and exactly on the sharpest curve of the cape we pause for some minutes in mid-air to enjoy the wondrous scene unrolled beneath us. Hundreds of feet below, a deep verdant gorge, through which the muddy American river winds like a tiny thread, wide and turbulent as it doubtless is, if true to its title, leading the eye by graceful twist and turn, out from these lofty confines to other chasms beyond. Turning from this dizzy height, we have just time to press the wild azaleas which find room to grow on this sterile point, when we stop for orders at Blue Cañon. And why “Blue”? Is the river that rises here bluer than other mountain streams, albeit the waters of the little brook are so clear and pure that we delightedly fill our drinking cups at its brim and gather the spearmint which borders its edge, or is the name given because of this bluish afternoon haze that floods both sides of the cañon, our track here as in many other places
But just as we grow enthusiastic over these beautiful Sierra, rushing from side to side of the car in response to some neighbor's frantic appeal to “look,” presto, change! and there comes a blank. Darkness profound hems us in, and the fact dawns upon us that we are in a snow shed; and we leave it only to enter another, and another, tunnel alternating with snow shed for over forty miles of oblivion. How tired we all grew as the hours wore on of the long eclipse, how aggravating to catch occasional glimpses, through cracks between the boards, of beautiful landscapes around us only to lose them before they were discerned. How cold was the breath of those deep snow drifts, some of them the accumulation it would seem of a score of years, how pityingly we recalled the sufferings of those poor travellers imprisoned here during last winter's blockade, how we shouted with relief and joy when at last the radiant sun streamed in upon us, just after the lovely Donner Lake, of saddest history had been passed. Soon after we reach Truckee, a rough little lumber town, where we are side-tracked, and after a ramble about the place, the inspection in its round-house of the giant rotary snow-plough which did such valiant service a few months ago (although but for those despised snow-sheds, the invention of
THE
region between Truckee, the last town in California, and Reno, the first of note in Nevada is exceedingly picturesque. The eastern spurs of the Sierra still surround us, the merry little river, with its cascades and whirlpools and wild current which almost mock our speed, is our constant companion. Unlike most streams the Truckee is borne full grown as it flows only from the fresh water Lake Tahoe to the saline basin of Pyramid Lake, 97 miles distant, draining the one and supplying the other without altering the characteristics of either. While still revelling in its boisterous beauty, feeling the spirit of its frolic, a white post beside the track marks our passage of the State Line, and California is now behind us, our pleasant experience within its borders but a reminiscence.
Fair golden state, farewell! We turn our faces eastward and hasten away but we leave our hearts behind, oh gracious princess, to whom all wondrous gifts have been vouchsafed that thou in
No greater contrast could be imagined than the scenery afforded by our first and second day's travel. When Reno and its pink sand-verbenas are left behind, we enter upon the desert and traverse its level wastes through the entire day and night, although even here the monotony is relieved by many interesting features. Snow-clad mountains are almost constantly in sight from a greater or less distance. Frequently along our course what seems to be a little dust-eddy, a cyclone in miniature, reveals the existence of boiling springs and their steaming escape-valves. At Humboldt, where we alight at noon, the arid soil
At Palisade, the last place of interest passed before nightfall, some very picturesque scenery is enjoyed, the precipitous rocks on either side being sprinkled with a yellowish moss which resembles copper veining. At this point also a narrow-gauge road diverges to Eureka, where is located the richest gold mine in Nevada. We awake next morning in sight of that strange phenomenon, America's Dead Sea, skirting its borders until we approach Ogden, the terminus of four important railway systems, a city whose beautiful situation we did not have time to inspect as we turn aside here to visit the Mormon Saint's Rest—Salt Lake City.
Perhaps no point in our long journey is regarded with a more curious interest than is the capital of Utah. Its strange history, its religion, built upon only nine commandments of the Decalogue, its long defiance of U. S. laws, with other unusual features increase one's natural desire to see this strange land. In our first drive about the city it was easy to decide that its beauty had been over-rated. We had heard of wide shaded streets with a gently purling river of pure water from the mountains, bordering every curb-stone. We found a swiftly-flowing muddy current in one gutter only of many of the streets, we found wide thoroughfares, it is true, but they were untidy, rough and ill-kept, and the sidewalks were in no cleanlier condition. The trees were almost wholly of the white locust species, which being now in full flower added a needed touch of grace and beauty to the city, which was also bathed in a clear radiant mountain atmosphere imparting a peculiar brilliancy to the sky. A perpetual inspiration is the Wasatch range of snowy peaks, which overlook the city and whose altitude of 13,000 feet it is difficult to realize, being ourselves now nearly 5000 feet above the level of the sea.
Driving first to the Temple enclosure, we visit the Tabernacle, a plain, oblong structure that will seat 8,000, and has twenty double doors of exit. After inspecting its interior, its large organ made
Within the high stone wall by which this Temple block is surrounded, stands also the Assembly Hall, a handsome structure, used for worship in winter, into which we Gentiles were not admitted, neither gained we entrance to the imposing granite Temple, begun twenty-five years ago and still incomplete,
We drove through the main business street where is the Zion's Co-operative Mercantile Institute and other stores, we turned aside into a pleasant avenue which leads to Prospect Hill where a fine view of the city and surrounding country can be obtained, we passed the tithing-house, the Gardo House, which is the Mormon White House, the present incumbent of the presidential office always residing there, we saw the Bee-Hive, the residence of some of Brigham Young's sons, the home where
several
of his widows reside, the small enclosure within the city limits devoted to the prophet's sepulture, and that of his wives, the line of accommodation being drawn at their numerous progeny. One house was pointed out as belonging to a man with two wives and 38 children, whereupon our party began to estimate the number of shoes this patriarch would buy each spring and autumn, multiplied by the number of years of
We passed under the Eagle Gate, saw Rose Cottage, the beautiful residence of an English Mormon widow, also the homes of several pensioned wives, as since the recent action of Congress, no Mormon is allowed to visit any save his first wife, under penalty of arrest. Polygamy is now dead, the Endowment House is razed to the ground, property peculiar to their plural rites has been confiscated, but the sad and demoralized fruits of the long reign of error are still painfully apparent. We have never seen such lack of intelligence in human faces, or countenances so utterly devoid of expression of any kind, as on the women and children of this Mormon kingdom. That feminine snap of the eye and carriage of the head common to the woman who has a mind and will of her own and claims the right to its exercise, we did not once discover outside the ranks of their Eastern visitors. We met no Mormon child who was capable of answering a question, though one whom we pleasantly accosted was introduced to our notice by an attendant as “Sadie Cannon, the
fourth
wife's child, you know.”
In the afternoon we were treated to an excursion by rail to Salt Lake, 17 miles from the city, stopping at Garfield Beach where a handsome Pavilion has been erected in the water a short
It was with the greatest interest that we sought the Mormon Tabernacle on Sunday afternoon to attend its service, although (perhaps to our shame) the spirit of universal brotherhood sank as low in our soul's barometer as it did in Chinatown, albeit we resolutely looked only for that which was goodonly
church of Christ, but in a Christian spirit exhorted his hearers to show their worth by their submission and obedience, making the pertinent suggestion that perhaps they had not so far outgrown the remembrance of the persecutions and sufferings of Nauvoo to be entrusted with power which might lead to a desire for revenge. He asserted that if the U. S. government knew what it was doing it would desist, as the hand of the Lord had always been extended to protect this church in every danger that threatened her.
Much of the discourse was lost, or overpowered by the superior lung capacity of hungry and uncomfortable
Salt Lake City at present is having a boom. The Gentile immigration is very large, the streets are thronged, the city's unattractive hotels are crowded, and there is a spirit of prophecy in the air that Mormonism is on the wane, its record a memory of the past, and not a power of the future.
REFRESHED
by this break in our journey, glad to have had this opportunity, yet inwardly resolving never to visit Salt Lake City again, on Monday morning we gladly start onward, though we do not immediately leave Mormondom behind, for all through the valley of the river Jordan, (which strangely enough runs into this salt Dead Sea from the fresh Utah Lake, which corresponds in the devout minds of the Latter Day Saint to the Sea of Tiberius, making of this locality a veritable Zion intended for his occupancy), we pass through many Mormon settlements and see plentiful proof, not of miraculous divine intervention, but that clear pluck and faithful toil have coaxed these waste places to laugh into harvests and to blossom as the rose. The Jordan is a muddy, unlovely stream, not so wide but that we could cast a stone to its farther bank.
We have entered upon the course of the Denver and Rio Grande R.R., known as the grandest scenic line in the world, and it wears these laurels
After leaving the valley of the Jordan, we follow Spanish Fork to a pass in the Wasatch range known as Soldier Summit, and soon approach the gateway to this gigantic land, a veritable Castle Gate, two massive buttressed pillars advancing from the cliffs to hold watch and ward before these sacred precincts, not exactly opposite eachResemblances
to such structures we have seen in rock formations many times before, but surely no semblance these. They are too evidently the work of man, the citadels of a race of giants. And the rich veining of color which is such a feature of this entire region, is here at its height, exciting constant outbursts of glorious surprise. Later on, the cliffs which for several miles have towered near our windows, recede some distance where we
From Green River, which we leave at dark, we enter upon a barren uninteresting territory which we are glad to pass over during sleeping hours. We awake on the Uncompahgre Plateau and after breakfast at Cimarron Creek we take the roofless observation-car to better enjoy one of the most soul-inspiring rides the world affords, a run of several miles through the Black Cañon of the Gunnison. Who can describe this mighty gorge? Our wildest conception of its solemn grandeur, its stern features, which the secluded light serves to heighten, is eclipsed by this massive reality. Even our recent experience in the Yo Semite cannot dull the edge of our amazement and delight. Far from it. This sublime cañon cannot suffer by comparison with any other of Nature's masterpieces. It is true the Yo Semite walls rise a thousand or two feet higher than these, but this
While still in the depth of the Cañon, a peculiar obelisk arises on the farther side of the river bank which we recognize as the Currecanti Needle, and here we are allowed to alight, and gather vari-colored rocks for souvenirs, while our special artists (all of them) photograph the Needle, and other imposing features of these encircling walls. As we move on, we gain fleeting glimpses of cascades that leap down the mountain sides, one of especial beauty bearing the name of Chipeta falls in honor of the wife of Ouray, a chieftain of the Ute
We reach Gunnison at noon, realizing for the first time that we are now in Colorado, an enchanted land, of which Joaquin Miller writes: “Colorado, rare Colorado! Yonder she rests; her head of gold pillowed on the Rocky mountains, her feet in the brown grass, the boundless plains for a play-ground; she is set on a hill before the world and the air is very clear so that all may see her well.” We seek one of her highest pillows this afternoon. Although quite surfeited with grandeur and would fain defer another feast, we now approach the main range of the Rockies and are to mount and cross the lofty summit known as Marshall Pass, so called because its former toll-man bore that name. Our train is divided into two sections which then proceed to chase each other up one winding stair after another (by a grade 211 feet in a mile), often losing sight of each other in some of the sharp bewildering curves of the mountain's breast, but soon revealed by the black breath and ambitious snortings of our iron steeds, who with sonorous pantings and hollow groans sturdily push their way upward over still steeper grades, along deeper wilder precipices (a most exciting experience), making a dash through an occasional snow-shed, until at last the Summit is reached and we look down upon other summits, or hob-nob with
We pause at this altitude of over two miles above the sea, where some of our frisky ones engage in a snowballing match with the handsome brakeman, who easily whips the whole crowd, or drives them to the shelter of glass windows. Others of the party remembering that people on mountain heights are frequently scant of breath, anticipating in advance the possibility of being themselves similarly affected, watching narrowly as they near the height, to see how they feel now, really affect the regularity of the heart's pulsation. No organ responds more quickly to the slightest mental excitement and anxiety, on
any
level, but life has its centre and its source in far other altitudes than that compassed by physical elevation, or mundane topography. And if born a little above the level of the fishes, why should it seriously affect us to get so far away from the sea? We live always as spirits in a world of spirit, and the more we realize this, the greater freedom do we enjoy from the dominion of time-worn prejudices, fears and beliefs.
The descent of this grand mountain is very beautiful, so zig-zag in its course that two and three tiers of track are always visible, the severed
Emerging from our last mountain pass, we see
THE
display of festooned bunting over the veranda of the Cliff House, in the early morning, was not a necessary reminder of the tender associations connected with the day, for already, thought had flown to a dear grassy mound far away which we would gladly have crowned with fairest flowers had such rite been essential to express the heart's true remembrance, but happily, neither time nor distance, nay, not death itself can separate soul from soul, or prove a barrier to interchange of loving faithful thought.
We had been treated to a mountain thunder shower the previous afternoon of several hours' duration with hail, and wind, and general blackness, save on Pike's Peak's hoary summit, where a dense snow storm raged. This temporary confinement within doors had so abridged our hours for sightseeing that visits to several points of interest must be crowded into this charming day. We first walked through the town and inspected its tempting little stores, where are displayed the wealth of the
At eight A.M. we start on our first drive in a three-seated carriage, as comfortable as any easy chair in a lady's parlor, taking the trail up through Ute Pass, this being the route used by the Ute tribe of Indians in going to and from their reservation. A short distance after passing the Rainbow falls, our path leaves the road and begins to climb the steep height which rises on our right, a .sharp incline which affords us, as we ascend, some beautiful mountain views, and makes us acquainted with two heathen deities, Gog and Magog, or with two pinnacles of rocks thus christened. Before we are aware we have reached the mouth of the Grand Caverns, one of Manitou's notable “lions.”
There is always an element of the weird and supernatural about a cave to creatures formed to live in the air and sunshine. To the timid occurs
Equipped with lanterns we follow our guide through Canopy Avenue to Alabaster and Stalactite Halls, our footing dry, the temperature warm and pleasant, the avenues wide with one exception, where the narrow tortuous corridor is named appropriately the Denver and Rio Grande, which
But the greatest wonder of the whole cave is its natural Organ. The largest chamber is known as the Opera House, a lofty concert hall with two well defined galleries in its upper recesses which our lanterns dimly reveal, and somewhere in the darkness beyond, a torch and a voice discovers the presence of a man in the upper loft who calls our attention to a group of long, curving ribbon stalactites, on which has been discovered a musical scale, slightly flattened in its lower register, but clear in its upper notes, and truly remarkable in every way. The organist, striking with two little sticks at different points upon the suspended
It is customary in connection with a visit to the Grand Caverns to walk over to the lovely Cave of the Winds, situated on the other side of the same height, but we postponed this pleasure that we might devote more time to the Garden of the Gods, three or four miles distant. This wonderful spot is not happily named. A garden implies culture; this large tract retains its own simple grandeur, untrammelled and unvexed by the hand of improvement. It might once have served as Council Chamber of some primeval deities, whose ruined abbeys and cathedrals spires remain to excite our admiration. The play-ground of tricksy fairies must have been close by, as these red sandstone exclamation points on the face of nature have assumed the most grotesque shapes, which space fails us to enumerate. Even such steady going animals as bears and seals here indulge in a game of peek-a-boo! The entrance to this strange territory is fitly called Mushroom Park, as the rocks standing here have the effrontery to take
A mile or more beyond this point is the beautiful residence and grounds of Gen. Palmer, the father of the Denver and Rio Grande R. R., where these strange formations also abound. It is called Glen Eyrie because an eagle chose to build his
The trip to Cheyenne Cañion and mountain, on whose summit was buried the form of Helen Hunt Jackson, usually consumes a whole day, as a road on the farther side of the mount winds nearly to its apex, but if only a half-day can be devoted to this drive, then a steep and almost impossible climb is necessary to reach the height. Not deterred thereby, on returning from our morning excursion at twelve, we start again at one, for the peak which forms a prominent feature of the landscape for miles around. Passing through Colorado City, the oldest town in the state, and its first capital, where an effort is now being made to locate the State Soldiers' Home, we diverge from Colorado Springs, whose lovely precincts, parks and broad shaded streets we enter later, and soon reach the woody pass which leads to the Cheyenne foot-trail, of the South Cañon.
Alighting here, three determined damsels of the persistent, resolute type (they were not grown in Salt Lake City) set forth in the face of a threatened shower to climb the rugged path. The distance is called a mile and a half, but the Yo Semite scale of measurement is evidently used here. For a long three-quarters of a mile the road is one which it is a luxury to tread, running beside
Leading up to this chasm which the Falls leap down, a narrow wooden stairway has been affixed to the side of the mountain's breast, directly over
At last, after one of the steepest grades, we clamber over the mountain's brow and stand erect on its summit, whence a level winding path conducts us to the oblong pile of stones under which rests the dust of one unknown in mortal expression, but spiritually dear to all.
“O soul of fire within a woman's clay!
Lifting with slender hands a race's wrong,
Whose mute appeal hushed all thine early song,
And taught thy passionate heart the loftier way,—
What shall thy place be in the realm of day?
What disembodied world can hold thee long,
Binding thy turbulent pulse with spell more strong?”
A few faded garlands lay upon the cairn, to which we tenderly and reverently added, as our Memorial Day offering, a few wild roses and mulberry blossoms picked by the toilsome wayside. But how sadly we noted the desecration by the autograph fiend of this sacred place. Even upon the small pine tree in whose bark was cut the simple “H. H.”, other insignificant initials crowd it too closely. The memorial stones upon the grave are used to hold down the fluttering autographs and pencilled sentimentality of unknown visitors, while surmounting the pile, an unsightly worm-eaten slab of wood is placed to bear the inscription of an entire family. Is there no reverence in the American mind, no idea of the eternal fitness of things? If this prominence of
The spot is beautiful, the view therefrom wonderfully grand. We look
down
the Cheyenne Seven Falls now, we look over and into Colorado Springs and the mountain range beyond. This grand summit must have lent inspiration to the authoress who it is said often used to come here to write, and therefore expressed the wish that this might be her burial place. We may never stand here again, and do not care to, but we know through the law of sympathy and love, that as we aspire upward, even as we have surmounted this difficult height, we shall one day behold the face of this true worker, fair, shining as the sun.
WE
were to leave Manitou for Denver on the morrow, and as we sought our pillows after our over-full day and reviewed all that we had enjoyed in this delightful place, only one regret assailed us; the Cave of the Winds remained unvisited, as well as the charming little Williams' Cañon leading to it through serpentine walls of rock. But might we not still accomplish the latter, although the hour of our departure was an early one, and the entrance to the Cave a mile and a half away? Of course it would not be open, but we could at least see its location. Therefore, after the refreshing oblivion which visits one in these mountain retreats, we shook off the fetters of Morpheus before the sun had left his bed, we emerged into a world not yet awake, and with keenest delight immediately lost ourselves in the winding curves, and ins and outs of this picturesque pass, the walls converging so closely in places that a carriage has barely room to pass, the peaks seeming almost to meet overhead.
Was ever before such morning walk enjoyed? The shadows of the night had so recently lifted from these deep recesses that they seemed freshly created, the tinted pillars and cornices that stand out so boldly from these cavernous cliffs show a heightened color, a richer pink and cream and vermilion, from their fresh bath in mountain dew. Even the air is azure-tinted, an atmosphere that does not wait to be inhaled, but seems to breathe itself into and through each pore and fibre of our being. What an hour of rapture; what a constant study of form and color! What excitement to thread just one more of the many curves in our road, to see what lies beyond it.
When a mile is passed we reach unexpectedly a little house on a bank above the road—any human habitation looking so incongruous in these wild surroundings—where it seems the guide to the Cave we sought keeps old bachelor's hall. This gentleman had just arisen as we passed, and thinking we might wish to visit the natural wonder under his charge, and would be disappointed to find its barriers closed, quietly slipped his untasted breakfast into a basket and followed us with the kind offer, which went straight to our hearts, to open the cavern in advance of usual hours, for our especial benefit, although we learned he would reap no financial benefit thereby, his salary being assured in any case. How many would thus have
We chatted along this beautiful cañon for another half-mile when, a little to our dismay, we arrived opposite to the entrance of the Cave, but
we
were on terra firma, the cavern's mouth was half way to heaven, being situated in the perpendicular face of the cliff, over 300 feet above us. Steep trails alternating with flights of stairs led upward, but would we have time to ascend before the breakfast hour? We resolved to attempt it, remembering we could eat when Manitou and its glories were left behind.
We found this Cave of the Winds a diamond edition, gilt-edged and illustrated, of all the caves it has been our fortune to examine, not that it is smaller than any other, but so choice and exquisite in its minute details. Quaint little stairways lead from one elevation to another and crooked by-paths turn abruptly in an unexpected direction. Its architecture is intricate and copyrighted. We could not visit all of its thirty or more chambers, our time being necessarily so limited, but the excavation known as Dante's Inferno deserves especial mention for the little imps and satyrs of Satanic suggestion are as delicate as an ivory carving. The vegetable garden near by is a fruitful
The motto on Denver's escutcheon should read “Thrift, thrift, Horatio!” for this spirit of business enterprise, of energetic push permeates the very air. It is a wonderful city when one remembers its rapid growth, its present wealth and prosperity. Yet nowhere is there any evidence of hasty formation, there is no sham veneering. Great attention has been devoted to the building of substantial structures, Denver profiting perhaps by the lessons wide-spread conflagrations in sister cities have taught her. Even the beautiful dwellings and villas are all of brick or stone, a wooden house of any description being difficult to find. Denver's Court House and the Capitol, now in process of erection, are among the finest
The second day of our stay in Denver is devoted to a trip to Silver Plume including a descent if desired into the mine, a dark, damp, drippy, disagreeable place where silver is not lying around loose as some had supposed, though veinings of the ore are shown. Lunch is partaken at Georgetown, a pretty place not quite above the clouds, and the mountain scenery which surrounds it, as
This detour is our last, and for the first time we feel as if we had started for home. We spend the entire next day crossing the broad verdant prairies of Nebraska, reaching Omaha at sunset and its sister city on the hither side of the Missouri—Council Bluffs—a few moments later. Iowa is not skirted in darkness, for we chance to encounter a severe electric storm, which happened to be travelling in the same direction we were taking, and so kept us company the entire night, with incessant flashes, the roar of heaven's artillery, and the patter of descending torrents upon the car-roof. The goblins of the air were all abroad in wildest mood that night. We were glad to be a passenger rather than the engineer, whose exceeding vigilance and caution we could plainly sense as he
felt
his way onward. We heard on the morrow of several narrow escapes; the express train following us had encroached a little too closely on our time, a cloud burst washed away a long stretch of track which we had just passed over, but the providence which never faileth justified our perfect trust in its protection.
The sight of the broad bosom of the Father of
“One wide river,
One more river to cross,”
and recalled the child's query why the
Father
of Waters should not be called Mister-sippi. Soon, with surprise we note how like New England becomes the type of scenery in Illinois. Even the embankments beside the road bristle with wild columbine and have shady groves for background. We are speeding now as the comet flies, approaching Chicago no nearer than Blue Island Junction, dashing across a section of Indiana, losing Michigan and most of Canada in the night, and pausing only to take breath for a long day at Niagara.
Will this marvel of the world seem disappointing to us, we wonder, do we remember it correctly, will it have shrunken in comparison with the grandeur we have recently witnessed? Ah no! Niagara is forever a fresh surprise, it is like nothing else but its own marvellous, stupendous self. A recent storm has muddied the Falls and only the sharpest curve of the horse-shoe bend retains that shimmering, translucent, impossible green. The river will work itself clear again in a day or two; meanwhile it gave new effects of lace fret-work and sparkling frost-like garniture over the contrasting foam-beaten brown. The immense, incredible volume of water that pours over this
Our last night
en route
is bounded by Buffalo and North Adams. Only three hours lie between us and Boston, only the insignificant little state of Massachusetts to cross, her longest way, to be sure, but such a trifle in comparison with the continent. But where have we seen a fairer state, where lovelier rural scenes in this rarest month of all the year—fresh, leafy June? Graceful New England elms are swaying green pennons across village streets, brooding over time-honored homesteads, or shading pleasant door-yards; broad, generous barns hold the stored wealth of these fertile farms; white spired churches point heavenward, surrounded by plentiful little graveyards (so seldom seen in newer countries); soon we reach the Deerfield river; the broad Connecticut; modest Wachusett, home-like and dear, though humble; lovely woods in sprucest foliage with brand new floor-cloth of curling ferns and violets blue; how beautiful it all is, how rapidly the revolving wheels carry us nearer, still nearer home.
And now the “Home agains” and “Home, sweet homes” have all been sung, the good byes and friendly wishes have been exchanged, for dear old Boston is in sight and excitement reigns. How unchanged it seems; how unconscious it looks of our long absence or the importance of our return. We begrudge the customary pause at the draw-bridge, while we devour the familiar piers, the ships that are imprisoned here, we look over to other bridges that span this tidal Charles, and ride on towards the Fitchburg's wide open doors, pass under its octagonal grey towers, and like John Gilpin,
“Nor stop till where we did get up
We do again get down.”
The same irregular crooked streets, the same narrow pavements where we jostle everybody's elbows, and try to go
both
sides of the people we meet. But bless us, how clean they all are! What immaculate linen; what spotless
mouchoirs!
The company we have kept for the last day or two has prepared us for nothing like this. The Raymond
lingerie
must be a little off-color.
But how sincerely we pity the people who have not been to California. We often wonder that those who travel habitually turn always to the Old world, before gaining any acquaintance with the New; why cross a stormy ocean, a boisterous channel, and foreign countries by rail and diligencewill
travel and that determination will put forces into action which will eventually project the desired result. You become a magnet to attract the opportunity. Meanwhile, economize to this end. Wear last year's hat another season, turn your dresses inside out, upside down—anything for the glory which shall be revealed to you, anything to give your soul this privilege of widening its borders, of building “statelier chambers,” enriching its store of present knowledge, and future accumulation of blessed memories. Money invested in that bank never suffers default, it pays perennial interest at compound rates, and saves your sons-in-law the trouble of spending the fruits of your life-long toil.
If you want to be happy, healthy and wise, if you want to polish down the sharp angles of narrow selfish interests or morbid slant, if you want to grow into the image and likeness of the Creator of this beautiful world, which in all its glory is but a shadow of the
real
Home of the Soul, then—travel!
All Traveling Expenses Included.
W. RAYMOND.
AUTUMN, WINTER, AND SPRING TRIPS
TO
THE PACIFIC COAST.
ELEGANT TRAINS OF PULLMAN VESTIBULED SLEEPING-CARS WITH DINING-CARS AND COMPOSITE CARS ATTACHED (the latter containing library and reading room, barber shop, and bath room) used on transcontinental journeys.
Parties leave Boston, New York, and Philadelphia each year during the month of
SEPTEMBER—For The Yellowstone National Park, The Pacific Northwest and California,
with visits to St. Paul, Minneapolis, Tacoma, Seattle, Puget Sound, The Columbia River, San Francisco, and all the principal points of interest in
Central and Southern California,
with a return
via
Las Vegas Hot Springs, Kansas City, Niagara Falls, etc.
OCTOBER TOURS to The Pacific Coast
via
The Northern Pacific Route and The Pacific Northwest,
and also
via
Chicago, Kansas City, and The Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Route through
Kansas, New Mexico, and Arizona.
Both the September and October trips offer the opportunity of making an Autumn Excursion to California, and a sojourn throughout the winter in Southern or Central California.
WINTER TOURS
To the health and pleasure resorts of
Southern and Central California.
A Choice of TWO ROUTES for the westward journey, and FOUR ROUTES RETURNING.
Visits in California to Redlands, San Bernardino, Riverside, San Diego, and the magnificent Hotel Del Coronado, Los Angeles, the elegant Raymond Hotel at East Pasadena, Redondo Beach, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, San Jose, Santa and other points of Interest.
Independent Tickets
covering every expense both going and returning, and giving entire freedom of movement while in California, and also in making the homeward journey, can be supplied; also hotel coupons for board for long or short sojourns at the principal hotels in Southern and Central California.
Spring Trip to California and Colorado,
EACH YEAR.
A Tour of Sixty-two Days Across the Continent,
with visits to the most picturesque Regions of the Rocky Mountains, including the grand canons and gorges of Colorado, The Marshall Pass, Manitou and Glenwood Springs, etc.; also to the most attractive Points on the Pacific Coast, including Redlands, Riverside, San Diego, Los Angeles, Pasadena, Redondo Beach, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Monterey, San Jose, the Summit of Mount Hamilton, San Rafael, etc. Different routes going and returning, with numerous side trips and halts by the way. The journey made in a magnificent train of Vestibuled Pullman Palace Cars, with Pullman Palace Dining-Car.
California and the Pacific Northwest.
Annual Spring Tour Across the Continent and through the Pacific Northwest,
with visits to Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California, the Mount Shasta Region, Oregon, Washington, the Picturesque Columbia River, Puget Sound, British Columbia, Idaho, Montana, North Dakota, Minnesota, and
The Yellowstone National Park.
A magnificent train of Vestibuled Pullman Palace Cars, including Pullman Palace Dining-Cars.
A Grand Excursion of Seventy-Five Days.
TOURS TO MEXICO.
Parties leave Boston, New York, and Philadelphia in
January, February, and March
of each year for an extended tour through
Old Mexico,
with visits to its chief cities and places of historic and picturesque interest, including Zacatecas, Aguas Calientes, Leon, Silao, Guanajuato, Queretaro, Toluca, Orizaba, Puebla, the Pyramid of Cholula, Tlaxcala, Guadalajara, Chihuahua, the grand scenic points on the Mexican Railway, and the
City of Mexico.
The January and February Excursions make a subsequent trip through the most delightful regions of the Pacific Coast. and homeward through Utah, Colorado, and the Grand Canons, Gorges and Passes of the Rocky Mountains, with visits to Riverside, San Diego, Coronado Beach, Redondo Beach, Pasadena, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, Monterey, Santa Cruz, San Jose, San Rafael, San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Maniton Springs, Denver, Niagara Falls, etc.
Tickets can also be supplied for the return from California
via
the Mount Shasta Route to Portland, Or., The Columbia River, Puget Sound, Tacoma, Seattle, and the Northern Pacific Route, including The Yellowstone National Park.
The March Excursion is A Grand Tour of Forty Days through the Southern States and Mexico,
omitting California, and returning
via
New Mexico, including a visit to Las Vegas Hot Springs.
All Mexico parties are limited in numbers, and travel in
Elegant Trains of Pullman Vestibuled Palace Cars, with Pullman Palace Dining-Cars and Composite Cars
(barber shop, bathroom, library, etc.). Special train schedules everywhere, so as to take in the most picturesque scenery by daylight.
EXCURSION TO THE SANDWICH ISLANDS,
Leaving San Francisco in February.
SUMMER EXCURSIONS TO ALASKA
IN
JUNE, JULY, and AUGUST.
SUMMER EXCURSIONS TO YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK.
JULY, AUGUST, and SEPTEMBER.
TRIPS TO POPULAR EASTERN RESORTS.
During the months of July, August, September and October there are a series of excursions to the leading mountain, river, lake, seashore, and spring resorts of New England, Canada, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Virginia, with visits to the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Adirondack Mountains of New York, Blue Ridge of Maryland, Hudson River, St. Lawrence River and Rapids, Saguenay River, Montreal, Quebec, Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain, Lake Placid, Lake Memphremagog, Moosehead Lake, Bras d'Or Lakes, Cape Breton Island, Mauch Chunk, Watkins Glen, Niagara Falls, Trenton Falls, The Thousand Islands, Ausable Chasm, Isles of Shoals, Mount Desert, New Brunswick, Prince Edward's Island, Nova Scotia, Old Orchard Beach. The Battlefield of Gettysburg, Blue Mountain House, Old Point Comfort, Natural Bridge of Virginia, Luray Caverns, Harper's Ferry, Richmond, Washington, etc.
Send for descriptive circulars designating trips desired.
RAYMOND & WHITCOMB,
CHIEF OFFICE: 296 WASHINGTON STREET (Opposite School Street), BOSTON.
NEW YORK OFFICE: 257 BROADWAY.
PHILADELPHIA OFFICE: 111 SOUTH NINTH ST. (under Continental Hotel).
CHICAGO OFFICE: 103 SOUTH CLARK ST., cor. Washington Street.
E. H. HUGHES, AGENT.
LONDON OFFICE: 142 STRAND, W. C. HENRY GAZE & SON,
European Agents for Raymond's American Excursions.
AGENTS ON THE PACIFIC COAST.
For Southern California,
Charles C. Harding,
138 South Spring Street, Los Angeles.
The Raymond,
East Pasadena.
Los Angeles Office,
138 South Spring Street,
F. W. Thompson,
Agent.
San Francisco Offices,
26 Montgomery Street, Room 6,
Carroll Hutchins,
Agent; and also 36 Montgomery Street (cor. Sutter St.),
Clinton Jones,
Agent.
Portland (Or.) Office,
83 First Street,
Charles Kennedy,
Agent.