[Illustration]
Nature has carefully guarded Southern California. Ten thousand miles
of ocean roll between her western boundary and the nearest continent;
while eastward, her divinity is hedged by dreary deserts that forbid
approach. Although the arid plains of eastern Arizona are frequently
called deserts, it is not till the west-bound tourist has passed
Flagstaff that the word acquires a real and terrible significance.
Then, during almost an entire day he journeys through a region which,
while it fascinates, inspires him with dread. Occasionally a flock of
goats suggests the possibility of sustaining life here, but sometimes
for a distance of fifty miles he may see neither man nor beast. The
villages, if such they can be called, are merely clusters of rude
huts dotting an area of rocky desolation. No trees are visible. No
grazing-ground relieves the dismal monochrome of sand. The mountains
stand forth dreary, gaunt, and naked. In one locality the train runs
through a series of gorges the sides of which are covered with
disintegrated rock, heaped up in infinite confusion, as if an awful
ague-fit had seized the hills, and shaken them until their ledges had
been broken into a million boulders. At another point, emerging from
a maze of mountains, the locomotive shoots into a plain, forty or
fifty miles square, and sentineled on every side by savage peaks.
Once, doubtless, an enormous lake was held encompassed by these
giants; but, taking advantage of some seismic agitation, it finally
slipped through their fingers to the sea, and now men travel over its
deserted bed. Sometimes these monsters seemed to be closing in upon
us, as if to thwart our exit and crush us in their stony arms; but
the resistless steed that bore us onward, though quivering and
panting with the effort, always contrived to find the narrow opening
toward liberty. Occasionally our route lay through enormous fields of
cactus and yucca trees, twelve feet in height, and, usually, so
hideous from their distorted shapes and prickly spikes, that I could
understand the proverb, "Even the Devil cannot eat a cactus."
[Illustration: LIFE ON THE DESERT.]
[Illustration: THE DESERT'S MOUNTAINS.]
[Illustration: DESERT VEGETATION.]
As the day wore on, and we were drawn from one scene of desolation to
another, I almost doubted, like Bunyan's Pilgrim, whether we should
ever reach the promised land alive; but, finally, through a last
upheaval of defiant hills which were, if possible, more desolate and
weird than any we had seen, we gained the boundary of California and
gazed upon the Colorado River. It is a stream whose history thrilled
me as I remembered how in its long and tortuous course of more than a
thousand miles to this point it had laboriously cut its way through
countless desert cañons, and I felt glad to see it here at last,
sweeping along in tranquil majesty as if aware that all its struggles
were now ended, and peace and victory had been secured.
It was sunset when our train, having crossed this river, ran along
its western bank to our first stopping-place in California,--the
Needles. Never shall I forget the impression made upon me as I looked
back toward the wilderness from which we had emerged. What! was that
it--that vision of transfiguration--that illumined Zion radiant with
splendor? Across the river, lighted by the evening's after-glow of
fire, rose a celestial city, with towers, spires, and battlements
glittering as if sheathed in burnished gold. Sunshine and distance
had dispelled all traces of the region's barrenness, and for a few
memorable moments, while we watched it breathlessly, its sparkling
bastions seemed to beckon us alluringly to its magnificence; then,
fading like an exquisite mirage created by the genii of the desert,
it swiftly sank into the desolation from which the sun had summoned
it, to crown it briefly with supernal glory. Turning at last from its
cold immobility to the activity around us, I saw some representatives
of the fallen race of California, as Indian bucks and squaws came
from their squalid hovels to sell the trifling products of their
industry, and stare at what to them is a perpetual miracle,--the
passing train. Five races met upon that railroad platform, and
together illustrated the history of the country. First, in respect to
time, was the poor Indian, slovenly, painted and degraded, yet
characterized by a kind of bovine melancholy on the faces of the men,
and a trace of animal beauty in the forms of the young squaws.
Teasing and jesting with the latter were the negro porters of the
train, who, though their ancestors were as little civilized as those
of the Indians, have risen to a level only to be appreciated by
comparing the African and the Indian side by side. There, also, was
the Mexican, the lord of all this region in his earlier and better
days, but now a penniless degenerate of Old Castile. Among them stood
the masterful Anglo-Saxon, whose energy has pushed aside the
Spaniard, civilized the Negro, developed half a continent, built this
amazing path of steel through fifteen hundred miles of desert, and
who is king where-ever he goes. While I surveyed these specimens of
humanity and compared them, one with another, there suddenly appeared
among them a fifth figure,--that of Sing Lee, formerly a subject of
the oldest government on earth, and still a representative of the
four hundred millions swarming in the Flowery Kingdom. Strangely
enough, of all these different racial types, the Mongol seemed the
most self-satisfied. The Yankee was continually bustling about,
feeding passengers, transporting trunks, or hammering car-wheels; the
Negroes were joking with the Indians, who appeared stolidly apathetic
or resigned; the Mexicans stood apart in sullen gloom, as if
secretly mourning their lost estate; but Sing Lee looked about him
with a cheerful calmness which seemed indicative of absolute
contentment and his face wore, continually, a complacent smile. What
strange varieties of human destiny these men present, I thought as I
surveyed them: the Indian and the Mexican stand for the hopeless
Past; the Anglo-Saxon and the Negro for the active Present; while
Sing Lee is a specimen of that yellow race which is embalmed in its
own conservatism, like a fly in amber.
[Illustration: LOOKING BACK AT THE MOUNTAINS.]
[Illustration: A CALIFORNIA RANCH SCENE.]
[Illustration: INDIAN HUTS.]
[Illustration: "A FALLEN RACE."]
[Illustration: A MEXICAN HOUSE AND FAMILY.]
[Illustration: THE BLOSSOMING WILDERNESS.]
[Illustration: COMPLACENT MONGOLS.]
[Illustration: CHARACTERISTIC SCENERY.]
The unsuspecting traveler who has crossed the Colorado River and
entered Southern California, naturally looks around him for the
orange groves of which he has so often heard, and is astonished not
to find himself surrounded by them; but, gradually, the truth is
forced upon his mind that, in this section of our country, he must
not base his calculations upon eastern distances, or eastern areas.
For, even after he has passed the wilderness of Arizona and the
California frontier, he discovers that the Eldorado of his dreams
lies on the other side of a desert, two hundred miles in breadth,
beyond whose desolate expanse the siren of the Sunset Sea still
beckons him and whispers: "This is the final barrier; cross it, and I
am yours." The transit is not difficult, however, in days like these;
for the whole distance from Chicago to the coast can be accomplished
in seventy-two hours, and where the transcontinental traveler of less
than half a century ago was threatened day and night with attacks
from murderous Apaches, and ran the risk of perishing of thirst in
many a waterless "Valley of Death," the modern tourist sleeps
securely in a Pullman car, is waited on by a colored servant, and
dines in railway restaurants the management of which, both in the
quality and quantity of the food supplied, even in the heart of the
Great American Desert, is justly famous for its excellence.
At San Bernardino, we enter what is called the Garden of Southern
California; but even here it is possible to be disappointed, if we
expect to find the entire country an unbroken paradise of orange
trees and roses. Thousands of oranges and lemons, it is true, suspend
their miniature globes of gold against the sky; but interspersed
between their groves are wastes of sand, reminding us that all the
fertile portion of this region has been as truly wrested from the
wilderness, as Holland from the sea. Accordingly, since San
Bernardino County alone is twice as large as Massachusetts, and the
County of Los Angeles nearly the size of Connecticut, it is not
difficult to understand why a continuous expanse of verdure is not
seen. The truth is, Southern California, with a few exceptions, is
cultivated only where man has brought to it vivifying water. When
that appears, life springs up from sterility, as water gushed forth
from the rock in the Arabian desert when the great leader of the
Israelites smote it in obedience to Divine command. Hence, there is
always present here the fascination of the unattained, which yet is
readily attainable, patiently waiting for the master-hand that shall
unlock the sand-roofed treasure-houses of fertility with a crystal
key. It can be easily imagined, therefore, that this is a land of
striking contrasts. Pass, for example, through the suburbs of Los
Angeles, and you will find that, while one yard is dry and bare, the
next may be embellished with a palm tree twenty feet in height, with
roses clambering over the portico of the house, and lilies blooming
in the garden. Of the three things essential to vegetation--soil,
sun, and water--man must contribute (and it is all he can contribute)
water.
[Illustration: STRIKING CONTRASTS.]
[Illustration: WRESTED FROM THE SAND.]
[Illustration: A PALM-GIRT AVENUE, LOS ANGELES.]
Once let the tourist here appreciate the fact that almost all the
verdure which delights his eyes is the gift of water at the hand of
man, and any disappointment he may have at first experienced will be
changed to admiration. Moreover, with the least encouragement this
country bursts forth into verdure, crowns its responsive soil with
fertility, and smiles with bloom. Even the slightest tract of
herbage, however brown it may be in the dry season, will in the
springtime clothe itself with green, and decorate its emerald robe
with spangled flowers. In fact, the wonderful profusion of wild
flowers, which, when the winter rains have saturated the ground,
transform these hillsides into floral terraces, can never be too
highly praised. Happy is he who visits either Palestine or Southern
California when they are bright with blossoms and redolent of
fragrance. The climax of this renaissance of Nature is, usually,
reached about the middle of April, but in proportion as the rain
comes earlier or later, the season varies slightly. At a time when
many cities of the North and East are held in the tenacious grip of
winter, their gray skies thick with soot, their pavements deep in
slush, and their inhabitants clad in furs, the cities of Southern
California celebrate their floral carnival, which is a time of great
rejoicing, attended with an almost fabulous display of flowers. Los
Angeles, for example, has expended as much as twenty-five thousand
dollars on the details of one such festival. The entire city is then
gay with flags and banners, and in the long procession horses,
carriages, and riders are so profusely decked with flowers, that they
resemble a slowly moving throng of animated bouquets. Ten thousand
choice roses have been at such times fastened to the wheels, body,
pole, and harness of a single equipage. Sometimes the individual
exhibitions in these floral pageants take the form of floats, which
represent all sorts of myths and allegories, portrayed elaborately
by means of statues, as well as living beings, lavishly adorned with
ornamental grasses, and wild and cultivated flowers.
Southern California is not only a locality, it is a type. It cannot
be defined by merely mentioning parallels of latitude. We think of it
and love it as the dreamland of the Spanish Missions, and as a region
rescued from aridity, and made a home for the invalid and the winter
tourist. Los Angeles is really its metropolis, but San Diego,
Pasadena, and Santa Barbara are prosperous and progressive cities
whose population increases only less rapidly than their ambition.
[Illustration: AN ARBOR IN WINTER.]
[Illustration: MAIN STREET, LOS ANGELES.]
One of the first things for an eastern visitor to do, on arriving at
Los Angeles, is to take the soft sound of _g_ out of the city's name,
and to remember that the Spaniards and Mexicans pronounce _e_ like
the English _a_ in fate. This is not absolutely necessary for
entrance into good society, but the pronunciation "Angeelees" is
tabooed. The first Anglo-Saxon to arrive here was brought by the
Mexicans, in 1822, as a prisoner. Soon after, however, Americans
appeared in constantly increasing numbers, and, on August 13, 1846,
Major Fremont raised at Los Angeles the Stars and Stripes, and the
house that he occupied may still be seen. Nevertheless, the
importance of Los Angeles is of recent date. In 1885 it was an adobe
village, dedicated to the Queen of the Angels; to-day, a city of
brick and stone, with more than fifty thousand inhabitants, it calls
itself the Queen of the State. Its streets are broad, many of its
buildings are massive and imposing, and its fine residences
beautiful. It is the capital of Southern California, and the
headquarters of its fruit-culture. The plains and valleys surrounding
it are one mass of vineyards, orange groves and orchards, and, in
1891, the value of oranges alone exported from this city amounted to
one and a quarter millions of dollars. It must be said, however, that
there is less verdure here than in well-cared-for eastern towns of
corresponding size, and that Los Angeles, and even Pasadena,
notwithstanding their many palm trees, have on the whole a bare
appearance, compared with a city like New Haven, with its majestic
elms and robe of vivid green, which even in autumn seems to dream of
summer bloom. Nevertheless, Los Angeles is clean, and poverty and
squalor rarely show themselves; while, in the suburbs of the city,
even the humblest dwellings are frequently surrounded by palm trees,
and made beautiful by flowers.
[Illustration: FREMONT'S HEADQUARTERS.]
[Illustration: PALATIAL RESIDENCES IN LOS ANGELES.]
[Illustration: LOS ANGELES.]
Another charm of Los Angeles is the sudden contrasts it presents.
Thus, a ride of three minutes from his hotel will bring the tourist
to the remains of the humble Mexican village which was the forerunner
of the present city. There he will find the inevitable Plaza with its
little park and fountain, without which no Mexican town is complete.
There, too, is the characteristic adobe church, the quaint interior
of which presents a curious medley of old weather-beaten statues and
modern furniture, and is always pervaded by that smell peculiar to
long-inhabited adobe buildings, and which is called by Steele, in his
charming "Old California Days," the national odor of Mexico.
Los Angeles, also, has its Chinatown, which in its manners and
customs is, fortunately, as distinct from the American portion of the
city as if it were an island in the Pacific; but it gave me an odd
sensation to be able to pass at once from the handsome, active
settlement of the Anglo-Saxon into the stupidity of Mexico, or the
heathenism of China.
[Illustration: PLAZA AND ADOBE CHURCH, LOS ANGELES.]
[Illustration: BROADWAY, LOS ANGELES.]
"How can I distinguish here a native Californian from an eastern
man?" I asked a resident.
"There are no native Californians," was the somewhat exaggerated
reply; "this is not only a modern, but an eastern city. Nine-tenths
of our inhabitants came here from the East less than fifteen years
ago, many of them less than five. We are an old people with a new
home."
Ostrich rearing is now a profitable industry of California, and farms
have been established for this purpose at half a dozen points in the
southern section of the State. Two of them are in the vicinity of Los
Angeles, and well repay a visit; for, if one is unacquainted with the
habits of these graceful birds, there is instruction as well as
amusement in studying their appearance, character, and mode of life.
My first view of the feathered bipeds was strikingly spectacular. As
every one knows, the ostrich is decidedly _décolleté_ as well as
utterly indifferent to the covering of its legs. Accordingly a troop
of them, as they came balancing and tiptoeing toward me, reminded me
of a company of ballet dancers tripping down the stage. While the
head of the ostrich is unusually small, its eyes are large and have
an expression of mischief which gives warning of danger. During a
visit to one of the farms, I saw a male bird pluck two hats from
unwary men, and it looked wicked enough to have taken their heads as
well, had they not been more securely fastened. It is sometimes
sarcastically asserted that the ostrich digests with satisfaction to
itself such articles as gimlets, nails, and penknives; but this is a
slander. It needs gravel, like all creatures of its class which have
to grind their food in an interior grist-mill; but though it will
usually bite at any bright object, it will not always swallow it. I
saw one peck at a ribbon on a lady's hat, and, also, at a pair of
shears in its keeper's hands, but this was no proof that it intended
to devour either. On another occasion, an ostrich snatched a purse
from a lady's hand and instantly dropped it; but when a gold piece
fell from it, the bird immediately swallowed that, showing how easily
even animals fall under the influence of Californian lust for gold.
[Illustration: AN OSTRICH FARM.]
[Illustration: ORANGE GROVE AVENUE, PASADENA.]
Sixteen miles from Los Angeles, yet owing to the clear atmosphere,
apparently, rising almost at the terminus of the city's streets,
stand the Sierra Madre Mountains, whose copious reservoirs furnish
this entire region with water. An excursion toward this noble range
brought me one day to Pasadena, the pride of all the towns which,
relatively to Los Angeles, resemble the satellites of a central sun.
Pasadena seems a garden without a weed; a city without a hovel; a
laughing, happy, prosperous, charming town, basking forever in the
sunshine, and lying at the feet of still, white mountain peaks, whose
cool breath moderates the semi-tropical heat of one of the most
exquisitely beautiful valleys in the world. These mountains, although
sombre and severe, are not so awful and forbidding as those of the
Arizona desert, but they are notched and jagged, as their name
_Sierra_ indicates, and scars and gashes on their surfaces give proof
of the terrific battles which they have waged for ages with the
elements. A striking feature of their scenery is that they rise so
abruptly from the San Gabriel Valley, that from Pasadena one can look
directly to their bases, and even ride to them in a trolley car; and
the peculiar situation of the city is evidenced by the fact that, in
midwinter, its residents, while picking oranges and roses in their
gardens, often see snow-squalls raging on the neighboring peaks of
the Sierra.
[Illustration: THREE MILES FROM ORANGES TO SNOW.]
It would be difficult to overpraise the charm of Pasadena and its
environs. Twenty-five years ago the site of the present city was a
sheep-pasture. To-day it boasts of a population of ten thousand
souls, seventy-five miles of well-paved streets, numerous handsome
public buildings, and hundreds of attractive homes embellished by
well-kept grounds. One of its streets is lined for a mile with
specimens of the fan palm, fifteen feet in height; and I realized the
prodigality of Nature here when my guide pointed out a heliotrope
sixteen feet in height, covering the whole porch of a house; while,
in driving through a private estate, I saw, in close proximity, sago
and date palms, and lemon, orange, camphor, pepper, pomegranate, fig,
quince, and walnut trees.
[Illustration: A PASADENA HOTEL.]
[Illustration: A PASADENA RESIDENCE.]
[Illustration: PASADENA.]
As we stood spellbound on the summit of Pasadena's famous Raymond
Hill, below us lay the charming town, wrapped in the calm repose that
distance always gives even to scenes of great activity; beyond this
stretched away along the valley such an enchanting vista of green
fields and golden flowers, and pretty houses nestling in foliage, and
orchards bending 'neath their luscious fruits, that it appeared a
veritable paradise; and the effect of light and color, the
combination of perfect sunshine and well-tempered heat, the view in
one direction of the ocean twenty miles away, and, in the other, of
the range of the Sierra Madre only seven miles distant, with the
San Gabriel Valley sleeping at its base, produced a picture so
divinely beautiful, that we were moved to smiles or tears with the
unreasoning rapture of a child over these lavish gifts of Nature. Yet
this same Nature has imposed an inexorable condition on the
recipients of her bounty; for most of this luxuriance is dependent
upon irrigation. "The palm," said my informant, "will grow with
little moisture here, and so will barley and the grape-vine; but
everything else needs water, which must be artificially supplied."
"How do you obtain it?" I asked.
"We buy the requisite amount of water with our land," was the reply.
"Do you see that little pipe," he added, pointing to an orange grove,
"and do you notice the furrows between the trees? Once in so often
the water must be turned on there; and, as the land is sloping, the
precious liquid gradually fills the trenches and finds its way to the
roots of the trees."
[Illustration: A RAISIN RANCH.]
Dealers in California wines declare that people ought to use them in
preference to the imported vintage of Europe, and the warehouses they
have built prove the sincerity of their conviction. One storehouse in
the San Gabriel Valley is as large as the City Hall of New York, and
contains wooden receptacles for wine rivaling in size the great tun
of Heidelberg. We walked between its endless rows of hogsheads,
filled with wine; and, finally, in the sample-room were invited to
try in turn the claret, burgundy, sherry, port, and brandy.
[Illustration: AN ORANGE GROVE, PASADENA.]
[Illustration: A CALIFORNIA VINEYARD.]
"How much wine do you make?" I asked the gentleman in charge.
"In one year," was the reply, "we made a million gallons."
I thought of the Los Angeles River which I had crossed that morning,
and of its sandy bed one hundred feet in width, with a current in
the centre hardly larger than the stream from a hose-pipe, and
remarked, "Surely, in some portions of this land there is more wine
than water." "Where do you sell it?" I presently inquired.
"Everywhere," was the answer, "even in France; and what goes over
there you subsequently buy, at double the price, for real French
wine."
[Illustration: AT THE BASE OF THE MOUNTAINS.]
It was the old story, and I doubt not there is truth in it; but the
products of California vineyards, owing, possibly, to the very
richness of the soil, do not seem to me to possess a flavor equal in
delicacy to that of the best imported wines. This will, however, be
remedied in time, and in the comparatively near future this may
become the great wine-market of the world. Certainly no State in the
Union has a climate better adapted to vine-growing, and there are now
within its borders no less than sixty million vines, which yield
grapes and raisins of the finest quality.
No visit to Pasadena would be complete without an excursion to the
neighboring mountains, which not only furnish the inhabitants with
water, but, also, contribute greatly to their happiness and
recreation. For, having at last awakened to the fact that comfort and
delight awaited them in the recesses and upon the summits of their
giant hills, the Californians have built fine roads along the
mountain sides, established camping-grounds and hostelries at several
attractive points, and, finally, constructed a remarkable elevated
railroad, by which the people of Los Angeles can, in three hours,
reach the crest of the Sierra Madre, six thousand feet above the sea.
Soon after leaving Pasadena, a trolley takes the tourist with great
rapidity straight toward the mountain wall, which, though presenting
at a distance the appearance of an unbroken rampart, disintegrates as
he approaches it into separate peaks; so that the crevices, which
look from Pasadena like mere wrinkles on the faces of these granite
giants, prove upon close inspection to be cañons of considerable
depth. I was surprised and charmed to see the amount of cultivation
which is carried to the very bases of these cliffs. Orchards and
orange groves approach the monsters fearlessly, and shyly drop golden
fruit, or fragrant blossoms at their feet; while lovely homes are
situated where the traveler would expect to find nothing but desolate
crags and savage wildness. The truth is, the inhabitants have come to
trust these mountains, as gentle animals sometimes learn by
experience to approach man fearlessly; and, seeing what the
snow-capped peaks can do for them in tempering the summer heat and
furnishing them water from unfailing reservoirs, men have discerned
behind their stern severity the smile of friendship and benevolence,
and have perceived that these sublime dispensers of the gifts of
Nature are in reality beneficent deities,--their feet upon the land
which they make fertile, their hands uplifted to receive from the
celestial treasure-house the blessings they in turn give freely to
the grateful earth.
[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN ON THE SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.]
[Illustration: THE ALPINE TAVERN.]
[Illustration: THE GREAT INCLINE.]
To reach their serrated crests the trolley car, already mentioned,
conveys us through a wild gorge known as Rubio Cañon, and leaves us
at the foot of an elevated cable-road to ascend Mount Lowe. Even
those familiar with the Mount Washington and Catskill railways, or
who have ascended in a similar manner to Mürren from the Vale of
Lauterbrunnen, or to the summit of Mount Pilate from Lucerne, look
with some trepidation at this incline, the steepest part of which has
a slope of sixty-two degrees, and, audaciously, stretches into the
air to a point three thousand feet above our heads. Once safely out
of the cable car, however, at the upper terminus, we smile, and think
the worst is over. It is true, we see awaiting us another innocent
looking electric car by which we are to go still higher; but we are
confident that nothing very terrible can be experienced in a trolley.
This confidence is quickly shattered. I doubt if there is anything in
the world more "hair lifting" than the road over which that car
conveys its startled occupants. Its very simplicity makes it the more
horrifying; for, since the vehicle is light, no massive supports are
deemed essential; and, as the car is open, the passengers seem to be
traveling in a flying machine. I never realized what it was to be a
bird, till I was lightly swung around a curve beneath which yawned a
precipice twenty-five hundred feet in depth, or crossed a chasm by a
bridge which looked in the distance like a thread of gossamer, or saw
that I was riding on a scaffolding, built out from the mountain into
space. For five appalling miles of alternating happiness and horror,
ecstasy and dread, we twisted round the well-nigh perpendicular
cliffs, until, at last the agony over, we walked into the mountain
tavern near the summit, and, seating ourselves before an open fire
blazing in the hall, requested some restorative nerve-food. Yet this
aërial inn is only one hundred and eighty minutes from Los Angeles;
and it is said that men have snow-balled one another at this tavern,
picked oranges at the base of the mountain, and bathed in the bay of
Santa Monica, thirty miles distant, all in a single afternoon. It
certainly is possible to do this, but it should be remembered that
stories are almost the only things in California which do not need
irrigation to grow luxuriantly. I was told that although this
mountain railway earns its running expenses it pays no interest on
its enormous cost. This can readily be believed; and one marvels, not
only that it was ever built, but that it was not necessary to go to a
lunatic asylum for the first passenger. Nevertheless, it is a
wonderfully daring experiment, and accomplishes perfectly what it was
designed to do; while in proportion as one's nervousness wears away,
the experience is delightful.
[Illustration: THE CIRCULAR BRIDGE.]
[Illustration: IMITATING A BIRD.]
[Illustration: SWINGING ROUND A CURVE.]
[Illustration: THE INNOCENT TROLLEY.]
Living proofs of the progress made in California are the patient
burros, which, previous to the construction of this railroad, formed
the principal means of transportation up Mount Lowe. Why has the
donkey never found a eulogist? The horse is universally admired. The
Arab poet sings of the beauties of his camel. The bull, the cow, the
dog, and even the cat have all been praised in prose or verse; but
the poor donkey still remains an ass, the butt of ridicule, the
symbol of stupidity, the object of abuse. Yet if there be another and
a better world for animals, and if in that sphere patience ranks as a
cardinal virtue, the ass will have a better pasture-ground than
many of its rivals. The donkey's small size is against it. Most
people are cruel toward dumb beasts, and only when animals have power
to defend themselves, does caution make man kinder. He hesitates to
hurt an elephant, and even respects, to some extent, the rear
extremities of a mule; but the donkey corresponds to the small boy in
a crowd of brutal playmates. It is difficult to see how these useful
animals could be replaced in certain countries of the world.
Purchased cheaply, reared inexpensively, living on thistles if they
get nothing better, and bearing heavy burdens till they drop from
exhaustion, these little beasts are of incalculable value to the
laboring classes of southern Europe, Egypt, Mexico, and similar
lands. If they have failed to win affection, it is, perhaps, because
of their one infirmity,--their fearful vocal tones, which in America
have won for them the sarcastic title of "Rocky Mountain Canaries."
[Illustration: MIDWINTER IN CALIFORNIA.]
[Illustration: A CALIFORNIAN BURRO.]
[Illustration: ROMEO AND JULIET.]
Westward from Los Angeles stretches the famous "kite-shaped" track
which takes the traveler through the most celebrated orange and lemon
districts of the State. Starting upon this memorable excursion, our
route lay through the world-renowned San Gabriel Valley, a glorious
expanse ten miles in width and seventy in length, steeped in
sunshine, brilliant with every shade of yellow, emerald, and brown,
and here and there enriched by spots of brighter color where beds of
wild flowers swung their sweet bells noiselessly, or the light green
of orange trees, with mounds of golden fruit heaped in profusion on
the ground, relieved the sombre groves of eucalyptus whose foliage
was so dark as to be nearly black. Occasionally, however, our train
traversed a parched area which illustrated how the cloven-foot of the
adversary always shows itself in spots unhallowed by the benison of
water. In winter and spring, these sterile points would not be so
conspicuous, but on that summer day, in spite of the closed windows,
dust sometimes filled the cars, and for a little while San Gabriel
Valley was a paradise lost. For seventy miles contrasts of hot sand
and verdant orchards, arid wastes and smiling valley, followed one
another in quick succession,--and down upon it all frowned the long
wall of the Sierra Madre.
[Illustration: SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.]
[Illustration: GATHERING POPPIES AT THE BASE OF THE SIERRA MADRE.]
It is a wonderful experience to ride for such a distance in a
perfectly level valley, and see an uninterrupted range of mountains,
eight thousand feet in height, rising abruptly from the plain like
the long battle-line of an invading army. What adds to its
impressiveness is the fact that these peaks are, for the entire
country which they dominate, the arbiters of life and death. Beyond
them, on one side, the desert stretches eastward for a thousand
miles; upon the other, toward the ocean, whose moisture they receive
and faithfully distribute, extends this valley of delight. The height
of the huge granite wall is generally uniform, save where, like
towers on the mighty rampart, old San Antonio and the San Bernardino
Brothers lift their hoary heads two miles above the sea,--their
silvery crowns and dazzling features standing out in the crystalline
clearness of the atmosphere as if they had been carved in high
relief.
[Illustration: AN ADOBE HOUSE.]
[Illustration: A PASADENA LEMON TREE.]
We sped along, with feelings alternating between elation and
dejection, as the scenery was beautiful or barren, till, suddenly,
some sixty miles from Los Angeles, our train drew up before a city,
containing asphalt pavements, buildings made of brick, and streets
embowered in palms. This city which, in 1872, was a sheep-ranch, yet
whose assessed valuation, in 1892, was more than four million
dollars, is called Riverside; but, save in the rainy season, one
looks in vain for the stream from which it takes its name. The
river has retired, as so many western rivers do, to wander in
obscurity six feet below the sand. "A providential thing," said a wag
to me, "for, in such heat as this, if the water rose to the surface
it would all evaporate." The sun was, indeed, ardent as we walked
through the town, and we were impressed by the fact that the
dwellings most appropriate for this region are those which its first
settlers seem to have instinctively adopted; for the white,
one-storied adobe house, refreshing to the eye, cool in the heat,
warm in the cold, caressed by clinging vines and overhung with trees,
is surely the ideal residence for Southern California. Such buildings
can, of course, be greatly varied and embellished by wealthy owners;
but modern houses of red brick, fanciful "Queen Annes," and
imitations of castles, seem less suited to this land of sun and sand,
where nothing is so much to be desired as repose in form and color. I
always welcomed, therefore, genuine southern dwellings and, in the
place of asphalt pavements, natural roadways domed by arching trees.
[Illustration: A HOUSE MODELED AFTER THE OLD MEXICAN FASHION.]
[Illustration: THE IDEAL HOME.]
The pride of Riverside is its far-famed Magnolia Avenue, fifteen
miles in length, with two broad driveways lined with pepper and
eucalyptus trees. Beyond these also are palm-girt sidewalks twenty
feet in breadth; while, here and there, reflecting California's
golden sunshine from their glistening leaves, stand groups of the
magnificent magnolias which give the avenue its name.
"Why did you make this splendid promenade?" I asked in mingled
curiosity and admiration.
"It is one of our ways of booming things," was the reply; "out of the
hundreds of people who come to see it, some stay, build houses, and
go into business. Without it they might never have come at all."
"Was not the cost of laying it out enormous?" I inquired.
"Not so great as you would naturally suppose," was the answer, "for
after this country has once been irrigated, whatever is planted on
watered land will grow like interest, day and night, summer and
winter."
[Illustration: MAGNOLIA AVENUE, RIVERSIDE.]
[Illustration: A MAGNOLIA BLOSSOM.]
Riverside's fortunes were made in orange culture, and there was a
time when every one who planted orange trees was prosperous; but now,
under inevitable competition, this enterprise is rivaled in value by
other large industries, particularly the cultivation of lemons and
olives. Thousands of acres of olive orchards are now flourishing in
Southern California, and are considered a sure and profitable
investment.
Another celebrated "orange city" is Redlands, where the visitor
ceases to wonder at nature, and devotes himself to marveling at man.
How can he do otherwise when, in a place that was a wilderness ten
years ago, he drives for twenty miles over well-curbed roads, sixty
feet wide and as hard as asphalt, or strolls through handsome streets
adorned with palms and orange trees, and frequently embellished with
residences worthy of Newport? No doubt it is a surprise to many
tourists to find such elegant homes in these cities which were born
but yesterday; for Americans in the East, though far from
conservative themselves, do not, as a rule, appreciate the wonderful
growth of these towns which but a few years since had no existence.
Occasionally some neighbor goes out to the Pacific coast, and tells
his friends on his return what he has seen; but it makes little
impression until they go themselves. They think he is exaggerating.
"Would you like to see a converted mountain?" inquired my guide.
"What do you mean?" I asked incredulously.
"You will see," he replied, "and in ten minutes we shall be there."
[Illustration: PART OF THE "CONVERTED MOUNTAIN," REDLANDS.]
Accordingly, up we drove over magnificent, finely graded roads, till
we arrived at what appeared to be a gentleman's private park. The
park, however, seemed to have no limit, and we rode on through a
bewildering extent of cemented stone walls, umbrageous trees,
luxuriant flowers, trailing vines, and waving palms. At last we
reached the summit, and what a view unrolled itself before us!
Directly opposite, the awful wall of the Sierra swept up to meet our
vision in all its majesty of granite glory, like an immense,
white-crested wave, one hundred miles in length, which had by some
mysterious force been instantaneously curbed and petrified, just as
it was about to break and overwhelm the valley with destruction.
Beneath it, for seventy miles in exquisitely blended hues, stretched
the wonderful San Gabriel intervale, ideal in its tranquil
loveliness. Oh, the splendor, opulence, and sweetness of its
countless flowers, whose scarlet, gold, and crimson glowed and melted
into the richest sheen of velvet, and rendered miles of pure air
redolent with perfume, as grapes impart their flavor to good wine!
In gazing on this valley from a distance one would fain believe it to
be in reality, as in appearance, an idyllic garden of Arcadian
innocence and happiness, and, forgetting the disillusions of maturer
years, dream that all human hearts are as transparent as its
atmosphere, and that all life is no less sweet and pure.
[Illustration: A DRIVEWAY IN REDLANDS.]
But, presently, I asked again, "What do you mean by a _converted_
mountain?"
"Eight years ago," was the reply, "this elevation on which we stand
was a heap of yellow sand, like many unconverted mountains that we
see about us; now it has been transformed into a dozen miles of
finished roads and extensive gardens enclosing two fine residences."
"Pardon me," I exclaimed, "here are trees thirty feet high."
"All grown in eight years," he answered.
"Still," I again protested, "here are stone walls, and curbed and
graded roads."
"All made in eight years," he reiterated.
"But, in addition to this mountain, how about the twenty miles of
orange groves surrounding it, the thirty thousand dollar public
library of Redlands, and its miles of asphalt streets?"
"All in eight years," he said again, as if, like Poe's raven, he had
been taught one refrain.
[Illustration: THE SIERRA MADRE AND THE SAN GABRIEL VALLEY.]
[Illustration: A FEW "UNCONVERTED MOUNTAINS," NEAR REDLANDS.]
In fact, it should be said that this entire mountain was purchased by
two wealthy brothers who now come every winter from the East to this
incomparable hill, the whole of which has been, as if by magic,
metamorphosed into an estate, where visitors are allowed to find
instruction and delight upon its lofty terraces of forest and of
flowers. Is it strange, then, that such sudden transformations of
sterile plains and mountains into bits of paradise make tourists in
Southern California wildly enthusiastic? They actually see fulfilled
before their eyes the prophecy of Isaiah, "The desert shall rejoice,
and blossom as the rose." The explanation is, however, simple. The
land is really rich. The ingredients are already here. Instead of
being worthless, as was once supposed, this is a precious soil. The
Aladdin's wand that unlocks all its treasures is the irrigating
ditch; its "open sesame" is water; and the divinity who, at the call
of man, bestows the priceless gift, is the Madre of the Sierras. A
Roman conqueror once said that he had but to stamp upon the earth and
legions would spring up to do his bidding. So Capital has stamped
upon this sandy wilderness, and in a single generation a civilized
community has leaped into astonished life. Yet do we realize the
immense amount of labor necessitated by such irrigation? This
mountain, for example, is covered with water pipes, as electric wires
are carried through our houses. Every few rods a pipe with a faucet
rises from the ground; and as there are miles of roads and hundreds
of cultivated acres, it can with difficulty be imagined how many of
these pipes have been laid, and how innumerable are the little
ditches, through which the water is made to flow. Should man relax
his diligence for a single year, the region would relapse into
sterility; but, on the other hand, what a land is this for those who
have the skill and industry to call forth all its capabilities! What
powers of productiveness may still be sleeping underneath its soil,
awaiting but the kiss of water and the touch of man to waken them to
life! Beside its hidden rivers what future cities may spring forth
to joyous being; and what new, undiscovered chemistry may not this
mingling of mountain, sun, and ocean yet evolve to prove a permanent
blessing to mankind!
[Illustration: GROUNDS OF THE SMILEY BROTHERS ON THE "CONVERTED
MOUNTAIN."]
[Illustration: IRRIGATING DITCHES.]
One hundred and twenty-six miles southwest of Los Angeles, one could
imagine that he had reached the limit of the civilized world:
eastward, the desert stretches far away to the bases of the San
Jacinto Mountains; westward, thousands of miles of ocean billows
shoulder one another toward the setting sun; southward, extends that
barren, almost unknown strip of earth, the peninsula of Lower
California; yet in this _cul-de-sac_, this corner between mountain,
desert, and sea, rises a charming and inspiring picture,--San Diego.
[Illustration: SAN DIEGO.]
The beautiful harbor of this city is almost closed, on one side, by a
bold majestic promontory called Point Loma; and on the other, by a
natural breakwater, in the form of a crescent, twelve miles long,
upon the outer rim of which the ocean beats a ceaseless monody. At
one extremity of this silver strand, directly opposite Point Loma and
close to the rhythmic surf, stands the Hotel Coronado; its west front
facing the Pacific, its east side looking on the azure of the
peaceful bay, beyond which rises San Diego with a population of
twenty thousand souls. To reach this hotel, the tourist crosses the
harbor from the city by a ferry, and then in an electric car is
whirled for a mile along an avenue which he might well suppose was
leading him to some magnificent family estate. The pavement is
delightfully smooth and hard; on either side are waving palms and
beds of radiant flowers; two charming parks, with rare botanical
shrubs and trees, are, also, visible and hold invitingly before him
the prospect of delightful hours in their fragrant labyrinths; and,
finally, out of a semi-tropical garden, the vast extent of which he
does not comprehend at first, rises the far-famed hostelry which,
itself, covers about four and a half acres of ground, at the extreme
southwestern corner of the Union, and on a spot which yesterday was a
mere tongue of sand. In the tourist season this palatial place of
entertainment presents a brilliant throng of joyous guests who have,
apparently, subscribed to the motto: "All care abandon ye, who enter
here." It is one of the few spots on this continent where the great
faults of our American civilization--worry and incessant work--are
not conspicuous. Men of the North too frequently forget that the
object of life is not work, but that the object of work is life. In
lands like Southern California, however, where flowers fill the air
with fragrance, where fruits are so abundant that starvation is
impossible, and where the nerves are not continually whipped by
atmospheric changes into restless energy, men live more calmly,
probably more rationally. Sunshine, roses, and the throbbing tones of
the guitar would seem to be the most appropriate sources of amusement
here. Meanwhile the northern millionaire breaks down from overwork
and leaves his money to be squandered by his relatives. Yet he also,
till the last gasp, claims that he is happy. What is happiness?
_Quien sabe_?
[Illustration: POINT LOMA.]
[Illustration: HOTEL CORONADO.]
[Illustration: COURTYARD OF THE HOTEL.]
The country about San Diego is a miniature reproduction of the plains
of Arizona and New Mexico, and just above the city rises a genuine
_mesa_, which, though comparatively small, resembles the large
table-lands of the interior, and was formed in the same way. Cutting
it, here and there, are little cañons, like that through which the
Colorado rolls, not a mile deep, but still illustrative of the
erosion made here by the rivers of a distant age; for these gashes
are the result of rushing water, and every stone upon this small
plateau has been worn round and smooth by friction with its fellows,
tossed, whirled, and beaten by the waves of centuries. Strange, is
it not, that though, like many other areas of our continent, this
region was once fashioned and completely ruled by water, at present
it has practically none; and men must often bring the precious liquid
fifty miles to crown the soil with beauty and fertility.
[Illustration: VIEW FROM THE TABLE-LAND.]
[Illustration: PACHANGO INDIANS AT HOME.]
[Illustration: A CHRISTIANIZED INDIAN.]
[Illustration: THE MISSION BELLS.]
The old town of San Diego, four miles north of the present city, is
now almost abandoned. Only a dozen adobe buildings kept in fair
repair, and as many more in ruins, mark the site. The little chapel
is still used for worship, and from an uncouth wooden frame outside
its walls hang two of the old Mission bells which formerly rang out
the Angelus over the sunset waves. My guide carelessly struck them
with the butt of his whip, and called forth from their consecrated
lips of bronze a sound which, in that scene of loneliness, at first
seemed like a wail of protest at the sacrilege, and finally died away
into a muffled intonation resembling a stifled sob. Roused by the
unexpected call, there presently appeared an Indian who looked as if
he might have been contemporary with Methuselah. No wrinkled leaf
that had been blown about the earth for centuries could have appeared
more dry and withered than this centenarian, whose hair drooped from
his skull like Spanish moss, and whose brown hands resembled lumps of
adobe.
[Illustration: AN AGED SQUAW.]
"I am glad to have you see this man," said the guide, "for he has
rung these bells for seventy years, and is said to be more than a
hundred years old."
I could not obtain a portrait of this decrepit bell-ringer, for many
Indians are superstitiously opposed to being photographed; but I
procured the picture of an equally shriveled female aged one hundred
and thirty who might have been his sister.
[Illustration: RELICS OF AN ANCIENT RACE.]
[Illustration: "ECSTATIC BATHERS."]
"This," remarked my guide with a smile, "is what the climate of San
Diego does for the natives."
"The glorious climate of California" has been for years a theme of
song and story, and a discussion of its merits forms one of the
principal occupations of the dwellers on the Pacific coast. It is
indeed difficult to see how tourists could pass their time here
without this topic of conversation, so infinite is its variety and so
debatable are many of the conclusions drawn from it. It is the Sphinx
of California; differing, however, from the Sphinx of Egypt in that
it offers a new problem every day. The literature that treats of the
Pacific coast fairly bristles with statistics on this subject, and
many writers have found it impossible to resist the temptation of
adorning their pages with tables of humidity, temperature, and
rainfall. Some hotels even print in red letters at the top of the
stationery furnished to their guests:
"The temperature to-day is ----."
Among the photographs of San Diego are several which represent groups
of ecstatic bathers, ranging from small boys to elderly bald-headed
gentlemen, apparently ready to take a plunge into the Pacific; while
beneath them is displayed the legend, "January 1, 18--." Candor
compels me, however, to state that, as far as I was able to
ascertain, these pictured bathers rarely pay a New Year's call to
Neptune in his mighty palace, but content themselves in winter with
going no further than his ante-chambers,--the sheltered, sun-warmed
areas of public bath-houses.
[Illustration: MIDWINTER AT LOS ANGELES.]
"I believe this to be the best climate in the world," said a
gentleman to me in San Diego, "but I confess that, when strangers are
visiting me, it occasionally does something it ought not to do."
The truth is, there are several climates in Southern California, some
of which are forced upon the resident, while others can be secured by
going in search of them in a trolley car or a railway carriage. The
three determining factors in the problem of temperature are the
desert, the ocean, and the mountains. Thus, in midsummer, although
it may be fiercely hot in the inland valleys, it is invariably cool
in the mountains on account of their altitude, and near the shore
because the hot air rising from the desert invites a daily ocean
breeze. Even at a distance from the comfortable coast, humanity never
passes into that abject, panting, and perspiring condition in which
the inhabitants of the Eastern States are usually seen when the
mercury goes to ninety. The nights are always cool; although not
quite as much so in July as the enthusiasts tell us who have never
seen the country later in the season than the month of May, and who
weary us with the threadbare tale of never sleeping without a
blanket.
"Is it true, madam," I said to a lady of San Diego, "that here one
must always take a blanket to bed with him?"
"Hush," she replied, "never ask that question unless you are sure
that there are no tourists within hearing."
[Illustration: PIER AT SANTA MONICA.]
[Illustration: AVALON, SANTA CATALINA ISLAND.]
Three statements are, I think, unquestionably accurate: first, that
for many months of the year the residents need not take into
consideration for a moment the possibility of rain; second, that on
account of this drought there must inevitably be during that period a
superfluity of dust; and, third, that every day there will be felt "a
cool refreshing breeze," which frequently increases to a strong wind.
My memory of California will always retain a vivid impression of this
wind, and the effect of it upon the trees is evident from the fact
that it has compelled most of them to lean toward the east, while one
of the last sights I beheld in San Diego was a man chasing his hat.
Nevertheless, acclimated Californians would no more complain of their
daily breeze, however vigorous, than a man would speak disrespectfully
of his mother.
As in most semi-tropical countries, there is a noticeable difference
in temperature between sun and shade. In the sun one feels a genial
glow, or even a decided heat; but let him step into the shade, or
stand on a street-corner waiting for a car, and the cool wind from
the mountains or the ocean will be felt immediately. People
accustomed to these changes pay little heed to them; but to
new-comers the temperature of the shade, and even that of the
interiors of the hotels and houses, appears decidedly cool.
[Illustration: NOT AFRAID OF THE SUN.]
One day, in June, I was invited to dine at a fruit-ranch a few miles
from Pasadena. The heat in the sun was intense, and I noticed that
the mercury indicated ninety-five degrees; but, unlike the atmosphere
of New York in a heated term, the air did not remind me of a Turkish
bath. The heat of Southern California is dry, and it is absolutely
true that the highest temperature of an arid region rarely entails as
much physical discomfort as a temperature fifteen or twenty degrees
lower in the Eastern States, when accompanied by humidity. The
moisture in a torrid atmosphere is what occasions most of the
distress and danger, the best proof of which is the fact that while,
every summer, hundreds of people are prostrated by sunstroke near the
Atlantic coast, such a calamity has never occurred in New Mexico,
Arizona, or California. Moreover, when the mercury in Los Angeles
rises, as it occasionally does, to one hundred degrees, the
inhabitants of that city have a choice of several places of refuge:
in two or three hours they can reach the mountains; or in an hour
they can enjoy themselves upon Redondo Beach; or they may take a
trolley car and, sixty minutes later, stroll along the sands of Santa
Monica, inhaling a refreshing breeze, blowing practically straight
from Japan; or, if none of these resorts is sufficiently attractive,
three hours after leaving Los Angeles they can fish on Santa Catalina
Island, a little off the coast; or linger in the groves of Santa
Barbara; or, perhaps, best of all can be invigorated by the saline
breath of the Pacific sweeping through the corridors of the Coronado.
Santa Catalina Island is, in particular, a delightful pleasure-resort,
whose beautiful, transparent waters, remarkable fishing-grounds, and
soft, though tonic-giving air, which comes to it from every point of
the compass over a semi-tropic sea, are so alluring that thousands of
contented people often overflow its hotels and camp in tents along
the beach.
[Illustration: IN COTTONWOOD CAÑON, SANTA CATALINA.]
[Illustration: LILIPUTIAN AND GIANT.]
[Illustration: ON THE BEACH AT SANTA CATALINA.]
That the winter climate of Southern California, not only on the
coast, but in the interior, is delightful, is beyond question. What
was healthful a hundred years ago to the Spanish monks who settled
here, proved equally so to those adventurous "Forty-niners" who
entered California seeking gold, and is still more beneficial to
those who now come to enjoy its luxuries and comforts. Flowers and
fruit are found here throughout the entire year. The rainy days are
few, and frosts are as ephemeral as the dew; and to the aged, the
invalids, the fugitives from frost, and the "fallen soldiers of
civilization," who are no longer able to make a courageous fight
with eastern storms and northern cold, San Diego is a climatic
paradise. Accordingly, from early October until April the overland
trains roll westward from a land of snow and frost to one of sun and
flowers, bearing an annually increasing multitude of invalids and
pleasure-seekers, some of whom have expensive permanent homes and
costly ranches here--like that of Mr. Andrew McNally, at
Altadena--while others find abundant comfort in the fine hotels.
[Illustration: AN OLD CALIFORNIAN TRADING POST.]
[Illustration: A BIT OF NATURE ON THE COAST.]
Perhaps the principal secret of the charm of the winter climate of
Southern California, as well as that of its wonderfulhealth-restoring
properties, lies in the fact that its dry, pure air and even
temperature make it possible for one to live continuously out of
doors. Yet, though not cold, it is a temperature cool enough to be
free from summer languor.
[Illustration: CALIFORNIAN PALMS.]
Especially attractive to the visitors from the North are the palms of
Southern California. Many of these resemble monstrous pineapples
terminating in gigantic ferns. What infinite variety the palm tree
has, now dwarfed in height, yet sending out on every side a mass of
thick green leaves; now rising straight as an obelisk from the desert
sand, and etching its fine feathery tufts against the sky; now
bearing luscious fruit of different kinds; now furnishing material
for clothing, fishing-nets, and matting; or putting forth those
slender fronds, frequently twenty feet in length, which are sent
North by florists to decorate dwellings and churches for festivals
and weddings! The palm is typical of the South, as the pine is of the
North. One hints to us of brilliant skies, a tropic sun, and an easy,
indolent existence; the other suggests bleak mountains and the
forests of northern hills, and symbolizes the conflict there between
man and nature, in which both fortitude and daring have been needful
to make man the conqueror. One finds a fascination in contrasting
these two children of old Mother Earth, and thinks of Heine's lines:
"A pine tree standeth lonely
On a northern mountain's height;
It sleeps, while around it is folded
A mantle of snowy white.
"It is dreaming of a palm tree
In a far-off Orient land,
Which lonely and silent waiteth
In the desert's burning sand."
[Illustration: HERMIT VALLEY NEAR SAN DIEGO.]
On my last day at San Diego, I walked in the morning sunshine on
Coronado Beach. The beauty of the sea and shore was almost
indescribable: on one side rose Point Loma, grim and gloomy as a
fortress wall; before me stretched away to the horizon the ocean
with its miles of breakers curling into foam; between the surf and
the city, wrapped in its dark blue mantle, lay the sleeping bay;
eastward, the mingled yellow, red, and white of San Diego's buildings
glistened in the sunlight like a bed of coleus; beyond the city
heaved the rolling plains, rich in their garb of golden brown, from
which rose distant mountains, tier on tier, wearing the purple veil
which Nature here loves oftenest to weave for them; while, in the
foreground, like a jewel in a brilliant setting, stood the Coronado.
[Illustration: THE PACIFIC.]
The fascination of Southern California had at last completely
captured me. Its combination of ocean, desert, and mountain, its
pageantry of color, and its composite life of city, ranch, and beach
had cast over me a magic spell. It was, however, a lonely sea that
spread its net of foam before my feet. During my stay I had not seen
a single steamer on its surface, and only rarely had a few swift
sea-birds, fashioned by man's hand, dotted the azure for a little
with their white wings, ere they dipped below the horizon's rim.
Hence, though the old, exhilarating, briny odor was the same, I felt
that, as an ocean, this was unfamiliar. The Atlantic's waves are
haunted by historic memories, but few reminders of antiquity rise
ghostlike from the dreary waste of the Pacific. Few battles have been
fought, few conquests made upon these shores. On the Atlantic coast
one feels that he is looking off toward civilized and friendly lands,
across a sea which ocean greyhounds have made narrow; but here three
purple islands, floating on the limitless expanse, suggest mysterious
archipelagoes scattered starlike on its area, thousands of miles
away, before a continent is reached; and one vaguely imagines
unknown races, coral reefs, and shores of fronded palms, where
Nature smiles indulgently upon a pagan paradise. Nevertheless its
very mystery and vastness give to the Pacific a peculiar charm, which
changeful Orient seas, and even the turbulent Atlantic, never can
impart. Instinctively we stand uncovered in the presence of the
mightiest ocean on our planet. It is at once the symbol and the fact
of majesty; and the appalling sense of trackless space which it
inspires, the rhythm of unmeasured and immeasureable waves, together
with the moaning of the surf upon the sand, at times completely
overwhelm us with suggestions of the Infinite, until no language
seems appropriate, unless it shapes itself in prayer.
[Illustration: "A SEA-BIRD FASHIONED BY MAN'S HAND."]
[Illustration: A LONELY OCEAN.]
In Helen Hunt Jackson's novel, "Ramona," the romance of this region
has found immortality. What "Romola" is to mediaeval Florence,
"Ramona" is to Southern California. It has embalmed in the memory of
the nation a lost cause and a vanished race. Less than one hundred
years ago, where the Anglo-Saxon has since built railroads, erected
manufactories, and created cities, a life was lived, so different in
its character from all that followed or preceded it, that only a
story like "Ramona" could make it appear real. At that time about
twenty "Missions"--which were in reality immense ecclesiastical
farms--bordered the coast for seven hundred miles. For when the New
World had been suddenly revealed to the astonished gaze of Europe, it
was not merely the adventurous conqueror who hastened to these
shores. The priest accompanied him, and many enthusiastic soldiers of
the Cross embarked to bear to the benighted souls beyond the sea the
tidings of salvation. Missionary enterprises were not then what they
are to-day. Nothing was known with certainty of the strange tribes on
this side of the globe, and there was often a heroism in the labors
of self-sacrificing missionaries to America, which far surpassed the
courage of the buccaneer. Many exploring expeditions to this western
land received the blessing of the Church, and were conducted, not
alone for obtaining territory and gold, but for the conversion of
the inhabitants. In Mexico and Peru the priests had followed, rather
than led the way; but in California, under the lead of Father
Junipero, they took the initiative, and the salvation of souls was
one of the principal purposes of the invaders. This did not, however,
prevent the Franciscans, who took possession of the land, from
selecting with great wisdom its very best locations; but, having done
so, they soon brought tens of thousands of Indians under spiritual
and temporal control. These natives were, for the most part, as
gentle and teachable as the Fathers were patient and wise; and, in
1834, a line of Missions stretched from San Diego to Monterey, and
the converted Indians numbered about twenty thousand, many of whom
had been trained to be carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, saddlers,
tailors, millers, and farmers. Three-quarters of a million cattle
grazed upon the Mission pastures, as well as sixty thousand horses;
fruits, grain, and flowers grew in their well-cultivated valleys
until the country blossomed like the Garden of the Lord; and in the
midst of all this industry and agricultural prosperity the native
converts obeyed their Christian masters peacefully and happily, and
came as near to a state of civilization as Indians have ever come.
[Illustration: RAMONA'S HOME.]
[Illustration: THE CHAPEL, RAMONA'S HOME.]
[Illustration: PALMS NEAR SAN FERNANDO MISSION.]
[Illustration: CORRIDOR, SAN FERNANDO MISSION.]
Presently the Mexicans made their appearance here; but, though they
held and managed enormous ranches, the situation was comparatively
unchanged; for they maintained harmonious relations with the
Missions, and had no serious difficulties with the Indians. Thus life
went on for nearly half a century, and seemed to the good Fathers
likely to go on forever; for who, they thought, would ever cross the
awful eastern plains to interfere with their Arcadian existence, or
what invading force would ever approach them over the lonely sea? But
history repeats itself. The Missions soon became too rich not to
excite cupidity; and those who coveted their lands and herds
declared, as an excuse for violence, that the poor Indians were held
in a state of slavery, and should be made to depend upon themselves.
At length, in 1833, the Mexican Government by a decree of
secularization ruined the Missions; but the Indians, although not so
prosperous and well treated as under the Fathers, still kept, through
Mexican protection, most of their privileges and the lands they
owned. Finally came the Anglo-Saxon, and, under the imperious
civilization that poured into California from 1840 to 1860, the
pastoral age soon disappeared. The Missions, which had already lost
much of their property and power under the Mexican Government,
quickly shrank after this new invasion into decrepitude. The
practical Anglo-Saxon introduced railroads, electricity, commerce,
mammoth hotels, and scientific irrigation, all of which the Fathers,
Mexicans, and Indians never would have cared for. Nevertheless, with
his arrival, the curtain fell upon as peaceful a life-drama as the
world had seen.
[Illustration: SANTA BARBARA.]
[Illustration: SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO.]
[Illustration: GROUP OF FRANCISCAN FRIARS.]
To the reader, thinker, and poet the memories and associations of
these Missions form, next to the gifts of Nature, the greatest charm
of Southern California; and, happily, although that semi-patriarchal
life has passed away, its influence still lingers; for, scattered
along the coast--some struggling in poverty, some lying in
neglect--are the adobe churches, cloisters, and fertile
Mission-fields of San Juan Capistrano, San Fernando Rey, Santa
Monica, Santa Barbara, and Santa Cruz, all of which still preserve
the soft and gracious names, so generously given in those early days,
and fill us with a genuine reverence for the sandaled monks, who by
incessant toil transformed this barren region into a garden, covered
these boundless plains with flocks and herds, and dealt so wisely
with the Indians that even their poor descendants, to-day, reverence
their memory.
[Illustration: CHIEF OF A TRIBE OF MISSION INDIANS.]
The Saxon has done vastly more, it is true; but, in some ways, he has
done much less. The very names which he bequeathed to places not
previously christened by the Spaniards, such as Gold Gulch, Hell's
Bottom, and Copperopolis, tell a more forcible, though not as
beautiful a tale, as the melodious titles, San Buenaventura, San
Francisco Dolores, Santa Clara, San Gabriel, and La Purissima.
[Illustration: INDIAN WOMEN.]
It is not, therefore, the busy streets and handsome dwellings of Los
Angeles and Pasadena, but the adobe ruins, the battered statues, the
cracked and voiceless bells, the poor remnants of the Indian tribes,
and even the old Spanish names, behind which lies a century of
sanctity and romance, which give to Southern California an atmosphere
of the Old World and harmonize most perfectly with its history.
[Illustration: SAN DIEGO MISSION.]
Most of the Mission buildings are in a sad condition. Earthquakes
have shattered some; neglect and malice have disfigured others; but a
society, composed alike of Catholics and Protestants, is now, in the
interest of the past, endeavoring to rescue them from utter ruin. It
is a worthy task. What subjects for a painter most of them present!
How picturesque are their old cloisters, looming up dark, grand, and
desolate against the sky! How worn and battered are they by the
storms of years! How tremblingly stands the Cross upon their ancient
towers, as if its sacred form had become feeble like the fraternity
that once flourished here! What witnesses they are of an irrevocable
past! Their crumbling walls, if they could speak, might grow
sublimely eloquent, and thrill us with inspiring tales of heroism,
patience, tact, and fortitude exhibited when these Missions bloomed
like flowery oases on the arid areas of the South and West, and
taught a faith of which their melancholy cloisters are the sad
memorials.
Ten miles from Los Angeles, the Southern Pacific railroad passes a
long edifice, the massive walls of which might lead us to suppose it
was a fortress, but for its cross and a few antiquated bells. It is
the church of the San Gabriel Mission. All other buildings of the
institution have disappeared; but this old edifice remains, and,
unless purposely destroyed by man, may stand here for five centuries
more, since its enormous walls are five feet thick, and the mortar
used in their construction has rendered them almost as solid as if
hewn from rock. As I descended, at the station a quarter of a mile
away, a little barefooted Mexican boy approached and shyly offered me
his hand. "Are you the Father," he asked?
"No," I said, "I am not the Father, but I have come to see the
church; can you show it to me?"
"But Padre Joaquin said I was to meet a Father."
"Well," I answered, "I am the only passenger who has come by this
train, so you had better walk back with me."
[Illustration: SAN GABRIEL MISSION CHURCH.]
The Mexican boys seem to be the best part of what Mexico has left in
California. This lad, for example, was attending an American school,
and appeared bright and ambitious, though so extremely courteous and
respectful that he seemed almost timid. The little hut in which he
lived was opposite the church, and he seemed perfectly familiar with
the sacred structure. "See," he said, pointing to some mutilated
wooden statues in the poor, scantily furnished sacristy, "here are
some images which cannot be used, they are so broken, and here are
more," he added, opening some drawers and displaying four or five
smaller figures in various stages of dilapidation. Thus, for some
time he continued to call my attention to different curious relics
with such interest and reverence that I was almost sorry when Father
Joaquin appeared. It was sad to see the altar of the church defaced
and cracked, and its statues, brought a hundred years ago from
Spain, scarcely less battered than those which the boy had shown me
in the sacristy. Yet it was plain that worshipers as well as vandals
had been here. The basins for holy water, cut in the solid wall, were
worn, like the steps of an ancient building, with countless fingers,
long since turned to dust. There, also, were two old confessionals,
one of which was so hopelessly infirm that it had been set aside at
last, to listen to no more whispered tales of sin and sorrow. The
doors of the church at first looked ancient, but wore a really modern
air, when compared with the original portals, which, no longer able
to stand upright, had been laid against the wall, to show to
tourists. Yet, eighty years ago, this church stood proudly at the
head of all the Missions, and reared its cross above the richest of
their valleys. According to Father Joaquin's estimate, the Fathers of
San Gabriel must have had twenty thousand acres under cultivation,
and, in 1820, this Mission alone possessed one hundred and sixty
thousand vines, two thousand three hundred trees, twenty-five
thousand head of cattle, and fifteen thousand sheep. "It was all
ours," he said, with a sweep of his hand, "we had reclaimed it from
the desert, and, by the treaty between the United States and Mexico,
we were allowed to retain all lands that we had cultivated. Yet of
those twenty thousand acres, one hundred and fifty are all that are
left us!"
The Padre accompanied me to the station. "How large is your parish,
Father?" I asked.
"It is thirteen miles long," was his reply, "and I have in it eight
hundred souls, but most of them live too far away to walk to church,
and are too poor to ride."
"And how many Indians have you?"
"Perhaps a hundred," he answered, "and even they are dying off."
"What of their character?" I asked.
"They have sadly fallen away," was the response. "True, they are
Christians as far as they are anything, but they are hopelessly
degraded, yet they respect the Church, and are obedient and
reverential when under its influence."
[Illustration: DISCARDED SAINTS, SAN GABRIEL.]
[Illustration: MUTILATED STATUES.]
[Illustration: THE BAPTISMAL FONT.]
[Illustration: SAN GABRIEL, FROM THE SOUTHEAST.]
Most of the Californian Missions are really dead, and near that of La
Purissima may still be seen the rent in the ground made by the
earthquake which destroyed it. Others, like San Gabriel and San Juan
Capistrano, are dragging out a moribund existence, under the care of
only one or two priests, who move like melancholy phantoms through
the lonely cloisters, and pray among the ruins of a noble past. The
Mission of Santa Barbara, however, is in fairly good repair, and a
few Franciscan Fathers still reside there and carry on a feeble
imitation of their former life.
[Illustration: A DEGENERATE.]
It is on his way to this Mission that the traveler passes the reputed
residence of Ramona. There is, it is true, another structure near San
Diego which, also, claims this distinction; but the ranch on the
route from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara perfectly corresponds to
"H.H.'s" descriptions of her heroine's home, with its adjoining brook
and willows, and hills surmounted by the cross. The house is almost
hidden by the trees with which a Mexican ordinarily surrounds his
dwelling, and is, as usual, only one story high, with a projecting
roof, forming a porch along the entire front. As we learn in
"Ramona," much of the family life in those old days--sewing,
visiting, and siesta-taking--went on in the open air, under the shade
of the porticos which were wide and low. Here it was that Alessandro
brought Felipe back to health, watching and nursing him as he slept
outdoors on his rawhide bed; and we may see the arbor where the
lovers met, the willows where they were surprised by Señora Moreno,
and the hills on which the pious lady caused wooden crosses to be
reared, that passers-by might know that some good Catholics were
still left in California.
[Illustration: THE CROSS ON THE HILL.]
[Illustration: SANTA BARBARA MISSION.]
The Mission of Santa Barbara is of solid brick and stone, with walls
six feet in thickness. Its cloisters look sufficiently massive to
defy an earthquake, and are paved with enormous bricks each twelve
inches square. The huge red tiles of the roof, also, tell of a
workmanship which, although rude, was honest and enduring. The
interior, however, is of little interest, for the poor relics which
the Fathers keep are even less attractive than those displayed at the
Mission of San Gabriel; yet there are shown at least two enormous
missals which are no less than four feet long by two feet wide,
and beautifully inscribed on parchment.
[Illustration: SANTA BARBARA MISSION FROM THE FARM.]
[Illustration: WHERE THE FATHERS WALKED.]
"What is the Mission's income?" I asked the gentle monk who acted as
my guide.
"Alas!" he answered, "we have very little. You know our lands are
gone. We have barely twenty-five acres now. Moreover, we are outside
the village; and, as there is another church, most Catholics go
there. We receive, indeed, occasional offerings from travelers; but
we are very poor."
"Who cultivates your twenty-five acres?" I inquired.
"According to our ability, we are all busy," was the answer, "some
till the garden; others train young men for the priesthood; one of
our number is a carpenter; and another," he added, evidently laughing
at his own expense, "knows just enough about machinery to make a bad
break worse."
"And the Indians?" I said.
"Not one is left," was the reply. "Though once the Mission counted
them by thousands, they are all dead and gone. There are their
monuments," he added, pointing to the fragments of a mill and one or
two industrial shops.
[Illustration: THE CEMETERY, SANTA BARBARA.]
I looked and saw the remnants of a giant wheel which formerly had
been turned by water, brought from the hills to feed the Fathers'
lands. The water was still flowing, but the wheel lay, broken,--symbolic
of the link which bound the Mission to the vanished past.
The first Roman Catholic Bishop of California and some of the early
Fathers are buried in the chapel of the monastery, but interments are
now made in a neighboring cemetery, strictly reserved for members of
the Mission, each of whom has there his predestined place. Yet even
in this humble Campo Santo life will not yield entirely to death. The
hum of droning insects breaks the stillness of the empty cloisters;
occasionally a lizard darts like a tongue of flame along the walls;
grasses and trailing plants adorn impartially the ground containing
human dust, and that which still awaits an occupant; while round a
stately crucifix, which casts its shadow like a benediction on the
sleeping dead, sweet wild flowers bloom throughout the year, and from
their swinging censers offer incense to the figure of the Saviour
with each passing breeze. The hush of melancholy broods over the
entire place. The mountains, gazing down upon it in stony silence,
are haggard and forbidding; below it lies the modern town; while from
a neighboring hillside the inmates of a villa look directly into the
monastery garden, on which the earlier Fathers little dreamed a
female eye would ever rest. A little life, however, was still visible
about this Santa Barbara Mission. Two brown-robed monks were hoeing
in the field; occasionally, visitors came and went; and, just as I
was leaving, one of the priests, in obedience to a summons, hurried
away to minister to the sick; yet over all there hung an atmosphere
of unreality and sadness. I felt myself the guest of an anachronism.
[Illustration: DREAMING OF OTHER DAYS.]
A fashionable city has risen at the feet of these old monks, but they
regard it not. A trolley car brings curious tourists to their doors;
but the ways of the Santa Barbara Fathers are those of long ago. Like
agèd pilgrims, dreaming by their firesides, they seem to be living in
the past; they certainly have no present worthy of the name; and when
I sought to draw forth from my priestly guide some idea of their
future, he answered me by pointing to a grave.
[Illustration]