wide and who passes much of his time in Europe and New York, came here
with his family four years ago, bought a two-acre site upon which a fine
house stood and this he enlarged and reconstructed, laying out the
grounds in a tasteful way, making it one of the handsomest residences in
Santa Cruz. It has a high and enviable position near the Sea Beach
Hotel.
It reminds you at once upon entering it of a Parisian interior and on
closer examination you are not surprised to learn that many of the
things of beauty which adorn the rooms had a French origin. The Smiths
are great travellers and in their journeyings about the world have
“picked up” any number of art works and curios which now find an
appropriate resting place.
One of the finest views here, one of the most beautiful of its kind in
the State probably, is to be had from Logan Heights, the estate of Judge
J. H. Logan. Judge Logan is president of the Santa Cruz bank and one of
the most esteemed citizens of this section. The house, not imposing
architecturally, stands on a mesa or plateau of about twenty acres, in
which beautiful roses and other choice flowers bloom the year round.
From this elevated position a series of bird’s-eye views are spread out
before you, the extent, beauty and variety of which are not easily
described.
At this point you are two hundred feet above the Pacific ocean.
Immediately below, in the foreground, is the whole city of Santa Cruz,
with its high school, its gardens, reservoirs, depots, hotels, and its
church spires. To your left, eastward, are the villages Soquel and
Aptos, famous lumber centres. A few miles further off in the same
direction, glistens Monterey bay, backed by the Santa Cruz mountains.
Southward, beyond the city at your feet, winds the bay of Monterey. Look
twenty miles further south, and, in this clear atmosphere, you see the
sleepy old town of Monterey with the mountains as a background for the
picture.
To your right, westward, is the ocean again--altogether, forming a
number of diversified and beautiful pictures.
There are a number of good hotels at Santa Cruz--the Pacific Ocean
House, the Wilkins House and Ocean Villa. The last named looks cozy and
comfortable as it stands in its own pretty garden, with a commanding
view. The leading house is that owned by D. K. Abeel, the Sea Beach
House, which he has recently enlarged and reconstructed, putting in all
the modern improvements, and putting in as landlord John T. Sullivan,
who, after securing a long lease, furnished it in good style. It was
designed by G. W. Page, a prominent architect of San José, and presents
a most pleasing appearance, viewed either from the heights or from the
shore, above which it stands nearly one hundred feet, and to which its
grounds, beautifully terraced and ornamented with flowers, gracefully
slope. “Modern improvements,” of course--every room in the Sea Beach
Hotel has running water, but the improvements include hot water also.
The parlor is on the main floor, in the corner round tower of the
building, and, with its many windows, is uncommonly pleasing. Through or
from these windows you get the best features of the scenery hereabouts,
from the tasteful flower gardens of the hotel grounds to Loma Prieta and
the mountains in the distance, or to Monterey, beyond the bay in the
foreground.
The lessee, Mr. Sullivan, is not unknown to New York. He was a tried
friend of Horace Greeley’s and a trusted officer under Hon. Thomas L.
James in the New York Post-office, in which place he rose after faithful
service of fifteen years to be superintendent of the newspaper
department. Mr. Sullivan has been in Santa Cruz only five or six years.
I saw a modest little two-story building in which he started here,
“keeping boarders,” and he now finds himself in the leading hotel of the
town, owning his own furniture, a fine stable, and with the prospect of
making his fortune. With success Mr. Sullivan has made many staunch
friends, among them the mayor of the town, judges, bank presidents and
other leading citizens.
The steamship landing is nearer the Sea Beach Hotel than it is to any
other house; the broad guage station is at the door, so to speak, and
the narrow guage station is two minutes walk around the corner. The
house is open all the year. Santa Cruz is attractive in winter, but in
summer it must be delightful.
[Illustration: NATURAL BRIDGE, SANTA CRUZ.]
REDONDO BEACH.
REDONDO BEACH, CAL., March 13, 1891.
New Orleans obtained its sub-title from the crescent shape of its banks
on the Mississippi river. The trend of the Pacific shore here suggested
the pretty name, “Redondo,” in Spanish, signifying round.
It is midway between Capistrano, south, and Point Duma, north, and is
sixteen miles in a southwest direction from Los Angeles, from which city
there are several trains daily over two roads--the Santa Fé and the new
Redondo Beach railroad. All passenger steamers to and from San Francisco
and way points stop at Redondo.
Three years ago Redondo was a waste, or at best it was a cattle ranch.
There was not a house nor a hut here, now it is a garden spot of
Southern California. It came into existence as if by magic, as do many
flourishing towns on the Pacific slope.
Beautifully situated on grounds rising gradually from the ocean, backed
by rich, tillable lands and ranges of green hills, with seaport
facilities not surpassed in California south of San Francisco, its rapid
growth is not surprising.
The creation of Redondo, according to plans which promise such a
satisfactory result, is due to Californians--men of irrepressible energy
and wide experience in large affairs--Captain J. C. Ainsworth, Captain
R. R. Thompson and Captain George J. Ainsworth, not captains by
courtesy, either. They planned and have established successfully
railroad and steamship lines in Oregon and the northwest.
That they have ample capital at their command may be judged by a few
figures given at random. Their first step was to buy one thousand acres
of land; second, to build a railroad and wharf; third, to secure an
ocean front of _one mile_, then to erect a hotel four hundred and fifty
feet long to accommodate three hundred people. It was first opened May
1, 1890.
In the hotel they built a music room, 48 × 80 feet, spending two
thousand dollars simply on an inlaid floor; there is a tennis court
which cost seven thousand dollars; they laid a Portland cement walk from
the station to hotel, sixteen feet wide and a quarter of a mile long,
expending another ten thousand in that way--altogether it is easy to
believe that checks for more than a million have been drawn in the
enterprise. These Californians, with their big trees and their
forty-thousand-acre ranches, do nothing in a small way.
Do you ask what are the natural attractions of the place? “First, last
and all the time,” there is the almost wonderful climate--genial, balmy
and equable, such as you will find nowhere but in Southern California.
The hotel proprietor tells me that the average winter temperature is 61
degrees. In case you should not care for figures at second hand, here is
a record from my own thermometer. Yesterday, March 12, noon, 68, this
morning at seven it registered 53; at this writing, eight P.M., 60, the
instrument hanging outside my window.
The summer here, I am assured, and I firmly believe, is more delightful
than the winter, and the hotel will be kept open the year round. Like
the Hygeia at Old Point Comfort, Redondo attracts people from a distance
in winter; in summer it is largely patronized by residents of San
Francisco, Los Angeles and other cities of the State.
I do not agree entirely with Mrs. Malaprop that “comparisons are
odorous.” They often serve a very useful purpose in illustration. At any
rate I am given to the habit of comparing, be it a good or a bad habit.
What is large or small, fine or coarse, hot or cold, wet or dry, good or
bad, except by comparison?
For once, however, I am put to my wits’ ends for comparison. Redondo is
like no place on the Atlantic coast, because, although directly on the
seashore, every foot of ground, almost up to the edge of the ocean, is
covered with fine grass; and the most tender flowers grow and flourish
in profusion everywhere, almost within a few feet of the surf. This in
winter, mind you--a Southern California winter, though. It is not so,
even in summer, on the Atlantic coast, in the United States, nor in
England. Yes, I have it: I can indulge in the old habit; the climate of
Redondo is like that in the South of France: in fact it is in the same
latitude: there!
In the hotel nurseries, which are distant from the surf but a few
hundred feet, you may revel in roses, heliotrope, tulips, mignonette,
daisies, etc. There are tall calla lilies in plenty and the pleasing
sight of acres and acres of pinks of various colors is one that is very
fascinating. The hotel farm of two hundred acres, where choice stock is
kept, supplies the house with more than all the milk, cream, butter,
fruit and vegetables it requires.
The hotel is only four stories high, yet there is an elevator; of course
electric lights and all modern improvements. Neither is the building
deep, but it has great length, to give views of ocean in front and of
green hills in the rear. It stands north and south thus affording ocean
views from three sides. Of the 225 rooms, every one has a sunny exposure
at some hour of the day; every one is well ventilated and lighted; every
one is an “outside room,” and every guest feels that his is the best
suite in the house.
The porch is not one straight, unbroken line like the porches of so many
summer hotels in the east. It has a few graceful curves in it and from
it you may watch the craft sailing by--coast steamers to and from San
Francisco and other ports. The golden sunsets you may see from this
porch are such as no artist could represent. It is not within the
possibilities of paint and canvas to reproduce such gorgeous scenes. On
a clear day without the aid of a glass Catalina island is visible thirty
miles away.
The dining-room of the hotel juts out in a northerly direction and has
windows on three sides. From a distance it looks as if it might have
been an after-thought in construction, but the architect planned it this
way, to give what was most desired--light, ventilation and pleasing
views, and he succeeded.
Two hundred and sixty can sit down to dinner at one time.
There are no loose wardrobes nor clothes presses; all the bedrooms have
closets built in the walls. Every room is supplied with hot and cold
water running into marble basins. Every room has a tiled fireplace in
color and design to match the carpet, and what is also worthy of
mention, the furniture in the bedrooms is not duplicated, nor are the
carpets.
The drinking water is from an Artesian well. It has been analyzed and
pronounced pure. The plumbing seems to have been done in a careful
manner, and the question of sewerage need give nobody concern. The hotel
stands on a _mesa_. The refuse goes through an iron pipe and empties
into the sea half a mile from the house.
There are no better fishing grounds on the coast, so they say. If you
are lucky with the line you may catch bonita, Spanish mackerel,
baracouta, smelt and yellow tails, whatever they are.
The circular of the Redondo Hotel as to rates merely says, “same as any
first-class hotel.” This is hardly in accordance with the facts, as I
see them. The terms at the Redondo are from three to four dollars per
day, while hotels in the east, of the same class, charge from four to
five dollars. Why such low rates obtain in California hotels is
something I intend to find out before I leave the State. For illustrated
circulars address Redondo Hotel Co., Redondo Beach, Cal.
PASADENA.
PASADENA, March 10.
People who care more for comfort than for great “style,” who prefer a
quiet, home-like, family house to one of noise and bustle, those who are
seeking health, pure air and out-door life with grand views rather than
the music, dancing and entertainments of a fashionable hotel may jot
down as a memorandum “The Painter Hotel, at Pasadena, Cal,” thirty-five
minutes by train from Los Angeles and fifteen minutes by “free ’bus”
from passenger station.
It is a new house, was built in ’88; it accommodates seventy-five
boarders, and is owned and kept by J. H. Painter’s Sons. The house is
airy, the bedrooms are comfortably (not luxuriously) furnished, the
parlor is pleasant, the class of guests select, the table is well
provided, and at once, let me say, ere the important fact escapes me,
the rates are remarkably low for the nice appointments and good fare
supplied--only $2.50 per day for transient guests, and from $12.50 to
$17.50 per week to season boarders, for people come to stay for a month
or so--some spend the whole winter here. The house is open the year
round, it being pleasant in summer as well as in winter. It is a
mountainous district, and the ocean, from which come soft winds in
summer, is only thirty minutes’ distant in a south and southwesterly
direction.
Yes, and here are two more facts--Pasadena is one thousand feet above
the sea, and the Painter Hotel, which is one and a half miles from the
centre of the town, stands on the highest point hereabouts.
The grounds comprised in the property include ten acres, upon which the
owners grow their own fruits for the table--peaches, apricots, raisins,
prunes, etc.
Do you want to visit the town? Street cars pass the door of the Painter.
And if you want a view it will “pay” you to climb up to the roof of the
hotel, where there is an observatory. Three miles off is the Raymond
Hotel, plain to your view in this clear atmosphere. On one side is the
San Bernardino range of mountains, on the other the Sierra Madre range.
You may see San Jacinto, ninety miles away, also Wilson’s Peak, upon
which the new observatory, with its powerful lens, is to be placed; and
beautiful San Gabriel valley is spread out immediately beneath you, a
feature of which, at this writing, are acres of large, orange-hued
poppies, so bright that you could almost imagine them aflame, especially
if the wind is blowing, thus giving vibration to the thin, delicate
leaves.
The drives are a most delightful feature:--to the city proper, with its
wide avenues of beautiful residences, to San Gabriel mission, and to
“Lucky” Baldwin’s ranch, a pleasant afternoon drive.
Those who are planning a winter or spring tour will thank me for
suggesting a visit to the Painter House, but if people demand “style,”
if they would dance to orchestral music; if they demand great size in a
dining-room and grandeur in the drawing-room, and they are willing to
pay for it, all these are also obtainable here, or rather at East
Pasadena, which is only three miles distant; eight miles from Los
Angeles. And the price, $4.50 per day, $21 to $28 per week, is
reasonable considering what you get for the money.
Reference is made to the great Raymond Hotel, which was built in 1886,
where they have a bar, as well as billiards and bowling; elevator,
electric lights, a reception-room, music-room, grand parlor, and a
dining-room which accommodates three hundred persons. From your seat at
table you see “Old Baldy” looming above the clouds eleven thousand feet
and snow-covered ten months out of the twelve, looking like a great
sugar-loaf and recalling the Jungfrau, near Interlaken, Switzerland.
Like the dining-room of its modest neighbor, the Painter Hotel, every
table in the Raymond is decorated daily with fresh flowers plucked from
the hotel grounds--this is “winter,” mind you. The grounds of the
Raymond cover a space of fifty-four acres, so there is no lack of fruit
(oranges, lemons, etc.), to say nothing of the roses, blue bells,
honeysuckle, dandelions, heliotropes and violets which may be picked _ad
libitum_--if you don’t regard the painted signs.
A view from one of the Raymond’s verandas is not much unlike that from
the front steps of the Grand Hotel in the Catskills, only the former is
far more extensive.
The proprietor of the Raymond is W. Raymond, of Raymond’s Vacation
Excursions, Boston, and the manager is C. H. Merrill, of the Crawford
House, in the White Mountains. The post-office address is East Pasadena,
Cal.
Orange Grove avenue and Marengo avenue and the paths in the grounds
leading to the houses are lined with luxurious fan palm trees,
interspersed with great cacti and not a few century plants, which it is
proven here bloom much oftener than once in a hundred years. The calla
lily, that delicate plant which is so tenderly cared for in the East
that the flower is wrapped in cotton wool, here grows in such profusion
that it is used for hedges. You will see fields of “callas” at Pasadena,
raised for shipment to large cities. The whole of Pasadena is like one
immense garden, a garden city indeed.
PASADENA COTTAGES.--You would scarcely credit it, so I won’t tell you,
that some of the “cottages” in this new place are as large and
elaborate as those on the New Jersey coast, between Seabright and
Elberon, and some of them would not look out of place alongside the
grand Newport “cottages.”
Mr. Kernaghan, editor of the _Pasadena Star_, has a fine home here. One
of the prettiest places belongs to and is occupied by Mrs. Kimball, the
widowed daughter of Rufus Hatch of New York.
Charles Frederick Holder, formerly of New York, came out here six years
ago for his health, and having obtained it has made this his home. He
has a cozy cottage on Orange Grove avenue in which is his study, where
you may find him at his ease, wearing a short black velvet coat or
smoking jacket.
Mr. Holder is a journalist and littérateur, a frequent contributor to
current magazines and leading newspapers. He has published two or three
brochures on Pasadena. One of his contributions concerning this section
was an illustrated article which appeared in _Harper’s Weekly_. It was
entitled “The Rose Tournament,” and described a beautiful ceremony which
takes place here annually, on New Year’s day. Mr. Holder’s style is
finished and scholarly and his language choice, with no waste of words.
Being a man of cultivated taste, with a rare poetic fancy, he is at home
here, when treating of this lovely country with its wealth of fruits and
flowers.
Among others who have built houses and who occupy country seats at
Pasadena is Governor Markham, of California. A Mr. Nelmes has a lovely
ten-acre place, and with it a generous heart. A sign placed
conspicuously outside his gates reads as follows: “All are welcome to
drive through these private grounds and groves. Eastern tourists are
each invited to pluck one orange.”
Near the Painter Hotel are many beautiful homes owned by “Eastern
people.” One is owned by Dr. Green, of Woodbury, N. J., another
luxurious place is that of Mr. McNally, of the publishing house in
Chicago of Rand, McNally & Co.
Professor Low, of Norristown, Pa; J. W. Scoville, a Chicago banker, and
E. T. Hurlburt, a capitalist of Chicago, are owners of fine estates, and
of less notable places there are owners in Pasadena by the hundred.
It strikes you as rather odd to find winter and summer together, hand in
hand as it were. At your feet flowers; raise your head and snow on the
mountain peaks is visible to the naked eye.
The one-horse cars which ply between Pasadena and East Pasadena,
California, like some of the one-horse cars of some other cities, have a
driver who acts as conductor also, but the driver in the Pasadena cars
serves as collector as well. There is no automatical nor mechanical
contrivance to receive the fares, nor is there any way of recording
them. When a passenger gets on the driver leaves the front platform,
and, letting the horse take care of himself, or handing the reins to a
front-platform passenger, he runs back and collects the new fare. There
are not many cars on the line--one starts only every half hour--and as
most of the passengers are through passengers, and few get on or off
between the two points named, the animal being very docile, there is no
difficulty in one man doing the whole work. The driver getting on and
off his car reminds me of the elevator in Philp’s Hotel, Glasgow, which
will not budge upward if there are as many as four or five people in the
car. The man who runs it gives the rope a pull, on the ground floor,
then leaves the car, walks up the stairs, getting up to the second or
third flight in ample time to give the rope another pull and to let the
passengers out.
Some people talk of the winter months in California as “the rainy
season.” This may be an old story, told of what was the case years ago.
It certainly is not true to-day. Examining the records, I find that
from January 5 to February 1 of this year there was no rain at all in
Pasadena, and in all of that time there were but two cloudy
days--January 23 and January 28.
I have been in Southern California now for about three weeks and have
seen it rain only on two days and one night--two days in Los Angeles and
one night, for one hour, at Coronado Beach.
I don’t advise you to throw away your umbrella, as did a tourist from
Colorado when coming here, but my experience would show that there is
very little use for such an article in Southern California, even in what
used to be called “the rainy season.”
[Illustration]
LOS ANGELES
LOS ANGELES, March 17.
If you are going from Los Angeles to San Diego, or vice versa, don’t go
by boat unless you have a great affection for the sea. First, you must
change at San Pedro, from cars to boat; second, the waterway occupies
much more time; but what is most important, if you go by rail, over the
Sante Fé route, you get magnificent and diversified views of the ocean,
close views of foot hills and distant views of snow-capped mountains.
You pass through a fertile country, see picturesque cottages, large
sheep and cattle ranches, and great rifts in the mountains that make you
smile when you think of “gaps” in the east, which are so widely
advertised. The train skirts the edge of the sea for scores of miles and
recalls similar scenic features of land and water which you admire in
travelling from Aberdeen to Ballater over the “Great North of Scotland
Railway,” a pretty little road with a big sounding name. If you should
have to stop on a switch, or for a “heated journal,” for five or ten
minutes, you can step off the car platform and in a few minutes you can
gather a large bouquet of sweet, wild flowers, among them fragrant
“mignonette” as they call it here. Southern California might well be
named the land of flowers, and this branch of the Sante Fé is entitled
to be called by that much abused term, picturesque.
FLORIDA ORANGES “BEATEN.”--I wrote last season about some Florida
oranges which Mr. Orvis showed me at the Windsor Hotel, Jacksonville.
The largest of them, if I remember aright, measured thirteen inches in
circumference and weighed twenty-three ounces. I asked, “who can beat
these?” They are “beaten.” This morning I weighed an orange in Los
Angeles which turned the beam at thirty-three ounces and which measured
nineteen and one-quarter inches. This particular orange was light for
its size, because it was not quite ripe nor “full” when picked. It came
from George Bunce’s grove (pray do not print this “grave”) at Rivera, a
small town nine miles from Los Angeles. The grove was only set out in
1888. All the oranges on the tree from which this one was picked were as
large and as heavy as the one described, but there were only three of
them.
All the ticket brokers’ offices, all the fruit stores, segar shops and
all the shops of small traders and of places patronized by men have
their doors and windows thrown open during business hours. No
“protection” from the weather is needed. It is never cold enough for
closed doors or windows in the daytime. Nor are some of these places of
business closed even at night except by strong iron-wire netting
covering the fronts of the stores. This open feature strikes a visitor
as very strange at first, but one soon becomes accustomed to it. All
through the winter open street cars are used.