PASADENA.
"If there be an Elysium upon earth,
It is this, it is this."
For my own taste, I prefer Pasadena, the "Crown of the Valley"--nine
miles from Los Angeles, but eight hundred feet higher and with much
drier air, at the foot of the Sierra Madre range, in the beauteous San
Gabriel Valley. Yes, Pasadena seems to me as near Eden as can be found
by mortal man.
Columbus in a letter to Ferdinand and Isabella said, "I believe that if
I should pass under the equator in arriving at this higher region of
which I speak, I should find there a milder temperature and a diversity
in the stars and in the waters.... I am convinced that there is the
Terrestrial Paradise."
Poor persecuted Columbus! I wish he could have once seen Pasadena, the
very spot he dreamed of. Can I now write calmly, critically, judicially
of what I see, enjoy, admire and wonder over? If I succeed it will be
what no one else has done. I was here last year and gave my impressions
then, which are only strengthened by a second visit, so that I will
quote my own words, which read like the veriest gush, but are absolutely
true, came straight from my heart, and, after all, didn't half tell the
story.
I am fascinated and enthralled by your sun-kissed, rose-embowered,
semi-tropical summer-land of Hellenic sky and hills of Hymettus, with
its paradoxical antitheses: of flowers and flannels; strawberries and
sealskin sacks; open fires with open windows; snow-capped mountains and
orange blossoms; winter looking down upon summer--a topsy-turvy land,
where you dig for your wood and climb for your coal; where water-pipes
are laid above ground, with no fear of Jack Frost, and your principal
rivers flow bottom side up and invisible most of the time; where the
boys climb up hill on burros and slide down hills on wheels; where the
trees are green all the year, and you go outdoors in December to get
warm; where squirrels live in the ground with owls for chums, while rats
build in the trees, and where water runs up hill; where anything
unpleasant, from a seismic disturbance to mosquitoes in March, is
"exceptional" and surprising. A land where there are no seasons, but
where sunshine and shade are so distinctly marked that one can be easily
half baked on one side and dangerously chilled on the other.
Then the Climate--spell it with a capital, and then try to think of an
adjective worthy to precede it. Glorious! Delicious! Incomparable!
Paradisaical!!! To a tenderfoot straight from New Hampshire, where we
have nine months of winter and three of pretty cold weather, where we
have absolutely but three months that are free from frost, this seems
like enchanted ground.
A climate warm, with a constant refreshing coolness in its heart; cool,
with a latent vivifying warmth forever peeping out of its coat-tail
pocket.
June does not define it, nor September. It has no synonym, for there is
nothing like it. I am glad that I have lived to see hedges of
heliotrope, of geraniums and calla-lilies. I remember, in contrast,
solitary calla plants that I have nursed with care all winter in hopes
of one blossom for Easter. And I do not feel sure that I can ever tear
myself away. I am reminded of good old Dr. Watts, who was invited by
Lady Abney to pass a fortnight at her home, and remained for forty
years.
Here we all unconsciously eat the lotus in some occult fashion, are
straightway bewitched and held willing captives. I have looked up the
lotus, about which so much is said or sung and so little definitely
known, and find it is a prickly shrub of Africa, bearing a fruit of a
sweet taste, and the early Greeks knew all about its power. Homer in the
Odyssey says that whoever ate of the fruit wished never to depart nor
again to see his native land. Many of Ulysses' sailors ate this fruit,
and lost all desire for home.
The last letter received by me from New Hampshire, April 3d, begins in
this way: "It is like the middle of winter here, good sleighing and
still very cold." And then comes a sad series of announcements of
sickness and deaths caused by the protracted rigors of the season. And
here, at the same date, all the glories of the spring, which far exceeds
our summer--Spanish breezes, Italian sky and sunsets, Alpine mountains,
tropical luxuriance of vegetation, a nearly uniform climate, a big
outdoor conservatory. There is no other place on earth that combines so
much in the same limits. You can snowball your companions on Christmas
morning on the mountain-top, pelt your lady friends with rose leaves in
the foot-hills three hours later, and in another sixty minutes dip in
the surf no cooler than Newport in July; and the theatre in the evening.
As a bright workman said, you can freeze through and thaw out in one
day.
An electric railroad will soon connect Los Angeles with Pasadena and
Mount Wilson, and a fine hotel is to be placed on the top of Echo
Mountain, 3500 feet high, and this will then certainly be the ideal
health and pleasure resort of the world.
Pasadena's homes, protected on three sides by mountain ranges, are
surrounded by groves and gardens, trees and hedges from every clime.
Everything will grow and flourish here. Capitalists from the East seem
engaged in a generous rivalry to create the ideal paradise. Passion
vines completely cover the arbors, roses clamber to the tops of houses
and blossom by tens of thousands. I notice displays fit for a floral
show in the windows of butcher shops and shoe stores. The churches are
adorned with a mantle of vines and flowers.
Are there no "outs," no defects in this Pasadena? One must not forget
the rainy days, the occasional "hot spells" of August and September, a
wind now and then that blows off steeples and tears down fragile
structures, bringing along a good deal more sand than is wanted. And
every year an earthquake may be expected. I have experienced two, and
they are not agreeable.
Aside from these drawbacks and dust in summer, all else is perfection,
except that the weather is so uniformly glorious that there is seldom a
day when one is willing to stay at home. I feel just now like a
"deestrick" schoolboy who has been "kept in" on a summer afternoon.
The wild-flowers are more fascinating to me than all those so profusely
cultivated. I weary of five thousand calla-lilies in one church at
Easter, and lose a little interest in roses when they bloom perennially
and in such profusion that I have had enough given me in one morning to
fill a wash-tub or clothes-basket!
The wealth of color on the hills and mesas in springtime can never be
described or painted. The State flower, the yellow poppy with the name
that would floor any spelling-match hero--the eschscholtzia--is most
conspicuous, and can be seen far away at sea; but there are dozens of
others, that it is better to admire and leave unplucked, as they wilt so
soon. "The ground is literally dolly-vardened with buttercups, violets,
dodecatheons, gilias, nemophilas, and the like. And yet these are the
mere skirmish line of the mighty invading hosts, whose uniforms surpass
the kingly robes of Solomon, and whose banners of crimson and yellow and
purple will soon wave on every hilltop and in every valley.
"In April and May the lover of nature may pass into the seventh heaven
of botanical delight. Then in favored sections the display reaches a
gorgeousness and a profusion that surpass both description and
imagination."
No one can paint the grain fields as they look when the sun puts into
every blade a tiny golden ray and it is no longer every-day common
grain, but an enchanted carpet of living, radiant, golden green. We
tourists call it grass, but there is no grass to be proud of in
California.
No one can paint the sky; no one would accept it as true to nature if
once caught on the canvas.
I will not attempt to describe the mountains with their many charms. I
listened to a lecture lately where a man was struggling to do this, and
it was positively painful. The flowery verbiage, the accumulated
adjectives, the poetical quotations were overpowering. I seemed actually
sinking into luscious mellifluousness. I shook it off my fingers, as if
it were maple syrup. Then, as he climbed higher and higher, on and up,
never getting away from the richest verdure and the sweetest flowers,
scenes for an artist to paint with rapture, and a poet to sing in
ecstasy, I found myself pushing up my forehead to improvise a mansard
roof for my brain to swell in sympathy. And when he reached the summit
and the panorama burst upon his enraptured vision, it was too much for
my strained emotions, and I quietly slipped out.
And the strangest part is that every word is true, and, say what one
will, one never gets near the reality. In this respect, you see, it
differs from a floral catalogue sent out in early spring, or a hotel
pamphlet with illustrations.
The cable road is 3000 feet long, with a direct ascent of 1400 feet, and
the Echo Mountain House will be 1500 feet higher than the Catskill
hotels overlooking the Hudson, and it is estimated that not less than
60,000 fares will be collected upon this mountain railroad the first
year.
All this was designed and executed by Professor Lowe, of aeronaut fame,
a scientist and banker, the inventor of water-gas and artificial ice,
and a man of great business ability.
One of the best proofs of the health-giving power of this air is the
fact that the physicians practising here, with one exception, came
seriously ill and have not only recovered, but are strong enough to keep
very busy helping others.
Pasadena has no ragged shabby outskirts; the poorer classes seem to be
able to own or rent pretty little homes, some like large birdcages, all
well kept and attractive. Some gentlemen from Indianapolis came here in
1873 and started the town, planting their orange orchards under the
shadows of the mountains.
Each portion has its own attractions. Orange Grove Avenue, a street over
a mile long, is described by its name. Great trees stand in the centre
of the street, a fine road on either side, and the homes are embowered
in flowers and palms, while hedges are made of the pomegranate, the
honeysuckle, and even the heliotrope. Marengo Avenue is lined on either
side by splendid specimens of the pepper, the prettiest and most
graceful of all trees here. Colorado Street, with its homes and shops
and churches, leads out to the foot-hills and "Altadena," which is often
spoken of as recalling the handsome residences along the Riviera.
The street cars which go from the station toward the mountains bear on
each the words, "This Car for the Poppy Fields," and they are a sight
worth seeing. Mrs. Kellog describes this flower more perfectly than any
artist could paint it: "Think of finest gold, of clearest lemon, of
deepest orange on silkiest texture, just bedewed with a frost-like
sheen, a silvery film, and you have a faint impression of what an
eschscholtzia is. Multiply this impression by acres of waving color."
And in February this may sometimes be seen. It has been well chosen for
the State flower.
If consumptives must go away from the comforts of home, this is a haven
of rest for them. In a late _Medical Record_ I see that a physician
deprecates the custom of sending hopeless cases to the high altitudes of
Colorado, where the poor victim gasps out a few weeks or months of
existence. "If such cases as the above must be sent from home, as we
sometimes think here, to rid their home physicians of the annoyance of
their presence, they should be sent to Florida or Southern California,
where at least they may be chloroformed off into eternity by a soothing
climate, and not suffer an actual shortening of their days from a
climate acting on a radically different principle and entirely unsuited
to them."
This is a bit of the shady side after all the sunlight. It is a place
for the invalid to rejoice in, and those in robust health can find
enough to do to employ all their energies.
The "Tournament of Roses" last winter was a grand success, praised by
all. The "Pageant of Roses" was celebrated here lately, and I cannot
give you a better idea of it than by copying the synopsis.
Imagine the opera-house trimmed inside with wreaths and festoons and
bouquets of roses--a picture in itself; audience in full evening dress,
each lady carrying roses, each man with a rose for a boutonniere.
The dancing in costume was exquisitely graceful, and the evolutions and
figures admirably exact--no mistake, nothing amateurish about the whole
performance.
PART FIRST.
Los Flores, a garden in the Crown of the Valley. Goddess Flora and
her pages asleep. Harlequin, the magic spirit, enters, produces by
incantation the rain and summons the maiden Spring, who rouses the
Goddess and her pages. The Goddess commands the Harlequin to usher
in the Pageant of Roses. Enter the Red or Colonial Roses; march and
form for the reception and dance of the Ladies of the Minuet.
Retire. Harlequin, at the request of the Goddess, summons the Gold
of Ophirs, bearing urn as offering to the Goddess, when is
performed the dance of the Orient, including solo. Curtain falls on
tableau.
PART SECOND.
Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She
summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile.
They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.
Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the
Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost
Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter,
perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds.
Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail
upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The
Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an
offering, and perform "The Transformation of the Rose." Rose Buds
dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and
retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance
by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of
their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.
PART THIRD.
Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic canon.
And not a word yet of The Raymond, that popular house set upon a hill
that commands a view hard to equal. The house is always filled to
overflowing, and this year General Wentworth tells me the business has
been better than ever. This famous resort is in East Pasadena, and has
its own station. It is always closed in April, just at the time when
there is the most to see and enjoy, and the flowers are left to bloom
unseen.
The other fine hotel here, named for its owner, Colonel Green of
"August Flower" fame, is on ground eight feet higher, although by the
conformation of the land it does not look so.
Many prefer to be in the town and nearer the mountains, and this house
proving insufficient for its patrons, an addition four times the size of
the present building is being added in semi-Moorish architecture, at a
cost of $300,000.
That item shows what an experienced man of business thinks about the
future of Pasadena.
The town is full of pleasant boarding-houses, as Mrs. Dexter's, Mrs.
Bangs's, and Mrs. Roberts's, and many enjoy having rooms at one house
and taking meals at another. You can spend as much or as little as you
choose. At Mrs. Snyder's I found simple but delicious old-fashioned
home-cooking at most reasonable rates.
And still more? Yes, the Public Library must be mentioned, the valuable
collections I was permitted to see, the old mission of San Gabriel
three miles away, and then I shall give the next chapter to my brother,
who spent a week on Mt. Wilson, and came down wonderfully benefited even
by that short stay. One invalid he met there had gained four pounds in
as many days. His ambition now is to open a law office up among the
clouds and transact business by telephone, saying the fact that his
clients could not see him would be no disadvantage.
While he is discoursing I will be studying the history of the Indian
baskets and report later.