width eleven miles; hence it has an area of two hundred and fifty-three
square miles. Its altitude is six thousand two hundred and twenty feet
above the level of the sea. Here, spread out before me, like the finest
of burnished silver, is a lake unlike any other body of water in the
world, save one in Switzerland, and that has only a few marks of
similarity.
This lies nestled away, like a very jewel, in the summit of the
Sierras,--the Alps of America,--at an altitude of a mile and a quarter
above the level of the sea. Think of it! A body of water containing an
area of more than two hundred and fifty square miles, and deep enough to
float the largest vessel that ever traversed the sea, and then have
almost immeasurable depths below the keel; think of this being in the
very summit of the greatest range of mountains in America!
It has been sounded along the line between Nevada and California, which
runs through the lake, to the distance of two hundred and fifty-three
fathoms, or fifteen hundred and eighteen feet. But other places have
been sounded to the great distance of nearly twenty-five hundred feet.
The character of the water is almost incredible to one who has never
looked upon it. Coming down from the springs that burst from the canons,
and the everlasting snows that crown the mountain-tops, where
"'Tis the felt presence of the Deity,"
the water is almost perfectly pure.
I have leaned over the side of the boat and watched the play of the
trout a _hundred and fifty feet_ below the surface. I have dropped a
small, shining, metallic button, and watched distinctly its oscillations
in sinking for three or four minutes.
The transparent nature of the water is best seen in the morning, when
the lake is perfectly calm; not even the small surface ripples that
nearly always exist on ordinary streams and lakes are visible.
The various angles of vision present the most charming scene. Yonder the
lake looks like a quiet mass of molten silver; yonder, where the rays of
the sun meet you, is a gorgeous array of crimson and gold; then there is
a range of purest emerald, deepening into blue-black as the scene
stretches away from you, bespangled in the distance by the rising
white-caps. This, fringed with the green of the deep pine-forests that
skirt the mountains, and capped with the everlasting snows, made radiant
with the flood of sunlight, furnishes a picture of incomparable beauty,
and worthy of a master's brush.
But here by you, right at your feet, is one of the most pleasing
features of all: so still in the morning quietness, and such air-like
purity withal. You think you can reach down and pick up those shining
pebbles, and yet they are twenty, thirty, or forty feet beneath you. And
that boat or skiff seems to be poised in mid-air. You can count the
small indentures and nail-heads in the very keel.
You cringe with fear as your boat glides towards that huge boulder, as
large as a church, thinking surely your vessel will be wrecked; but
there is no danger, as the rock is many feet beneath you. The
transparency of the water makes the danger seem so near.
How often have I wished this place--mountains, lake, and all--could be
the place of one of the grand Eastern camp-meetings! This bracing air,
this unique spot, this wonderful lake, this rich, healthful aroma of
deep pine-forests, this grand scenery, all combined, make it one of the
best of places for religious summer resort.
Yonder is a quaint spot, a veritable Gibraltar on a small scale, a
lonely, rocky island in the centre of Emerald Bay. Some foolish man
built a tomb in the solid rock on its summit, intending to be buried
there, where the marks of decay would come slowly over his grave, and
where he might sleep undisturbed amid the incomparable grandeur that
would have surrounded him. His sarcophagus and all were prepared, but
the treacherous billows of the lake, that occasionally foam and roar
with fury, seized him, and he lies buried at the bottom,--no man knows
where, for no one going down ever comes up again from these waters.
It was first an artless, genial party of three of us that drank in the
poetry of the scenery around Lake Tahoe. The "elect lady," whose
presence has ever been an inspiration and encouragement in life's
blackest, bitterest hours, her best and dearest friend, Miss Torreyson,
and the writer, made up the trio. We were joined by and by with a party
of others kindred in spirit, who entered into all our schemes and
reconnoissances after pleasure.
Those were memorable six weeks; and now, at this distance of many months
on the road of time, that period of frolic and recuperation gleams as
with the radiance of youth's happiest sunset scene. How strange that
happy days even never look so charming as when they are mellowed in the
deep past!...
During the days we enlivened many a bright morning hour with
boat-riding, fishing, gathering wild-flowers, and such other amusements
as this delightful place afforded. On one of these fishing excursions
one of our party came very near falling into the treacherous waters of
the lake.
Our favorite resorts, and it is so with all tourists, were Emerald and
Carnelian Bays. The former is a beautiful, land-locked arm of the lake,
walled in by rugged and towering cliffs. The latter is a long, gravelly
beach, where by the hour we have searched for carnelian stones, of which
some of the purest quality are found.
The mountains and canons are most delightful points of interest as
places of observation and rest, and often charm by the echoes they
throw back. We were given to song; and many a time summering here,
and travelling over the lake, we united in singing the "Evergreen
Mountains of Life" and "A Thousand Years," our favorite lake airs;
the former suggested, no doubt, by the towering mountains that
surrounded us. The effect is peculiarly fascinating, as the song
rings out over the waters, in the pure mountain air, and echoing
dies away, after many reverberations of "evergreen mountains of
life"--"mountains of life"--"life"--in some deep canyon. Or "a thousand
years, Columbia,"--"years, Columbia,"--"Columbia,"--the vowels of the
last becoming beautifully distinct in the echoes.
Nearly south of the head of Lake Tahoe, a distance of perhaps a mile and
a half, is a little lake that bears the name of Fallen Leaf; and then to
the west of this some three miles is Cascade Lake, as charming a little
body of water as ever flashed back the sunlight. Of all the objects of
interest here, none of its kind is more interesting than this delightful
lake, that spreads itself out a half-mile by a mile and a half, and
that at an altitude of four or five hundred feet above Tahoe.
Above this, from the summit of Tallac Mountain, it is positively
asserted _seventeen_ lakes, varying in size, can be seen at one glance
nestled away like a cluster of diamonds in the bosom of the Sierras. All
these lakes abound with the finest of trout, and are surrounded by the
best of game.
On the east side of Tahoe are Cave Rock and Shakespeare Rock. The former
is a bald precipitous peak, that presses its perpendicular side almost
to the water's edge, leaving just room enough for the road of the old
overland stage-coach. Under this rock is a cave of small pretensions,
but with the wild scenery, the bald, dizzy height of the cliff, and the
fine view of the lake, it is one of the many frequented places.
Shakespeare Rock stands back perhaps full half a mile from the landing
at Pray's Bay, or Glenbrook. It is a perpendicular cliff of well on
towards a thousand feet above the waters of the lake. It has its name
from a well-defined portrait of a man, moss-formed or wind-chiselled,
doubtless, that is seen plainly several hundred feet up the rugged side.
It is said to look very much like the old bard of Stratford-upon-Avon.
But of this we cannot say; we never saw him.
It was on one of Nature's brightest days that our trio, lunch-armed,
toiled up its rugged side, the only accessible point, and flung our
handkerchief banners to the breeze from the improvised flag-staff, while
we grew enraptured at the rich perspective from the dizzy height. It
seemed almost like being on "cloud's rest" as some cloud's shadow fell
upon us while there.
Below us lay the bustling, thriving village of Glenbrook, having,
perhaps, well on towards a thousand souls as the number of its
inhabitants; increased by tourists, and, of course, largely diminished
in the winter months, when business here "shuts down." The temperature,
however, is generally fine from the last of April to the first of
November, or even later. It is not unpleasant now, as I write,--the
middle day of January,--to be out boat-riding or rambling by the shore.
This is the outlet of the entire lake and its surroundings; an immense
traffic in lumber, etc., is carried on. Five saw-mills give life
and activity to the place, as they cut nearly three hundred thousand
feet per day, or more than fifty millions during the business months
of the year. A hotel, store, post-office, with daily mail, and
telegraph-office, add to the convenience of the place. There are six
steamers on the lake that run for pleasure-parties and traffic.
From the lake one of the most unique railroads ever built runs to the
summit, a distance of nine miles by the route travelled, although the
distance by an air line is but three, while the elevation that it gains
is eight hundred and fifty feet. It climbs the mountain by zigzag
movements, like a letter Z, the engine sometimes hauling its burden, and
sometimes pushing the train. More than a quarter of a million of dollars
were required to build and stock this novel short line. It is a rare
evidence of engineering skill, and certainly is a good illustration of
Western enterprise. It lacks at least a dozen miles of connecting with
any other railroad point, and its engines, rolling-stock, etc., had to
be hauled up the mountain eight thousand feet high.
[To this description of the liquid marvel of California we add
the author's account of one of its land marvels, a grove of the
"big trees," the vegetable giants of the world.]
The Big Trees, as they are technically called, are of a light, bright
cinnamon color, and have a diameter at the ground of from twenty-five to
forty feet, a height of from three hundred to four hundred and fifty
feet, and a bark that will average one foot and a half in thickness
where it has not been molested. I have seen blocks of bark that would
measure thirty-two inches in thickness, and I have no doubt but some
trees have bark that would average nearly three feet. The texture is
loose and spongy, and when cut transversely it is often worked into
pincushions and such like toys. The wood is light as the cedar, but is
susceptible of a very fine polish. I had a cane made from a piece that I
bought of the guide, and I found it would polish equal to mahogany. The
Mariposa grove is a State park, together with Yosemite Valley, given by
the United States government.
This grove, "together with the Yosemite Valley with its branches and
spurs, an estimated length of fifteen miles, and in average width one
mile back from the edge of the precipice on each side of the valley,
with the stipulation, nevertheless, that the State shall accept this
grant on the express condition that the premises shall be held for
public use and recreation, and shall be inalienable for all time." So it
is absolutely impossible to get a bit of bark or piece of wood except
from the guide, who is allowed to gather them from the outskirts of the
grove from a tree that has fallen or one that stands outside of the
prescribed limits.
There has but one fallen, however, since their discovery, and that was
felled by men's hands. It was done by immense augers. It took five men
twenty-two days to fell the tree, equal to the services of one man for
_one hundred and ten days_. Think of that, nearly four months' work, not
counting any time lost by Sundays, or rainy days, or sickness, to fell
one tree! That tree would have yielded more than a thousand cords of
four-foot wood and a hundred cords of bark, more than eleven hundred
cords altogether. On the stump of this tree there is a house--"whose
foundation is sure"--thirty feet in diameter. This house contains room
enough in square feet, if it were the right shape, for a parlor twelve
by sixteen, a dining-room ten by twelve, a kitchen ten by twelve, two
bedrooms ten feet square each, a pantry four by eight feet, two
clothes-presses one and a half feet deep and four feet wide, and still
have a little to spare.
The foliage of these trees resembles the cedar somewhat. They bear a
cone not more than two inches in length, and a black pitch bitter as
gall. The forests at present have a gloomy appearance, as some time in
the past, no one knows when, the Indians, the better to facilitate their
hunting, burned off the chaparral and rubbish, and, as a matter of
course, disfigured the trees by burning off nearly all the bark.
The first sight of these monarchs is one of sore disappointment. For you
have travelled many miles where the trees are all large, and here,
surrounded as they are by immense pines, their magnitude is not
appreciated. But their greatness grows very rapidly upon you, so that if
there was at first disappointment, there is now a greater awe. Our first
view of interest was the Fallen Monarch, a ponderous old trunk stretched
out upon the ground for more than two hundred feet, upon which a stage
and four horses could be driven with ease. We had to go a hundred feet
towards the top to climb upon the trunk. The diameter of this tree,
without bark, at the base is twenty-two feet; one hundred feet from the
root it is twelve feet.
How long this monarch has been sleeping no one pretends to know. The
guide says it is no more decayed now, to all appearances, than it was
when first discovered. The tree of greatest interest is the Grizzly
Giant, which has an altitude of more than three hundred feet. The first
thing we did to try its magnitude was to surround it on horseback,
passing around in single file, the head of one horse to the tail of
another. It called into requisition twenty-five horses out of the
twenty-eight in our party to complete the measurement. This is not
considered strictly correct, mathematically speaking, but it indicates
the size of the tree by _horse measurement_.
I had prepared myself with a good-sized string, and, with the help of
a friend, made close calculation four feet from the ground, and found
it to be ninety-three feet, giving a diameter of thirty-one feet. This
tree has a limb one hundred feet from the ground that is six feet in
diameter. These trees stand around us in quiet grandeur, but to write
of one is to write of many, hence the reader must not be wearied with
a notice of each. Pluto's Chimney is a hollow tree, standing upright,
into which several of us rode on horseback. Yonder is another that had
fallen in some past age, and sixty feet or more of it had burned from
the root upward, and then towards the top had burned in two, leaving a
barrel-shaped or hollow part of the trunk some fifty feet in length.
Through this we all rode without any inconvenience. I have understood
that several have ridden abreast through it, which I do not think
improbable.
This completed our tour among these forest giants. There are two
groves--and, properly speaking, but two--of these _Sequoia gigantea_,
the Mariposa and Calaveras groves. The first is about twenty miles south
of Yosemite Valley, perhaps a little more, while the latter is some
fifty miles northwest of the valley. Thus it will be seen that they are
not, as many suppose, in the great Yosemite Valley.
The big trees of California, not of this species, however, are not
confined to these two groves. Many of the noted redwood species
(_Sequoia sempervirens_) used to grow back of Santa Cruz, many of which
are standing yet that were very great in size. We once upon a time, with
five others, rode into one of these during a storm. The butt was hollow,
and large enough to hold at least twelve men on horseback, and was not
less than two hundred and fifty feet in height.
THE CHINESE QUARTER IN SAN FRANCISCO.
HELEN HUNT JACKSON.
[We need not tell who Helen Hunt Jackson is. She is well known
to American readers both of verse and prose for her excellent
ability in both these fields of literature. Born in 1831, at
Amherst, Massachusetts, the daughter of Professor N. W. Fiske,
she married first Mr. Hunt, of the United States Engineer
Corps, and after his death a Mr. Jackson. She died in 1885.
From her work entitled "Bits of Travel at Home," a series of
racy sketches of experience east and west, we extract her
narrative of the odd and amusing things she saw in the Chinese
quarter of San Francisco.]
Sing, Wo & Co. keep one of the most picturesque shops on Jackson Street.
It is neither grocer's, nor butcher's, nor fishmonger's, nor druggist's;
but a little of all four. It is like most of the shops on Jackson
Street, part cellar, part cellar-stairs, part sidewalk, and part back
bedroom. On the sidewalk are platters of innumerable sorts of little
fishes,--little silvery fishes; little yellow fishes, with whiskers;
little snaky fishes; round flat fishes; little slices of big
fishes,--never too much or too many of any kind. Sparing and thrifty
dealers, as well as sparing and thrifty consumers, are the Celestials.
Round tubs of sprouted beans; platters of square cakes of something
whose consistency was like Dutch cheese, whose color was vivid yellow,
like baker's gingerbread, and whose tops were stamped with mysterious
letters; long roots, as long as the longest parsnips, but glistening
white, like polished turnips; cherries, tied up in stingy little bunches
of ten or twelve, and swung in all the nooks; small bunches of all
conceivable green things, from celery down to timothy grass, tied tight
and wedged into corners, or swung overhead; dried herbs, in dim
recesses; pressed chickens, on shelves (those were the most remarkable
things. They were semi-transparent, thin, skinny, and yellow, and looked
almost more like huge, flattened grasshoppers than like chickens; but
chickens they were, and no mistake),--all these were on the trays, on
the sidewalk, and on the cellar-stairs.
In the back bedroom were Mrs. Sing and Mrs. Wo, with several little
Sings and Wos. It was too dark to see what they were doing; for the only
light came from the open front of the shop, which seemed to run back
like a cave in a hill. On shelves on the sides were teacups and teapots,
and plates of fantastic shapes and gay colors. Sing and Wo were most
courteous; but their interest centred entirely on sales; and I could
learn but one fact from them in regard to any of their goods. It was
either "Muchee good. Englis man muchee like," or else, "China man like;
Englis man no like." Why should I wish to know anything further than
that some articles would be agreeable to "Englis man's" palate, and
others would not? This must be enough to regulate my purchases. But I
shall always wish I knew how those chickens were fattened and what the
vivid yellow cakes were made of.
[Next our traveller looks into the shop of Ty Wing & Co., where
nothing appears but darkness, dust and cobwebs, and two Chinese
women eating something unknown with chopsticks; that of Chick
Kee, a druggist, with feathers and banners without and nothing
but old dried roots visible within; and of Tuck Wo, a
restaurant-keeper, where nothing is visible that she has the
courage to taste.]
Moo, On & Co. come next. Their shop is full, crowded full,--bags,
bundles, casks, shelves, piles, bunches of utterly nondescript articles.
It sounds like an absurd exaggeration, but it is literally true, that
the only articles in his shop which I ever saw before are bottles. There
are a few of those; but the purpose, use, or meaning of every other
article is utterly unknown to me. There are things that look like games,
like toys, like lamps, like idols, like utensils of lost trades, like
relics of lost tribes, like--well, like a pawnbroker's stock, just
brought from some other world. That comes nearest to it.
Moo, On & Co. have apparently gone back for more. Nobody is in the
shop; the door is wide open. I wait and wait, hoping that some one
will come along who can speak English, and of whom I may ask what this
extraordinary show means. Timidly I touch a fluttering bit, which hangs
outside. It is not paper; it is not cloth; it is not woollen, silk, nor
straw; it is not leather; it is not cobweb; it is not alive; it is not
dead; it crisps and curls at my touch; it waves backward, though no air
blows it. A sort of horror seizes me. It may be a piece of an ancestor
of Moo's doing ghostly duty at his shop door. I hasten on and half fancy
that it is behind me, as I halt before Dr. Li Po Tai's door. His
promises to cure, diplomas, and so forth, are printed in gay-colored
strips of labels on each side. Six bright balloons swing overhead; and
peacocks' feathers are stuck into the balloons. I have heard that Dr. Li
Po Tai is a learned man, and works cures. His balloons are certainly
very brilliant....
Then comes a corner stand, with glass cases of candy. Almond candy, with
grains of rice thick on the top; little bowls of pickles, pears, and
peppers; platters of odd-shaped nuts; and beans baked black as coffee.
As I stand looking curiously at these, a well-dressed Chinaman pauses
before me, and making a gesture with his hand towards the stand, says,
"All muchee good. Buy eat. Muchee good." Hung Wung, the proprietor, is
kindled to hospitality by this, and repeats the words, "Yaas, muchee
good. Take, eat," offering me, with the word, the bowl of peppers.
Next comes a very gay restaurant, the best in the empire. Hang Fee, Low
& Co. keep it, and foreigners go there to drink tea. There is a green
railed balcony across the front, swinging full of high-colored lanterns,
round and square; tablets with Chinese letters on bright grounds are set
in panels on the walls; a huge rhinoceros stands in the centre of the
railing: a tree grows out of the rhinoceros's back, and an India rubber
man sits at the foot of the tree. China figures and green bushes in
flower-pots are ranged all along the railing. Nowhere except in the
Chinese Empire can there be seen such another gaudy, grotesque house
front. We make an appointment on the spot to take some of Hang Fee's
tea, on our way to the Chinese Theatre, the next evening, and then we
hurry home....
After all, we did not take tea at Hang Fee's on our way to the theatre.
There was not time. As it was, we were late; and when we entered the
orchestra had begun to play. Orchestra! It is necessary to use that
name, I suppose, in speaking of a body of men with instruments, who are
seated on a stage, furnishing what is called music for a theatrical
performance. But it is a term calculated to mislead in this instance.
Fancy one frog-pond, one Sunday-school with pumpkin whistles, one
militia training, and two gongs for supper on a Fall River boat, all at
once, and you will have some faint idea of the indescribable noise which
saluted our ears on entering that theatre. To say that we were deafened
is nothing. The hideous hubbub of din seemed to overlap and transcend
all laws and spheres of sound. It was so loud we could not see; it was
so loud we could not breathe; it was so loud there did not seem to be
any room to sit down! The theatre was small and low and dark. The pit
and greater part of the gallery were filled with Chinamen, all smoking.
One corner of the gallery was set aside for women. That was full, also,
with Chinese women. Every woman's hair was dressed in the manner I have
described ["drawn back from her forehead, twisted tight from the nape of
the neck to the crown of the head, stiffened with glue, glistening with
oil, and made into four huge double wings, which stood out beyond her
ears on either side. It looked a little like two gigantic black satin
bats, pinned to the back of her head, or still more like a windmill gone
into mourning."] The bat-like flaps projected so far on each side of
each head that each woman seemed almost to be joined to her neighbors by
a cartilaginous band; and, as they sat almost motionless, this effect
was heightened.