John L. Stoddard's Lectures, Vol. 10 (of 10) by John L. Stoddard
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John L. Stoddard >> John L. Stoddard\'s Lectures, Vol. 10 (of 10)
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JOHN L. STODDARD'S LECTURES, VOLUME 10 (of 10)
Southern California
Grand Canon of the Colorado River
Yellowstone National Park
Illustrated and Embellished with Views of the
World's Famous Places and People, Being
the Identical Discourses Delivered
during the Past Eighteen
Years under the Title
of the Stoddard
Lectures
Boston
Balch Brothers Co.
Norwood Press
J. S. Gushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
Macdonald & Sons, Bookbinders, Boston
MCM
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
[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 canons, 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 _decollete_ 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 canons 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.
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