A Truthful Woman in Southern California
K >> Kate Sanborn >> A Truthful Woman in Southern CaliforniaA TRUTHFUL WOMAN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
BY KATE SANBORN
AUTHOR OF ADOPTING AN ABANDONED FARM, ETC.
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1893,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--HINTS FOR THE JOURNEY
II.--AT CORONADO BEACH
III.--SAN DIEGO
IV.--EN ROUTE TO LOS ANGELES
V.--LOS ANGELES AND ROUND ABOUT
VI.--PASADENA
VII.--CAMPING ON MOUNT WILSON
VIII.--CATCHING UP ON THE KITE-SHAPED TRACK
IX.--RIVERSIDE
X.--A LESSON ON THE TRAIN
XI.--SANTA BARBARA
XII.--HER CITY AND COUNTY
XIII.--IN GALA DRESS
XIV.--AU REVOIR
A Truthful Woman in Southern California
CHAPTER I.
HINTS FOR THE JOURNEY.
The typical Forty-niner, in alluring dreams, grips the Golden
Fleece.
The _fin-de-siecle_ Argonaut, in Pullman train, flees the Cold and
Grip.
_En Sol y la Sombra_--shade as well as sun.
Yes, as California is. I resolve neither to soar into romance nor drop
into poetry (as even Chicago drummers do here), nor to idealize nor
quote too many prodigious stories, but to write such a book as I needed
to read before leaving my "Abandoned Farm," "Gooseville," Mass. For I
have discovered that many other travellers are as ignorant as myself
regarding practical information about every-day life here, and many
others at home may know even less.
So let me say that California has not a tropical, but a semi-tropical
climate, and you need the same clothing for almost every month that is
found necessary and comfortable in New York or Chicago during the
winter.
Bring fur capes, heavy wraps, simple woolen dresses for morning and
outdoor life; and unless rolling in wealth, pack as little as possible
of everything else, for extra baggage is a curse and will deplete a
heavy purse,--that rhymes and has reason too. I know of one man who paid
$300 for extra baggage for his party of fifteen from Boston to Los
Angeles.
Last year I brought dresses and underwear for every season, and for a
vague unknown fifth; also my lectures, causing profanity all along the
line, and costing enough to provide drawing-room accommodations for the
entire trip.
Why did I come? Laryngitis, bronchitis, tonsilitis, had claimed me as
their own. Grip (I will not honor it with a foreign spelling, now it is
so thoroughly acclimated and in every home) had clutched me twice--nay,
thrice; doctors shook their heads, thumped my lungs, sprayed my throat,
douched my nose, dosed me with cough anodynes and nerve tonics, and
pronounced another winter in the North a dangerous experiment. Some of
you know about this from personal experience. Not a human being could I
induce to join me. If this hits your case, do not be deterred; just come
and be made over into a joyous, healthful life. I would not urge those
to take the tedious journey who are hopelessly consumptive. Home is the
best place for such, and although I see many dragging wearily along with
one lung, or even half of that, who settle here and get married and
prolong existence for a few years, and although some marvellous cures
have been effected, still I say the same.
And what is to be put in the one big trunk? Plenty of flannels of medium
thickness, a few pretty evening dresses, two blouses, silk and woolen or
velvet for morning wear, with simple skirts, a gossamer, rubbers, thick
boots for long tramps and excursions, parasol, umbrella, soft hat to
shade the face, and gloves for all sorts of occasions. I do not venture
to suggest anything for men, they travel so sensibly. The more
experienced one is, the less he carries with him.
So do not load up with portfolio and portable inkstand, your favorite
stationery, the books that delighted your childhood or exerted a
formative influence upon your character in youth. Deny yourself and
leave at home the gold or silver toilet set, photograph album, family
Bibles, heavy fancy work, gilded horseshoe for luck, etc. I know of
bright people who actually carried their favorite matches from an
eastern city to Tacoma, also a big box of crackers, cheese, pickles, and
preserved fruits, only to find the best of everything in that brilliant
and up-with-the-times city. One old lady brought a calla-lily in a pot!
When she arrived and saw hedges and fields of lilies, hers went out of
the window. Another lady from Boston brought a quart bottle of the
blackest ink, only to spill it all upon a new carpet at Santa Barbara,
costing the boarding-house keeper thirty-five dollars. Everything that
one needs can be purchased all along the way, from a quinine capsule to
a complete outfit for any occasion.
As to the various ways of coming here, I greatly prefer the Southern
Pacific in winter, and Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe in spring or summer.
Either will take you from New York to San Diego and return for $137,
allowing six months' stay. The "Phillips Excursion" will take you from
Boston to San Francisco for fifty-five dollars. But in this case the
beds are hard, and you provide your own meals. Some try the long voyage,
twenty-three days from New York to San Francisco. It is considered
monotonous and undesirable by some; others, equally good judges, prefer
it decidedly.
I believe in taking along a loose wrapper to wear in the cars,
especially when crossing the desert. It greatly lessens fatigue to be
able to curl up cosily in a corner and go to sleep, with a silk
travelling hat or a long veil on one's head, and the stiff bonnet or
big hat with showy plumes nicely covered in its long purse-like bag, and
hanging on a hook above. The sand and alkali ruin everything, and are
apt to inflame the eyes and nose. I find a hamper with strap
indispensable on the train; it will hold as much as a small trunk, yet
it can be easily carried.
Now imagine you have arrived, very tired, and probably with a cold in
your head, for the close heated cars and the sudden changes of climate
are trying. You may be at The Raymond, and "personally conducted."
Nothing can be better than that. But if you are alone at Los Angeles, or
San Francisco, come straight down to Coronado Beach, and begin at the
beginning--or the end, as you may think it.
CHAPTER II.
AT CORONADO BEACH.
I associate Coronado Beach so closely with Warner (Charles D.), the
cultured and cosmopolitan, that every wave seems to murmur his name, and
the immense hotel lives and flourishes under the magic of his rhetoric
and commendation. Just as Philadelphia is to me Wanamakerville and
Terrapin, so Coronado Beach is permeated and lastingly magnetized by
Warner's sojourn here and what he "was saying."
But I must venture to find fault with his million-times-quoted adjective
"unique" as it is used. It has been stamped on stationery and menu
cards, and has gone the world over in his volume "Our Italy," and no one
ever visits this spot who has not made the phrase his own. To me it
deserves a stronger word, or series of words. We say a pretty girl has a
"unique" way of dressing her hair, or an author a "unique" way of
putting things.
But as I look out of my window this glorious morning, and watch the
triple line of foaming waves breaking on the long beach, a silver sickle
in the sunshine; the broad expanse of the Pacific, with distant sails
looking like butterflies apoise; Point Loma grandly guarding the right,
and farther back the mountain view, where snowy peaks can just be
discerned over the nearer ranges; the quiet beauty of the grounds below,
where borders and ovals and beds of marguerites contrast prettily with
long lines and curves of the brilliant marigolds; grass, trees, and
hedges green as June--a view which embraces the palm and the pine, the
ocean and lofty mountains, cultivated gardens and rocky wastes, as I see
all this, I for one moment forget "unique" and exclaim, "How bold,
magnificent, and unrivalled!" Give me a new and fitting adjective to
describe what I see. Our best descriptive adjectives are so recklessly
used in daily life over minute matters, that absolutely nothing is left
for this rare combination.
As a daughter of New Hampshire in this farthest corner of the southwest,
my mind crosses the continent to the remote northeast and the great
Stone Face of the Franconia Mountains. Chiselled by an Almighty hand,
its rugged brow seamed by the centuries, its features scarred by the
storms of ages, gazing out over the broad land, where centre the hopes
of the human race, who can forget that face, sad with the mysteries of
pain and sorrow, yet inspiring with its rugged determination, and at
times softened with the touch of sunlit hope?
Point Loma has something of the same sphinx-like grandeur, with its long
bold promontory stretching out into the western waters. These two seem
to be keeping watch and ward over mountain and sea: each appropriate in
its place and equally impressive. There the stern prophet surveying the
home of great beginnings, the cradle of creative energy; and here, its
counterpart, a mighty recumbent lion, its dreamy, peaceful gaze turned
with confidence out over the wide Pacific to the setting sun, with
assurance of ultimate success, a pledge of aspirations satisfied, of
achievements assured, of----Whoa there! Hello! This to my runaway
steeds, Imagination and Sentiment. Brought back by a passing bell-boy, I
shall now keep a tighter rein.
But when one first breathes the air of California, there is a curious
exaltation and excitement, which leads on irresistibly. This is often
followed by a natural depression, sleepiness, and reaction. But that
view never changes, and I know you will say the same. A florid,
effervescent, rhapsodical style seems irresistible. One man of uncommon
business ability and particularly level head caught the spirit of the
place, and wrote that "the most practical and unpoetical minds, too,
come here and go away, as they afterward gingerly admit, carrying with
them the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold and crimson upon cloud,
sea, and mountain; of violet promontories, sails, and lighthouses
etched against the orange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering
breeze-rippled breadths of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering in
sun-lit haze; of sunrises with crowns of glory chasing the vapory,
fleece-like shadows from the wet, irridescent beach, and silhouetting
the fishermen's sails in the opalescent tints of a glassy sea."
Some temperaments may not be affected at all. But the first morning I
felt like leaping a five-barred fence, and the next like lying down
anywhere and sleeping indefinitely. I met a distinguished Boston artist
recently, who had just arrived. The day was superb. He seemed in a
semi-delirium of ecstasy over everything. His face glowed, his eyes
shone, his hands were full of flowers. He said, "My heart jumps so I'm
really afraid it will jump out of my body." The next morning he was
wholly subdued. It had poured all night, and the contrast was
depressing. A six-footer from Albany was in the sleepy state. "If I
don't pull out soon," he said, "I shall be bedridden. I want to sleep
after breakfast, or bowling, or bath, or my ride or dinner, and really
long to go to bed by nine."
There has probably been more fine writing and florid rhetoric about
California than any other State in the Union.
The Hotel del Coronado is a mammoth hostelry, yet homelike in every
part, built in a rectangle with inner court, adorned with trees,
flowers, vines, and a fountain encircled by callas; color, pure white,
roofs and chimneys red; prevailing woods, oak, ash, pine, and redwood.
All around the inner court a series of suites of rooms, each with its
own bath and corner sitting-room--literally "a linked suiteness long
drawn out." It is one eighth of a mile from my bedroom to my seat in the
dining-room, so that lazy people are obliged to take daily
constitutionals whether they want to or not, sighing midway for trolley
accommodations. The dining-room may safely be called roomy, as it seats
a thousand guests, and your dearest friends could not be recognized at
the extreme end. Yet there is no dreary stretch or caravansary effect,
and to-day every seat is filled, and a dozen tourists waiting at the
door.
Every recreation of city or country is found in this little world:
thirty billiard-tables, pool, bowling, tennis, polo, bathing (where
bucking barrel-horses and toboggan slides, fat men who produce tidal
waves, and tiny boys who do the heroic as sliders and divers, make fun
for the spectators), hunting, fishing, yachting, rowing, riding to
hounds, rabbit hunts, pigeon shoot, shooting-galleries, driving,
coaching, cards, theatre, ballroom, lectures, minstrels, exhibitions of
the Mammoth and Minute from Yosemite with the stereopticon, to Pacific
sea-mosses, the ostrich farm, the museum or maze for a morning hour,
dressing or undressing for evening display, watching the collection of
human beings who throng everywhere with a critical or humorous eye,
finding as much variety as on Broadway or Tremont Street;
dancing-classes for children; a chaperon and a master of ceremonies for
grown folks; a walk or drive twelve miles long on a smooth beach at low
tide, not forgetting the "dark room" for kodak and camera f--amateurs.
You see many athletic, fine-looking men, who ride daringly and ride to
kill. Once a week the centre of the office is filled with game:
rabbits, quail, snipe, ducks, etc., everything here--but an undertaker.
And old Ocean eternally booming (the only permanent boom I know of in
Southern California).
And that is what you see and hear at the Hotel del Coronado. The summer
climate is better than the winter--never too warm for comfort, the
mercury never moving for weeks. I expected constant sunshine, a
succession of June's fairest days, which would have been monotonous, to
say nothing of the effect upon crops and orchards. The rainy season is
necessary and a blessing to the land-owners, hard as it is for "lungers"
and the nervous invalids who only feel well on fine days and complain
unreasonably.
Ten inches is the average needed just here. Rain is rainy and wet
weather is wet, but the ground dries as soon as the pelting shower is
over. I do not find the raw, searching dampness of our Eastern seashore
resorts. Here we are said to have "dry fogs" and an ideal marine
atmosphere, but it was too cold for comfort during the March rains for
those not in robust health.
As I sit in the upper gallery and watch the throng issuing from the
dining-room, I make a nice and unerring social distinction between the
Toothpick Brigade who leave the table with the final mouthful
semi-masticated, and those who have an air of finished contentment.
The orchestra is unusually good, giving choice selections admirably
executed. I have not decided whether music at meals is a blessing or
otherwise. If sad, it seems a mockery; if gay, an interruption. For one
extremely sensitive to time and tune it is difficult to eat to slow
measures. And when the steak is tough and a galop is going on above, it
is hard to keep up.
Among the many fleeting impressions of faces and friends here, one or
two stand out clearly and indelibly--stars of the first magnitude in the
nebulae--as dear Grandma Wade from Chicago, the most attractive old lady
I ever met: eighty-three years old, with a firm step, rotund figure, and
sweet, unruffled face, crowned with the softest snow-white curls, on
which rests an artistic cap trimmed with ribbons of blue or delicate
heliotrope, and small artificial flowers to match. I have known several
interesting octogenarians, but never one that surpassed her in
loveliness, wit, and positive jollity. Her spontaneous fun is better
than the labored efforts of many a famous humorist.
She still has her ardent admirers among men as well as women, and now
and then receives an earnest proposal from some lonely old fellow.
The last of these aged lovers, when refused and relegated to the
position of a brother, urged her to reconsider this important matter,
making it a subject of prayer. But she quietly said, "I'm not going to
bother the Lord with questions I can answer myself." When choked by a
bread-crumb at table, she said to the frightened waiter, as soon as she
had regained her breath, "Never mind, if that did go down the wrong way,
a great many good things have gone down the right way this winter."
She is invariably cheerful, and when parting with her son for the winter
she said, "Well, John, I want to know before I go just what you have
left me in your will!" which little joke changed a tear into a smile.
Even when ill she is still bright and hopeful, so that a friend
exclaimed, "Grandma, I do believe you would laugh if you were dying;"
and she replied, "Well, so many folks go to the Lord with a long face, I
guess He will be glad to see one come in smiling."
Oh, how repulsive the artificial bloom, the cosmetics and hair-dyes
which make old age a horror, compared with her natural beauty! God bless
and keep dear Grandma Wade!
Little "Ted" is another character and favorite, and his letter to his
nurse in New York gives a good idea of how the place affects a bright,
impressionable child.
"My dear Julia: _It is a dummy near the hotel and it takes five
days to come here and there is an island right beyond the boat
house and they have a pigeon shoot every week. And there is six
hundred people here Julia, one hundred and fifty came yesterday._
"_There is a mountin across the river and a house very far away by
itself, Julia. I play in the sand every day of my life, and I take
swimming lessons and I have two oranges. California is the biggest
world in the country and there is a tree very, very far away. Julia
it is a puzzle walk near the hotel, Rose and me went all through it
and Julia, we got our way out easy._"
He has it all. All the trees are cultivated here, so I looked round for
the one Ted spoke of, and find it lights up at night and revolves for
the aid of the mariners. I think that all Californians echo his
sentiment that "California is the biggest world in the country"; and
compared with the hard work of the New England farmers, what is the
cultivation of orchards but playing in the sand with golden oranges?
Some one says that Californians "irrigate, cultivate, and exaggerate."
Charles Nordhoff, the veteran journalist and author, lives within sight
of the hotel (which he pronounces the most perfect and charming hotel he
knows of in Europe or America), in a rambling bungalow consisting of
three small cottages moved from different points and made into one. He
believes in California for "health, pleasure, and residence." It is a
rare privilege to listen to his conversation, sitting by his open fire
or at his library table, or when he is entertaining friends at dinner.
So ends my sketch of Coronado. Coronado! What a perfect word! Musical,
euphonious, regal, "the crowned"! The name of the governor of New
Galicia, and captain-general of the Spanish army, sent forth in 1540 in
search of the seven cities of Cibola. General J. H. Simpson, U. S. A.,
has written a valuable monograph on "Coronado's March," which can be
found in the Smithsonian Report for 1869.
I intend to avoid statistics and history on the one side, and
extravagant eulogy on the other.
Now we will say good-by to our new friends, take one more look at Point
Loma, and cross the ferry to San Diego.
CHAPTER III.
SAN DIEGO.
"The truly magnificent, and--with reason--famous port of San
Diego."--_From the first letter of Father Junipero in Alto
California._
Fifteen cents for motor, ferry, and car will take you to Hotel Florence,
on the heights overlooking the bay, where I advise you to stop. The
Horton House is on an open, sunny site, and is frequented by
"transients" and business men of moderate means. The Brewster is a
first-class hotel, with excellent table. The Florence is not a large
boarding-house or family hotel, but open for all. It has a friendly,
homelike atmosphere, without the exactions of an ultra-fashionable
resort. The maximum January temperature is seventy-four degrees, while
that of July is seventy-nine degrees, and invalid guests at this house
wear the same weight clothing in summer that they do in winter. The
rooms of this house are all sunny, and each has a charming ocean or
mountain view. It is easy to get there; hard to go away. Arriving from
Coronado Beach, I was reminded of the Frenchman who married a quiet
little home body after a desperate flirtation with a brilliant society
queen full of tyrannical whims and capricious demands. When this was
commented on as surprising, he explained that after playing with a
squirrel one likes to take a cat in his lap. Really, it is so restful
that the building suggests a big yellow tabby purring sleepily in the
sunshine. I sat on the veranda, or piazza, taking a sun-bath, in a happy
dream or doze, until the condition of nirvana was almost attained. What
day of the week was it? And the season? Who could tell? And who cares?
Certainly no one has the energy to decide it. Last year, going there to
spend one day, I remained for five weeks, hypnotized by my
environments--beguiled, deluded, unconscious of the flight of time,
serenely happy. Many come for a season, and wake up after five or six
years to find it is now their home. "There seems to exist in this
country a something which cheats the senses; whether it be in the air,
the sunshine, or in the ocean breeze, or in all three combined, I cannot
say. Certainly the climate is not the home-made common-sense article of
the anti-Rocky Mountain States; and unreality is thrown round life--all
walk and work in a dream."
At Coronado Beach one rushes out after breakfast for an all-day
excursion or morning tramp; here one sits and sits, always intending to
go somewhere or do something, until the pile of unanswered letters
accumulates and the projected trips weary one in a dim perspective. It
is all so beautiful, so new, so wonderful! San Diego is the Naples of
America, with the San Jacinto Mountains for a background and the blue
sunlit bay to gaze upon, and one of the finest harbors in the world. Yet
with all this, few have the energy even to go a-fishing.
Now, as a truthful "tourist," I must admit that in the winter there are
many days when the sun does not shine, and the rainy season is not
altogether cheerful for the invalid and the stranger. Sunshine, glorious
golden sunshine, is what we want all the time; but we do not get it. I
noticed that during the heavy rains the invalids retired to their rooms,
overcome by the chill and dampness, and some were seriously ill. But
then they would have been in their graves if they had remained in the
East. There are many charming people residing in San Diego, well, happy,
useful, who know they can never safely return to their old homes.
There has been such a rosy glamour thrown over southern California by
enthusiastic romancers that many are disappointed when they fail to find
an absolute Paradise.
Humboldt said of California: "The sky is constantly serene and of a deep
blue, and without a cloud; and should any clouds appear for a moment at
the setting of the sun, they display the most beautiful shades of
violet, purple, and green."[1]
[Footnote 1: Humboldt had never been in Alta California, and procured
this information in Mexico or Spain.]
Now, after reading that, a real rainy day, when the water leaks through
the roof and beats in at the doors, makes a depressed invalid feel like
a drenched fowl standing forlornly on one leg in the midst of a New
England storm. With snow-covered mountains on one side and the ocean
with its heavy fogs on the other, and the tedious rain pouring down with
gloomy persistence, and consumptives coughing violently, and physicians
hurrying in to attend to a sudden hemorrhage or heart-failure, the scene
is not wholly gay and inspiriting. But when the sun comes forth again
and the flowers (that look to me a little tired of blooming all the
time) brighten up with fresh washed faces, and all vegetation rejoices
and you can almost see things grow, and the waves dance and glitter, and
the mountains no longer look cold and threatening but seem like painted
scenery, _a la_ Bierstadt, hung up for our admiration, and the valleys
breathe the spicy fragrance of orange blossoms, we are once more happy,
and ready to rave a little ourselves over the much-talked-of "bay 'n'
climate." But there are dangers even on the sunniest day. I know a
young physician who came this year on a semi-professional tour, to try
the effects of inhalations on tuberculosis, and it was so delightfully
warm that he straightway took off his flannels, was careless about night
air, and was down with pneumonia.
The tourist or traveller who writes of San Diego usually knows nothing
of it but a week or two in winter or early spring.
Southern California has fifty-two weeks in the year, and for two thirds
of this time the weather is superb.
I can imagine even a mission Indian grunting and complaining if taken to
our part of the country in the midst of a week's storm. We flee from
deadly horrors of climate to be fastidiously critical. If, in midsummer,
sweltering sufferers in New York or Chicago could be transported to this
land they would not hurry away. The heat is rarely above eighty-five
degrees, and nearly always mitigated by a refreshing breeze from the
bay. I am assured that there have not been five nights in as many years
when one or more blankets have not been necessary for comfort. In summer
everything is serene. No rain, no thunder-storms, no hail, or
water-spouts. (The dust pest is never spoken of!) The picnic can be
arranged three weeks ahead without an anxious thought about the weather.
The summer sunsets are marvellously beautiful.