Part 8

Finding our train about to move we all get aboard and in a few minutes are landed at Oakland Pier, where we wait half an hour for a boat to convey us eight miles across the bay to San Francisco. We employ the time in looking about the large, commodious waiting room that overlooks the harbor. We can’t help noticing that this apartment contains something that is never seen in a station waiting room on the Pennsylvania Railroad system. A profusion of advertisements of all kinds literally cover the walls, and occupying a space in the centre of the floor is a large glass case containing a pyramid of bottles filled with liquors of various kinds and brands, advertising the goods of a whiskey firm down on Front Street. It is needless to say that there is a railing around the exhibit and the door of the case is locked. One of the ticket collectors, an active old gentleman, quick in his movements as a boy, informs us that he has been in his present position for nineteen years; and although seventy years old, the climate is so healthy he feels that he is growing younger every day.

It is announced that the boat is now ready, and we “walk the plank” leading to the deck of the “Oakland,” which is soon plowing a furrow in the waters of the bay as she heads for the “Queen City” of the Pacific. It is not such a boat ride as one can term “lovely”; it is not even agreeable. A chilly gale sweeps the deck that almost lifts you off your feet. “Golly, it’s worse than a trip from Camden to Philadelphia in December,” exclaims Brother Goff, as he turns up the collar of his coat. “Or one from Jersey City to New York in February,” adds Brother McKernan, seeking refuge behind a post. The most of us retire to the more comfortable quarters of the cabin, where we find enjoyment in viewing from the windows the immense bay and harbor, where are anchored hundreds of vessels of all kinds and sizes. As the “Oakland” pokes her nose against the San Francisco dock I look at my watch; it is 9.55 A. M., Pacific time. We have just been twenty minutes coming across. A speed of a mile in two and a half minutes is a pretty lively gait for a ferryboat, but we are told the “Oakland” does it every trip. Under the escort of Brother Perkins, we are loaded into cable cars and start on our way to Sutro Garden and Golden Gate Park.

I believe there’s hardly three squares of a level street in the whole city of San Francisco. Such hills as we go up and such hills as we go down we never saw in any city before. “Why, this is ten times worse than Baltimore, and it’s bad enough, dear knows,” exclaims Mrs. Kalkman as she catches Brother Cohee around the neck to save herself from falling off the seat as the car shoots up an unusually steep acclivity. “Here, here, don’t be so affectionate; Brother Kalkman and Mrs. Cohee are looking at you,” warns Brother Cohee. “As if I’d hug you on purpose,” she retorts, giving him a look of scorn. In many streets a horse and wagon has never been seen; it would be impossible for a horse to draw a wagon up those abrupt granite-paved hills. With the cable car almost on end, we are descending one of those “shoot the chute” like declivities extending for about three blocks, when I overhear a passenger, evidently a resident of the neighborhood, say to Mrs. Shaw, who has “struck up” a conversation with her, “We had a fire here in our neighborhood a short time ago, and a driver of one of the fire engines tried to bring it down this hill, when one of the horses fell down and the engine ran over it and killed it, and it broke the engine all up and hurt the man; it was just awful.” The car stops at the next corner and the woman gets off; glancing back at the hill we have just descended her closing words, “just awful,” strike me as being very appropriate.

A few squares further and we abandon the cable cars and take a little steam road called the “Ferries and Cliff” Railroad that carries us to Sutro Park and bathing pavilion, owned by Adolph Sutro, a retired millionaire merchant of San Francisco, and to the celebrated Cliff House, near which are the far-famed Seal Rocks. We wandered for a time through the beautifully laid out statuary, shrubbery, and flower-adorned grounds of Sutro, then to the great pavilion, that not only contains a large museum of interesting relics and curiosities, but it is here that the noted Sutro baths are located, said to be the finest equipped artificial bathing pools in the world.

We cannot stand the temptation, and soon many of us are robed in bathing suits and are diving, plunging, rolling, and splashing in the salt waters of the Pacific, brought here and warmed to the proper temperature, permitting bathing to be indulged in the entire year. It is needless to say that we have lots of sport, and those who decline to indulge will regret it. There are several strangers in the pool, and Brother Sheppard has taken quite a fancy to one young fellow, whom he is trying to learn to swim and dive. In an adjoining pool is rather a forlorn-looking duck; it must be tame, for it is quietly swimming around undisturbed by the noise we make. “I think it’s hungry,” says Brother McCarty, “I wish I had some crumbs.” The creature must have heard him, for we imagine it gave him a grateful look.

From the baths we go to the Cliff House, and from the windows of the inclosed balcony, that almost overhangs the waves that dash and roar on the rocks beneath, we watch with interest the monster seals that by the hundreds climb and crawl and slip and slide over the crags that rise from the bay, while we regale ourselves with pork and beans and coffee. There is a strong, chilly wind blowing, and we do not tarry long on the bluff outside that overlooks the bay and seals.

It is twenty minutes past two as we get aboard a train on the Park and Ocean Railroad that will convey us to Golden Gate Park. We do not find this world-famed park very different in appearance from other parks we have seen. It is all nice--very nice; beautiful trees and plants and shrubbery, velvety green grass and bright blooming flowers, fine fountains and lakes of shimmering water. All this we see and enjoy, but we have seen the like before, time and time again. Some are bold enough to so express themselves, and it catches Brother Perkins’ ear, who good-naturedly says, “My dear friends, there is but one Golden Gate Park in all the world. There are 1040 acres here of as fine a park as there is anywhere under the sun, and when we consider that 25 years ago this was all a barren tract of drifting sand hills, that everything you see growing has been planted and is kept alive and green and blooming by a regular and almost constant application of water, when you remember this, then you will feel and think that this park is a little different from any other that you have seen.”

We had already commenced to think it was. Amongst groves of trees are great inclosures containing native buffalo, elk, and deer, with so much room to roam that they hardly feel the restraint of captivity. We enter the immense aviaries, where many varieties of birds and squirrels flit and chirp and scamper and chatter with all the freedom and unconcern of an unlimited out-door life. As we leave this great cage with its sprightly, vociferous occupants I hear Brother Reilly say, “McCarty has got a ‘mash.’” I don’t quite know what it is that Brother McCarty has got, but suppose it is some escaped animal or bird he has captured. I turn and look, to find him surrounded by ladies of our party, who seem to be trying to protect him from impending harm. Looking closer, I see disappearing among the shrubbery McCarty’s “mash,” the cause of all the trouble, and it is only the poor bedraggled duck of Sutro’s bath that Brother McCarty had thought looked hungry, and our ladies had scared it off. Brother Reagan would have recaptured it but for Miss Ella’s restraining hand, and the curiosity is lost.

We are all pretty tired when at last the street cars are boarded and we are on our way to the ferry. Some are going to return to our train, which lies in Oakland, and some will remain in this city. Mrs. S. and myself called on Mrs. David Chambers, who, with her son and daughter, Willie and Effie, live on Mission Street. Years ago Mrs. Chambers and her family were neighbors to us in West Chester, Pa. Willie, when but a lad, was advised to try the climate of the Pacific coast for his health. He found both health and lucrative employment. Ten years ago he sent East for his mother and sister. We find them to-day enjoying excellent health and nicely and comfortably fixed. We are given a warm, cordial welcome and persuaded to spend the night with them.

In the evening after dinner Willie took me out to see the town. The ladies declined to go, preferring to remain indoors and talk over old times. Met Leslie Collom, a young gentleman friend of the Chambers’, but he having other engagements could not go. Willie knows the town and I follow where he leads. It has long been a desire with me to see San Francisco’s

“_Chinatown_,” and for three hours we explore its darkness and its mysteries. We do not attempt to go very far up and we don’t try to get very far down--we steer about on a level; but we see enough to convince me that Chinatown is all that it is said to be. You don’t have to ascend into rickety, reeking lofts or descend into gloomy, foul dens to witness their degradation, weakness, and misery; far back in dark, forbidding alleys and bystreets, which make your flesh creep to traverse, you can find them huddled together on benches and shelves, like chickens on a roost, enveloped in disgusting, stupefying smoke.

On our way home we dropped into a private museum and saw one of the rarest and most wonderful pieces of Japanese art in the world, a realistic, life-size statue of a man carved from wood. It is claimed that this work has been examined by learned scientific men, skilled in anatomy and physiology, and not a line or lineament of the skin surface of the human body has been omitted in this delicate, intricate carving. The finger nails are there and all the fine lines that can be traced on the inside of the hand and fingers. There are many lines on the surface of the human body that require the aid of a magnifying glass to discern; with the glass all these lines can be seen carved on this wonderful piece of art. It is midnight when we get home, and, thoroughly tired, we are soon in bed and in the land of dreams.

SATURDAY, MAY 22d.

Arose this morning about half-past six, and after breakfast, accompanied by Leslie Collom, went to the Palace Hotel, where we met Brothers Wyman and Layfield with their ladies. Brother Wyman had planned a trip to San José and was expecting others of the party, but a number of them being exhausted, worn out by an all night’s effort to explore the length, breadth, height, and depth of Chinatown, were still in bed. The others were too much interested in the beautiful city of Oakland and its environments to come, for we hear the good people over there are showing them a royal time, the municipal authorities giving them the freedom of the city and the railway company the freedom of their lines. Finding that no others are coming, we six board a Southern Pacific train on the Coast Division, that extends from San Francisco to Monterey, bound for San José, a ride of fifty miles. Mr. Collom is a very much appreciated member of our little party, as he points out from time to time much that interests us. As the train pulls out through the city he shows us the church where Blanche Lamont and Minnie Williams were found murdered and a little further on he points out the house where Durrant, the convicted murderer had lived.

The road runs between the ocean and the bay and as we pass the station of Ocean View a broad expanse of the Pacific greets our vision. At Baden we get pretty close to the shore of the bay and follow it until we leave Burlingame, a distance of about eight miles. We pass Menlo Park and Palo Alto, when our attention is called by Mr. Collom to a group of low-built, red-roofed, substantial-looking buildings, a short distance from the road on our right, almost hidden from view by the trees that cluster about them. “That,” says Mr. Collom, “is the renowned Leland Stanford University, founded in 1885 by the multi-millionaire Leland Stanford and his wife as a monument to the memory of their only child, Leland, Jr., who had died a short time before. Eighty-three thousand acres of land, valued at $20,000,000, was dedicated by a deed of trust for the establishment of this institution. Mr. Stanford selected the site for the location of the buildings, and the corner stone was laid in 1887, ten years ago. Last year the school register showed an enrollment of 1100 pupils. Tuition is free, both males and females are admitted, and the students are from all parts of America.”

As we leave Mountain View Station Mr. Collom suggests that we now give the scenery on the left of the train our attention, at the same time pointing out in the far distance a mountain peak, saying, “San José is 10 miles from here, and almost on a direct line with this point, and the crest of that mountain, 30 miles away, is Mt. Hamilton, where the famous Lick Observatory is located. It has an elevation of almost 4500 feet, and if you only had time to go up there it is a trip worth taking.”

Leaving Santa Clara Station we pass near a large, fine park, among the trees of which can be seen beautiful, substantial buildings. “That is Santa Clara Female College,” said Mr. Collom.

The train now enters San José, and we alight at the station. A “Vendome” hack is in waiting, which we enter, and are driven to that superb hostelry, said to be one of the finest hotels in California. It is situated in the centre of a beautiful 12-acre park, only a short distance from the railroad station. Not having long to stay, after a few minutes rest we bid the genial host good-day and start out for a little walk.

“We will return by the narrow-gauge road,” says Brother Wyman, “if we can find the station.” “A man told me a little while ago that it is only five blocks over in this direction,” replies the Colonel, indicating with his finger the way we should go. “Yes, the narrow-gauge road runs through that part of the town, but I think you will find it farther than five blocks,” remarks Mr. Collom. “Well, we want to see the town, anyway, and we’ll take our time,” responded the Colonel. “This is a pretty large town as well as a pretty old one, is it not, Mr. Collom?” I ask. “Yes,” is the answer. “It was first settled when Santa Clara Mission was founded, 120 years ago. It has now a population of about 25,000, and is the county seat of Santa Clara County, one of the richest counties in agricultural products and fruits in the State. Because of the wealth of fertility surrounding it San José has long been known as the ‘Garden City’ of California.”

Sauntering along, with our eyes wide open for the sights of the town, and keeping as much in the shade as possible, for the sun shines very warm, we are getting all the enjoyment out of the situation possible; but things are becoming less interesting. We are all hungry and the ladies are becoming tired; we have already come seven blocks, and the Colonel says, “We are nearly there; but to be sure of it I will ask this man,” he adds, as a man leading a horse came around the corner toward us. “My good man,” says the Colonel, “can you tell us how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station from here?” “Yes, sir; ’bout five blocks,” is the answer. “You’re sure it’s not ten?” retorts Brother Wyman; but the man and horse, never stopping, were out of range, and the shot missed the mark.

“I’m hungry,” exclaims Mrs. Wyman. “So am I,” I add. “I guess we can all eat if we have a chance,” asserts Brother Wyman. “We’ll look for a restaurant,” says the Colonel. A walk of two squares farther brings us to the looked-for establishment, which we enter, and after partaking of a substantial lunch, I ask the man at the desk, and I try to do it without feeling or agitation, making just the plain, quiet inquiry, “Will you tell us, please, how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station?” “Five blocks straight ahead,” is the pleasant, quiet reply, as he waves his hand in the direction we are to go. Not a word from one of our party. I take a second look at the man to see if I can discover in that pleasant countenance the least shadow of deception; it is as innocent and guileless as the face of day.

We silently leave the place, and as we start up the street Mrs. Layfield, taking the Colonel’s arm, gently asks, “John, are we going to walk to San Francisco?” “Not if we can find the station,” says the Colonel.

We enter the large store of a wine merchant to look around, and are courteously treated by the gentlemanly proprietor, who gave the ladies each a bottle of wine. We have come four blocks and a half since lunch and are looking for the station, when suddenly the Colonel exclaims, “There’s the road; I thought that last fellow was telling the truth.” “But that’s not the road we want; that’s a trolley road,” replies Brother Wyman. “So it is,” admits the Colonel; “but there’s a man; I’ll ask him,” he adds, referring to a man in uniform who was leaning up against the fence.

“For Lord’s sake,” pleads the Colonel, “will you tell us how far it is to the narrow-gauge railroad station?” “About a square and a half,” answers the man, smiling at the Colonel’s earnestness, “Are you sure it’s no further than that?” asks the Colonel. “Quite sure,” is the reply. “How soon can we get a train for San Francisco?” inquires Manager Wyman. “In about an hour and a half. Where’re you from?” he answers and asks at the same time. “From Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Where’s your road go?” imitates Brother Wyman. The man laughs. “I’m unable to take you home, for I don’t go that far,” he replies, “but I can take you several miles and back through as fine a fruit country as you ever saw. I am waiting to relieve the man on the car you see coming, and in a few minutes I will be going back. The fare is only a nickel,” he adds, as a hint that we musn’t expect to “deadhead” it.

We conclude to go, to pass the time away, for we can easily get back in time to catch our train. So we get aboard the car, pay our nickel, and ride for several miles to a place called the Willows, which is the terminus of the road. Here is located an immense cherry orchard, where the crop is being gathered and crated ready for shipment to Eastern markets.

We are invited to help ourselves; it is half an hour before our car starts back and we have time to accept the invitation. The ripest cherries are the ones the packers reject, so we assisted the packers for several minutes picking out the ripe cherries and packing them while the packers packed the ones we didn’t pick. When we got tired of packing we quit picking, and thanking the good people for the treat, we board the car again and are soon spinning up the line among the apricot and cherry orchards, the trees loaded with fruit.

Arriving at our destination, we bid our friend, the conductor, goodbye, and in a few minutes we reach the much-inquired-for “narrow-gauge railroad station,” where we wait half an hour for the train. We find the track composed of three rails; and as though to demonstrate to us the use of the third rail, a freight train comes along made up of both narrow and broad-gauge cars. It looks odd, for it is something we had never seen before, and as the strange combination passes down the road the Colonel remarks, “There is nothing but what we may expect to see.”

In due time our train pulls into the station and we are soon seated in a comfortable narrow-gauge coach and speeding toward Oakland. There are many beautiful towns and residences located on this line, and as we draw nearer its termination this fact becomes more noticeable, the town of Alameda, through which we pass, possessing all the loveliness of a fairyland with its palatial residences and magnificent lawns.

Oakland, the “Athens of the Pacific,” is reached at last, and knowing how fascinating and grand it is and how royally our people are being treated, I am loath to leave; but our friends on the other side await our coming, and bidding the manager, the Colonel, and the ladies good night, Mr. Collom and I hie away to the ferry and across the bay, nor stop until we are seated in Mrs. Chambers’ cozy dining room, appeasing our appetites while recounting the incidents of the day. After dinner Willie took his mother, Mrs. Shaw, and myself out to give us a view of the city lights from “Park Heights.” A ride on the cable cars and several changes brought us in about forty minutes to the “Heights.”

From this high eminence we look down on a sight of unusual novelty and grandeur. Spread out far beneath us is almost the entire city of San Francisco, but the buildings are not visible, not one, only the millions of bright, star-like lights that enable you to trace the streets and mark the squares, and that twinkle and gleam from beneath like unto the gems that beam down upon you from above. We look up, through a cloudless atmosphere, and behold a firmament filled with brilliant, glittering gems; we look down, and see what almost seems a reflection of what we see above. Man, we know, is the author of all this grandeur that we see beneath, but as to the Author of that magnificence far above we can but speculate.

Willie sees we are growing serious and says we need a change, so he leads us around to the entrance that admits to the scenic railway, chutes, haunted swing, and skating rink, where for an hour we have a world of fun; so pleased are the ladies with the toboggan and the chutes that it is with difficulty we get them started home. We have had another full day, and when at eleven o’clock I find myself in bed, I discover that I am very tired. After the excitement and exertions of the day are over, when the tension and strain of over-taxed nerves and muscles relax and reaction comes, then you understand in its fullest measure the meaning of the expression, “I’m tired.”

SUNDAY, MAY 23d.

Feeling that we need rest, and finding the full enjoyment of our need in the pleasant home of Mrs. Chambers, we do not go out to-day until it is time to leave

for the ferry, from which the boat will bear us to Oakland and to our train, which is scheduled to leave this evening at seven o’clock. Willie’s engagements had called him from home in the early morning. Mrs. Chambers, Miss Effie, and Mr. Collom accompany Mrs. Shaw and myself to Oakland and take dinner with us in the “Lafayette”; they are warm in their praises of the comfort and luxury of our train and our enjoyable manner of traveling.

The hour of departure is drawing near and the many friends we have made are gathered around to see us off. Mrs. T. E. Gaither, a former Pennsylvanian, now a resident of Oakland, presents each one of the tourists with a bouquet of fine roses gathered from her splendid, spacious lawn of ever-blooming sweetness. The inevitable “All aboard” is shouted, the last hand shake is given, and our train leaves behind another garden spot of grandeur.