CHAPTER 56
We rumbled over the plains and valleys, climbed the Sierras to the clouds, and looked down upon summer-clad California. And I will remark here, in passing, that all scenery in California requires distance to give it its highest charm. The mountains are imposing in their sublimity and their majesty of form and altitude, from any point of view—but one must have distance to soften their ruggedness and enrich their tintings; a Californian forest is best at a little distance, for there is a sad poverty of variety in species, the trees being chiefly of one monotonous family—redwood, pine, spruce, fir—and so, at a near view there is a wearisome sameness of attitude in their rigid arms, stretched downward and outward in one continued and reiterated appeal to all men to “Sh!—don’t say a word!—you might disturb somebody!” Close at hand, too, there is a reliefless and relentless smell of pitch and turpentine; there is a ceaseless melancholy in their sighing and complaining foliage; one walks over a soundless carpet of beaten yellow bark and dead spines of the foliage till he feels like a wandering spirit bereft of a footfall; he tires of the endless tufts of needles and yearns for substantial, shapely leaves; he looks for moss and grass to loll upon, and finds none, for where there is no bark there is naked clay and dirt, enemies to pensive musing and clean apparel. Often a grassy plain in California, is what it should be, but often, too, it is best contemplated at a distance, because although its grass blades are tall, they stand up vindictively straight and self-sufficient, and are unsociably wide apart, with uncomely spots of barren sand between.
One of the queerest things I know of, is to hear tourists from “the States” go into ecstasies over the loveliness of “ever-blooming California.” And they always do go into that sort of ecstasies. But perhaps they would modify them if they knew how old Californians, [begin page 386] with the memory full upon them of the dust-covered and questionable summer greens of Californian “verdure,” stand astonished, and filled with worshipping admiration, in the presence of the lavish richness, the brilliant green, the infinite freshness, the spendthriftⒶemendation variety of form and species and foliage that make an easternⒶemendation landscape a vision of Paradise itself. The idea of a man
San Francisco, a truly fascinating city to live in, is stately and handsome at a fair distance, but close at hand one notes that the architecture is mostly old-fashioned, many streets are made up of decaying, smoke-grimed, wooden houses, and the barren sand hillsⒶemendation toward the outskirts obtrude themselves too prominently. Even the kindly climate is sometimes pleasanter when read about than personally experienced, for a lovely, cloudless sky wears out its welcome by and by, and then when the longed for rain does come it stays. Even the playful earthquake is better contemplated at a dis—
However there are varying opinions about that.
TheⒶemendation climate of San Francisco is mild and singularly equable. The thermometer stands at about seventy degrees the year round. It hardly changes at all. You sleep under one or two light blankets summerⒶemendation and winterⒶemendation, and never use a mosquito bar. Nobody ever wears summerⒶemendation clothing. You wear black broadclothⒶemendation—if you haveⒶemendation it—in August and January, just the same. It is no colder, and no warmer, in the one month than the other. You do notⒶemendation use overcoats [begin page 388] and you do notⒶemendation use fans. It isⒶemendation as pleasant a climate as could wellⒶemendation be contrived, take it all around,Ⓐemendation and is doubtlessⒶemendation the most unvarying in the whole world. The wind blows there a good deal in the summerⒶemendation months, but then you can go over to Oakland, if you chooseⒶemendation—three or four miles away—it does notⒶemendation blow there. It has only snowed twice in San Francisco in nineteen years, and then it only remained on the ground long enough to astonish the children, and set them to wondering what the feathery stuff was.
During eight months of the year, straight along, the skies are bright and cloudless, and never a drop of rain falls. But when the other four months come along, you will needⒶemendation to go and steal an umbrella. Because you will requireⒶemendation it. Not just one day, but one hundred and twenty days in hardly varyingⒶemendation succession. When you want to go visiting, or attend church, or the theatre, you never look up at the clouds to see whether it is likely to rain or not—you look at the almanac. If it is winter, it will rain Ⓐemendation—and if it is summer, it won’t rain, and you cannotⒶemendation help it. You never need a lightning-rod, because it never thunders and it never lightens. And after you have listened for six or eight weeks, every night, to the dismal monotony of those quiet rains, you will wish in your heart the thunder would leap and crash and roar along those drowsy skies once, and make everything alive—you will wish the prisoned lightnings would cleave the dull firmament asunder and light it with a blinding glareⒶemendation for one little instant. You would give anything Ⓐemendation to hear the old familiar thunder again and see the lightning strike somebody. And along in the summerⒶemendation, when you have suffered about four months of lustrous, pitiless sunshine, you are ready to go down on your knees and pleadⒶemendation for rain—hail—snow—thunder and lightning—anything to break the monotony—you willⒶemendation take an earthquake, if you cannotⒶemendation do any better. And the chances are that you’ll get it, too.
SanⒶemendation Francisco is built on sand hills, but they are prolific sand hills. They yield a generous vegetation. All theⒶemendation rare flowersⒶtextual note Ⓐemendation which people in “the States” rear with such patient care in parlor flower pots and greenhousesⒶemendation, flourish luxuriantly in the open air there all the year round. Calla liliesⒶemendation, all sorts of geraniums, passion flowers, moss roses—I do notⒶemendation know the names of a tenth part of them. I [begin page 389] only know that while New Yorkers are burdened with banks and drifts of snow, Californians are burdened with banks and drifts of flowers, if they only keep their hands off and let them grow. And I have heard that they have alsoⒶemendation that rarest and most curious of all the flowers, the beautiful Espiritu Santo, as the Spaniards call it—or flower of the Holy Spirit—though I thought it grew onlyⒶemendation in Central America—down on the Isthmus. In its cup is the daintiest little fac-simile of a dove, as pureⒶemendation as snow. The Spaniards have a superstitious reverence for it. The blossom has been conveyed to the States, submerged in ether; and the bulb has been taken thither also, but every attempt to make it bloom after it arrived, has failed.
IⒶemendation have elsewhereⒶemendation spoken of the endless winterⒶemendation of Mono, California, and but this moment ofⒶemendation the eternal springⒶemendation of San Francisco. Now if we travel a hundred miles in a straight line, we come to
the eternal summerⒶemendation of Sacramento. One never sees summer clothingⒶemendation or mosquitoes in San Francisco—but they can be found in Sacramento. Not always and
unvaryingly, but about one hundred and forty-threeⒶemendation months out of twelve years, perhaps. Flowers bloom there, always, the readerⒶemendation can easily believe—people suffer and sweat, and swear, morning, noon and night, and
wear out their stanchestⒶemendation energies fanning themselves. It gets hotⒶemendation there, but if you go down to Fort YumaⒺexplanatory note you
will find it hotter. Fort Yuma is probably the hottest place on earth. The thermometer
stays at one
hundred and twentyⒶemendation in the shade there all the time—except when it variesⒶemendation
andⒶemendation goes higher. It is a U. S. military post, and its occupants get so used to the terrific
heat that they sufferⒶemendation without it. There is a tradition (attributed to John Phoenix*Ⓐemendation) that a very, very wicked soldier died there, once, and of course,Ⓐemendation went straight to the hottest corner of perdition,—Ⓐemendation and the next day he
telegraphed back for his blankets
Ⓔexplanatory note
Ⓐemendation. There is no doubt about the truth of this statement—there canⒶemendation be no doubt about it.Ⓐemendation I have seen the place where that soldier used to board. In Sacramento itⒶemendation is fiery summerⒶemendation always, and you can gather roses, and eat strawberries and ice-cream, and wear white
linen clothes, and pant and perspire at
eight or nine o’clock
*It has been purloined by fifty different scribblers who were too poor to invent a fancy but not ashamed to steal one.—M. T.Ⓐemendation [begin page 390] in the morning, and thenⒶemendation take the cars, and at noon put on your furs and your skates, and go skimming over frozen Donner Lake, seven thousand feet above the valley, among snow banks fifteen feet deep, and in the shadow of grand mountain peaks that lift their frosty crags ten thousand feet above the level of the sea. There is a transition for you! Where will you find another like it in the Western hemisphere? And some of usⒶemendation have swept around snow-walled curves of the Pacific Railroad in that vicinityⒺexplanatory note, six thousandⒶemendation feet above the sea, and looked down as the birds do, upon the deathlessⒶemendation summer of the Sacramento Valley, with its fruitfulⒶemendation fields, its feathery foliage, its silver streams, all slumbering in the mellow haze of its enchanted atmosphere, and all infinitely softened and spiritualized by distance—a dreamyⒶemendation, exquisite glimpse of fairy-landⒶemendation, made all the more charming and striking that it was caught through a forbiddingⒶemendation gateway of ice and snow and savage crags and precipices.
