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LEAVING Salt Lake City on a Monday afternoon, we
first had a glimpse of the Salt Lake itself. Fain would we have made
a run to the fashionable watering-place on the Salt Lake, and had a
dip in those waters which are more impregnated with salt than the
Dead Sea, and equally destitute of fish, and which buoy one up so
wonderfully that sinking in them is a kind of impossibility. We
passed through Ogden, the second city of Utah, a railway junction,
and likely to grow in population and importance. Then we committed
ourselves to our sleeping-berths. Next morning we looked out on what
proved a weary wilderness—the desert of Nevada.
Perhaps some readers may he interested to know a little of life in
the cars. The cars are always like long rooms, with a passage
running longitudinally, and seats holding two on either side. If two
persons are travelling together, they usually get “a section” of the
Pullman—that is, two seats which by day may be placed so that the
occupants sit opposite to each other. As bedtime draws near, the
porter, usually a coloured man, comes along and prepares the beds.
First the two seats are drawn together, a mattress and other gear
placed over them, and the lower bed prepared. Then, turning a screw,
he folds down something like a broad shelf, attached by a hinge to
the sloping roof of the car, and this, with bed-gear corresponding,
forms the upper bed. Curtains are then attached to a rod that runs
along the top of the car, closing in both beds, and the process is
complete. You snuggle yourself somehow into bed, and divest yourself
of your clothing as best you may. It is not an easy process, for the
roof is very low. In the morning you are probably awakened by the
porter calling out, “Breakfast in half-an-hour.” You know that that
is an announcement not to be trifled with. You wriggle hastily into
your clothes, jump up, then move along to the end of the car, where
there is a lavatory with a very small basin; and waiting your turn.,
you get your face and hands dipped and cleansed. Ladies are better
off; they have a little room, returning to your berth, you move
through the narrow avenue, amid shoulders, elbows, and knees out
against the curtains, representing the contortions of your belated
fellow-travellers who are yet struggling to get inside their
garments. The porter is already busy “fixing” the vacated berths. It
may be that your breakfast is at a roadside station, and in that
case you leave the car. But it may also be that there is no hotel or
restaurant for hundreds of miles; in these circumstances a
“dining-car” is hooked on to the train, and you pass along to it for
your meal. The fare is wonderfully good, and by no means cheap; but
often the car sways about so vehemently that eating is far from
pleasant. The hours of the day pass wearily to some, and the pack of
cards—symbol so often of poor resources sifts where—is produced very
early. For the victims of tobacco, there is a small smoking room,
generally in good demand. Those who eschew both cards and tobacco,
when they tire of their book will find their fellow-passengers very
willing for conversation; or, if they want fresh air, may stand a
little on the platform at the end of the car. Where there is varied
and beautiful scenery, and the smoke is not blown in your face, this
is delightful; but where there is nothing but wilderness, the
attraction is small.
And wilderness it was all that day, as we moved through the state of
Nevada. We were not sorry when night came on and we betook ourselves
again to our sleeping-berths. When we got up next morning, we were
close to Sacramento, the state capital of California. The scene had
undergone a delightful change. We were among groves of greenery, and
saw for the first time the orange-tree in its native clime,
luxuriating in the sunshine and loaded with its apples of gold. We
could not but recall lines written of another land, “far, far
away”:—
“Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul [the rose] in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye?”
We had an hour to spend in Sacramento, and by the aid
of the street car we were soon among its lions. Its Capitol is very
handsome, a kind of miniature of that of Washington, and the Roman
Catholic cathedral is massive and stately. In other respects the
city is ordinary enough. It finds it too hard to compete with San
Francisco, and, wisely, it does not try.
Our plan was to defer our visit to San Francisco until our return
journey, and spend that week in the Yosemite Valley. We were still
in flowery May, and if we had deferred the Yosemite trip we should
have found the flowers all gone and the waterfalls all dry. Though
we hardly knew what we were to encounter, we were very thankful that
we made this arrangement, for we had an admirable opportunity of
seeing the valley.
Lying in the heart of the Sierra Nevada, the Yosemite Valley is one
of the most remarkable and interesting bits of American scenery. It
is reached most easily, if the word easily may be used in such a
connection, from the station of Berenda, on the Southern Pacific
Railway, about a hundred miles from San Francisco on the north, and
between three and four hundred from Los Angeles on the south. The
service of trains on that line is very limited; for though we
arrived at Berenda at four in the afternoon, there was no means of
getting further till five next morning. Berenda is one of those
stations in the midst of the wilderness where art seems to have vied
with nature to make the place the very climax of desolation; for
with all its gorgeous beauty in many parts, California is but a
waste, howling wilderness in others. For accommodation in a wretched
hotel you pay at the same rate as in the best of the country; and
indeed you may reckon as the usual charge all the time you are in
the valley a dollar a meal and a dollar a bed, save in one or two
instances where you get a rapid meal for three-quarters. The charge
for conveyance is also high: “the round” from Berenda and back is
forty-five dollars; and if to the hotel charges you add something
for a carriage drive here, or a saddle horse there, you will find
that a week in the Yosemite costs for each person not much under
twenty pounds.
At five in the morning you go on board the cars on a branch railway,
and in an hour and a half you are carried to Raymond, where the
tug-of-war, in the form of stage-coach lighting with the mountain
passes, begins. After breakfast you are allocated to a place in one
of the stage-coaches (of which there may be half-a-dozen); and as
there was a party of the name of Stewart from Los Angeles, and two
of the seats in their stage were not required by them, the clerk
seems to have thought that the couple from Scotland might find
fittest accommodation there. A most agreeable party it was, and the
easy and kindly manners of California enabled the people from the
old country very soon to feel themselves at home.
Before starting on the stage we were already pretty high up among
the mountains, for the railway has the steepest gradient in
California, and does its very best to carry us up. And we were in a
very different scene from that which we left at Berenda. The weary
sage-brush which dots the wilderness with awful monotony had
entirely disappeared, and we were already in the region of most
beautiful trees and flowers. This, perhaps, is the first feature
that strikes the stranger. You see in the woods flowering trees
covered with blossoms, as if they were huge rose bushes in full
bloom; while at your feet you have masses of flowers, pink, blue,
purple, scarlet, as if the blaze of Dirleton garden had been
scattered over acres and miles. You have only to get down as the
horses are changed, and in five minutes you have gathered a bouquet
fit for a bride. And yet I do not know that the effect is more
pleasing than that of our own laburnums, chestnuts, and hawthorn,
and charming banks and meadows of daisy, primrose, and buttercup.
The distance you have to travel the first day (to Wawona) is about
forty miles, but it occupies the whole day till nightfall. We had
five changes of horses during the day, so that in all twenty horses
were needed to haul eleven persons along. The lower ranges of the
Sierra Nevada are striking and beautiful. The outlines of the hills,
and the far-reaching glimpses one gets from time to time, remind one
of the Grampians near Blair Athole, while the rich clothing of pine
and oak and other trees seems to recall the scenery of Dunkeld. The
whole was set forth to perfection by the brightest sun that ever
shone and the purest sky that ever gleamed. The effect of the
climate was wonderfully invigorating; the party were all in the best
of spirits, entering with all their hearts into the beauty of the
scene. The only drawbacks were the excessive heat and the excessive
dust, of both of which we may truly say that it was impossible to
contend with them; the only alternative was to submit as gracefully
as possible to their absolute control.
As we got more into the heart of the mountains, the trees became
more striking. We were not yet among the big trees, but we were
among bigger trees than we had ever seen. Very striking was the
aspect of the ordinary pine-trees, especially as they rose from the
valleys, some two hundred feet in height, pointing to heaven as
straight as arrows, and displaying in branches and leafage the most
perfect symmetry. It seemed hardly possible for any one to escape
the moral lesson—it would be well for us if we rose to heaven as
straight and direct as these noble trees.
American forest roads are not perfection. But the wonder is that in
such a region of hill and valley there are carriage-roads at all. In
few cases has more been done than to clear a path; and often the
ruts remind you of the entrance to a stone-quarry, or the track
formed by cart-wheels in excavating the foundations of a house.
While the coach ascends, the movement is very slow, but it is safe
and comfortable; but woe betide you when it plunges downhill,
determined to make up for time lost in the ascent! Let no lady or
other mortal dream of attempting this journey who cannot stand being
knocked and tossed hither and thither, especially when the coach
strikes on a stone or a concealed row of logs, and bumps you up and
down half-a-dozen times in succession, as if you were dancing a jig.
For this same movement must be undergone for several days, and for
delicate ladies it is certainly too much.
Evening brings you to the hotel at Wawona. You are still half a
day’s journey from the Yosemite Valley, but you are comparatively
near the celebrated “big trees,” and it is convenient to visit them
from this place. Wawona in the native tongue means “big trees.” The
distance to and from is but seventeen miles, but it occupies about
four or five hours. As you penetrate into the forest you observe, in
addition to the tall pines and arbor views to which you have been
accustomed, a new variety, of unprecedented thickness, and bright
russet stems, having a look of very hoary antiquity. It is the tree
known among us but as a shrub, the Wellingtonia gigantea, as we call
it, but the Washinytonia gigantea of the Americans. Both of these
names, however, bid fair to be superseded by the term Siquoia
gigantea, applied by a recent Government botanist, who observed that
this was but a variety of the big redwood trees of the coast, to
which the name Siquoia sempcrvirens had already been given. In these
mountains this tree grows to a size unprecedented in any other part
of the globe. It is a clannish tree, and even here is found only in
certain bits of the forest. How it comes to grow here to such
prodigious proportions we cannot tell, except that the soil, the
climate, and the shelter of the Mariposa county must be highly
favourable to its growth.
'the more striking trees have got peculiar names, appropriate to
their appearance. There is the Grizzly Giant, the Three Graces, the
Graceful Couple, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, and the like. The thickest tree
in the grove is the Grizzly Giant. Some young persons brought a ball
of twine and put it round him. They included a projecting root which
they should have omitted; this made the length of the piece of twine
between thirty and forty yards. Another tree has a passage scooped
out at the root, through which the stage-coach with its four horses
easily passes; but this tunnel seems in no degree to interfere with
the welfare of the tree. Near when1 we stopped to rest our horses
occurs a remarkable prostrate tree. It. is some three hundred feet
long. It is so high that a ladder is needed for you to get on it,
and the first hundred feet might be scooped out to form a
considerable ship. The rest of the tree contained timber more than
enough to stock a large timber-yard. It is no myth that is told of a
farmer who had acquired a hundred and sixty acres of land, that out
of one tree he got timber enough to build his house and barns, and
to enclose the whole of his farm, and had a large quantity over for
such other purposes as lie required it. A tree on the border of a
county so fell that while its root was in one county its stem was in
another. The number of such stories told of the big trees is very
great.
Next morning we bid farewell for a time to Wawona, which is
charmingly situated in an amphitheatre of hills, with a clear rapid
stream flowing past. With our stage and four horses we penetrated
still further into the Sierra. Up the steep ascents, in which we had
occasionally to double upon ourselves, our rate of progress was
sometimes not more than three miles an hour, and often we had to
pause; to give the poor horses their breath. Every here' and there
we would reach a commanding point, from which we looked out on a
scene of wonderful sylvan beauty. One of these is named “Oh My
Point,” because no American can look out from it without indulging
his characteristic exclamation, “Oh my!” At last, about mid-day, we
reached the far-famed “Inspiration Point,” and paused to look down
on the glories of Yosemite. It is a very striking view. About ten or
twelve miles of narrow valley spread out before us, enclosed in
abrupt almost perpendicular mountains, rising to the height of some
four thousand feet, broken at the summits into every variety of
picturesque form, and gleaming with silver streaks of waterfalls so
steep that the water is dashed to spray long before it reaches the
bottom, and when the sun is behind the spectator, shines in the
tints of the rainbow. Inspiration Point, commands a splendid view of
El Capitan, the boldest of the cliff's, and the Bridal Veil, perhaps
the finest of the waterfalls.
As we move downwards, and get into the valley, its other fine
features appear. Among the most striking of these are Sentinel
Cliff, Cathedral Spires, the Three Brothers, the Three Graces, the
Half Dome, and the North Dome. Cathedral Spires is the name of two
pointed spires that rise six or seven hundred feet above the general
summit, having a striking resemblance to the object from which they
derive their name. The Half Dome is a huge mass of dome-shaped rock,
that in some convulsion of nature has been split in two, leaving the
question a puzzle for mankind—What became of the other half? But of
all the rocks El Capitan is the most wonderful. He rises in almost
sheer perpendicular height three thousand three hundred feet, with
corresponding breadth, and so far as you can see there is not a seam
or division in the vast mass of granite. Of the waterfalls, the
Bridal Veil (the name explains itself) is sweet and beautiful, but
the Nevada Falls have more variety of form and a larger mass of
water. Everywhere the pine is at home. It often finds for itself a
home in the very face of the rocks, or crowns their very summits.
Seen from any commanding point, under the bluest of skies and the
brightest of sunshine, the valley is wonderfully grand. The surface
is level and very rich, evidently the bottom of a lake in former
times. But the glorious amphitheatre of nearly perpendicular rocks
is what makes it so unique and so sublime. It is really something
for Americans to be proud of, and in all likelihood it is unexampled
in the; world. Yet I must confess I like some of tin; Swiss valleys
better. Amid all the grandeur of Yosemite, there is a want of that
softness of beauty which sets off so well the sublimities of the
Alps. And we want the snowy summits piercing the heavens and
mingling with them, and speaking to us so expressively of the union
of earth and heaven. But mass and magnitude are very expressive to
the American mind, and I have no doubt that those who have travelled
far are sincere in declaring, as they often do most
enthusiastically, that there is nothing like the Yosemite in all the
world.
There are two hotels in the valley—Barnard’s and the Stoneman House.
We were recommended to take the former, which is also the older, and
we were glad that we did so. It is charmingly situated, and our
bedroom window, and the veranda on which it opened, commanded a
delightful view of the Yosemite Fall, a cascade in three leaps, the
tallest of which is some fifteen hundred feet, and the whole, I
think, about two thousand six hundred. Nothing could be more
charming than to sit in the evening and gaze on the stream of virgin
silver losing itself in foam, but quickly pulling itself together
for another leap. We had the pleasure to be much in contact with Mr.
M‘Cord, the guardian or Government official of the valley, and to
receive from him much information and attention. We were happy to be
able to repay him in some degree by taking the Sunday service in the
chapel, of which lie takes charge. We must mention another
inhabitant, Mr. Galen Clark, the discoverer of the big trees, a man
full of intelligence and scientific knowledge, and whom, after all
he has done for the valley, it is a pain to see living alone, in his
old age, and earning a humble living by hiring a carriage for the
use of visitors. Hardly had I written these lines when the political
whirligig brought a rapid change. Mr. M'Cord was sent adrift, and
Mr. Clark appointed guardian. As in most cases in America, politics
did it. We were glad that Mr. Clark was promoted, but vexed for Mr.
M‘Cord.
The Stoneman House, a mile and a quarter further up the valley, is a
large three-storied building, named after some Governor Stoneman,
but is much less fortunate in its situation than Barnard’s. There
are several weeks in winter when the sun can be seen for little more
than an hour. But here, as elsewhere, people complain of the way in
which things are done by the authorities. The valley is the property
of the United States, but is under the charge of the state of
California, who appoint a body of commissioners to look after it.
These commissioners will pay it a visit now and then, and on one of
these occasions they resolved to build this Stoneman Hotel, without
having consultation with the few residents, and without being aware
of the strong objections to the situation.
The history of the valley is not uninteresting. During the whole
period of the Spanish occupation of California it seems to have been
unknown. It was in a somewhat accidental way that it was discovered
by the Americans in the early days of the gold enterprise. The
county of Mariposa, in which both the valley and the big trees are
situated, has some valuable gold mines. The miners were ever and
anon having depredations committed on them by Indians, whose
whereabouts could not be discovered. At length it was found that
their home was in a valley to which all access was impossible save
at one or two points, which they carefully guarded. War ensued, and
it ended in the Indians being dispossessed. There is a dispute
whether the true name of the valley, which in the Indian language is
said to mean, “The home of the grizzly bear,” ought to be Yostomito
or Yohamite. Usage has settled the question in favour of the former,
but it is apt to suggest the idea of Shorn dwelling in the tents of
Ham. For a few years after the discovery of the valley it remained
unfrequented. A gentleman who was about to publish a work on
“Picturesque California” remembered that lie had heard of a
waterfall in the valley eight hundred feet high. He determined to
find it and insert it in his work. With two companions lie set out
on the search. Ho gives an amusing account of his efforts to find
some of the men who had taken part in the military operations, but
one after another had forgot all about the way to the place, only
each was sure such another could tell it. After going for a long
time from post to pillar, Mr. Hutchings at last found the way into
the valley, and then discovered scenes that threw all other parts of
“Picturesque California ’’ into the shade.
The permanent residents in the valley are hardly a score in number,
but in summer it swarms with visitors, and it is not the hotels only
that shelter them. “Camping out” is a common operation. A family, or
a cluster of families, pitch a tent in tin* valley, travel in their
own buggy or waggon, bring with them cooking utensils, and manage to
have a very “good time” for a week or longer. The camping-ground
being near the hotels, T happened to pass an encampment of this sort
on the Sunday afternoon, when I was immediately accosted by a
gentleman, who introduced himself as a professor of mathematics in
Massachusetts, sojourning in California for his health. He had just
been preparing notes of my sermon for the local paper, and wished to
read them over to me. “The local paper,” I said; “what do you mean?”
“Oh, there’s a printer in camp here, who brought with him a printing
machine and set of types, and every week he prints the Yosemite
Gazette.” Most thoroughly American! Americans can make newspapers
live where there, seems as little to live on as for the pines on the
face of the rock. And sometimes there are two rival papers where
there is hardly a decent house. And these can abuse each other as
roundly as the famous newspapers of Eatanswill. The newspaper is a
wonderful institution in America.
On the following day we had a pleasant drive in Mr. Clark’s
conveyance, first to the Mirror Lake, and thereafter all down and up
the valley. The effects of the tossing in the stage-coaches
prevented one of our party from attempting more. But some of the
waterfalls I reached on foot. It was interesting to look over the
official list of visitors in the guardian’s hook. Among the earliest
was Charles Kingsley, whose name was entered without note, or
comment. Known names occurred from time to time. The latest name of
all was that of a family from Edinburgh, of whose existence 1 had
never heard.
Of the glacial condition of the valley and of the Sierra Nevada at
one period there seems to be no doubt. But how these mighty masses
of rock came into their present position no mortal can tell. The
impression one is apt to have is, that at one time the opposite
sides met, and that they were severed by some unexampled explosive
force that tossed them asunder as if they were the playthings of a
child. Anyhow, they form now the Titanic battlements of a valley
which well repays the visit of the tourist. Nowhere does nature
appear greater, or man more feeble and dependent. And yet man
continues to subdue even this valley to his purposes. A railway has
already been surveyed between Maymond and Wawona, and we shall be
much surprised if American enterprise does not succeed ultimately in
carrying the rails into the valley itself, and thereafter in laying
a mountain line, hardly, indeed, to the summit of El Capitan, but
possibly to the Glacier Point, or some other eminence that commands
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