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.”