Northward out of Santa Clara a fine macadam road follows the shore of the bay at a distance of a mile or two. In the days of the padres this country was a vast swamp, but it is now a prosperous fruit and gardening section which supplies the San Francisco markets. At Palo Alto we turned aside into the grounds of Leland Stanford Jr. University, which sprang into existence like Minerva of old—full armed and ready for business—with nearly thirty millions of endowment behind it. It immediately took high rank among American universities, but as its attendance is limited by its charter to about two thousand, it can not equal its rivals in this regard.
Everyone knows its pathetic story—how Senator Stanford, the man of many millions, lost his only son, a boy of sixteen, and determined to leave the fortune to "the boys and girls of California" as a memorial to the idolized youth. A little strain of selfishness in the project, one may think, since if Leland Stanford Jr. had lived it is unlikely that his father would have remembered the boys and girls of his state, but you forget all about this when you enter the precincts of this magnificent institution. It is free from the antiquated buildings and equipment of the schools of slow growth, and full scope was given to architects to produce a group of buildings harmonious in design and perfectly adapted to the purposes which they serve. The mission design properly prevails, carried out in brown stone and red tiles. The main buildings are ranged round a quadrangle 586 x 246 feet, upon which the arches of the cloisters open and in the center of this was a bronze group of the donor, his wife, and son, since removed to the University Museum.
The earthquake of 1906 dealt severely with Stanford University, destroying the library building, the great memorial arch, and wrecking the memorial chapel, said to be the finest in America. The latter was being restored at the time of our visit, a timber roof replacing the former stone-vaulted ceiling. The structure both inside and out bears many richly colored mosaics representing historic and scriptural subjects; in this particular it is more like St. Mark's of Venice than any other church that I know of. It is said that a large part of the destruction done by the earthquake was due to flimsy work on the part of the builders. Fortunately, the low, solid structures around the quadrangle were practically unharmed, and the damage done is being repaired as rapidly as possible. The grounds occupied by the University were formerly Senator Stanford's Palo Alto estate and comprised about nine thousand acres. From the campus there are views of the bay, of the Coast Range, including Mount Hamilton with the Lick Observatory, and of the rolling foothills and magnificent redwood forests toward Santa Cruz. The university is open to students from everywhere and owing to its vast endowment, instruction is absolutely free.
Palo Alto is a handsome town of about six thousand people. Its climate is said to be much pleasanter the year round than that of San Francisco. A local advertising prospectus gives this pleasing description of the climatic conditions:
"There is no extreme cold, and there are no severe storms. Even the rainy season, between December and March, averages about fifteen bright warm days in each month; and flowers blossoming on every hand make the winter season a delightful part of the year. The acacia trees begin blooming in January, the almonds in February, and the prunes, peaches, and cherries are all in bloom by the last of March or the first of April, when the blossom festival for the whole valley is held in the foothills at Saratoga, a few miles by electric line from Palo Alto."
From Palo Alto we followed the main highway—El Camino Real—to San Francisco. It is a broad macadam road, but at the time in sad disrepair, unmercifully rough and full of chuck-holes. It was being rebuilt in places, compelling us to take a roundabout route, which, with much tire trouble, delayed our arrival in San Francisco until late in the afternoon, though the distance is but fifty-two miles from San Jose.
It looked as if our troubles were going to have a still more painful climax when, as we entered the city, a policeman dashed at us, bawling,
"What on earth do you mean by driving at that crazy rate? Do you want to kill all these children?"
As we were not exceeding twenty miles and were quite free from any homicidal designs against the children—of whom not a single one was in sight on the street—we mildly disclaimed any such cruel intention as the guardian of the law imputed to us. We had learned the futility of any altercation with a policeman and by exceeding humility we gained permission to proceed. A little back-talk in self-defense would doubtless have resulted in a trip to the station house, where we should have been at every disadvantage. I attribute in some degree our lucky escape from arrest to the fact that we always adopted an exceedingly conciliatory attitude towards any policeman who approached us, even if we sometimes thought him over-officious or even impudent. A soft answer we found more efficient in turning away his wrath and gaining our point than any attempt at self-justification could possibly have been—even though we knew we were right.