The Truth About America Part 3

A great part of these vast tracts are as truly desert as those in Africa. Sand and nothing but sand; water would have no effect as regards fertilization, and, besides, there _is_ no water. But other parts are different. Not more tempting to the eye, what looks like sand has vitality in it. Water produces a wonderful transformation, and crops, trees--everything will grow with its aid. Thus, in this better cla.s.s of desert and in the favoured spots where water is procurable, the said blank waste becomes a smiling spot. Such is the desert the Mormons have fertilized, such, as a rule, the deserts in California. Much of the splendid fruit that state produces has its birthplace in such localities.

Where the deserts of the last-mentioned kind are found, did anything like a moderate rainfall happen yearly, they, of course, would not exist. But rain in these localities is very rare, as indeed it is all over the world in such spots. The want of rain, I conceive, _makes_ the desert, and the arid waste responds by keeping off the rain. It is well known vegetation conduces to rainfall, and that a country thickly wooded, when cleared, has less rain after. I have myself seen striking instances of this. On the other hand, vegetation and rain increase simultaneously. It _may_ be, therefore, that, in the course of very many years, a portion of the American deserts will disappear, for where the soil has any vitality in it, and water is procurable, artificial means will bring vegetation, which again, little by little, will increase the rainfall; until at last (it may take centuries) the now said desert tracts will thrive with the rain from heaven alone.

While on the subject of rain, I would mention some curious facts.

From what we know of the climate in different European localities (or rather let us confine ourselves to Great Britain, where the western parts, especially Ireland, near to and exposed to the effects of the Atlantic, have an increased rainfall), we (by "we" I mean others, like me, ignorant of meteorology) would think the western Pacific coast of America, with that boundless ocean (far wider than the Atlantic, and stretching across to Asia) in front would fare likewise. But it is _not_ so. In fact quite the reverse. On the greater part of that coast, up to about lat.i.tude 42 north, the rainfall is exceedingly scanty, so much so that very little vegetation will thrive without artificial watering, and though north of 42 there is much more, it is still less than on our western coasts. The deficiency cannot arise, except very partially, from lack of vegetation, for though the said coast, south of 42, is very bare, not far back exists a high and well-clad mountain range.[6]

What is the cause I know not, perhaps meteorologists do, I only state the fact. But more: though not to the same degree, all the large tract west of the Rocky Mountains has a deficient rainfall, and artificial irrigation is more or less resorted to everywhere. I shall have more to say as to how it is done when, later, I describe the Antelope Valley.

I left the description of the journey when in the desert, and now return there. As the line enters the State of Arizona it begins to descend. It had ascended previously, which had made the heat bearable. But a few hours of descent made a woful change. Coats, waistcoats were discarded by the men, while the female pa.s.sengers followed suit as far as they could. No use! we all gasped and panted and used many pocket-handkerchiefs. The temperature rose higher and higher, and the night was the worst, for we were then at the lowest point. Between Tucson and Yuma the heat was simply infernal. I believe this tract is the bed of what, ages ago, was an inland sea; anyhow it had all the appearance of it, and I was later told geologists thought so too. It is, to say the least, very likely, for Yuma, I heard, is several hundred feet below sea-level. The lat.i.tude is 32 north, a warm lat.i.tude in any case, but with desert for hundreds of miles all round, with perhaps as low an elevation as exists on earth, shut in on all sides so that not a breath of air can get at it, what wonder that Yuma and all about there is hot? I have experienced great heat in many parts of the world, but Suez, the Red Sea, the hottest parts of India, are a joke to what I felt there. I have since heard it has the reputation of being the hottest place on earth!

Between Yuma and the head of the Gulf of California is about eighty miles. It would not therefore be difficult to let the water of the ocean into this dry bed, and make a large sea there, the same as they propose to do in Northern Africa.

Yuma is on the boundary-line between the States of Arizona and California, but it is some six hours further west by rail ere you leave this supposed dry sea bed and begin to ascend. California had been painted to me in such bright colours, both in England and America, I could not, when daylight came the following morning, and there was still nothing but desert, believe we were really there. But so it was. We ascended for some hours, and the climate bettered as we did so, until at last we could breathe once more, but the desert was still there, and it was not till we came near Los Angeles, which is some 150 miles beyond Yuma, that we began to encounter vegetation.

Los Angeles (the Angels) was so named by the Spaniards who founded it. It is on the barren Pacific coast alluded to, but the soil is of desert kind number two, that is, it has vitality in it, and water makes it fertile. Thus by artificial means (for of rain there is very little) the environs of the town are highly cultivated. Fruit is the main product. The grapes are magnificent, so are the peaches, in appearance at least, but they lack flavour. This defect is common to that fruit all over California; but I need not enumerate each kind of fruit grown, all that thrives both in temperate and semi-tropical regions is found there, and, the peaches excepted, all first rate of their kinds.

It was here I first appreciated the cheapness of fruit in California.

A big basket of splendid black grapes, which at the cheapest time in London would cost say eight shillings, I bought there for a few cents, say sixpence, and all other fruit in proportion.

I did not stay at Los Angeles; I was anxious to see my sons in the Antelope Valley, and we were now nearing it. I omitted to mention that while I was at New York, I received a letter from them, in it they told me that I had been grossly deceived, and that the said valley was, to repeat their words, "an out-and-out do." That nothing could be done there, that I should never stay, &c., &c. Of course I was much disappointed, but as they were there, I must join them, and I determined to see for myself. Thus, in spite of their warning, I had come to California.

A few miles from Los Angeles the country became bare again. No trees, no vegetation, sand everywhere, with low hills, but they were sand too. "Is all California like this?" I asked in despair of an intelligent American near me. "Yes," he answered, "pretty nearly so, south of San Francisco. North of that city there is rain and any amount of vegetation." My after experience showed me he was right, but he qualified his statement. The mountain range, which runs down the middle of this great country, is, he told me, richly clad, and any amount of vegetation exists on either side some miles from its base. This, he explained to me, is partly due to the greater rainfall there (the hills and the vegetation on them being the cause), partly to the rivers and streams issuing from this mountainous region, and fed by the melting snows. Along their course for miles into the plains, the country is thus watered, in a measure naturally, partly by artificial means. He also told me that the waste and desolate country we were then traversing only wanted water to make it fertile.

We were very near the Antelope Valley by this time, and I asked him if he knew it. "Of course I do," he replied, "you are not going there are you?" I told him all I have told the reader. "Well, it might be worse," he added, "there are quite a few there now, sent out by the same man (I know him well) from the mother country, who would go away to-morrow if they could, but they have spent their all to come, and are now in a tarnation fix. You take my advice, don't you stop there.

Take your sons with you, and be off while you can." I asked him if doing anything there was hopeless? "Not at all," he replied "_if_ you've got lots of money, and can import labour, which does not exist there, _if_ you sink a lot of artesian wells (they run expensive), and _if_ when sunk they prove a success (the last two have been failures), _if_ you care to live in such a barren spot, and like a hot climate and the fiery glare from the sand. I might add a few more 'ifs,' but I've said enough. Given water (the rain I guess would not wet your pocket-handkerchief through six times in a twelvemonth), the soil will grow most things, but then you see there _is_ no water, and as for the artesian wells, when successful, they can each only irrigate a small area; but here we are in the valley."

We had been pa.s.sing through some deep cuttings lately, and had now entered a vast plain bounded by distant hills. No trees of any kind were in sight, the soil sand, but browner than most I had seen. Every few feet was a little shrub, some two feet high, what I know not, but a miserable specimen of vegetation, and besides this not a stalk or leaf anywhere. A more miserable site I have never set eyes on. We pa.s.sed miles and miles, all the same, till we came to where I had been told to have my letters sent, "Lancaster City"! The last two miles before arrival, an attempt had certainly been made at cultivation. A few acres of alfalfa (a productive American gra.s.sy crop), some rye, Indian corn, vegetables, and what not. But the whole area was not fifty acres, the cultivators inhabiting plank huts alongside. The train stopped at the station, and lo! Lancaster City lay around. It consisted of one decent-sized, two-storied building, viz. the hotel, two stores, a saloon, and half a dozen huts. Not another edifice, and the dreary plain described for miles and miles around. This was the haven, the Eden, I had come some six thousand miles to attain!

The hotel, quite close to the line, had an open verandah to the upper story, and the rail in front had some thirty or more pairs of boots and shoes apparently attached to the top bar. Still it could scarcely be so, for only the soles were visible. Presently, as the train drew up, some of the boots disappeared, and men took their place.

Gradually it became evident that each pair of soles represented an individual, who lay luxuriously poised on the back legs of a chair, with his feet up in the true American posture, which, however, mind you, I in no way decry, being much given to it myself. I had telegraphed to my sons to meet the train, and there they were as I got out. But they were both so sunburnt I scarcely knew them. Luckily the train stayed half-an-hour, so there was time to arrange matters.

I plied them with questions. The answers were all to the same effect, viz. that the Antelope Valley (they had seen it from end to end) was in every part as what lay before us. That there existed no hope of doing anything in it, and that the only wise thing was to get away as quick as possible. They told me that the same agent who had sent me out, had also induced all the boot-owners in the verandah to come, and that far the greater number would go away at once, had they the means to do so. Also as to the last artesian wells being failures, and this being so that all hope was gone. Every day or two a fresh lot of victims arrived, and that none with means stayed above a few hours. I mentioned the fruit specimens I had seen in London, they and the bystanders laughed, and averred there was not any fruit in the valley. They told me much more, which was all corroborated by several who had come out of the hotel, and it was really only necessary to look round to be convinced the Antelope Valley was in every sense a miserable tract.

I determined to take my sons on with me by the train. They had supposed I would do this, and were all ready. But there was a difficulty. They had no money, and I had not enough, so I was obliged to leave them there until I could send back funds from San Francisco.

I thus went on alone, bidding good-bye to the dreary Antelope Valley for ever.

Night fell soon after, and next morning there was cultivation around, together with enormous orchards of fruit. Soon we reached the terminus on the splendid bay of San Francisco, and steamed across in a ferry larger and even more luxurious than those at New York, which I described.

So my journey was done, and I stood in the great western capital of America, which so many have heard of, and so few, comparatively, seen. "What have I come for?" I asked myself as I landed, and echo answered "What?"

But San Francisco, if any city on earth does, deserves a chapter to itself.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] These letters, I was told by my sons and others, were in no way genuine.

[3] Broadway should be called Longway. It is very long; it is not at all broad.

[4] In Belgium, not only are the cla.s.ses distinguished by numbers, but the carriages are painted different colours. This is the best plan of all.

[5] This may be partly accounted for by the fact that the said American deserts are all, or nearly all, on the west side of the Rocky Mountains, and that this distant part of the States has not hitherto been very much visited by Europeans.

[6] This is the great range of hills which runs, north and south, pretty well through the whole 800 miles of lat.i.tude California occupies. The vegetation on these mountains is luxurious, and some of the forest-trees are of an incredible size. Much beautiful scenery exists there.

CHAPTER IV.

San Francisco--Army and Navy--International Court--Pacific coast--Californian ranch--Social customs--Good-bye, California!

No one, who has read so far, can think I am unduly prejudiced in favour of America and the Americans. I have tried to write fairly, and point out in what respects their inst.i.tutions, habits, &c., excel ours; but, on the other hand, I have criticized in no sparing language what I consider are faults or peculiarities distasteful to outsiders, and possibly there is more blame than praise in the foregoing pages. If now, therefore, I write strongly in favour of the great capital of Western America, it ought to be accepted as truth.

I have travelled much and seen many cities and towns in different parts of the world, but I have seen nothing to equal San Francisco--not in size of course, but in every respect which makes a town a desirable residence.[7] Climate is the most important, so I will dilate on that first. There is much about it that puzzles me, and that I cannot explain. I leave the solution to others, and confine myself to the facts. There are no extremes of temperature in San Francisco, neither the days nor nights are ever either uncomfortably hot or cold. In summer the usual temperature is warm enough before noon to wear light clothing, but about one o'clock a breeze sets in from the bay and the ocean which reduces the heat considerably, and which sometimes blows stronger than is quite pleasant. This is the only possible fault that any one can find in the climate, and the said periodical wind only lasts for the three or four midsummer months. Winter there differs but little from summer, frost and snow are unknown, and inasmuch as in winter the said periodical sea-wind is quite absent, I have heard many of the inhabitants aver that winter is, in the daytime at least, warmer than summer! Whether this be so or not, it is a fact the winter days are very charming, for as a rule there is a total absence of clouds, fogs, or mist, and the sun shines merrily in a bright blue sky from sunrise to sunset. In that lat.i.tude (38) the sun has considerable power even in the winter. The want of rain on the Pacific coast, south of lat.i.tude 42, applies of course to San Francisco. I was there about five weeks. It only rained twice, and not more than one quarter of an hour each time. I stupidly forget what the yearly rainfall is, but very small, I know. How odd, by the bye, are the variations of rain in different parts of the world. Let us guess San Francisco at ten inches, I doubt if it is so much. Here in England put it down at thirty-two inches, though the west coast of Ireland is, I expect, nearer fifty inches. In the tropics, say, 130 inches, though I have been in one place where 300 fell. But there is a spot in Bengal which has the largest rainfall in the world, viz. 600 inches. Fancy, fifty feet of rain! The place is a hill-station, by name "Cherra Poonjee," and the country is so steep none of the rain can lie on it.

With so little rain, fine weather at San Francisco is nearly continual the year round. The air is very dry. It is seldom too hot, never too cold; there are no dark, gloomy days. What more can any one desire? Verily it is, without exception, by far the finest climate on earth.

But there is an odd feature. The above is the climate of San Francisco; it is _not_ the climate of a dozen miles off, either north, south, or east (the west is of course the ocean). For instance, Sacramento, a large town lying north-east about fifty miles, is a very hot place, and abounds with mosquitoes, which are unknown in the capital.

San Francisco resembles New York in the paucity of cabs. Here again nearly every one travels in the street cars. Horses are used in a few of them, but with most the motive power is steam at one end of the route, which works an endless rope. This wire rope runs on rollers under ground between the rails, and there is an orifice from end to end in the roadway above the said rope. Through this said orifice or narrow slit, a pair of pinchers, connected with the car, descends and nips the rope, which runs continually. The said pinchers are made to grip and loose the rope as required.

When you first see these monster cars, with no apparent motive power, rushing about the roads and streets and climbing the steep hills of the town, the effect is very strange. When I first did so I made sure they were driven by electricity. The said cars are of great size, and most luxuriously and conveniently fitted up; with excellent springs and smooth rails, they glide over the ground at about eight miles an hour, with no perceptible motion. A ride in them is most enjoyable.

Market Street is the princ.i.p.al one. It is a n.o.ble thoroughfare, at least twice the width of Broadway in New York, with trees on either side, and very wide pavements. The buildings, mostly stone, cast into the shade anything we can show in London, and nowhere on the Continent have I seen such a main artery to any town. The Palace Hotel in it is by far the largest and finest in America, and even those we have here in Northumberland Avenue are more or less small in comparison. It is an enormous, very lofty quadrangle, with inner verandahs on each story, built round a s.p.a.cious court, which is glazed in at top of the building. I forget how many hundred bed-rooms it contains. The interior is also a model of luxury and comfort. In every department money has been lavishly spent, and the result is that the Palace Hotel is possibly the largest and best in the world.

The charges also, considering the comforts offered, are by no means high. I believe it was built by one man out of the enormous fortune he acc.u.mulated in the first gold days, but what is the result of the speculation I could not ascertain.

There is a large and very beautiful park outside the town. Trees, shrubs, and flowers from all parts of the world are collected therein, while for those that require tropical temperature huge gla.s.s buildings are provided. All testifies to a luxurious growth, and the smooth, closely-shaven, mossy gra.s.s is of a picturesque bright emerald green. It is all artificial! Neither gra.s.s, shrubs, flowers, or trees would grow at all did they depend on rain alone. Everything is irrigated. Below the surface a network of waterpipes runs in all directions with taps available everywhere. I was much struck by the way the turf is watered. The water is forced with great power through minute orifices in the large splay metal end of a hose, ascends some thirty or forty feet, and falls exactly in the form of very fine rain; thus every blade of gra.s.s is moistened. Wonderful indeed is the effect as you stand at the park entrance and compare the scene outside and within. The dry, baked soil, innocent of vegetation on the one hand, the luxurious growth of many lands combined on the other, interspersed with a green sward you long to fling yourself down and roll on!

The Bay of San Francisco is the finest harbour in the world. The navies of all nations could congregate and manoeuvre in it. It is simply a huge inland salt-water lake communicating with the ocean.

There is only one entrance, the Golden Gates, possibly one-third of a mile wide. It is commanded by fortifications, built on the rocks on either side, but these being stone appeared to me ill adapted to the enormous forces gunnery can exert to-day. Just outside the Golden Gates, lashed by the waters of the Pacific, is a large solitary rock, called the Seal Rock. Hundreds of seals live on it, finding their food in the ocean. No one is allowed to molest them, but the fishermen on the coast cannot regard them with favour, for they must devour tons of fish daily. The said rock, covered with seals, some sleeping, some playing, rolling off into the water, and clambering out of it, is a very curious and characteristic sight as you enter the bay.

Living in San Francisco is very cheap as regards the cost for food.

Fruit, as I have said, is far cheaper there than anywhere in the world. It is quite incredible what a few pence will procure in that way. Enough of splendid grapes, apricots, greengages, currants, strawberries, and what not to last three or four people several days.

The price of meat too is very low. Mutton or beef, which costs here in England say 10_d._, per pound, can be had there for 3_d._ to 4_d._ Vegetables are the same. Bread is cheap too, say three-quarters the price it commands here. Thus very little will keep body and soul together in San Francisco, but outside bare necessaries in the way of food, most things are dear. Groceries are about the same cost as in England. Furniture, and the many things required in a house, are all much dearer, but this of course only affects the poor in a measure.

There are no beggars, no very poor, in San Francisco, for labour is in demand; the climate necessitates but a small outlay for fuel and clothes; and as for food, what better meal than bread and grapes, the latter to be had almost for the asking.

San Francisco is a very cosmopolitan town. All nationalities are to be found there. In the first gold fever days crowds poured in from all parts of the world, and they or their descendants are there still. Perfect as San Francisco is as a city, it is not thirty years since a small fishing village alone stood there. How such a perfect town has been erected in the time is truly a wonder, more wonderful still that in so many respects it should excel other capitals.

There are curious stories told of those gold-fever days. How law and order there was none. A man there at that time held his life by a frail tenure, viz. only as long as he could himself take care of it--

"The good old rule, the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can,"

held in California at that time. Later, as San Francisco enlarged, as the first attempts to put down violence and bloodshed were made, gambling in the gold stocks and mines a.s.sumed huge proportions. New mines, or new water-courses rich in gold dust, came forward daily.

Shares often attained one hundred times their original value in a week. Beggars became rich, the millionaire a pauper in the same time.

We shudder when we read of a suicide at "Monte Carlo" once or twice in the season. At the time of which I write there were often two or three at San Francisco in a day! That it should be so, was perhaps natural, for never, I believe, in this world's history were there such violent and sudden ups and downs as California then witnessed.

While I was at San Francisco an English man-of-war came into the bay.

She was an object of great interest, and crowds flocked on board to see her--the result a wholesome appreciation of England's naval power. The fighting power of the United States at sea is very limited. She has really no navy to speak of. Odd that it should be so, but it is no less a fact. Congress is well aware of this, and admits it. But it will not be long thus, for the Americans realize how truly helpless they are in this way, and have commenced to remedy the defect as fast as they can. The United States, almost as much as England, need fear no foes except from over the water, but her position to-day in that respect is a sad one. Did war occur between Great Britain and the States, there is not a town on her sea-board which could not be annihilated by British men-of-war. America, isolated as she is, need fear no European or Asiatic convulsions, and the time is distant, if it ever come, that Canada, without England's support, though her neighbour, will be able to cope with her in the field. But to give her a voice among nations, a navy is a necessity, and, as I have said, she has now fully realized that fact.