A Truthful Woman in Southern California

CHAPTER I.. Hints for the Journey.

HINTS FOR THE JOURNEY.

The typical Forty-niner, in alluring dreams, grips the Golden Fleece.

The fin-de-siecle Argonaut, in Pullman train, flees the Cold and Grip.

En Sol y la Sombra--shade as well as sun.

Yes, as California is. I resolve neither to soar into romance nor drop into poetry (as even Chicago drummers do here), nor to idealize nor quote too many prodigious stories, but to write such a book as I needed to read before leaving my "Abandoned Farm," "Gooseville," Mass. For I have discovered that many other travellers are as ignorant as myself regarding practical information about every-day life here, and many others at home may know even less.

So let me say that California has not a tropical, but a semi-tropical climate, and you need the same clothing for almost every month that is found necessary and comfortable in New York or Chicago during the winter.

Bring fur capes, heavy wraps, simple woolen dresses for morning and outdoor life; and unless rolling in wealth, pack as little as possible of everything else, for extra baggage is a curse and will deplete a heavy purse,--that rhymes and has reason too. I know of one man who paid $300 for extra baggage for his party of fifteen from Boston to Los Angeles.

Last year I brought dresses and underwear for every season, and for a vague unknown fifth; also my lectures, causing profanity all along the line, and costing enough to provide drawing-room accommodations for the entire trip.

Why did I come? Laryngitis, bronchitis, tonsilitis, had claimed me as their own. Grip (I will not honor it with a foreign spelling, now it is so thoroughly acclimated and in every home) had clutched me twice--nay, thrice; doctors shook their heads, thumped my lungs, sprayed my throat, douched my nose, dosed me with cough anodynes and nerve tonics, and pronounced another winter in the North a dangerous experiment. Some of you know about this from personal experience. Not a human being could I induce to join me. If this hits your case, do not be deterred; just come and be made over into a joyous, healthful life. I would not urge those to take the tedious journey who are hopelessly consumptive. Home is the best place for such, and although I see many dragging wearily along with one lung, or even half of that, who settle here and get married and prolong existence for a few years, and although some marvellous cures have been effected, still I say the same.

And what is to be put in the one big trunk? Plenty of flannels of medium thickness, a few pretty evening dresses, two blouses, silk and woolen or velvet for morning wear, with simple skirts, a gossamer, rubbers, thick boots for long tramps and excursions, parasol, umbrella, soft hat to shade the face, and gloves for all sorts of occasions. I do not venture to suggest anything for men, they travel so sensibly. The more experienced one is, the less he carries with him.

So do not load up with portfolio and portable inkstand, your favorite stationery, the books that delighted your childhood or exerted a formative influence upon your character in youth. Deny yourself and leave at home the gold or silver toilet set, photograph album, family Bibles, heavy fancy work, gilded horseshoe for luck, etc. I know of bright people who actually carried their favorite matches from an eastern city to Tacoma, also a big box of crackers, cheese, pickles, and preserved fruits, only to find the best of everything in that brilliant and up-with-the-times city. One old lady brought a calla-lily in a pot! When she arrived and saw hedges and fields of lilies, hers went out of the window. Another lady from Boston brought a quart bottle of the blackest ink, only to spill it all upon a new carpet at Santa Barbara, costing the boarding-house keeper thirty-five dollars. Everything that one needs can be purchased all along the way, from a quinine capsule to a complete outfit for any occasion.

As to the various ways of coming here, I greatly prefer the Southern Pacific in winter, and Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe in spring or summer. Either will take you from New York to San Diego and return for $137, allowing six months' stay. The "Phillips Excursion" will take you from Boston to San Francisco for fifty-five dollars. But in this case the beds are hard, and you provide your own meals. Some try the long voyage, twenty-three days from New York to San Francisco. It is considered monotonous and undesirable by some; others, equally good judges, prefer it decidedly.

I believe in taking along a loose wrapper to wear in the cars, especially when crossing the desert. It greatly lessens fatigue to be able to curl up cosily in a corner and go to sleep, with a silk travelling hat or a long veil on one's head, and the stiff bonnet or big hat with showy plumes nicely covered in its long purse-like bag, and hanging on a hook above. The sand and alkali ruin everything, and are apt to inflame the eyes and nose. I find a hamper with strap indispensable on the train; it will hold as much as a small trunk, yet it can be easily carried.

Now imagine you have arrived, very tired, and probably with a cold in your head, for the close heated cars and the sudden changes of climate are trying. You may be at The Raymond, and "personally conducted." Nothing can be better than that. But if you are alone at Los Angeles, or San Francisco, come straight down to Coronado Beach, and begin at the beginning--or the end, as you may think it.

CHAPTER II.. At Coronado Beach.

AT CORONADO BEACH.

I associate Coronado Beach so closely with Warner (Charles D.), the cultured and cosmopolitan, that every wave seems to murmur his name, and the immense hotel lives and flourishes under the magic of his rhetoric and commendation. Just as Philadelphia is to me Wanamakerville and Terrapin, so Coronado Beach is permeated and lastingly magnetized by Warner's sojourn here and what he "was saying."

But I must venture to find fault with his million-times-quoted adjective "unique" as it is used. It has been stamped on stationery and menu cards, and has gone the world over in his volume "Our Italy," and no one ever visits this spot who has not made the phrase his own. To me it deserves a stronger word, or series of words. We say a pretty girl has a "unique" way of dressing her hair, or an author a "unique" way of putting things.

But as I look out of my window this glorious morning, and watch the triple line of foaming waves breaking on the long beach, a silver sickle in the sunshine; the broad expanse of the Pacific, with distant sails looking like butterflies apoise; Point Loma grandly guarding the right, and farther back the mountain view, where snowy peaks can just be discerned over the nearer ranges; the quiet beauty of the grounds below, where borders and ovals and beds of marguerites contrast prettily with long lines and curves of the brilliant marigolds; grass, trees, and hedges green as June--a view which embraces the palm and the pine, the ocean and lofty mountains, cultivated gardens and rocky wastes, as I see all this, I for one moment forget "unique" and exclaim, "How bold, magnificent, and unrivalled!" Give me a new and fitting adjective to describe what I see. Our best descriptive adjectives are so recklessly used in daily life over minute matters, that absolutely nothing is left for this rare combination.

As a daughter of New Hampshire in this farthest corner of the southwest, my mind crosses the continent to the remote northeast and the great Stone Face of the Franconia Mountains. Chiselled by an Almighty hand, its rugged brow seamed by the centuries, its features scarred by the storms of ages, gazing out over the broad land, where centre the hopes of the human race, who can forget that face, sad with the mysteries of pain and sorrow, yet inspiring with its rugged determination, and at times softened with the touch of sunlit hope?

Point Loma has something of the same sphinx-like grandeur, with its long bold promontory stretching out into the western waters. These two seem to be keeping watch and ward over mountain and sea: each appropriate in its place and equally impressive. There the stern prophet surveying the home of great beginnings, the cradle of creative energy; and here, its counterpart, a mighty recumbent lion, its dreamy, peaceful gaze turned with confidence out over the wide Pacific to the setting sun, with assurance of ultimate success, a pledge of aspirations satisfied, of achievements assured, of----Whoa there! Hello! This to my runaway steeds, Imagination and Sentiment. Brought back by a passing bell-boy, I shall now keep a tighter rein.

But when one first breathes the air of California, there is a curious exaltation and excitement, which leads on irresistibly. This is often followed by a natural depression, sleepiness, and reaction. But that view never changes, and I know you will say the same. A florid, effervescent, rhapsodical style seems irresistible. One man of uncommon business ability and particularly level head caught the spirit of the place, and wrote that "the most practical and unpoetical minds, too, come here and go away, as they afterward gingerly admit, carrying with them the memory of sunsets emblazoned in gold and crimson upon cloud, sea, and mountain; of violet promontories, sails, and lighthouses etched against the orange of a western sky; of moonlight silvering breeze-rippled breadths of liquid blue; of distant islands shimmering in sun-lit haze; of sunrises with crowns of glory chasing the vapory, fleece-like shadows from the wet, irridescent beach, and silhouetting the fishermen's sails in the opalescent tints of a glassy sea."

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