A Truthful Woman in Southern California, Kate Sanborn [best thriller novels of all time .txt] 📗
- Author: Kate Sanborn
Book online «A Truthful Woman in Southern California, Kate Sanborn [best thriller novels of all time .txt] 📗». Author Kate Sanborn
and lost all desire for home.
The last letter received by me from New Hampshire, April 3d, begins in this way: "It is like the middle of winter here, good sleighing and still very cold." And then comes a sad series of announcements of sickness and deaths caused by the protracted rigors of the season. And here, at the same date, all the glories of the spring, which far exceeds our summer - Spanish breezes, Italian sky and sunsets, Alpine mountains, tropical luxuriance of vegetation, a nearly uniform climate, a big outdoor conservatory. There is no other place on earth that combines so much in the same limits. You can snowball your companions on Christmas morning on the mountain-top, pelt your lady friends with rose leaves in the foot-hills three hours later, and in another sixty minutes dip in the surf no cooler than Newport in July; and the theatre in the evening. As a bright workman said, you can freeze through and thaw out in one day.
An electric railroad will soon connect Los Angeles with Pasadena and Mount Wilson, and a fine hotel is to be placed on the top of Echo Mountain, 3500 feet high, and this will then certainly be the ideal health and pleasure resort of the world.
Pasadena's homes, protected on three sides by mountain ranges, are surrounded by groves and gardens, trees and hedges from every clime. Everything will grow and flourish here. Capitalists from the East seem engaged in a generous rivalry to create the ideal paradise. Passion vines completely cover the arbors, roses clamber to the tops of houses and blossom by tens of thousands. I notice displays fit for a floral show in the windows of butcher shops and shoe stores. The churches are adorned with a mantle of vines and flowers.
Are there no "outs," no defects in this Pasadena? One must not forget the rainy days, the occasional "hot spells" of August and September, a wind now and then that blows off steeples and tears down fragile structures, bringing along a good deal more sand than is wanted. And every year an earthquake may be expected. I have experienced two, and they are not agreeable.
Aside from these drawbacks and dust in summer, all else is perfection, except that the weather is so uniformly glorious that there is seldom a day when one is willing to stay at home. I feel just now like a "deestrick" schoolboy who has been "kept in" on a summer afternoon.
The wild-flowers are more fascinating to me than all those so profusely cultivated. I weary of five thousand calla-lilies in one church at Easter, and lose a little interest in roses when they bloom perennially and in such profusion that I have had enough given me in one morning to fill a wash-tub or clothes-basket!
The wealth of color on the hills and mesas in springtime can never be described or painted. The State flower, the yellow poppy with the name that would floor any spelling-match hero - the eschscholtzia - is most conspicuous, and can be seen far away at sea; but there are dozens of others, that it is better to admire and leave unplucked, as they wilt so soon. "The ground is literally dolly-vardened with buttercups, violets, dodecatheons, gilias, nemophilas, and the like. And yet these are the mere skirmish line of the mighty invading hosts, whose uniforms surpass the kingly robes of Solomon, and whose banners of crimson and yellow and purple will soon wave on every hilltop and in every valley.
"In April and May the lover of nature may pass into the seventh heaven of botanical delight. Then in favored sections the display reaches a gorgeousness and a profusion that surpass both description and imagination."
No one can paint the grain fields as they look when the sun puts into every blade a tiny golden ray and it is no longer every-day common grain, but an enchanted carpet of living, radiant, golden green. We tourists call it grass, but there is no grass to be proud of in California.
No one can paint the sky; no one would accept it as true to nature if once caught on the canvas.
I will not attempt to describe the mountains with their many charms. I listened to a lecture lately where a man was struggling to do this, and it was positively painful. The flowery verbiage, the accumulated adjectives, the poetical quotations were overpowering. I seemed actually sinking into luscious mellifluousness. I shook it off my fingers, as if it were maple syrup. Then, as he climbed higher and higher, on and up, never getting away from the richest verdure and the sweetest flowers, scenes for an artist to paint with rapture, and a poet to sing in ecstasy, I found myself pushing up my forehead to improvise a mansard roof for my brain to swell in sympathy. And when he reached the summit and the panorama burst upon his enraptured vision, it was too much for my strained emotions, and I quietly slipped out.
And the strangest part is that every word is true, and, say what one will, one never gets near the reality. In this respect, you see, it differs from a floral catalogue sent out in early spring, or a hotel pamphlet with illustrations.
The cable road is 3000 feet long, with a direct ascent of 1400 feet, and the Echo Mountain House will be 1500 feet higher than the Catskill hotels overlooking the Hudson, and it is estimated that not less than 60,000 fares will be collected upon this mountain railroad the first year.
All this was designed and executed by Professor Lowe, of aeronaut fame, a scientist and banker, the inventor of water-gas and artificial ice, and a man of great business ability.
One of the best proofs of the health-giving power of this air is the fact that the physicians practising here, with one exception, came seriously ill and have not only recovered, but are strong enough to keep very busy helping others.
Pasadena has no ragged shabby outskirts; the poorer classes seem to be able to own or rent pretty little homes, some like large birdcages, all well kept and attractive. Some gentlemen from Indianapolis came here in 1873 and started the town, planting their orange orchards under the shadows of the mountains.
Each portion has its own attractions. Orange Grove Avenue, a street over a mile long, is described by its name. Great trees stand in the centre of the street, a fine road on either side, and the homes are embowered in flowers and palms, while hedges are made of the pomegranate, the honeysuckle, and even the heliotrope. Marengo Avenue is lined on either side by splendid specimens of the pepper, the prettiest and most graceful of all trees here. Colorado Street, with its homes and shops and churches, leads out to the foot-hills and "Altadena," which is often spoken of as recalling the handsome residences along the Riviera.
The street cars which go from the station toward the mountains bear on each the words, "This Car for the Poppy Fields," and they are a sight worth seeing. Mrs. Kellog describes this flower more perfectly than any artist could paint it: "Think of finest gold, of clearest lemon, of deepest orange on silkiest texture, just bedewed with a frost-like sheen, a silvery film, and you have a faint impression of what an eschscholtzia is. Multiply this impression by acres of waving color." And in February this may sometimes be seen. It has been well chosen for the State flower.
If consumptives must go away from the comforts of home, this is a haven of rest for them. In a late Medical Record I see that a physician deprecates the custom of sending hopeless cases to the high altitudes of Colorado, where the poor victim gasps out a few weeks or months of existence. "If such cases as the above must be sent from home, as we sometimes think here, to rid their home physicians of the annoyance of their presence, they should be sent to Florida or Southern California, where at least they may be chloroformed off into eternity by a soothing climate, and not suffer an actual shortening of their days from a climate acting on a radically different principle and entirely unsuited to them."
This is a bit of the shady side after all the sunlight. It is a place for the invalid to rejoice in, and those in robust health can find enough to do to employ all their energies.
The "Tournament of Roses" last winter was a grand success, praised by all. The "Pageant of Roses" was celebrated here lately, and I cannot give you a better idea of it than by copying the synopsis.
Imagine the opera-house trimmed inside with wreaths and festoons and bouquets of roses - a picture in itself; audience in full evening dress, each lady carrying roses, each man with a rose for a boutonnière.
The dancing in costume was exquisitely graceful, and the evolutions and figures admirably exact - no mistake, nothing amateurish about the whole performance.
PART FIRST.
Los Flores, a garden in the Crown of the Valley. Goddess Flora and
her pages asleep. Harlequin, the magic spirit, enters, produces by
incantation the rain and summons the maiden Spring, who rouses the
Goddess and her pages. The Goddess commands the Harlequin to usher
in the Pageant of Roses. Enter the Red or Colonial Roses; march and
form for the reception and dance of the Ladies of the Minuet.
Retire. Harlequin, at the request of the Goddess, summons the Gold
of Ophirs, bearing urn as offering to the Goddess, when is
performed the dance of the Orient, including solo. Curtain falls on
tableau.
PART SECOND.
Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She
summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile.
They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.
Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the
Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost
Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter,
perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds.
Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail
upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The
Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an
offering, and perform "The Transformation of the Rose." Rose Buds
dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and
retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance
by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of
their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.
PART THIRD.
Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic cañon.
And not a word yet
The last letter received by me from New Hampshire, April 3d, begins in this way: "It is like the middle of winter here, good sleighing and still very cold." And then comes a sad series of announcements of sickness and deaths caused by the protracted rigors of the season. And here, at the same date, all the glories of the spring, which far exceeds our summer - Spanish breezes, Italian sky and sunsets, Alpine mountains, tropical luxuriance of vegetation, a nearly uniform climate, a big outdoor conservatory. There is no other place on earth that combines so much in the same limits. You can snowball your companions on Christmas morning on the mountain-top, pelt your lady friends with rose leaves in the foot-hills three hours later, and in another sixty minutes dip in the surf no cooler than Newport in July; and the theatre in the evening. As a bright workman said, you can freeze through and thaw out in one day.
An electric railroad will soon connect Los Angeles with Pasadena and Mount Wilson, and a fine hotel is to be placed on the top of Echo Mountain, 3500 feet high, and this will then certainly be the ideal health and pleasure resort of the world.
Pasadena's homes, protected on three sides by mountain ranges, are surrounded by groves and gardens, trees and hedges from every clime. Everything will grow and flourish here. Capitalists from the East seem engaged in a generous rivalry to create the ideal paradise. Passion vines completely cover the arbors, roses clamber to the tops of houses and blossom by tens of thousands. I notice displays fit for a floral show in the windows of butcher shops and shoe stores. The churches are adorned with a mantle of vines and flowers.
Are there no "outs," no defects in this Pasadena? One must not forget the rainy days, the occasional "hot spells" of August and September, a wind now and then that blows off steeples and tears down fragile structures, bringing along a good deal more sand than is wanted. And every year an earthquake may be expected. I have experienced two, and they are not agreeable.
Aside from these drawbacks and dust in summer, all else is perfection, except that the weather is so uniformly glorious that there is seldom a day when one is willing to stay at home. I feel just now like a "deestrick" schoolboy who has been "kept in" on a summer afternoon.
The wild-flowers are more fascinating to me than all those so profusely cultivated. I weary of five thousand calla-lilies in one church at Easter, and lose a little interest in roses when they bloom perennially and in such profusion that I have had enough given me in one morning to fill a wash-tub or clothes-basket!
The wealth of color on the hills and mesas in springtime can never be described or painted. The State flower, the yellow poppy with the name that would floor any spelling-match hero - the eschscholtzia - is most conspicuous, and can be seen far away at sea; but there are dozens of others, that it is better to admire and leave unplucked, as they wilt so soon. "The ground is literally dolly-vardened with buttercups, violets, dodecatheons, gilias, nemophilas, and the like. And yet these are the mere skirmish line of the mighty invading hosts, whose uniforms surpass the kingly robes of Solomon, and whose banners of crimson and yellow and purple will soon wave on every hilltop and in every valley.
"In April and May the lover of nature may pass into the seventh heaven of botanical delight. Then in favored sections the display reaches a gorgeousness and a profusion that surpass both description and imagination."
No one can paint the grain fields as they look when the sun puts into every blade a tiny golden ray and it is no longer every-day common grain, but an enchanted carpet of living, radiant, golden green. We tourists call it grass, but there is no grass to be proud of in California.
No one can paint the sky; no one would accept it as true to nature if once caught on the canvas.
I will not attempt to describe the mountains with their many charms. I listened to a lecture lately where a man was struggling to do this, and it was positively painful. The flowery verbiage, the accumulated adjectives, the poetical quotations were overpowering. I seemed actually sinking into luscious mellifluousness. I shook it off my fingers, as if it were maple syrup. Then, as he climbed higher and higher, on and up, never getting away from the richest verdure and the sweetest flowers, scenes for an artist to paint with rapture, and a poet to sing in ecstasy, I found myself pushing up my forehead to improvise a mansard roof for my brain to swell in sympathy. And when he reached the summit and the panorama burst upon his enraptured vision, it was too much for my strained emotions, and I quietly slipped out.
And the strangest part is that every word is true, and, say what one will, one never gets near the reality. In this respect, you see, it differs from a floral catalogue sent out in early spring, or a hotel pamphlet with illustrations.
The cable road is 3000 feet long, with a direct ascent of 1400 feet, and the Echo Mountain House will be 1500 feet higher than the Catskill hotels overlooking the Hudson, and it is estimated that not less than 60,000 fares will be collected upon this mountain railroad the first year.
All this was designed and executed by Professor Lowe, of aeronaut fame, a scientist and banker, the inventor of water-gas and artificial ice, and a man of great business ability.
One of the best proofs of the health-giving power of this air is the fact that the physicians practising here, with one exception, came seriously ill and have not only recovered, but are strong enough to keep very busy helping others.
Pasadena has no ragged shabby outskirts; the poorer classes seem to be able to own or rent pretty little homes, some like large birdcages, all well kept and attractive. Some gentlemen from Indianapolis came here in 1873 and started the town, planting their orange orchards under the shadows of the mountains.
Each portion has its own attractions. Orange Grove Avenue, a street over a mile long, is described by its name. Great trees stand in the centre of the street, a fine road on either side, and the homes are embowered in flowers and palms, while hedges are made of the pomegranate, the honeysuckle, and even the heliotrope. Marengo Avenue is lined on either side by splendid specimens of the pepper, the prettiest and most graceful of all trees here. Colorado Street, with its homes and shops and churches, leads out to the foot-hills and "Altadena," which is often spoken of as recalling the handsome residences along the Riviera.
The street cars which go from the station toward the mountains bear on each the words, "This Car for the Poppy Fields," and they are a sight worth seeing. Mrs. Kellog describes this flower more perfectly than any artist could paint it: "Think of finest gold, of clearest lemon, of deepest orange on silkiest texture, just bedewed with a frost-like sheen, a silvery film, and you have a faint impression of what an eschscholtzia is. Multiply this impression by acres of waving color." And in February this may sometimes be seen. It has been well chosen for the State flower.
If consumptives must go away from the comforts of home, this is a haven of rest for them. In a late Medical Record I see that a physician deprecates the custom of sending hopeless cases to the high altitudes of Colorado, where the poor victim gasps out a few weeks or months of existence. "If such cases as the above must be sent from home, as we sometimes think here, to rid their home physicians of the annoyance of their presence, they should be sent to Florida or Southern California, where at least they may be chloroformed off into eternity by a soothing climate, and not suffer an actual shortening of their days from a climate acting on a radically different principle and entirely unsuited to them."
This is a bit of the shady side after all the sunlight. It is a place for the invalid to rejoice in, and those in robust health can find enough to do to employ all their energies.
The "Tournament of Roses" last winter was a grand success, praised by all. The "Pageant of Roses" was celebrated here lately, and I cannot give you a better idea of it than by copying the synopsis.
Imagine the opera-house trimmed inside with wreaths and festoons and bouquets of roses - a picture in itself; audience in full evening dress, each lady carrying roses, each man with a rose for a boutonnière.
The dancing in costume was exquisitely graceful, and the evolutions and figures admirably exact - no mistake, nothing amateurish about the whole performance.
PART FIRST.
Los Flores, a garden in the Crown of the Valley. Goddess Flora and
her pages asleep. Harlequin, the magic spirit, enters, produces by
incantation the rain and summons the maiden Spring, who rouses the
Goddess and her pages. The Goddess commands the Harlequin to usher
in the Pageant of Roses. Enter the Red or Colonial Roses; march and
form for the reception and dance of the Ladies of the Minuet.
Retire. Harlequin, at the request of the Goddess, summons the Gold
of Ophirs, bearing urn as offering to the Goddess, when is
performed the dance of the Orient, including solo. Curtain falls on
tableau.
PART SECOND.
Same garden. Goddess on her throne, surrounded by her pages. She
summons the Harlequin, who in turn brings the Roses of Castile.
They bring offering of flowers to the Goddess, and perform a dance.
Goddess again summons Harlequin, who, by great effort, brings the
Roses of the Snow, or the Little Girls from Boston, led by Frost
Maiden. They perform a dance and retire. Both Harlequins enter,
perform a dance, and command the blooming of the Pink Rose Buds.
Pink Rose Buds enter without offering for the Goddess, and prevail
upon the Harlequins to help them out of their difficulties. The
Harlequins send Poppies for the great La France Rose Buds as an
offering, and perform "The Transformation of the Rose." Rose Buds
dance and are joined by the little Roses in the Snow. All dance and
retire. Enter White Harlequin, who calls for the White Rose dance
by the Greek maidens. They perform ceremonies and deck the altar of
their Goddess, dance and retire. Curtain.
PART THIRD.
Grand march. Tableau, with falling Rose petals, in the magic cañon.
And not a word yet
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