A Truthful Woman in Southern California by Kate Sanborn (read this if .txt) 📕

great boulders. There are stone walls, and here and there are great flocks of sheep. The horses stop of their own accord at a lovely spot where they are used to getting a drink of cool spring water. Did any ever taste quite so good as that drunk from an old dipper after a long warm drive? The live-oaks and sycamores look too inviting to be resisted, and we get out to explore while the horses are resting. Underneath the evergreen shade we pick up some of the large pointed acorns and carry them away as souvenirs. This would be a delightful spot for a picnic, but we have many miles before us and must go on. In a few more miles we reach a little town known as "Alpine." In the distance looms the Viejas, and if any of the party wish to travel over a grade, now is the opportunity. The top of the grade brings us to a lovely view. Eastward is an unbroken chain of mountain-peaks, from whose summits may be seen the broad Pacific on one side and the Colorado Desert on the other.

One of the favorite drives is into the Monte. This is a large park or tract of a thousand acres. On each side the hills rise, and in front El Cajon shows new beauties with every step of the way. Great live-oaks with enormous trunks, ancient sycamores, elders, and willows make in some spots a dense shade. On the edge of the hillsides the Flume may be seen, which furnishes many ranches as well as the city of San Diego with the purest mountain water. Underneath the trees and up on the rocks the lover of flowers and ferns will scramble. There are the dainty forget-me-nots, tiny flowers of starry white, flowers of pale orange with centres of deep maroon, the wild galliardia, and the wild peony with its variegated leaves. Many other delicate blossoms which we cannot stop to describe are there too. And the ferns! All kinds may be found by the initiated, and many are close at hand. The fern lined with gold or with silver, the running ferns, the ferns of lace-like fineness, the ferns as soft as velvet, all growing in the greatest profusion. And each day of the week a different drive and new delights.

There is the valley of El Cajon ("the box"), which should be visited in grape-picking time. The great Boston ranch alone employs three hundred and twenty-five pickers. Men, women, children, all busy, and the grapes when just turned are sweet, spicy, and delicious, making the air fragrant. This valley is dotted with handsome villas and prosperous ranches. The range of mountains which looms up before us from the veranda of the hotel is not yet dignified by a name, yet it is more imposing than the White Mountains, and in the distance we see old Cuyamaca, nearly seven thousand feet high. But we must take the next train for San Diego, or this chapter will be a volume in itself. And I have not even alluded to the "Great Back Country."

The founder of San Diego is still living, still hopeful, still young at heart. "Father" Horton, the typical pioneer, deserves more honors than he has yet received. Coming from Connecticut to California in 1851, he soon made a small fortune in mining, buying and selling gold-dust, and providing the diggers with ice and water for their work. He rode over the country in those lawless times selling the precious dust disguised as a poverty-stricken good-for-naught, with trusty revolver always in his right hand on the pommel of the saddle - the handsome green saddle covered with an old potato sack. In this way he evaded the very men who had been on his track for weeks. Once he came near capture. He passed a bad-looking lot of horsemen, one of whom had a deep red scar the whole length of his cheek. He got by safely, but one, looking round, exclaimed, "My God! That's Horton! I see the green saddle." And back they dashed to kill him and gain his treasure, but he escaped into a cañon, and they lost their one chance.

At another time he had $3500 in gold in his belt, and at a tavern of poor repute he could hear through cracks in the floor of his bedroom the gamblers below laughing about the old greenhorn above who had his supper of mush and milk and had asked for a lock on his door.

Returning East via Panama in 1856, he proved himself a hero and a soldier during the terrible riot there. The natives, angry because they had lost the money they used to make in transporting passengers, attacked the foreigners, killing and plundering all who came in their way, the police turning traitors and aiding them. The hotel was attacked, and among all the passengers only three were armed. Mr. Horton and these two young men stood at the top of the stairs and shot all who tried to get nearer. When they fell back eight rioters were dead and others wounded. Then Mr. Horton formed the two hundred passengers in order and marched them off to a lighter, and put them aboard the steamer. About half this number wanted to go on to San Francisco, but had lost all their money and baggage. Mr. Ralston and Mr. Horton helped many to pay their passage, but not one person was ever heard of again, not one cent was returned, not even one word of gratitude or good intentions.

Up to the period which is known as the boom of 1870-71, the history of San Diego was so interwoven and closely connected with the life of Mr. Horton that the story of one is inseparable from that of the other.

When Mr. Horton came from San Francisco to see the wonderful harbor described by friends, there was nothing there but two old buildings, the barren hillsides, and the sheep pastures.

His gifts to the city and to individuals amount to a present valuation of over a million of dollars. Of the nine hundred acres of land which he originally bought (a part of the Mexican grant) at twenty-seven cents an acre, he owns but little.

But it is to his common sense, foresight, and business ability that the present city owes much of its success; and it is interesting to hear him tell of exciting adventures in "Poker Flat," and other places which Bret Harte has worked up so successfully.

Lieut. George H. Derby is amusingly associated with "Old Town," the former San Diego, three miles from the present city. He had offended Jefferson Davis, then Secretary of War, by his irreverent wit, and was punished by exile to this then almost unknown region, which he called "Sandy Ague," chiefly inhabited by the flea, the horned toad, and the rattlesnake. Mr. Ames, of the Herald , a democratic paper, asked Derby, a stanch whig, to occupy the editorial chair during a brief absence. He did so, changing its politics at once, and furnishing funny articles which later appeared as "Phoenixiana," and ranked him with Artemus Ward as a genuine American humorist. Here is his closing paragraph after those preposterous somersaults and daring pranks as editor pro tem :

"Very little news will be found in the Herald this week; the fact is, there never is much news in it, and it is very well that it is so; the climate here is so delightful that residents in the enjoyment of their
dolce far niente care very little about what is going on elsewhere, and residents of other places care very little about what is going on in San Diego, so all parties are likely to be gratified with the little paper, 'and long may it wave.'"

The present city has eighteen thousand inhabitants, twenty-three church organizations, remarkably fine schools, a handsome opera-house, broad asphalt pavements, electric lights, electric and cable cars, - a compact, well-built city, from the fine homes on the Heights to the business portion near the water.

In regard to society, I find that the "best society" is much the same all over the civilized world. Accomplished, cultured, well-bred men and women are found in every town and city in California. And distance from metropolitan privileges makes people more independent, better able to entertain themselves and their guests, more eagerly appreciative of the best in every direction.

"O city reflecting thy might from the sea,
There is grandeur and power in the future for thee,
Whose flower-broidered garments the soft billows lave,
Thy brow on the hillside, thy feet in the wave."

Many of San Diego's guests have no idea of her at her best. The majority of winter tourists leave California just as Mother Nature braces up to do her best with wild-flowers, blossoming orchards, and waving grain-fields. The summers are really more enjoyable than the winters. When the Nicaragua Canal is completed it will be a pleasant trip to San Diego from any Atlantic seaport. A railroad to Phoenix, Arizona, via Yuma, will allow the melting, panting, gasping inhabitants of New Mexico and Arizona an opportunity to get into a delightfully cool climate.


THE INDIANS AND THE MISSION FATHERS.

As for Indians, I have never seen such Indians as Helen Hunt Jackson depicts so lovingly. I have never seen any one who has seen one. They existed in her imagination only, as did Fenimore Cooper's noble redmen of the forest solely in his fancy. Both have given us delightful novels, and we are grateful.

The repulsive stolid creatures I have seen at stations, with sullen stare, long be-vermined locks, and filthy blankets full of fleas, are possibly not a fair representation of the remnants of the race. They have been unfairly dealt with. I am glad they can be educated and improved. They seem to need it. After reading "Ramona" and Mrs. Jackson's touching article on the "Mission Indians in California," and then looking over the opinions of honest writers of a previous generation regarding the Indians, it is more puzzling than ever. The following criticisms apply exclusively to the Southern Californian tribes.

Mr. Robinson, after a twenty years' residence among them, said: "The Indian of California is a species of monkey; he imitates and copies white men, but selects vice in preference to virtue. He is hypocritical and treacherous, never looks at any one in conversation, but has a wandering, malicious gaze. Truth is not in him."

And the next testimony is from an Indian curate: "The Indians lead a life of indolence rather than devote themselves to the enlightening of their souls with ideas of civilization and cultivation; it is repugnant to their feelings, which have become vitiated by the unrestricted customs among them. Their inclination to possess themselves of the property of others is unbounded. Their hypocrisy when they pray is as much to be feared as their insolence when in tumultuous disorder. They are never grateful for any benefit, nor do they pardon an injury, and they never proffer civilities, unless to accomplish some interested motive. They are ready to expose themselves to the greatest danger to satisfy their predominant passions. The future from them is ever veiled by the present. Their inconstancy and want of confidence deprives them of friends, and he who by deception holds them in subjection may reduce them to almost abject slavery."

Dana, speaking of the language of the Californian Indians, described it as "brutish" and "a complete slabber."

The missionary Fathers did their best to teach and convert them, and the missions must be spoken of. So we