143 CHAPTER XV. BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO. A LONG and narrow inland sea, about the size and volume of Lake Leman, open to the ocean by an avenue called the Golden Gate; a stretch of water locked within the arms of picturesque and sunny hills, with islets sprinkled up and down, as Angel Island, Alcatraz, and Yerba Buena, round the cliffs of which skim flocks of gulls and pelicans; the inner shores all marsh and meadow, falling backward to the feet of mountain chains; shores not only rich in woods, in springs, in pastures, but adorned at every jutting point by villages of saintly name; a group of white frame houses, partly hidden by a fringe of cypresses and gum trees, such is the Bay of San Francisco, as her lines are swept from Belmont Hill. The lordship of this inland sea is written on her face, as plainly as the legend on a map. The villages of saintly names, San Rafael, Santa Clara, San Leandro, and the rest, all nestle near the water's edge, while on the higher grounds, among the creeks and cañons, nearly all the settlements have English names. Searsville, Crystal Springs, and School House Station, cover Santa Clara, San Mateo, and San Bruno on these western heights, while Dublin, Danville, and Lafayette cover San Lorenzo, San Antonio, and San Pablo on those eastern heights. White settlers seize the water edges in all places where a pier is wanted or a factory can be built. They clasp the Bay in railway lines, adorn the tide with sailing ships, pollute the shore with smoking chimneys, bridge the narrows with ferry boats. Where water pays, they hug the shore, defying chills and fevers for the sake of gain; but these White settlers never linger in the swamps, like Mexicans and Half-breeds, merely because the gourds grow quickly and the fish is cheap. Driven by a stronger spirit than any native knows, they search the hills and ravines, fastening on soils which no Mexican ever dreamt of bringing under rake and plough. They search the passes through and through; here tapping at the rock for ore, there burrowing in the earth for coal. Unscared by sullen soil and nipping air, the Yankee Boys and Sydney Ducks ascend the loftiest peaks and crown them with their English names. Such names are records. Each peak in front of usMaster's Hill, Mount Hamilton, Mount Day, Mount Lewis, Mount Wallace-tells a story of ascent and ownership. Red Mountain is a British height, Cedar Mountain is a British height. Behind us tower Mine Hill, Mount Bache, and Black Mountain. Nearly all the passes in these alplets have the same great legend written in their names. Between us and the San Joaquin river, three passes cut the range, and these three clefts are known as Corral Hollow Pass, Patterson's Pass, and Livermore Pass. The pass from Clayton down to Black Diamond is called Kirker's Pass. These citadels and avenues of nature are in Anglo-Saxon hands. At Belmont we are lodged with William C. Ralston, one of the magnates of this bay; once a carpenter planing deals, then a cook on board a steamer, afterwards a digger at the mines, now the president of a bank, and one of the princes of finance. 'Come to Belmont; give you a rest, and do you good,' cries the magnate. We accept, for not to see Belmont is not to see the Bay of San Francisco. Ten years since, Belmont was a rocky cañon, cleaving a mountain side, so choked with spectral oaks and cedars that the mixed bloods called it the Devil's Glen. Coyotes and foxes hung about the woods, and Indian hunters, following elk and antelope, lit their fires around the springs. No track led up the ravine, for no making it his home. valley on Lake Zürich. as smooth as any road been tamed to parks. A pretty châlet peeps out here and there, with lawns and gardens trimmed in English taste. Five or six villas crown the knolls and nestle in the tress. Geraniums are in flower, and roses bloom on arch and wall. Sheep dot the sward, and cattle wander to the creeks. A chapel and a school arrest the eye. On every side there is a sense of home. civilised man yet dreamt of To-day Belmont is like a A road sweeps up the glen in Kent. The forests have Our villa is a frame house, built in showy Californian style; a new order of architecture, with a touch of Moorish taste, and not a little Chinese fantasy. A portico, too big for the villa, opens into sunny rooms, with inlaid floors and gaily decorated walls. Much wicker-work is used in chairs and ottomans. Bright curtains hang from gilded poles. Pianos, tables, shelves are all of yellow satin wood, veined with crimson streaks, a wood of Californian growth. An open gallery, lighted from above, serves for a public room. A glazed arcade runs round the villa, flooding it with sunshine, which is teased and petted through Venetian blinds. The wealth of colour is enhanced by Roman photographs in broad black frames. Nothing could be lighter than our chambers, nothing could be sweeter than the gardens on which they give. Vineries and conservatories lie in rear, and run on either flank below the limbs of ancient oaks. The lawns and shrubberies are perfect, and the country round the villa wears the aspect of a park. Our host has made himself an earthly paradise at Belmont, but an earthly paradise in which calmer mortals than himself will bask. I like the man and hope the best for him; yet noticing his restless eye and paling brow, I cannot help feeling that with all his jollity and briskness William C. Ralston |