Letter XX

New York

My way home from the Sandwich Islands to London took me to San Francisco, across the American continent and [to] New York, whence I am now writing to you my last letter of this series. I had made this journey before, but had on that occasion reached California too late to visit the now world-famous valley of the Yo Semite, and the big pine trees which we call Wellingtonias. On this occasion I made the excursion, and will presently tell the story of the trip; but I must first say a few words as to the town of San Francisco.

I do not know that in all my travels I ever visited a city less interesting to the normal tourist, who, as a rule, does not care to investigate the ways of trade, or to employ himself in ascertaining how the people around him earn their bread. There is almost nothing to see in San Francisco that is worth seeing. There is a new park in which you may drive for six or seven miles on a well-made road, and which, as a park for the use of the city, will, when completed, have many excellences. There is also there the biggest hotel in the world—so the people of San Francisco say—which has cost a million sterling—five millions of dollars—and is intended to swallow up all the other hotels. It was just finished, but not opened, when I was there. There is an inferior menagerie of wild beasts, and a place called the Cliff House, to which strangers are taken to hear

seals bark. Everything, except hotel prices, is dearer here than at any other large town I know, and the ordinary traveller has no peace left him, either in public or private, by touters who wish to persuade him to take this or the other railway route into the Eastern States. There is always a perfectly cloudless sky overhead, unless when rain is falling in torrents, and perhaps nowhere in the world is there a more sudden change from heat to cold on the same day. I think I may say that strangers will generally desire to get out of San Francisco as quickly as they can, unless, indeed, circumstances may have enabled them to enjoy the hospitality of the place. There is little or nothing to see, and life at the hotels is not comfortable. But the trade of the place, and the way in which money is won and lost, are alike marvellous. I found 10s. a-day to be about the lowest rate of wages paid to a man for any kind of work in the city; and the average wages of a housemaid—who is, of course, found in everything but her clothes—to be over £70 per annum. All payments in California are made in coin, whereas in the other States of the Union except California, Oregon, and Nevada, moneys are paid in depreciated notes, so that the two dollars and a-half per day which the labourer earns in San Francisco are as good as three and a quarter in New York. No doubt this high rate of pay is met by an equivalent in the high cost of many articles, such as clothing and rent; but it does not affect the price of food, which to the labouring man is the one important item of expenditure. Consequently, the labouring man in California has

a position which I have not known him to achieve elsewhere.

In trade there is a speculative rashness which ought to ensure ruin, according to our old-world ideas, but seems to be rewarded by very general success. The stranger may of course remember, if he pleases, that the millionaire who builds a mighty palace is seen and heard of and encountered at all corners, while the bankrupt will probably sink unseen into obscurity. But in San Francisco there is not much of bankruptcy, and, when it does occur, no one seems to be so little injured as the bankrupt. There is a good nature, a forbearance, and an easy giving of trust, which to an old-fashioned Englishman like myself seems to be most dangerous, but which I was assured there forms the readiest mode of building up a great commercial community. The great commercial community is there, and I am not prepared to deny that is has been built after that fashion. If a young man there can make friends, and can establish a character for honesty to his friends and for smartness to the outside world, he can borrow almost any amount of money without security, for the purpose of establishing himself in business. The lender, if he feel sure that he will not be robbed by his protégé, is willing to run the risk of unsuccessful speculation.

As we steamed into the Golden Horn^[41] the news reached us that about a month previously the leading bank in San Francisco, the Bank of California, had "burst up" for some enormous amount of dollars, and

[41] A slip of the traveler's pen for Golden Gate.

that the manager, who was well known as one of the richest men and as perhaps the boldest speculator in the state, had been drowned the day following.^[42] But we also heard that payments would be resumed in a few days—and payments were resumed before I left the city; that no one but the shareholders would lose a dollar, and that the shareholders were ready to go on with any amount of new capital; and that not a single bankruptcy in the whole community had been caused by the stoppage of the bank, which had been extended for a period over a month! How came it to pass, I asked, of course, that the collapse of so great a monetary enterprise as the Bank of California should pass on without a general panic, at any rate in the city? Then I was assured that all those concerned were good-natured, that everybody gave time, that bills were renewed all round, and that in an hour or two it was understood that no one in San Francisco was to be asked for money just at that crisis. To me all this seemed to be wrong. I have always imagined that severity to bankrupt debtors—that amount of severity which requires that a bankrupt shall really be a bankrupt—is the best and indeed the only way of ensuring regularity in commerce, and of preventing men from tossing up with other people's money in the confidence that they may win and cannot lose. But such doctrines are altogether out of date in California. The money of depositors was scattered broadcast through the mining speculations of the district, and no one was a

[42] The failure of the Bank of California, to which Trollope refers, occurred August 25. See John P. Young, San Francisco (San Francisco, 1912), II, 504–508.

bit the worse for it except the unfortunate gentleman who had been, perhaps happily, removed from a community which had trusted him long with implicit confidence, and which still believed him to be an honest man, but which would hardly have known how to treat him had he survived. To add to the romance of the story it should be said that, though this gentleman was drowned while bathing, it seems to be certain that his death was accidental. It is stated that he was struck with apoplexy while in the water.

I was taken to visit the Stockbrokers' Board in San Francisco—that is, the room in which mining shares are bought and sold. The reader should understand that in California, and, still more, in the neighbouring State of Nevada, gold mining and silver mining are now very lively. The stock-jobbing created by these mines is carried on in San Francisco, and is a business as universally popular as was the buying and selling of railway shares during our railway mania. Everybody is at it. The housemaid of whom I have spoken as earning £70 per annum buys Consolidated Virginia or Ophir stock with that money; or perhaps she prefers Chollar Potosi, or Best and Belcher, or Yellow Jacket, or Buckeye. She probably consults some gentleman of her acquaintance, and no doubt in 19 cases out of 20 loses her money. But it is the thing to do, and she enjoys that charm which is the delectation of all gamblers. Of course, in such a condition of things there are men who know how the wind is going to blow, who make the wind blow this way or that, who can raise the price of shares by fictitious purchases and then

sell, or depreciate them by fictitious sales and then buy. The housemaids and others go to the wall, while the knowing men build palaces, and seem to be troubled by no seared consciences. In the meantime the brokers drive a roaring trade—whether they purchase legitimately for others, or speculate on their own account. The Stock Exchange in London is, I believe, closed to strangers. The Bourse in Paris is open to the world, and at a certain hour affords a scene to those who choose to go and look at it of wild noise, unintelligible action, and sometimes apparently of demoniac fury. The uninitiated are unable to comprehend that the roaring herd in the pen beneath them are doing business. The Stock Exchange Board in San Francisco is not open to strangers as it is in Paris, but may be visited with an order, and by the kindness of a friend I was admitted. Paris is more than six times as large as San Francisco; but the fury at San Francisco is even more demoniac than in Paris. I thought that the gentlemen employed were going to hit each other between the eyes, and that the apparent quarrels which I saw already demanded the interference of the police. But the uproarious throng were always obedient, after slight delays, to the ringing hammer of the chairman, and as each five minutes' period of internecine combat was brought to an end I found that a vast number of mining shares had been bought and sold. Perhaps a visit to this chamber when the stockbrokers are at work, between the hours of eleven and twelve, is, of all sights in San Francisco, the one best worth seeing.

A visit to the Yo Semite Valley from San Francisco

requires a long and very tedious journey. The tourist first travels by railway from the city to Merced, about 140 miles, the first 100 of which are on the line which runs across the continent. At Merced he sleeps, finding there a very comfortable American hotel, at which, however, they will refuse to clean his boots. On the following morning he will start at six by a four-horse stage-coach, which, travelling at the rate of five miles an hour, will bring him to the end of his first day's journey at six in the evening. Here he will be accommodated at a ranche or farm-house, which has gradually grown to be an inn, and will be treated with smiling, good-natured courtesy. The next day's coaching will take him into the valley, and on his way he will have passed through a grove of the immense pine trees which first gave celebrity to these regions.

The latter portion of this journey is made through a picturesque country, with fine hills and handsome timber, but it is not comparable in beauty to very many roads of a similar nature in Europe. The first part of the road—from Merced, through Snelling, and as far as Coulterville—is altogether interesting. I travelled over it in September, when the dust was almost unbearable. The beds of the river were almost dry; the greenswards had become yellow, and the midday heat was extreme. I can easily believe that in May and June it bears a very different aspect. But in May and June the visitors who unfortunately belong to the unprivileged sex can seldom be accommodated with beds. The dormitories in the hotels are devoted to ladies, while the gentlemen repose either under or

upon the dinner tables. The crowd is apt to be so great that, when the meals are spread, enormous energy is required, or at least is often used, by those who are anxious to secure their meals. We had no grass and no water in the streams, but we had every attention shown to us at Mr. Black's hotel, at which we were the only guests.

Sightseeing in the valley has to be done on horseback, and the horses provided for our use were very good. You would not give me space were I to attempt to convert your columns into a guide book for the Yo Semite. I may perhaps best use the few words which are at my command by saying that the chief glory of the place depends on the almost perpendicular steepness and on the enormous altitude of the rocks which hem it in. The Clouds Nest^[43] rises to a height of 6450 feet above the valley, and the rock called Le Capitaine,^[44] which to the naked eye seems to hang over if it be not perpendicular, is 3000 feet high. The highest summits of the valley are about 12,000 feet above the sea. The highest mountains of Europe are of course higher than any that there are here; but I know of no rocks in Europe or elsewhere which are to be compared to them. Early in the morning, just as the sun is rising, and again for perhaps an hour before it has set, the colours are beautiful and the effects magnificent. But during the close of the day everything is painfully white. It is not the whiteness of snow or of marble, but rather that of plaster of Paris. The substance which produces this effect is in fact granite.

[43] I.e. , Clouds' Rest.

[44] I.e. , El Capitan.

The shapes of the summits are graceful and bold, but the mountains do not run into sharp peaks and serrated edges. Two of the most conspicuous are called the North and South Domes. The grandeur of the scene—and it is very grand—arises chiefly from the manner in which the precipitous sides of the mountains have been cut sheer down into the valley. In the spring and early summer the waterfalls must be very beautiful. They were beautiful when I was there, though from the scantiness of the mountain streams they were shorn of their great glory.

The return from the valley was exactly the same as the journey to it—hot, tedious, long, and dusty. Both going and coming I measured some of the big trees, finding the girth of the largest which I saw to be 78 feet. From the irregularity of the ground and the knobby excrescences which add to the size of the trees, accurate measurement is impossible, but I feel sure that I have rather understated than overstated the amount. The height of the highest trees yet discovered in California is by no means equal to that of some that have been found in Australia. I do not think that any tree exceeding 400 feet in height has been found in America, but a tree has been measured in Victoria which, when standing, exceeded 500 feet.

The traveller about to proceed from San Francisco to the East may accomplish a part of the journey to Yo Semite on his way. On returning he will stop at Latrop^[45] and pick up the railway cars for New York, or whatever place may be his destination, thus saving

[45] I.e. , Lathrop.

the run of 100 miles back to San Francisco. As to myself, business required me to return to the city, and I thus had the opportunity of making the unbroken journey from the Pacific to the Atlantic.

So many accounts have already been given of this journey that I need hardly detain your readers by describing it at length. It occupies seven days and seven nights, the start from San Francisco being made at eight a.m. During this time the traveller is continually travelling, except for the three spaces of twenty minutes each per diem which are allowed for eating. The undertaking seems to be, if not dangerous on account of fatigue, at any rate liable to great tedium and very much discomfort. I can only say that I never made a journey with less fatigue, less tedium, or less discomfort. I was peculiarly happy in my fellow-travellers; but as I have crossed twice and was thus lucky on both occasions, meeting people in the carriages whom I had never seen before and from whom I parted as old friends, I may presume that such is the usual condition of things. The traveller should, I think, trouble himself with the carriage of no eatables, as those supplied on the road are in every way sufficient. If he wishes the solace of wine or spirits he should take them with him. He will find himself provided with an excellent bed and with ample accommodation for washing his hands and face. The need of a bath at the end of the journey is certainly much felt.