A Truthful Woman in Southern California

by Kate Sanborn

  Do you ladies want to understand a little in detail about the dresses? Of course you do. Well, here is the yellow marguerite:

  Slender petals of yellow satin falling over a skirt of white silk crêpe, a green satin calyx girdle about her waist, and golden petals drooped again from the neck of her low bodice and over her shoulders.

  A handsome brunette represented a wine-colored peony in a rich costume of wine-colored velvet and satin. The petals fell to make the skirt, and rose again from a bell sheathing the neck of her low corsage, and the cap on her dark hair was a copy of the flower.

  There, you see how it is done. But it requires genius to succeed in such an undertaking. Look at Walter Crane’s pictures of human flowers for more suggestions.

  Most effective of all was the cachuca, danced by a girl of pure Castilian blood, who was dressed to symbolize the scarlet passionflower. The room was darkened save where she stood, and her steps and poses were full of Spanish fire and feeling, combined with poetic grace.

  Yes, it is over, but the pictures remain as freshly colored as if I saw it all but yesterday.

  During the Carnival sentiment reigns supreme—that is, if you have engaged rooms far in advance, and the matter of three daily meals is settled—and portly business men become gallant, chivalrous, and even poetic. In testimony I offer two verses sent to a lady visitor with a bunch of roses:

  “We had not thought it was for aught He lingered round us, scanning, But to admire our spring attire, The south wind softly fanning.

  “But when we knew it was for you Our charms he sought to capture, All round the bower each budding flower Blushed pink with rosy rapture.

  “Lovingly,

  THE ROSES.”

  George Eliot once said: “You love the roses—so do I! I wish the sky would rain down roses as they rain from off the shaken bush. Why will it not? Then all the valleys would be pink and white, and soft to tread on. They would fall as light as feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be like sleeping and yet waking all at once.”

  She never knew Santa Barbara.

  I said the horses feel proud, and their owners tell me how they turn their heads to see their adornment. And well they may, for a true Barbareno loves his horse as does the Arab, and delights in his decoration. Easily first in this matter is Mr. W. D. Thompson, who came to Santa Barbara from Maine more than forty years ago, a nephew of the captain with whom Dana sailed. Mr. Thompson is a progressive man, who appreciates the many improvements achieved and contemplated, but still loves to tell of the good old times when he was roughing it as a pioneer. He has done a most important and valuable work in having a typical Mexican saddle and bridle of the most approved and correct pattern made out of the finest leather and several thousand silver dollars. As his favorite mare stood before me with this magnificent saddle on, and her forelegs tied with a little strap so that she could step daintily but not run, I never saw such a pretty sight of the kind. This saddle and bridle, worth over $3000, are now on exhibition in Chicago. No more significant or beautiful exhibition of the early argonautic period could be sent from Southern California, and it will surely attract constant and admiring attention. Here is a description from the San Francisco Argonaut:

  “This saddle and bridle, manufactured of bullion from Mexican dollars, are exquisite works of art. The saddle is of typical Mexican pattern, with a high pommel, well-hollowed seat, and the most elaborate of trappings. The leather is stamped with elegant designs, and the whole thing is a complete, costly, and elaborate equipment, of good taste and artistic design. The saddle is studded over with silver ornaments. The leather facings are set thick with buttons and rosettes; the pommel is encased in silver; the corners of the aprons are tipped with silver; the stirrups are faced and edged with silver half an inch thick, elaborately chased and carved. The saddle-tree is hung with silver rings, fore and aft, to answer all the requirements of the vaquero in lacing up his riata. The girth, which passes under the horse’s belly and cinches the saddle in place, is woven of hair from horses’ manes by a native artisan, and is fully eight inches broad, with a tassel hanging at its middle. The saddle, the bridle, and all its appointments are marvels of beauty. The reins, martingale, and whip are composed of solid silver in woven strands. The headstall is covered with fluted silver, with large engraved silver rosettes at the sides, with decorations of flowers and heads of wheat, with an elaborate nose-piece with silver engraving. The side-pieces are of silver, massive and ornate, with a silver chain under the horse’s jaw. The bridle, reins, and accessories weigh about twelve pounds, and are worth not less than two hundred and fifty dollars in value of silver coin used in its manufacture.”

  Everybody up and down the coast knows Dixie Thompson. His talk is full of delightful anecdotes of the early settlers, and he has a droll, dry humor of his own that is refreshing. Mr. Nordhoff, who is an old friend, once wrote to the Harper “Drawer” about his shrewd way of restraining the over-keen traders and laboring men who tried to impose upon him. He heads the pleasant bit of gossip, “Captain Thompson’s Club,” and says:

  “Captain Dixie is, to all appearance, the man of most leisure in all leisurely Santa Barbara. He and his horses and carriages are always at the service of a friend. But while he seems to be the idlest of men, he is, in fact, an extremely capable business man who has many irons in the fire—tills much good land, has horses and cattle and pigs of the best breeds on many hills and in several rich valleys, and keeps all his affairs running in good order. Still, he is an easy-going, not a bustling, man of business. And it is just here that his social contrivance comes in: he has judged it expedient to form a club.

  “‘You see,’ said he, the other day, to an old friend, ‘the boys don’t always see me around, and sometimes they try to take a little advantage. I find a fellow who don’t haul half a load for me while I am paying for a full load; another one who gives me short measure; or another who does not do what I have told him. I hate to scold; and as they all deny when I accuse them, and I can’t be telling men that they are lying to me, I thought I’d just establish a Liars’ Club and bring them all in. It is now in good, healthy operation. We don’t call it the Liars’ Club, of course; we speak of the Club. But when I catch a man trying to ‘do’ me, I just tell him that I’ll have to make him a member of the Club.—Oh, how do you do, Mr. President?’ said Captain Dixie to a well-known character just then passing by.—’He’s the president of the Club, you know,’ he added. ‘Here’s Pancho now; I told him the other day I would have to make him a member of the Club if he didn’t look out. I guess he’ll get in yet. It’s a very flourishing club, and more useful, I guess, than some others.’

  “Don’t laugh, my dear Drawer. I believe Captain Thompson has struck an admirable idea, and one which might well have wide application. Don’t you suppose the material for such a club exists, for instance—not here in New Haven, of course, but over in New York, say, or perhaps in Washington? Think it over. The Drawer has always taken the lead in great moral and social improvements. I leave it to you.”

  Here, as in all Southern California, you will never know anything of the real town unless you have a friend who can take you to unfrequented cross-country drives up winding paths to mesas, or upland pasture guarded by lock and key from the average tourist, and get views indescribably fine.

  I am ashamed of my fellow-travellers who pick oranges by the score, and even break off boughs from the choicest and most conspicuous trees, and rush uninvited pell-mell into private grounds and quiet homes of well-bred people to see and exclaim and criticise. Add to this nuisance the fact that hundreds of invalids come yearly to the most desirable localities, turning them into camping-grounds for bacilli. I wonder at the singular forbearance and courtesy of the residents.

  Occasionally some one invited to speechify or air his opinion of things in general here bluntly expresses his surprise at finding everywhere so much culture, wealth, and refinement. This is a queer reflection on the fact that this part of the State is fil
led with specimens of our finest families from the East. I will frankly admit that I must be at my very best to keep up with those I have been privileged to meet here.

  You must not forget when in Santa Barbara to visit the fine public library, the best adapted for the convenience of actual workers of any I have entered. You must not fail to drive to Montecito (“little forest”), to Carpenteria and Goleta.

  I also advise you to spend a morning in Mr. Ford’s studio, and an afternoon with Mr. Starke and his treasures in wood-carving and inlaying, brought yearly from the Yosemite, wrought out with his own hands. He uses nearly fifty varieties of trees in his woodwork, and few see his stock and go away without investing in a redwood cane, a paper-knife, or an inlaid table. His orders come from all parts of the world, and are often very large, mounting up to hundreds of dollars. He is a simple-hearted student of nature, and a thorough workman. I enjoyed a brief visit to Chinatown and Spanishtown close by, where I saw a woman scrubbing clothes on a long flat board, with a piece of soap in each hand, standing in a hut made of poles covered with brush, and noticed an old oven outdoors and the meat hung up in strips to dry. I enjoyed also a call on the old fellow who “catcha de fisha.”

  And now, looking back as we are whirled away, I find I am repeating those lines from Shelley which so exactly reproduce the picture:

  “The earth and ocean seem To sleep in one another’s arms and dream Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we Read in their smiles, and call reality.”

  CHAPTER XIV.

  AU REVOIR.

  Just as a woman is leaving her friends she ever has the most to chatter about. How can I say au revoir briefly when there is so much more to tell? I so earnestly want to give California en verdad, or in truth. There has been too much bragging from the settlers, as in 1887 the Los Angeles Herald said that “New York would soon be excelled by that city.” There is a general desire to surpass all the rest of the world in as many ways as possible, and a general belief that it can easily be done. And visitors have omitted all that was unpleasant, and exaggerated the good points, so that one Californian speaks “of the dancing dervishes of travel, singing insanely from the moment they come to us.”

  There is so much that is novel in this wonderland that it is hard to keep cool and look at all sides. In 1870 all vegetables and grain were imported. Mr. Webster declared long ago in Congress that California was absolutely worthless except for mining and grazing. The rancheros thought the land only fit for sheep to roam over. Now great train-loads of vegetables and grain leave daily for the East; all the earliest fruit of New York, Boston, and Chicago comes from this State, and ships are carrying all these products to all parts of the world. From north to south the State measures over 800 miles—as far as from New York to Florida—with an area of 189,000 square miles—as much as New England and the Middle States combined, throwing in Maryland. The northern and southern portions are as unlike as Massachusetts and Florida, and the State must soon be divided. How little is known of Northern California! Next year I hope to describe that, with its lofty mountains, wonderful scenery, lakes of rare beauty, immense interests in grain, fruits, and mining. This little bit along the coast is but a minute portion of the whole. I have only followed in the footsteps of the Fathers, and would like to take you to Monterey, where Junipero Serra founded his last mission. Mrs. Stanford has placed a statue of the dear old saint on the shore to honor his life-work. Realizing the size of the State and its capabilities, big stories seem inevitable. As Talleyrand said of Spain, “It is a country in which two and two make five.”

  Some statements need to be modified. It is declared over and over that here there are no thunderstorms. In the Examiner of May 19th I read: “Santa Rosa was visited by a very severe electrical storm about eleven o’clock last night. The sky was brilliantly illuminated by lightning, and peal after peal of heavy thunder was heard. This was followed by a rain which continued until near morning.” A church steeple was struck by lightning and destroyed. This is unusual, but for “never” read “hardly ever.” No mad dogs, yet a little terrier I bought in San Francisco to give to a friend had to be shot its first summer on account of rabies. Let us balance matters:

  No malaria, but rheumatism. No cyclones, ” wind and sand storms. No thunderstorms, ” earthquakes. No mad dogs, ” rattlesnakes and centipedes, tarantulas and scorpions. No sunstrokes, ” chilling fogs.

  All goes when the sun goes. The climate is “outdoors.” A sunny room is essential. The difference between noonday and midnight, temperature between sun and shade, is something to be learned and guarded against.

  Each place is recommended by doctors who have regained their own health as the place for invalids. What Dr. Edwards says of San Diego is repeated everywhere else by experts:

  “San Diego presents the most even climate, the largest proportion of fair, clear days, a sandy and absorbent soil, and the minimum amount of atmospheric moisture—all the factors requisite in a perfect climate.”

  In each “peripheral resistances are reduced to a minimum.” Dr. Radebaugh, of Pasadena, who, I believe, has not the normal amount of lung but has been restored to health by the air of Pasadena, where he has a large practice, assures me that, in his candid opinion, “Pasadena is the greatest all-the-year-round health-resort in the world.” Dr. Isham, of same place, goes into details, and is almost the only physician I have consulted who acknowledges drawbacks in the Pasadena climate for those who desire a cure for throat or lungs. “This climate, like all else here, is paradoxical and contradictory,” and he mentions that the winds blowing from the Pacific are not usually the rain-bearers, but those blowing from a point directly opposite, and that the arid desert. Among objectionable features he mentions the “marked changes of temperature daily, frequent fogs, excess of humidity in winter owing to protracted rains (thirty inches in five months, from November, 1892, to March of this year); hot, dry winds that prevail in summer, with wind and sand storms, which have a debilitating effect on nervous systems, and are irritating to the mucous membrane.”

  How refreshing to find one person who does not consider his own refuge from disease an ideal health-resort! He also owns that doctors do not know yet how to treat such troubles as bronchitis, as is proven by their experimenting upon patients in Minnesota, Colorado, Arizona, Florida, and Pasadena. And he closes his letter in this way:

  “When local jealousies have subsided, and contending climates have had their day, the thing of cardinal importance for an invalid such as you have mentioned to do when about to change his or her home will be, not to attach too much importance to this or that particular climatic condition as determined by the barometer, thermometer, hygrometer, anemometer, and other meteorological instruments, nor to lay too much stress on a difference of a few hundred or thousand feet of elevation above the sea; but choose a home where the environments will afford the invalid or valetudinarian the greatest opportunity of living out-of-doors, and of spending the hours of sunshine in riding, driving, walking, and in other ways, whereby the entrance of pure air into the lungs is facilitated. In Pasadena the days in winter are warm enough to make outdoor life attractive and healthful, while the number of sunny days throughout the year is above the average of that prevailing in many other deservedly popular health-resorts.”

  I will also quote a letter received from Dr. W. B. Berry, formerly of Montclair, N. J., who, coming to Southern California an almost hopeless invalid, is now fairly well, and will probably entirely regain his health. He also is careful and conservative in statement, and therefore commands serious attention:

  “Riverside, Cal., May 2, 1893.

  “Dear Miss Sanborn: To recommend any place to an invalid is to an experienced climate-hunter no doubt, at times, a duty,—certainly it is a duty from which he shrinks.

  “One does not see so many advanced cases of pulmonary disease here as at either Asheville or Colorado Springs. The thousands of miles of alkali, sage-brush, and desolation might explain that, but it does see
m to me that a much larger proportion of consumptives are ‘doing well’ in this country than in those.

  “Pure dry air, pure water, and clean dry soil are the climatic elements essential for the pulmonary invalid, and for most others. These conditions can be found at Riverside and its vicinity during a large proportion of the year.

  “Here, too, are cool walks, with sunshine or shade, as may be desired, and things on every side to interest. For, unfortunately, the man with a sore chest has a brain and a spinal cord to be stimulated and fed, not to speak of those little heartstrings undiscovered by the anatomist, and which yet tug and pull mightily in a far country.

  “In short, it would seem that any consumptive in an early stage of his disease who does not thrive at a moderate altitude would do well to come here and to stay—that is, if he will remember that all the climate is out-of-doors.”

  My own troublesome throat is almost as good as new, and I am proud to name my physician, Outdoors, M.D. Come and consult the same unfailing restorer.

  I have given, according to my humble ability, la verdad cierta—the absolute truth—about the small fraction of the State known as Southern California.

  I came with gargle and note-book, but long ago gave up the former; and as for these jottings, I offer them to those who want to see this much-talked-of Earthly Paradise as in a verbal mirror. And to all a cordial au revoir!

  “Adieu to thee again! A vain adieu! There can be no farewell to scene like thine: The mind is colored by thy every hue.”

  KATE SANBORN’S BOOKS.

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