By the Golden Gate | Page 8

was one hundred and fifty. At Reno I saw
more Indians with papooses. The thought, however, that this old race is
passing away like the fading leaf before the "pale face," is saddening.

Soon we arrive in the El Dorado State, we are at last on California soil,
and the train with panting engines climbs the dizzy heights of the
Sierras, through beautiful forests, along the slopes of hills, through
tunnels, beneath long snow sheds. These sheds are a striking feature,
and are, with broken intervals, forty miles long. The scenery is
remarkable, entirely different from that of the Rocky Mountains; and
Donner Lake, into whose clear depths we look from lofty heights,
recalls the terrible story of hardship, isolation, suffering and death, here
in the winter of 1846 and 1847, when snow-fall on snow-fall cut the
elder Donners and several members of this party off from the outside
world, and they perished from cold and starvation. Oh, what a tragic,
harrowing history it is!
At Summit Station, the loftiest point of the pass over the Sierras, in the
path of our railway, engines are changed, and while the train halts
passengers amuse themselves by making snowballs. Then we begin the
descent along the slopes of the mountains into the great valleys of
California. Already we have passed from the region of perpetual snows
to a milder clime. We begin to feel the tempered breezes from the
Pacific fanning our cheeks. Yes, we are now in the land of a
semi-tropical vegetation, a land of beauty and fertility, which in many
respects resembles Palestine; and surely it is a Promised Land, rich in
God's good gifts. Blue Cañon and Cape Horn and beautiful landscapes
with vineyards and orange groves are passed, and as night with its sable
pall descends upon us, we rest in peace with a feeling of satisfaction
and thankfulness to Him Who has led us safely by the way thus far.
When the train halted at Sacramento, I had a midnight view of it, and
then we sped on to our destination. Some three weeks later, in company
with Rev. Dr. Ashton, I visited the valley west of Sacramento, Suisun
and Benicia, that I might not lose the view which night had obscured.
The Carquinez Straits, with the railway ferryboat "Solano," the largest
of its kind in the world, and the upper view of the great Bay of San
Francisco, make a deep impression on the mind. I was well repaid for
all my pains. But on that first night, as we hastened to our goal, amid
landscapes of beauty and fruitfulness traversed in the olden days by the
feet of pioneers and gold-seekers, it all seemed as if we were in
fairyland. Will the dream be substantial when we enter the City by the

Golden Gate?

CHAPTER II
VIEWS FROM THE BOAT ON THE BAY
Arrival at Oakland--"Ticket!"--On the Ferryboat--The City of "Live
Oaks"--Mr. Young, a Citizen of Oakland--Distinguished Members of
General Convention--Alameda--Berkeley and Its
University--Picturesque Scenery--Yerba Buena, Alcatraz and Angel
Islands--San Francisco at Last.
It was on the morning of Wednesday, October the second, 1901, when I
had my first view of that Queen City of the Pacific coast, San Francisco.
Our train, fully nine hours late, in our journey from Salt Lake City,
arrived at its destination on the great Oakland pier or mole at 2:30 A.M.
The understanding with the conductor the evening before, as we were
descending the Sierra Nevada Mountains, was that we would not be
disturbed until day break. When the end of our long journey was
reached I was oblivious to the world of matter in midnight slumber; but
as soon as the wheels of the sleeping coach had ceased to revolve I was
aroused with the cry, "Ticket!" First I thought I was dreaming, as I had
heard the phrase, "Show your tickets," so often; but the light of "a
lantern dimly burning" and a stalwart figure standing before the
curtains of my sleeping berth, soon convinced me that I was in a world
of reality. This, I may say, was my only experience of the kind, in all
my travelling over the Southern Pacific Railway, the Sante Fé, and the
Mexican International and Mexican Central Railways. There was little
sleep after the interruption; and when the morning came with its
interest and novelty I was ready to proceed across the Bay of San
Francisco. Our faithful porter, John Williams, whose name is worthy of
mention in these pages, as I stepped from the Pullman car, said,
"Good-bye, Colonel!" He always addressed me as "Colonel." The
porters on all the western roads and on the Mexican railways are polite
and obliging, and a word of commendation must be said for them as a
class.

The Rev. Dr. James W. Ashton,