CHAPTER XXII.

HONOLULU TO SAN FRANCISCO.

DEPARTURE FROM HONOLULU--WRECK OF THE 'SAGINAW'--THE 'MOSES
TAYLOR'--THE ACCOMMODATION--THE COMPANY ON BOARD--BEHAVIOUR OF THE
SHIP--DEATH OF A PASSENGER--FEELINGS ON LANDING IN A NEW
PLACE--APPROACH THE GOLDEN GATE--CLOSE OF THE PACIFIC LOG--FIRST SIGHT
OF AMERICA.


The departure of the 'Moses Taylor' was evidently regarded as a great
event at Honolulu. At the hour appointed for our sailing, a great
crowd had assembled on the wharf. All the notabilities of the place
seemed to be there. First and foremost was the King of the Sandwich
Islands himself, Kamehameha V.--a jolly-looking, portly old fellow,
standing about six feet high, and weighing over five-and-twenty
stone--every inch and ounce a king. Then there were the chief
ministers of his court, white, yellow, and dusky. There were also
English, Americans, and Chinese, with a crowd of full-blooded
Kanakas--all very orderly and admiring. And round the outskirts of the
throng were several carriages filled with native ladies.

Punctually at half-past 4 P.M., we got away from our moorings, with
"three cheers for Honolulu," which were raised by a shipwrecked crew
we had on board. Leaving the pier, we shortly passed through the
opening in the reef which forms the entrance to the harbour, and
steamed steadily eastward in the direction of San Francisco.

I must explain how it was that the "three cheers for Honolulu" were
raised. The 'Saginaw' was an American war-ship that had been sent with
a contract party to Midway Island in the North Pacific--some fifteen
hundred miles west-north-west of the Sandwich Islands--to blast the
coral-reef there, in order to provide a harbourage for the line of
large steamers running between San Francisco and China. The money
voted for the purpose by the Government having been spent, the
'Saginaw' was on its return voyage from the island, when the captain
determined to call at Ocean Island to see if there were any
shipwrecked crews there; but in a fog, the ship ran upon a coral-reef,
and was itself wrecked. The men, to the number of ninety-three,
contrived to reach the island, where they remained sixty-nine days,
during which they lived mostly on seal meat and the few stores they
had been able to save from their ship. The island itself is entirely
barren, containing only a few bushes and a sort of dry grass, with
millions of rats--supposed to have bred from rats landed from
shipwrecked vessels. Strict military discipline was preserved by the
officers, and the men as a body behaved remarkably well.

At length, no vessel appearing in sight, four of the sailors
volunteered to row in an open boat to the Sandwich Islands--more than
a thousand miles distant--for the purpose of reporting the wreck of
the ship, and sending relief to those on the island. The boat
departed, reached the reef which surrounds Kauai, an island to the
north-west of Oahu, and was there wrecked, only one of the men
succeeding in reaching the shore. So soon as the intelligence of the
wreck of the 'Saginaw' reached Honolulu, the Government immediately
dispatched a steamer to take the men off the desert island; and hence
the enthusiastic cheers for Honolulu, raised by the rescued officers
and men of the American ship, who are now all on board the 'Moses
Taylor,' on their way back to San Francisco.

I must now describe my new ship. She is called the 'Rolling Moses;'
but with what justice I am as yet unable to say. She certainly looks
singularly top-hampered,--altogether unlike any British ship that I
have ever seen. She measures twice as much in the beam as the 'City of
Melbourne;' is about 2000 tons register; is flat-bottomed, and draws
about fourteen feet of water when laden. She looks like a great big
house afloat, or rather a row of houses more than thirty feet high.
The decks seemed piled one a-top of the other, quite promiscuously.
First there is the dining-saloon, with cabins all round it; above is
the drawing-room, with more cabins; then above that is the hurricane
deck, with numerous deck-houses for the captain and officers; and
then, towering above all, there is the large beam-engine right between
the paddle-boxes. Altogether it looks a very unwieldy affair, and I
would certainly much rather trust myself to such a ship as the 'City
of Melbourne.' It strikes me that in a heavy sea, 'Moses's' hull would
run some risk of parting company with the immense structure above.

The cabin accommodation is, however, greatly superior to that of my
late ship,--there is so much more room, and the whole arrangements for
the comfort of the passengers are all that could be desired. The
Americans certainly do seem to understand comfort in travelling. The
stewards and people about are civil and obliging, and don't seem to be
always looking for a "tip," as is so customary on board an English
boat. This ship also is cleaner than the one I have left--there are
none of those hideous smells that so disgusted me on board 'The City.'
The meals are better, and there is much greater variety--lots of
different little dishes--of meat, stews, mashed potatoes, squashes,
hominy or corn-cake, and such like. So far as the living goes,
therefore, I think I shall get on very well on board the 'Moses
Taylor.'

The weather is wet and what sailors call "dirty," and it grows
sensibly colder. As there is no pleasure in remaining on deck, I keep
for the most part below. I like my company very much--mostly
consisting of the shipwrecked men of the 'Saginaw.' They are nice,
lively fellows; they encourage me to talk, and we have many a hearty
laugh together. Some of them give me no end of yarns about the late
war, in which they were engaged; and they tell me (whether true or
not, I have no means of knowing), that the captain of the ship we are
in was first lieutenant of the "pirate" ship 'Florida.' I have not
found amongst my companions as yet any of that self-assertion or pride
of nationality said to distinguish the Yankee; nor have I heard a word
from them of hostility to John Bull. Indeed, for the purpose of
drawing them out, I began bragging a little about England, but they
let me have my own way without contradiction. They say nothing about
politics, or, if they allude to the subject, express very moderate
opinions. Altogether, I get on with them; and like them very much.

The 'Moses Taylor' proves a steadier sea-boat than I expected from her
built-up appearance. She certainly gives many a long steady roll; but
there is little pitching or tossing. When the sea strikes her, she
quivers all over in a rather uncomfortable way. She is rather an old
ship; she formerly ran between Vancouver and San Francisco, and is
certainly the worse for wear. The huge engine-shafts shake the beams
which support them; the pieces of timber tremble under the heavy
strokes of the engine, and considerable apertures open from time to
time in the deck as she heaves to and fro. The weather, however, is
not stormy; and the ship will doubtless carry us safely to the end of
our voyage,--going steadily, as she does, at the rate of about eight
knots an hour. And as the distance between Honolulu and the American
coast is about 2100 miles, we shall probably make the voyage in about
ten days.

On the eighth day after leaving Honolulu, an incident occurred which
made a startling impression on me. While we were laughing and talking
in the cabin--kept down there by the rain--we were told that a poor
man, who had been ailing since we left port, had breathed his last. It
seemed that he had some affection of the gullet which prevented his
swallowing food. The surgeon on board did not possess the necessary
instrument to enable him to introduce food into his stomach, so that
he literally died of starvation. He occupied the berth exactly
opposite mine, and though I knew he was ill, I had no idea that his
end was so near. He himself; however, had been aware of it, and
anxiously wished that he might survive until he reached San Francisco,
where his wife was to meet him at the landing. But it was not to be;
and his sudden decease gave us all a great shock.

We had our breakfast and dinner that day whilst the body was lying in
the cabin. We heard the carpenter busy on the main deck knocking
together a coffin for its reception. Every time he knocked a nail in,
I thought of the poor dead fellow who lay beside us. I began to
speculate as to the various feelings with which passengers land in a
new place. Some are mere passing visitors like myself, bent on seeing
novel sights; some are going thither, full of hope, to make a new
settlement in life; some are returning home, expecting old friends
waiting on the pier-head to meet and welcome them. But there are sad
meetings, too; and here there will be an anxious wife waiting at the
landing-place, only to receive the dead body of her husband.

But a truce to moralizing; for we are approaching the Golden Gate. I
must now pack up my things, and finish my log. I have stuck to it at
all hours and in all weathers; jotted down little bits from time to
time in the intervals of sea-sickness, toothache, and tic douloureux;
written under a burning tropical sun, and amidst the drizzle and
down-pour of the North Pacific; but I have found pleasure in keeping
it up, because I know that it will be read with pleasure by those for
whom it is written, and it will serve to show that amidst all my
wanderings, I have never forgotten the Old Folks at Home.

At half-past four on the morning of the tenth day from our leaving
Honolulu, we sighted the lighthouse at the Golden Gate, which forms
the entrance to the spacious bay or harbour of San Francisco.
Suddenly, there is a great scampering about of the passengers, a
general packing up of baggage; a brushing of boots, hats, and clothes;
and a dressing up in shore-going "togs." The steward comes round to
look after his perquisites, and every one is in a bustle about
something or other.

I took a last rest in my bunk--for it was still early morning--until I
was told that we were close along-shore; and then I jumped up, went on
deck, and saw America for the first time.




CHAPTER XXIII.

SAN FRANCISCO TO SACRAMENTO.

LANDING AT SAN FRANCISCO--THE GOLDEN CITY--THE STREETS--THE BUSINESS
QUARTER--THE CHINESE QUARTER--THE TOUTERS--LEAVE SAN FRANCISCO--THE
FERRY-BOAT TO OAKLAND--THE BAY OF SAN FRANCISCO--LANDING ON THE
EASTERN SHORE--AMERICAN RAILWAY CARRIAGES--THE PULLMAN'S
CARS--SLEEPING BERTHS--UNSAVOURY CHINAMEN--THE COUNTRY--CITY OF
SACRAMENTO.


We have passed in from the Pacific through the Golden Gate, swung
round towards the south, and then, along the eastern margin of the
peninsula which runs up to form the bay, the City of San Francisco
lies before me! A great mass of houses and warehouses, fronted by a
long line of wharves, extends along the water's edge. Masses of
houses, tipped with occasional towers and spires, rise up on the high
ground behind, crowning the summits of Telegraph, Russian, and Clay
Street Hills.

But we have little time to take note of the external features of the
city, for we are already alongside the pier. Long before the gangways
can be run out and laid between the ship and the wharf, there is a
rush of hotel runners on board, calling out the names of their
respective hotels and distributing their cards. There is a tremendous
hurry-scurry. The touters make dashes at the baggage and carry it off,
sometimes in different directions, each hoping to secure a customer
for his hotel. Thus, in a very few minutes, the ship was cleared; all
the passengers were bowling along towards their several destinations;
and in a few minutes I found myself safely deposited in "The
Brooklyn," a fine large hotel in Bush Street, situated in the business
part of the town, with dwellings interspersed amongst the business
houses.

It is not necessary to describe San Francisco. Travellers have done
that over and over again. Indeed, there is not so much about it that
is of any great interest except to business men. One part of the city
is very like another. I was told that some of the finest buildings
were of the Italian order; but I should say that by far the greater
number were of the Ramshackle order. Although the first house in the
place was only built in 1835, the streets nearest to the wharves look
already old and worn out. They are for the most part of wood, and
their paint is covered with dirt. But though prematurely old, they are
by no means picturesque. Of course, in so large a place, with a
population of 150,000, and already so rich and prosperous, though so
young, there are many fine buildings and some fine streets. The hotels
carry away the palm as yet,--the Grand Hotel at the corner of Market
and New Montgomery Streets being the finest. There are also churches,
theatres, hospitals, markets, and all the other appurtenances of a
great city.

I had not for a long time seen such a bustle of traffic as presented
itself in the streets of San Francisco. The whole place seemed to be
alive. Foot passengers jostled each other; drays and waggons were
rolling about; business men were clustered together in some streets,
apparently "on change;" with all the accompaniments of noise, and
bustle, and turmoil of a city full of life and traffic. The money
brokers' shops are very numerous in the two finest streets--Montgomery
and California Streets. Nearly every other shop there belongs to a
money broker or money changer. Strange to see the piles of glistening
gold in the windows--ten to twenty dollar pieces, and heaps of
greenbacks.

John Chinaman is here, I see, in great force. There are said to be as
many as 30,000 in the city and neighbourhood. I wonder these people do
not breed a plague. I went through their quarter one evening, and was
surprised and disgusted with what I saw. Chinese men and women of the
lowest class were swarming in their narrow alleys. Looking down into
small cellars, I saw from ten to fifteen men and women living in
places which two white men would not sleep in. The adjoining streets
smelt most abominably. The street I went through must be one of the
worst; and I was afterwards told that it was "dangerous" to pass
through it. I observed a large wooden screen at each end of it, as if
for the purpose of shutting it off from the white people's quarter.

One of the nuisances we had to encounter in the streets was that of
railway touters. No sooner did we emerge from the hotel door, than
men lying in wait pounced upon us, offering tickets by this route,
that route, and the other route to New York. I must have had a very
"new chum" sort of look, for I was accosted no less than three times
one evening by different touting gentlemen. One wished to know if I
had come from Sydney, expressing his admiration of Australia
generally. Another asked if I was "going East," offering to sell me a
through ticket at a reduced price. The third also introduced the
Sydney topic, telling me, by way of inducement to buy a ticket of him,
that he had "worked there." I shook them all off, knowing them to be
dangerous customers. I heard some strange stories of young fellows
making friends with such strangers, and having drinks with them. The
drink is drugged, and the Sydney swell, on his way to New York, finds
himself next morning in the streets, minus purse, watch, and
everything of value about him.

There is only one railway route as yet across the Rocky Mountains, by
the Western, Central, and Union Pacific, as far as Omaha; but from
that point there are various lines to New York, and it was to secure
passengers by these respective routes that the touters were so busily
at work. All the hotels, bars, and stores, are full of their
advertisements:--"The Shortest Route to the East"--"Pullman's Palace
Cars Run on this Line"--"The Route of all Nations"--"The Grand Route,
_viâ_ Niagara," such are a few specimens of these urgent
announcements. I decided to select the route _viâ_ Chicago, Detroit,
Niagara, and down the Hudson river to New York; and made my
arrangements accordingly.

[Illustration: (Map of Atlantic and Pacific Railways) _Reduced from a
Map in Mr. Rae's_]

I left San Francisco on the morning of the 8th of February. The
weather was cold compared with that of the Sandwich Islands; yet there
were few signs of winter. There was no snow on the ground; and at
midday it was agreeable and comparatively mild. I knew, however, that
as soon as we left the shores of the Pacific, and ascended the western
slopes of the Rocky Mountains, if not before, we should encounter
thorough winter weather, and I prepared myself with coats and wrappers
as a defence from the cold.

My fellow-voyager from New Zealand, the German-American of whom I have
spoken above, and who seemed to take quite a liking for me,
accompanied me down to the wharf, where we parted with mutual regret.
It was necessary for me to cross the bay by a ferry-boat to Oakland,
where the train is made up and starts for Sacramento. There was a
considerable crowd round the baggage-office, where I gave up my
trunks, and obtained, in exchange, two small brass checks which will
enable me to reclaim them on the arrival of the train at Omaha. I
proceeded down the pier and on to the ferry-boat. Indeed, I was on it
before I was aware. It looked so like a part of the wharf, and was so
surrounded by piles and wooden erections, that I did not know I was on
its deck, and was inquiring about its arrival to take us off, when I
found the huge boat gradually moving away from the pier!

[Illustration: _'Westward by Rail.' Longmans._ 1871.]

It was a regular American ferry-boat, of the same build fore and aft,
capable of going alike backwards or forwards, and with a long bridge
at each end, ready to be let down at the piers on either side of the
bay, so as to enable carts or carriages to be driven directly on to
the main deck, which was just like a large covered yard, standing
level with the wharf. Over this was an upper deck with a nice saloon,
where I observed notices stuck up of "No spitting allowed;" showing
that there was greater consideration for the ladies here than there
was on board the 'Moses Taylor,' where spittle and quids were
constantly shooting about the decks, with very little regard for
passers-by, whether ladies or gentlemen.

Steaming away from the pier, we obtained a splendid view of the city
behind us. The wharves along its front were crowded with shipping of
all sorts; amongst which we could observe the huge American
three-decker river steamers, Clyde-built clippers, brigs, schooners,
and a multitude of smaller craft. Down the bay we see the green hills
rising in the distance, fading away in the grey of the morning. Close
on our left is a pretty island, about half-way across the bay, in the
centre of which is a green hill,--what seemed to Australian eyes good
pasture ground; and I could discern what I took to be a station or
farmhouse.

In about an hour we found ourselves nearing the land on the eastern
shore of the bay, where we observe the railway comes out to meet us.
The water on this side is so shoal for a distance from the shore that
no ships of any considerable burden can float in it, so that the
railway is carried out on piles into the deep water for a distance of
nearly a mile. Here we land, and get into the train waiting alongside;
then the engine begins to snort, and we are away. As we move off from
the waters of San Francisco Bay, I feel I have made another long
stride on the road towards England.

We continue for some time rolling along the rather shaky timber pier
on which the rails are laid. At last we reach the dry land, and speed
through Oakland--a pretty town--rattling through the streets just like
an omnibus or tramway car, ringing a bell to warn people of the
approach of the cars. We stop at nearly every station, and the local
traffic seems large. Farm land and nice rolling country stretches away
on either side of the track.

From looking out of the carriage windows, I begin to take note of the
carriage itself--a real American railway carriage. It is a long car
with a passage down the middle. On each side of this passage are seats
for two persons, facing the engine; but the backs being reversible, a
party of four can sit as in an English carriage, face to face. At each
end of the carriage is a stove, and a filter of iced water. The door
at each end leads out on to a platform, enabling the conductor to walk
through the train from one end to the other.

This arrangement for the conductor, by the way, is rather a nuisance.
He comes round six or seven times during the twenty-four hours, often
during the night, perhaps at a time when you are trying to snatch a
few minutes' nap, and you find your shoulder tapped, and a bull's-eye
turned full upon you, with a demand for "tickets." This, however, is
to be avoided by affixing a little card in your hat, which the
conductor gives you, so that by inspection he knows at once whether
his passenger is legitimate or not.

I did not travel by one of "Pullman's Silver Palace Drawing-room
Cars," though I examined them, and admired their many comforts. By
day they afford roomy accommodation, with ample space for walking
about, or for playing at cards or chess on the tables provided for the
purpose. At night a double row of comfortable-looking berths are made
up, a curtain being drawn along the front to render them as private as
may be, and leaving only a narrow passage along the centre of the car.
At the end of the car are conveniences for washing, iced water, and
the never-failing stove.

The use of the sleeping-cars costs about three or four dollars extra
per night. I avoided this expense, and contrived a very good
substitute in my second-class car. Fortunately we were not very full
of passengers; and by making use of four seats, or two benches,
turning one of the seat-backs round, and placing the seat-bottoms
lengthwise, I arranged a tolerably good sleeping-place for the night.
But had the carriage been full, and the occupants been under the
necessity of sitting up during the six days the journey lasted, I
should imagine that it must have become almost intolerable by the time
we reached Omaha.

There were some rather unpleasant fellow-travellers in my
compartment--several unsavoury Chinamen, smoking very bad tobacco; and
other smoking gentlemen, who make the second-class compartments their
rendezvous. But for the thorough draught we obtained from time to time
on the passage of the conductor, the atmosphere would be, as indeed it
often was, of a very disagreeable character.

About forty-two miles from San Francisco, I find we are already in
amongst the hills of a range, and winding in and out through pretty
valleys, where all available land is used for farming purposes. We
round some curves that look almost impossible, and I begin to feel the
oscillation of the carriages, by no means unlike the rolling of a ship
at sea. I often wished that it had been summer instead of winter, that
I might better have enjoyed the beauty of the scenery as we sped
along. As it was, I could see that the country must be very fine under
a summer sky. We have met with no snow at present, being still on the
sunny slopes of the Pacific; nor have we as yet mounted up to any very
high elevation.

We were not long in passing through the range of hills of which I have
spoken, and then we emerged upon the plains, which continued until we
reached Sacramento, the capital of the State. The only town of any
importance that we have yet passed was Stockton, a place about midway
between San Francisco and Sacramento, where we now are. Down by the
riverside I see some large lumber-yards, indicative of a considerable
timber trade. The wharves were dirty, as wharves generally are; but
they were busy with traffic. The town seemed well laid out, in broad
streets; the houses being built widely apart, each with its garden
about it; while long lines of trees run along most of the streets.
Prominent amongst the buildings is the large new Senate House or
Capitol, a really grand feature of the city. The place having been
originally built of wood, it has been liable to conflagrations, which
have more than once nearly destroyed it. Floods have also swept over
the valley, and carried away large portions of the town; but having
been rebuilt on piles ten feet above the original level, it is now
believed to be secure against injury from this cause.

Sacramento is the terminus of the Western Pacific Railway, from which
the Central Pacific extends east towards the Rocky Mountains. The
railway workshops of the Company are located here, and occupy a large
extent of ground. They are said to be very complete and commodious.

Many of the passengers by the train, whom we had brought on from San
Francisco, or picked up along the road, descended here; and I was very
glad to observe that amongst them were the Chinamen, who relieved us
from their further most disagreeable odour. After a short stoppage,
and rearrangement of the train, we were off again, toiling up the
slopes of the Sierra Nevada--the Switzerland of California.




CHAPTER XXIV.

ACROSS THE SIERRA NEVADA.

RAPID ASCENT--THE TRESTLE-BRIDGES--MOUNTAIN
PROSPECTS--"PLACERS"--SUNSET--CAPE HORN--ALTA--THE SIERRAS BY
NIGHT--CONTRAST OF TEMPERATURES--THE SNOW-SHEDS--THE
SUMMIT--RENO--BREAKFAST AT HUMBOLDT--THE SAGE-BRUSH--BATTLE
MOUNT--SHOSHONIE INDIANS--TEN MILE CAÑON--ELKO STATION--GREAT AMERICAN
DESERT--ARRIVAL AT OGDEN.


We had now begun the ascent of the difficult mountain country that
separates the Eastern from the Western States of the Union, and
through which the Central Pacific Railway has been recently
constructed and completed--one of the greatest railway works of our
time. As we advance, the scenery changes rapidly. Instead of the flat
and comparatively monotonous country we have for some time been
passing through, we now cross deep gullies, climb up steep ascents,
and traverse lovely valleys. Sometimes we seem to be enclosed in
mountains with an impenetrable barrier before us. But rushing into a
tunnel, we shortly emerge on the other side, to find ourselves
steaming along the edge of a precipice.

What struck me very much was the apparent slimness of the
trestle-bridges over which we were carried across the gullies, in the
bottom of which mountain torrents were dashing, some fifty or a
hundred feet below us. My first experience of such a crossing was
quite startling. I was standing on the platform of the last car,
looking back at the fast vanishing scene--a winding valley shut in by
pine-clad mountains which we had for some time been ascending,--when,
glancing down on the track, instead of solid earth, I saw the ground,
through the open timbers of the trestle-bridge, at least sixty feet
below me! The timber road was only the width of the single iron track;
so that any one looking out of the side carriage-windows would see
sixty feet down into space. The beams on which the trestle-bridge is
supported, are, in some cases, rested on stone; but oftener they are
not. It is not easy to describe the sensation first felt on rattling
over one of these trembling viaducts, with a lovely view down some
mountain gorge, and then, perhaps, suddenly plunging into a dark
cutting on the other side of the trestle. But use is everything; and
before long I got quite accustomed to the sensation of looking down
through the open woodwork of the line on to broken ground and mountain
torrents rushing a hundred feet or more below me.

We left Sacramento at 2 P.M., and evening was coming on as we got into
the mountains. Still, long before sunset we saw many traces of large
"placers," where whole sides of the hills had been dug out and washed
away in the search for gold; the water being brought over the
hill-tops by various ingenious methods. Sometimes, too, we came upon
signs of active mining, in the water-courses led across valleys at
levels above us, consisting of wooden troughs supported on trestles
similar to those we are so frequently crossing. In one place I saw a
party of men busily at work along the mountain side, preparatory to
letting the water in upon the auriferous ground they were exploring.

I stood for more than two hours on the platform at the rear of the
train, never tired of watching the wonderful scenery that continually
receded from my gaze,--sometimes the track suddenly disappearing as we
rounded a curve; and then looking ahead, I would find that an entirely
new prospect was opening into view.

Never shall I forget the lovely scene that evening, when the golden
sun was setting far away on the Pacific coast. The great red orb sank
slowly behind a low hill at the end of the valley which stretched away
on our right far beneath us. The pine-trees shone red in the departing
sunlight for a short time; then the warm, dusky glimmer gradually
faded away on the horizon, and all was over. The scene now looked more
dreary, the mountains more rugged, and everything more desolate than
before.

Up we rushed, still ascending the mountain slopes, winding in and
out--higher and higher--the mountains becoming more rugged and wild,
and the country more broken and barren-looking. Crossing slowly
another trestle-bridge seventy-five feet high, at the upper part of a
valley, we rounded a sharp curve, and found ourselves on a lofty
mountain-side along which the road is cut, with a deep glen lying 2500
feet below us wrapped in the shades of evening. It seems to be quite
night down there, and the trees are so shrouded in gloom that I can
scarcely discern them in the bottom of that awful chasm. I can only
clearly see defined against the sky above me, the rugged masses of
overhanging rock, black-looking and terrible.

I find, on inquiry, that this part of the road is called "Cape Horn,"
The bluffs at this point are so precipitous, that when the railroad
was made, the workmen had to be lowered down the face of the rock by
ropes and held on by men above, until they were enabled to blast for
themselves a foot-hold on the side of the precipice. We have now
ascended to a height of nearly 3200 feet above the level of the sea;
and, as may be inferred, the night air grows sharp and cold. As little
more can be seen for the present, I am under the necessity of taking
shelter in the car.

At half-past six we stopped for tea at Alta, 207 miles from San
Francisco, at an elevation of 3600 feet above the sea. Here I had a
good meal for a dollar--the first since leaving 'Frisco. Had I known
of the short stoppages and the distant refreshing places along the
route, I would certainly have provided myself with a well-stored
luncheon-basket before setting out; but it is now too late.

After a stoppage of twenty minutes, the big bell tolled, and we seated
ourselves in the cars again; and away we went as before, still toiling
up-hill. We are really climbing now. I can hear it by the strong
snorts of the engine, and see it by the steepness of the track. I long
to be able to see around me, for we are passing some of the grandest
scenery of the line. The stars are now shining brightly over head, and
give light enough to show the patches of snow lying along the
mountain-sides as we proceed. The snow becomes more continuous as we
mount the ascent, until only the black rocks and pine-trees stand out
in relief against their white background.

I was contrasting the sharp cold of this mountain region with the
bright summer weather I had left behind me in Australia only a few
weeks ago, and the much more stifling heat of Honolulu only some ten
days since, when the engine gave one of its loud whistles, like the
blast of a fog-horn, and we plunged into darkness. Looking through the
car window, I observed that we were passing through a wooden
framework--in fact a snow-shed, the roof sloping from the
mountain-side, to carry safely over the track the snow and rocky
_débris_ which shoot down from above. I find there are miles upon
miles of these snow-sheds along our route. At the Summit we pass
through the longest, which is 1700 feet in length.

We reached the Summit at ten minutes to ten, having ascended 3400 feet
in a distance of only thirty-six miles. We are now over 7000 feet
above the level of the sea, travelling through a lofty mountain
region. In the morning, I was on the warm shores of the Pacific; and
now at night I am amidst the snows of the Sierras. After passing the
Summit, we had some very tortuous travelling; going very fast during
an hour, but winding in and out, as we did, following the contour of
the hills, I found that we had only gained seven geographical miles in
an hour. We then reached the "City" of Truckee, principally supported
by lumbering. It is the last place in California, and we shall very
soon be across the State boundary into the territory of Nevada.

After passing this station, I curled up on my bench, wrapped myself in
my rugs, and had a snatch of sleep. I was wakened up by the stoppage
of the train at the Reno station, when I shook myself up, and went out
to have a look round me. As I alighted from the train, I had almost
come to the ground through the slipperiness of the platform, which was
coated with ice. It was a sharp frost, and the ground was covered with
snow. At the end of the platform, the snow was piled up in a drift
about twenty feet high on the top of a shed outside the station. I
find there are two kinds of snow-sheds,--one sort used on the plains,
with pointed roofs, from which the snow slides down on either side,
thereby preventing the blocking of the line; the other, used along the
mountain-sides, sloping over the track, so as to carry the snow-shoots
clear over it down into the valley below.

I soon turned in again, wrapped myself up, and slept soundly for some
hours. When I awoke, it was broad daylight; the sun was shining in at
the car windows; and on looking out, I saw that we were crossing a
broad plain, with mountains on either side of us. The conductor,
coming through the car, informs us that we shall soon be at Humboldt,
where there will be twenty minutes' stoppage for breakfast. I find
that we are now 422 miles on our way, and that during the night we
have crossed the great sage-covered Nevada Desert, on which so many
travellers left their bones to bleach in the days of the overland
journey to California, but which is now so rapidly and safely
traversed by means of this railway. The train draws up at Humboldt at
seven in the morning; and on descending, I find a large,
well-appointed refreshment room, with the tables ready laid; and a
tempting array of hot tea and coffee, bacon, steaks, eggs, and other
eatables. "I guess" I had my full dollar's worth out of that Humboldt
establishment--a "regular square meal," to quote the language of the
conductor.

We mount again, and are off across the high plains. The sage-brush is
the only vegetation to be seen, interspersed here and there with large
beds of alkali, on which not even sage-brush will grow. The sage
country extends from Wadsworth to Battle Mount Station, a distance of
about two hundred miles. Only occasionally, by the river-sides, near
the station, small patches of cultivated land are to be seen; but,
generally speaking, the country is barren, and will ever remain so. We
are still nearly 5000 feet above the level of the sea. There is no
longer any snow on the ground alongside us, but the mountains within
sight are all covered. Though the day is bright and sunshiny, and the
inside of the car warm, with the stove always full of blazing wood or
coke, the air outside is cold, sharp, and nipping.

At Battle Mount--so called because of a severe engagement which
occurred here some years since between the Indians and the white
settlers--the plains begin to narrow, and the mountains to close in
again upon the track. Here I saw for the first time a number of
Shoshonie Indians--the original natives of the country--their faces
painted red, and their coarse black hair hanging down over their
shoulders. Their squaws, who carried their papooses in shawls slung
over their backs, came alongside the train to beg money from the
passengers. The Indian men seemed to be of a very low type--not for a
moment to be compared with the splendid Maoris of New Zealand. The
only fine tribe of Indians left, are said to be the Sioux; and these
are fast dying out. In the struggle of races for life, savages nowhere
seem to have the slightest chance when they come in contact with what
are called "civilized" men. If they are not destroyed by our diseases
or our drink, they are by our weapons.

We are now running along the banks of the sluggish Humboldt river, up
to almost its source in the mountains near the head of the Great Salt
Lake. We cross the winding river from time to time on trestle-bridges;
and soon we are in amongst the mountains again, penetrating a gorge,
where the track is overhung by lofty bluffs; and climbing up the
heights, we shortly leave the river, foaming in its bed, far beneath
us. Steeper and higher rise the sides of the gorge, until suddenly
when we round a curve in the cañon, I see the Devil's Peak, a large
jagged mass of dark-brown rock, which, rising perpendicularly, breaks
up into many points, the highest towering majestically above us to a
height of 1400 feet above the level of the track. This is what is
called the "Ten Mile Cañon;" and the bold scenery continues until we
emerge from the top of the gorge. At last we are in the open sunlight
again, and shortly after we draw up at the Elko station.

We are now evidently drawing near a better peopled district than that
we have lately passed through. Two heavy stage coaches are drawn up
alongside the track, to take passengers to Hamilton and Treasure City
in the White Pine silver-mining district, about 126 miles distant. A
long team of mules stand laden with goods, destined for the diggers of
the same district. Elko is "not much of a place," though I should not
wonder if it is called a "City" here. It mostly consists of what in
Victoria would be called shanties--huts built of wood and canvas--some
of the larger of them being labelled "Saloon," "Eating-house,"
"Drug-store," "Paint-shop," and such like. If one might judge by the
number of people thronging the drinking-houses, the place may be
pronounced prosperous.

Our course now lies through valleys, which look more fertile, and are
certainly much more pleasant to pass along than those dreary Nevada
plains. The sun goes down on my second day in the train; as we are
traversing a fine valley with rolling hills on either side. The ground
again becomes thickly covered with snow, and I find we are again
ascending a steepish grade, rising a thousand feet in a distance of
about ninety miles, where we again reach a total altitude of 6180 feet
above the sea.

At six next morning, I found we had reached Ogden in the territory of
Utah. During the night we had passed "The Great American Desert,"
extending over an area of sixty square miles--an utterly blasted
place--so that I missed nothing by passing over it wrapped in sleep
and rugs. The country about Ogden is well-cultivated and pleasant
looking. Ogden itself is a busy place, being the terminus of the
Central Pacific Railroad, and the junction for trains running down to
Salt Lake City. From this point the Union Pacific commences, and runs
eastward as far as Omaha.




CHAPTER XXV.

ACROSS THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS.

START BY TRAIN FOR OMAHA--MY FELLOW-PASSENGERS--PASSAGE THROUGH THE
DEVIL'S GATE--WEBER CAÑON--FANTASTIC ROCKS--"THOUSAND MILE TREE"--ECHO
CAÑON--MORE TRESTLE-BRIDGES--SUNSET AMIDST THE BLUFFS--A WINTRY NIGHT
BY RAIL--SNOW-FENCES AND SNOW-SHEDS--LARAMIE CITY--RED BUTTES--THE
SUMMIT AT SHERMAN--CHEYENNE CITY--THE WESTERN PRAIRIE IN
WINTER--PRAIRIE DOG CITY--THE VALLEY OF THE PLATTE--GRAND
ISLAND--CROSS THE NORTH FORK OF THE PLATTE--ARRIVAL IN OMAHA.


I decided not to break the journey by visiting Utah--about which so
much has already been written--but to go straight on to Omaha; and I
accordingly took my place in the train about to start eastward. Here I
encountered quite a new phase of American railroad society. One of my
fellow-passengers was a quack doctor, who contemplated depositing
himself in the first populous place he came to on the track-side, for
the purpose of picking up some "'tarnal red cents." A colonel and a
corporal in the American army were on their way home from some post in
the Far West, where they had been to keep the Indians in order. There
were several young commercial travellers, some lucky men returning
from the silver-mines in Idaho, a steward of one of the Pacific mail
steamers returning to England, and an iron-moulder with his wife and
child on their way to Chicago.

The train soon started, and for some miles we passed through a
well-cultivated country, divided into fields and orchards, looking
pretty even under the thick snow, and reminding me of the vales of
Kent. But we very soon left the cultivated land behind us, and were
again in amongst the mountain gorges. I got out on to the platform to
look around me, and, though the piercing cold rather chilled my
pleasure, I could not help enjoying the wonderful scenery that we
passed through during the next three hours. We are now entering the
Wahsatch Mountains by the grand chasm called the Devil's Gate. We
cross a trestle-bridge fifty feet above the torrent which boils
beneath; and through the black, frowning rocks that guard the pass, I
catch the last glimpse of the open sunlit plain below.

We are now within the wild Weber Cañon, and the scene is changing
every moment. On the right, we pass a most wonderful sight, the
Devil's slide. Two ridges of grey rock stand some ten feet out from
the snow and brushwood; and they run parallel to each other for about
150 feet, right away up the mountain side. For a distance of
thirty-five miles we run along the dark, deep cleft, the rocks
assuming all sorts of fantastic shapes; and the river Weber running
almost immediately beneath us, fretting and raging against the
obstacles in its course. Sometimes the valley widens out a little, but
again to force us against a cliff, where the road has been hewn out
of the solid bluff. In the cañon we pass a pine-tree standing close to
the track, with a large board hung upon it bearing the words, "1000
miles from Omaha." It is hence named the "Thousand Mile Tree." We have
all that long way before us to travel on this Union Pacific Railway.

At last we emerge from Weber Cañon, and pull up at Echo City, a small
place, chiefly inhabited by railway employés. We start again, and are
soon plunged amidst red, rocky bluffs, more fantastic than any we have
yet passed. We pass the Mormon fortifications at a place where a
precipitous rock overhangs the narrowing cañon. Here, on the top of
the rock, a thousand feet above us, are piled huge stones, placed
close to the brink of the precipice: once ready to be hurled down upon
the foes of Mormonism--the army sent out against them in 1857. The
stones were never used, and are to be seen there yet. The rocks in the
cañon are of a different colour from those we passed an hour ago. The
shapes that they take are wonderful. Now I could fancy that I saw a
beautiful cathedral, with spires and windows; then a castle,
battlements and bastions, all complete; and more than one amphitheatre
fit for a Cæsar to have held his sports in. What could be more
striking than these great ragged masses of red rock, thrown one upon
another, and mounting up so high above us? Such fantastical and
curious shapes the weather-worn stone had taken! Pillars, columns,
domes, arches, followed one another in quick succession. Bounding a
corner, a huge circle of rocks comes into sight, rising story upon
story. There, perched upon the top of the rising ground, is a natural
castle, complete with gateway and windows. Indeed, the hour passed
quickly, in spite of the cold, and I felt myself to have been in
fairyland for the time. The whole seemed to be some wild dream. But
dream it could not be. There was the magnificence of the solid
reality--pile upon pile of the solid rock frowning down upon me; great
boulders thrown together by some giant force; perpendicular heights,
time-worn and battered by the elements. All combined to produce in me
a feeling of the utmost wonder and astonishment.

Emerging from Echo Cañon and the Castle Rocks, we enter a milder
valley, where we crawl over a trestle-bridge 450 feet long and 75 feet
high. Shortly after passing Wahsatch Station, we cross the Aspen
Summit and reach an opener country. Since we left Ogden, we have, in a
distance of ninety-three miles, climbed an ascent of 2500 feet, and
are now in a region of frost and snow. After another hour's
travelling, the character of the scenery again changes, and it becomes
more rugged and broken. The line crosses the Bear River on another
trestle-bridge 600 feet long; and following the valley, we then strike
across the higher ground to the head of Ham's Fork, down which we
descend, following the valley as far as Bryan or Black's Fork, 171
miles from Ogden.

As the day is drawing to a close, I take a last look upon the scene
outside before turning in for the night. The sun is setting in the
west, illuminating with its last rays the red sandstone bluffs; the
light contrasting with the deep-blue sky overhead, and presenting a
most novel and beautiful effect. We are now traversing a rolling
desert, sometimes whirling round a bluff in our rapid descent, or
crossing a dry water-course on trestles, the features of the scenery
every moment changing. Then I would catch a glimpse of the broken,
rolling prairies in the distance, covered with snow; and anon we were
rounding another precipitous bluff. The red of the sunlight grows dull
against the blue sky, until night gradually wraps the scene in her
mantle of grey. Then the moon comes out with her silvery light, and
reveals new features of wondrous wildness and beauty. I stood for
hours leaning on the rail of the car, gazing at the fascinating
vision, and was only reminded by the growing coldness of the night
that it was time to re-enter the car and prepare for my night's rest.

After warming myself by the stove, I arranged my extemporised couch
between the seats as before, but was wakened up by the conductor, who
took from me a cushion more than was my due; so I had to spend the
rest of the night nodding on a box at the end of the car. However,
even the longest and most comfortless night will come to an end; and
when at last the morning broke, I went out to ascertain whereabouts we
were. I found that it had snowed heavily during the night; and we now
seemed to be in a much colder and more desolate country. The wind
felt dreadfully keen as I stood on the car platform and looked about;
the dry snow whisking up from the track as the train rushed along. The
fine particles somehow got inside the thickest comforter and wrapper,
and penetrated everywhere. So light and fine were the particles that
they seemed to be like thick hoar-frost blowing through the air.

We have, I observe, a snow-plough fixed on the front of the engine;
and, from the look of the weather, it would appear as if we should
have abundant use for it yet. Snow-fences and snow-sheds are numerous
along the line we are traversing, for the purpose of preventing the
cuts being drifted up by the snow. At first, I could not quite make
out the nature of these fences, standing about ten yards from the
track, and in some parts extending for miles. They are constructed of
woodwork, and are so made as to be capable of being moved from place
to place, according as the snow falls thick or is drifting. That is
where the road is on a level, with perhaps an opening amidst the
rolling hills on one side or the other; but when we pass through a
cutting we are protected by a snow-shed, usually built of boards
supported on poles.

At Laramie City, we stop for breakfast. The name of "City" is given to
several little collections of houses along the line. I observe that
the writer of the 'Trans-Continental Guide-book' goes almost into fits
when describing the glories of these "Cities," which, when we come up
to them, prove to be little more than so many clusters of sheds. I
was not, therefore, prepared to expect much from the City of Laramie;
and the more so as I knew that but a few years since the original Fort
Laramie consisted of only a quadrangular enclosure inhabited by
trappers, who had established it for trading purposes with the
Indians. I was accordingly somewhat surprised to find that the modern
Laramie had suddenly shot up into a place of some population and
importance. The streets are broad and well laid out; the houses are
numerous, and some of them large and substantial. The place is already
provided with schools, hotels, banks, and a newspaper. The Railway
Company have some good substantial shops here, built of stone; and
they have also provided a very commodious hospital for the use of
their employés when injured or sick--an example that might be followed
with advantage in places of even greater importance.

After a stoppage of about half an hour, we were again careering
up-hill past Fort Saunders and the Red Buttes, the latter so-called
from the bold red sandstone bluffs, in some places a thousand feet
high, which bound the track on our right. Then still up-hill to
Harney, beyond which we cross Dale Creek Bridge--a wonderful
structure, 650 feet long and 126 feet high, spanning the creek from
bluff to bluff. Looking down through the interstices of the wooden
road, what a distance the thread of water in the hollow seemed to be
below us!

At Sherman, some two hours from Laramie, we arrived at the Summit of
the Rocky Mountain ridge, where we reached the altitude of about 8400
feet above the sea-level. Of course it was very cold, hill and dale
being covered with snow as far as the eye could reach. Now we rush
rapidly down-hill, the brakes screwed tightly down, the cars whizzing
round the curves, and making the snow fly past in clouds. We have now
crossed the backbone of the continent, and are speeding on towards the
settled and populous country in the East.