Santa Clara County, CA History

Transcribed by Kathy Sedler

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Pen Pictures From The Garden of the World or Santa Clara County, California, 
Illustrated. - Edited by H. S. Foote.- Chicago:  The Lewis Publishing Company, 
1888.
 
BY HON. DAVID BELDEN.
THE FOLLOWING SKETCH OF THE SANTA CLARA VALLEY 
WAS PUBLISHED IN THE OVERLAND MONTHLY
OF SAN FRANCISCO, JUNE, 1887.
 
        TO the visitor approaching the Santa Clara Valley, each mile traversed 
ushers in some delightful surprise, introduces a new climate. If his advent be 
from the north, the hills of scanty verdure, which encircle the bay, recede upon 
either hand and assume a softer contour and richer garb. The narrow roadway that 
skirts the salt marsh has widened to a broad and fertile valley that stretches, 
as far as the eye can reach, in luxuriant fields of grass and grain. Bordering 
this verdant plain, in lines and splendors all their own, come the hills, and 
into the recesses of these hills creep the little valleys, and, as they steal 
away in their festal robes, they whisper of beauties beyond, and, as yet, 
unseen. In full keeping with the transformed landscape is the change in climate. 
The harsh, chill winds that pour in through the Golden Gate and sweep over the 
peninsula, have abated their rough vigor as they spread over the valley, and, 
softened as they mingle with the currents from the south, meet as a zephyr in 
the widening plain.
        If the approach be from the south, the traveler, wearied with the desert 
and its hot, dry airs, is conscious of a sudden change. The sterile desert has 
become a fruitful plain, and the air that comes as balm to the parched lungs is 
cool and soft and moist with the tempered breath of the sea. Upon every hand and 
to every sense there is a transformation that would scarce be looked for outside 
Arabian romance. If it be spring or early summer; miles upon miles stretches the 
verdant plain; over it troops sunshine and shadow; across it ripple the waves. 
Summer but changes the hue and heaps the plain with abundant harvests, while the 
first rains bring again the verdure and the beauty of spring.
        "An ocean of beauty!" exclaims the charmed beholder. Nor is this 
comparison to the sea altogether an idle fancy. At a period geologically recent, 
the Sierra Nevadas and the Coast Ranges of mountains inclosed a basin about four 
hundred and fifty miles in length by about forty in width, comprising the 
present valleys of the Sacramento and San Joaquin Rivers. During the same period 
the region east of the Sierras, now embraced in the State of Nevada, and the 
Territories of Utah and Arizona, was an inland sea connected with the Pacific by 
straits and inlets.
        The evaporation from this body of water affected materially the climate 
of the adjacent regions. Lowering, as it must have done, the general temperature 
and increasing the humidity, it induced precipitation from the saturated winds 
of the Pacific, while from its own evaporation it added materially to the 
rainfall it thus invited. From these causes, the precipitation of that period, 
both as to volume and duration, must have been greatly in excess of the present, 
and vegetation must have been correspondingly more luxuriant From the slopes of 
the mountain ranges the waters flowed southerly in a majestic stream, forming 
broad lakes as the basin widened, a river where the narrowing valley restricted 
its borders, until, passing through the bay of San Francisco, and the present 
valleys of Santa Clara and Pajaro, it found an outlet in Monterey Bay.
        In the era that measured the existence of this ancient river, it had 
borne in its turbid waters the disintegrations of the regions it traversed, and, 
in the ooze and slime of the lakes that intercepted its course and stilled its 
current, was the decaying mold of generations of forests that had flourished on 
its banks. At a later geological period�probably the Quaternary �there was an 
upheaval of the southern part of this basin, its axis probably being near the 
present course of the Salinas River. With this rise came a depression in the bay 
of San Francisco. The drainage was now to the north. The Coast Range was broken 
through at the Golden Gate, and the waters of the great basin found there their 
outlet to the sea; while the former lakes, uplifted and drained, were 
transformed into fertile plains. During the same period, the sea that lay to the 
east of the Sierras was cut off from the Pacific. The evaporation of this now 
land�locked basin was in excess of the rainfall, and gradually these waters 
receded until, to-day, Salt Lake is the remnant of that interocean which once 
extended through thirty degrees of latitude and from the Rocky Mountains to the 
Sierras.
        This, the recent history of these regions, the geological records upon 
every hand fully attest�here by beds of water-worn pebbles, by strata of clay 
(always the deposit of quiet waters) that underlie the whole valley, by the 
trunks of trees that the drill of the well-borer discovers hundreds of feet 
beneath the surface, and by the vast deposit of vegetable mold that forms 
everywhere the surface soil of the valley; while to the east, mountains of 
marine shells and fossils, vast beds of salt, beach lines upon the slopes of the 
mountains, attest the existence of the sea that left these proofs of its 
presence and wrote with its fretful waves the story of its long companionship 
upon these rugged cliffs, and then shrank from them forever.
With the subsidence of this sea, there came that change in climate which now 
characterizes this coast. The vapors from the Pacific were now absorbed by the 
dry air of this region, and the precipitation which the sea had promoted, the 
desert now prevented. The classification of these seasons as wet and dry often 
misleads�for while the latter is all that the term implies, the rainy season has 
as much of sunshine as of storm, as the records abundantly show. A brief epitome 
of these seasons and the attendant phenomena will be given:
        Beginning with the month of October, the signs of a coming change are 
apparent.  The winds, no longer constant froth one quarter, become variable both 
as to direction and force, or wholly cease. Sudden blasts raise miniature 
whirlwinds of dust and leaves, which troop over the fields, and the stillness of 
the night is broken by fitful gusts and the sudden wail of the trees as the 
breath of the coming winter sweeps through them. These are the recognized 
precursors of the season's change, and are usually followed, in the first ten 
days of October, by an inch or more of rain; and this, usually, by weeks of the 
finest weather. The effect of these first rains is magical. The dust is washed 
from the foliage and is laid in the roads and fields. The air has a fresh 
sparkle and life. The skies are a deeper azure, and the soft brown hills seem 
nearer and fairer than before. It is the Indian summer of the East; but, instead 
of the soft lassitude of the dying year, here it comes with all the freshness 
and vigor of the newborn spring.
        If, in this and the succeeding months, there are further showers, the 
grass springs up on every hand, and the self-sown grain in all the fields. The 
hills change their sober russet for a lively green. Wild flowers appear in every 
sheltered nook. Hyacinths and crocuses bloom in the gardens, and the perfume of 
the violet is everywhere in the air. In the latter part of November the rainy 
season is fully established. A coming storm is now heralded by a strong, steady 
wind, blowing for a day or two from the southeast, usually followed by several 
days of rain, and these succeeded by days or weeks without a cloud�and thus, 
alternating between occasional storms and frequent sunshine, is the weather from 
October to April �the rainy season of California. The amount of rain that falls 
varies materially with the locality. In San Jose it is from fifteen to twenty 
inches, while, in places not ten miles distant, twice that amount is recorded. 
During this period there are from thirty to forty days on which more or less 
rain falls; from fifty to seventy that are cloudy; the rest, bright and 
pleasant. These estimates will vary with particular seasons; but, taking the 
average of a series of years, it will be found that from October to April 
one-half the days are cloudless, and fully three-fourths such that any outdoor 
vocation can be carried on without discomfort or inconvenience.
        Cyclones and windstorms are wholly unknown, and thunder is only heard at 
rare intervals, and then as a low rumble forty miles away in the mountains. With 
the month of March the rains are practically over, though showers are expected 
and hoped for in April. Between the first and tenth of May there usually falls 
from a half to three-fourths of an inch of rain. Coming as this does in the hay 
harvest, it is neither beneficial nor welcome. By the first of July the surface 
moisture is taken up and dissipated, and growth dependent upon this ceases. The 
grasses have ripened their seed, and, self-cured and dry, are the nutritious 
food of cattle and sheep. The fields of grain are yellow and ripe and wait but 
the reaper. Forest trees and shrubs have paused in their growth. This, to the 
vegetable world, is the season of rest.
        This is the winter of the Santa Clara Valley�winter, but strangely 
unlike winter elsewhere, for here man has interposed. Here, by art and by labor, 
he has reversed the processes of nature and constrained the course of the 
seasons. In gardens, bright with foliage and resplendent with flowers, there is 
spring in its freshness and beauty; while in orchards teeming with fruits, and 
vineyards purple with ripening grapes, summer and autumn vie for the supremacy. 
And so, with changing beauty and ceaseless fruition, pass the seasons of this 
favored clime. If in these seasons, the resident or the visitor finds but one 
succession of enjoyments, to the farmer and fruit grower they are of the utmost 
practical importance as well as convenience. Those months that in the East 
preclude all farming operations, are here the season of most active industry and 
preparation. With the rains of November plowing and seeding begin and continue 
with but little interruption to the first of March. If the rains are continued 
too late in the spring, the later-sown fields are usually cleaner crops and of 
superior quality, while without these later rains, the earlier-sown is likely to 
be most successful. It is in the harvesting, however, that the advantages are 
most apparent�an advantage hardly understood elsewhere and scarcely appreciated 
here.
        Here the favored farmer gathers his matured crop with no possibility of 
rain interfering, and with no thought of the storms that elsewhere make this a 
season of severest toil and constant anxiety. His hay, as he cuts it, falls upon 
soil as dry as is the air above it, and is cured without further handling or 
labor than to collect it in cocks or stacks. The grain, matured and dry, waits 
without waste or detriment for weeks or months for the reaper, and in October, 
and often far into November, the hay presses and threshers may be seen busy with 
the hay and grain that has remained in cocks or stacks for the past five months.
        For the fruit grower, these seasons are even more favorable than to the 
farmer. To the visitor, the thousands of acres of orchard and vineyard without a 
weed or a blade of grass to be seen, would represent an apparent amount of labor 
and culture absolutely appalling�and so it would be�not merely appalling, but 
quite impossible under the climatic conditions of other regions. In sections 
where frequent rains, constant humidity, come with the summer, the seeds of 
every form of weeds ripen with every week of sunshine and germinate with every 
shower. The surface moisture usually favors their continued growth and 
development, and the only possible conditions for successful tillage are those 
of constant warfare with weeds. Here the seeds near the surface germinate with 
the winter rains and are turned under and destroyed with the first plowing. The 
surface dries to a depth of three or four inches at the commencement of summer 
and so remains through the whole season. In this dry soil it is impossible for 
seeds to germinate or plants to live. Anyone who has ever attempted to start 
seeds in the summer knows how indispensable is constant moisture, and will 
readily understand how effectively this feature of the climate co-operates with 
the cultivator and preserves to trees and vines all of the moisture and 
nutrition that the soil contains.
        The Californians' estimate of the climate of their State has been the 
theme of much facetious comment. In view of the fact that elsewhere those who 
are able, spend half the year on the St. Lawrence or the coast of Maine, to 
escape the heat of summer, and the other half in Cuba, Florida, or on the shores 
of the Mediterranean, to avoid the rigors of winter; that, in fact, most of 
their lives are migrations in search of climate �the residents of this State may 
accept with equanimity the badinage of these birds of passage, and may well 
felicitate themselves upon those conditions that bring to their very door the 
summer of the Thousand Isles and the winter of the Antilles. That this is not an 
exaggeration is easily shown. Thermometrical records, however accurately kept, 
are quite apt to mislead those who seek to deduce from them practical results.
        There are many important conditions not expressed in these observations. 
It is well understood that from the dryness of the air, forty degrees below zero 
is more tolerable in Dakota than thirty degrees higher in the humid air of the 
Atlantic seaboard; and, or the same reason, and almost in the same ratio, as to 
heat. It would be but little consolation to a person to know that, some 
thousands of miles away, the temperature from which he was suffering would be 
quite endurable. So as to averages which usually form a conspicuous feature of 
these records. It is not from the averages, but from the extremes, that men 
suffer and vegetation dies. Nor do even the extremes represent the effect�their 
continuance is important. A plant often survives a severe frost and then 
succumbs to a much lighter repetition, and a degree of heat that may be endured 
for a day, becomes intolerable when continued for several. In view of these 
well-recognized facts, I propose to present the question of temperature as shown 
by effects which are readily appreciated by all, rather than by compilations of 
figures thus liable to mislead. The rains of October are usually followed by 
frosts, sufficiently sharp, in the lowlands of the valley, to kill the more 
delicate plants. During the months of December, January, and February these 
frosts are more frequent and severe. Every variety of grapes, figs, olives�in 
short, all the semi-tropic plants�remain unaffected by the frosts. Callas, 
fuchsias, geraniums, and heliotropes, when grown by the wall of a house, in the 
shade of an evergreen, or given the slightest covering, flourish and bloom 
through any winter, and, in many seasons, do so without any protection whatever.
        Every known variety of rose flourishes without the least protection, and 
not only do they retain their leaves, but there is not a day in the winter when 
blossoms, hardly inferior to those of June, cannot be gathered in the open 
grounds of any garden. The lemon verbena shrub here attains a height of from ten 
to twenty feet, with a trunk from two to ten inches in diameter. Bees increase 
their stores during the rainy season, and every clear day hummingbirds and 
butterflies appear in the gardens.
        For personal comfort, fires are usually started in the morning, die down 
toward noon, and are rekindled for the evening. As little fire as can be kept 
burning, usually suffices for comfort. There are days, stormy, damp, or cold, 
when more fire is required. Such days are the exception, however, and the rule 
is as stated.
Within the last twenty years snow has fallen in San Jose on three occasions. In 
no instance was it over three inches in depth. It disappeared before night�fall 
of the day on which it fell, and its presence transformed the usually staid city 
into a snowballing carnival. In the dry season, beginning with April, the 
mornings are clear, calm, and not unpleasantly warm. About noon, a brisk breeze 
from the bay blows down the valley. This, harsh as it sweeps in through the 
Golden Gate, is soft and mild here. It goes down with the sun, and the night 
that follows is calm and cool. A high, light fog sometimes hangs over the valley 
in the morning, but disappears by eight or nine o'clock. During the summer 
months, three or four heated terms may be expected. These are usually in periods 
of three days, and the thermometer indicates from ninety degrees to ninety-five 
degrees Fahrenheit. Upon the morning of the fourth day a fog generally appears, 
a cool breeze springs up, and the former temperature is restored and maintained 
for weeks before another heated term.
        As these periods are the extreme of the season, some indicia will be 
given by which they may be understood and estimated. Through a part of these 
days, exposure to the sun is disagreeably hot, but not dangerously so. Under the 
shade of a tree or in the shelter of a well-constructed house, it is perfectly 
comfortable. The evenings that follow are so cool that persons rarely sit upon 
the porches of their houses, and a pair of blankets is required for comfort 
while sleeping.
        Summarizing, it may be said that, in any part of the year, days too hot 
or too cold for the comfort of those engaged in ordinary outdoor vocations are 
rare, and that a night uncomfortably warm is absolutely unknown. It may be added 
that the fears and forebodings with which the seasons are elsewhere greeted, are 
here unheard of; coming with no rigors, they bring no terrors, and are alike 
welcomed by all, not as a relief but as a change. In these conditions, health 
and personal comfort are largely subserved, and also in them the horticultural 
possibilities, of which we are to-day but upon the threshold, are assured; and 
these, the elements of present and of prospective prosperity, are as constant as 
the ocean currents in which they have their origin, as permanent as the mountain 
ranges which bound the field of their exhibition.
        The county of Santa Clara has an area of rather more than a million of 
acres. Of this, about two hundred and fifty thousand acres is valley�the ancient 
lake bed, or the alluvial deposits of existing streams�three hundred thousand 
acres is rolling hills and mountain slopes, well adapted to fruit; the residue 
valuable, principally for pasturage. While the general contour presented by the 
valley is that of a level plain, it is, in fact, a series of gentle undulations, 
with marked variations in the quality of the soil. In what is now, or has 
recently been, the lower portions of this plain, the soil is a black, tenacious 
clay, known as "adobe." It is very fertile and productive, but requires much 
care as to the time and manner of cultivating it, and is well adapted to hay and 
grain. The higher lands of the valley are a light, loamy, and sometimes gravelly 
soil. This is easily cultivated and is well adapted to all the cereals and to 
most varieties of fruit. In the vicinity of the bay there are many thousands of 
acres of salt marsh. No effort worthy the name has been made to reclaim them, 
though the task would seem a not difficult one. It is safe to predict that at no 
distant day these lands will be reclaimed and among the most productive and 
valuable in the county.
        The "warm belt" is a tract upon the slopes of the hills that environ the 
valley. It has an altitude of from two hundred to eight hundred feet. It is 
generally, and in some localities wholly, free from frost. In this belt, to the 
east of Milpitas, potatoes, peas, etc., are grown in the open air through the 
whole winter, for the San Francisco market. Upon the Los Gatos and Guadalupe 
Rivers are some hundreds of acres, formerly dense willow thickets, but now in 
the highest state of cultivation. These lands are regarded as the most desirable 
in the valley. The soil is a sedimentary deposit, easily cultivated, requiring 
but little irrigation, and producing every variety of fruit and vegetable. 
Thirty miles south of San Jose is the town of Gilroy. The soil of the valley is 
here fertile and productive. Over a considerable portion, the subterranean 
moisture maintains the growing pastures throughout the year, and some of the 
most successful dairies in the State are here established. The more elevated 
parts of the valley and the slopes of the hills are well adapted to fruits and 
vines. The summers of Gilroy are warmer and drier than in San Jose. The cool 
winds from the bay are materially softened as they sweep down the valley, and 
the differences of temperature between the day and night are not so marked. The 
air is mild and balmy, and the nights agreeably cool and pleasant.
        The water courses within the county greatly diminish, when they do not 
wholly disappear, in the summer. Sinking, as they approach the valley, they 
augment the subterranean resources which supply the artesian wells. These are 
found all over the valley.
        They are usually from sixty to one hundred feet in depth, though some 
find a larger and more permanent supply at a much greater depth. The water is 
raised by windmills into tanks, and is ample for household and gardening 
purposes. About Alviso and near the bay, hundreds of acres of strawberries and 
of vegetable gardens are irrigated from these wells, and the water rises to the 
surface with such force that the most massive appliances are required to 
restrain the flow.
        Of the varied productions of this valley it is difficult to speak in 
terms which shall not savor of exaggeration. The question is no longer what can, 
but what cannot, be successfully produced. With the early settlers cattle were 
the staple, and of the vast herds which roamed over the country, little more 
than the hides and tallow were utilized. The cereals, it was supposed, could 
only be grown in the summer, and where irrigation was afforded. The gold 
discovery changed all this. It furnished not only a market for the cattle, but, 
soon after, it was ascertained that the rainy months were the season of growth, 
and that wheat sown with the early rains matured enormous crops of the finest 
quality. The success which attended this last industry relegated the cattle 
interest to the extensive and less valuable ranges eastward, while the prodigal 
quantity and superior quality of the wheat produced enabled it, not only to 
successfully compete with all rivals in the markets of the world, but to fix for 
years the price of the bread of a hundred millions of people. As the herdsman 
had given way to the tiller of the soil, so the latter, and for the same reason, 
has made way for a more profitable industry�the growing of fruits. That this has 
not long since supplanted all other industries was not from any doubt as to 
production or quality, but simply as to transportation. This problem 
satisfactorily solved, and the fruit growers of this valley can have no 
successful rivals.
        To-day, with this industry comparatively new, its means of 
transportation a monopoly, its markets but recently found, and its methods of 
reaching these markets an experiment�with all these to contend against, the 
fruits of this valley are as well known and highly esteemed in the markets of 
the East and of the world as are those of Sicily, Asia Minor, and the 
Adriatic�where ages have been given to the industry, where skilled labor is at 
the very lowest stage of compensation�and the ocean is the easy pathway to a 
world of consumers. The capacity of this valley in this direction is no new 
discovery. It is as old as its settlement. A hundred years ago the Mission 
Fathers introduced the grape which still bears their name and perpetuates their 
memory; and orchards of pear and olive, coeval with these vineyards, still bear 
abundantly, and attest alike the capacity of the region and the judgment and 
forethought of those who thus demonstrated it, while the older records make 
frequent mention of planting and vintage, the fruits and the harvests of those 
ancient days. But neither record nor relics is needed to show the varied 
capacity of this region. The valley, upon every hand, is to-day exhibiting it. 
By the side of his fields sown to grain or in grass, the farmer plants an 
orchard or a vineyard; between the rows of trees or of vines he tills and plants 
as before, and gathers full harvests of roots, etc., while waiting the fruition 
of his trees. His labors alternate between his fields of grain and of vines, and 
his teams are to-day transporting from his farm tons of hay for the market, and 
tons of grapes for the winery.
        Nature, in everything prodigal, is in nothing invidious, and were the 
fruit production to absolutely cease, the valley would remain one of the richest 
agricultural regions of the globe. I have referred to the wheat production, 
still successfully continued, except where supplanted by some more profitable 
product. Its hay crop is to-day the principal supply of the San Francisco 
market. In the vicinity of Santa Clara are fields of corn that never felt rain 
nor knew irrigation, and that will compare favorably with the crops of the 
valley of the Mississippi, while, besides this, whole farms are growing garden 
seeds, which have long commanded the highest prices in the Eastern markets. 
Extensive hop yards were established, and the vines grew and bore luxuriantly, 
and only the high price of labor prevented their being to-day a staple of the 
valley. Near Gilroy some of the most successful as well as extensive dairies in 
the State are established, while in the Santa Cruz Mountains, upon the west, 
petroleum is found, and its further development prosecuted with every prospect 
of success. Of the fruit product of this county it is impossible to speak 
accurately�difficult to speak instructively. At the present writing, enormous 
canneries, employing thousands of laborers, are running night and day. Drying 
apparatuses on every hand, and in almost every field, are employed, while, in 
every direction, acres upon acres are covered with bags of fruit preserved by 
drying in the sun�every resource of labor or of mechanism is tasked to the 
utmost, and even the school vacation is extended that the children may aid to 
preserve the enormous crop.
        The orchards in bearing are generally increasing in their yield and will 
continue so to do for many years, while extensive areas are coming into bearing 
and the planting of new orchards and vineyards is constantly going on. In fact, 
the system of summer culture which renders irrigation unnecessary, makes all the 
arable land in the county available for fruit. In view of these facts, estimates 
would be but the merest conjecture. One thing may be said�that all the fruits of 
the temperate zone, and most of the semi-tropical fruits, are now grown in the 
greatest perfection and in quantities which tax to the utmost the resources and 
labor attainable to gather and preserve them. Orange trees have been grown for 
many years in this county (in San Jose more for ornament than for fruit), 
generally seedlings, and with no care as to either selection or culture. In the 
vicinity of San Jose considerable groves have been growing for twenty years, 
producing abundant crops of well-flavored fruit. The citrus fairs held last year 
(1887) in San Jose and other places, showed the very extensive sections where 
these fruits were being successfully grown; and this, with the stimulus of a 
market, has induced the planting of orange trees throughout the warm belt of 
this county. That these trees will grow, and luxuriantly, and that they are not 
affected by the frost, is established; and that certain varieties will mature 
excellent fruit, is certain. If, however, it shall be found wanting in the 
flavor or qualities of the oranges of Tahiti or Florida, it is because it does 
not have the long hot season�the burning days and sweltering nights�of those 
countries. I question whether it would be desirable to accept that climate, 
though with it we could secure this single production.
        The great and increasing extent of the fruit production, the fact that 
over much of the State it is being prosecuted with energy, suggests the frequent 
inquiry, "Where is the future market for all this to be found? This is the 
inquiry that, at some stage of development, confronts every form of industrial 
enterprise, whether the product of the soil or the result of manufacture. The 
subject is too extensive and too intricate to here receive but the briefest 
consideration. The fruit product of this State is the result of special climatic 
conditions existing within restricted limits. Unlike manufactures, this form of 
production cannot be extended by either art or enterprise. Upon the other hand, 
the consumers will be found wherever any industry can be maintained, or men can 
exist. If, then, fruit production shall increase in geometrical ratio, nature 
has fixed the limits within which this progression must cease, while no such 
bounds exist to the range of consumption.
        Farther than this, experience and invention are constantly diminishing 
the cost of production and thus enlarging the class of consumers. If wheat and 
wool, staples of the world, and everywhere grown, are rarely found in excess of 
profitable production, it may fairly be assumed that these special products of 
California, thus limited to an area and restricted as to conditions, will be 
always a profitable industry. The question, however important, is at present but 
one of speculation, and time alone can give the full solution. Dependent as this 
region is upon the regular rains of winter, the knowledge that these sometimes 
fail makes the subject of rainfall one of much anxious consideration. There is a 
theory that the seasons move in cycles of twelve years, passing, by regular 
gradation, from a maximum to a minimum rainfall in that period and culminating 
in a season of floods and of drought at the other. The observations of the last 
few years do not fully support this theory of gradual transition, although 
records extending back to the year 1805 seem to indicate that the twelfth year 
is deficient in rain. Should these dry years recur in the future, the disastrous 
and destructive consequences of the past are not likely to follow. The industry 
of the State was then cattle raising and the country was stocked to its fullest 
capacity. With a drought the short-lived natural grasses failed; the water 
courses dried up, and, as no provision had been made for supplying either, the 
cattle perished by thousands.
        At present, the land is more profitably utilized in other pursuits, and 
cattle are comparatively few, and for these, some provision can be made. Trees 
and vines, though their product may be diminished, are not destroyed by a 
drought, however severe. Large areas of irrigated lands will furnish vast 
supplies of forage food, and the reclaimed sections contribute in the same 
direction, while railroads transport these products as needs may require. A 
further consideration �the possible effect of artificial conditions upon 
rainfall�may be worth estimating. It has been often asserted that the cutting 
off of the forests of the Sierras and the Coast Range would diminish the 
rainfall, and in other ways prove detrimental to the moisture supply. If this, 
as a consequence of denudation, follows anywhere, it may be doubted whether it 
does here. In almost every instance the removal of the timber is followed by a 
dense growth of young trees or of thicket, and the effect of this, either as 
inducing precipitation or retaining moisture, must be fully equal to that of the 
larger but scattering trees thus replaced.
        Further than this, in the valley of the San Joaquin, hundreds of square 
miles of prairie and plains are now, by irrigation, thoroughly saturated, and 
from waters that had their former evaporation surface in the area of a 
comparatively small lake. On the slopes of the Sierras the same causes are at 
work. Water stored in immense reservoirs is conducted in canals to thousands of 
acres of orchards and vineyards. These causes, large at present and constantly 
enlarging, cannot but produce some effect upon the rainfall of this coast. 
Regions that before absorbed the moisture, now, by their own evaporation, 
contribute to it and induce precipitation. If it be argued that these causes are 
inadequate to the results suggested, it may be replied that forest and prairie 
fires, the burning of cities, the firing of cannon, are known to be followed by 
copious rains. The meteorological conditions that accompany a saturated 
atmosphere, are often very nearly in equilibrium, and a very slight disturbing 
cause may determine for or against precipitation. The causes I have indicated 
are neither transitory nor insignificant. They embrace areas equal in extent to 
States, and are affecting, in a marked degree, the temperature and climate of 
these extensive regions. If any consequences shall follow from these changes, 
every reason seems to indicate that they will be found in an increased rainfall 
and against the recurrence of drought.
   *          *          *          *          *
        In this description of the capabilities and climate of the Santa Clara 
Valley, I have substantially described San Jose�for this is her environment, 
these are her resources, this the rich setting of which the "Garden City" is the 
central gem. 
*         *          *
        The roads of San Jose and vicinity are wide, well-graded and ballasted 
with gravel and rock, of which there is an inexhaustible supply in the immediate 
vicinity. Unaffected by frost or flood, they improve with use and require but 
little attention to maintain them in the finest condition.
        Each year adds many miles to the hundreds of miles now in use, while the 
trees with which most of them are bordered are rapidly developing them into 
stately avenues. These roads, as they extend into the country, are little 
affected by either the rains of winter or the droughts of summer, and delightful 
drives, free from either mud or dust, are to be found in every direction and at 
all times. The residents thoroughly appreciate and fully avail themselves of 
this attractive feature of the county, and probably in no place in the country 
are so many teams to be found driven with perfect confidence, not only by women, 
but often by the merest children. To the visitor who drives at random over these 
roads, every turn brings a new surprise, reveals a new beauty. Now the road is 
through an avenue of stately trees; then comes a succession of gardens; and 
again it is the abandoned channel of a former stream, where giant and gnarled 
sycamores and old oaks shade the way, and then for miles a bewildering 
succession of vineyards, orchards, and fruitful fields ; while everywhere, half 
hidden in the orchards, nestling among the vines, embowered amid the roses, 
stately mansions and beautiful cottages bespeak alike the thrift and refinement 
of their occupants.
        When the stranger thus finds each day, and for months, a new avenue, 
with new beauties before and about him, he will give credence to the assertion 
that here are to be found more delightful drives than in any other city of the 
State, and will declare it fitly named the "Garden City." Of the hundreds of 
miles of these drives, which lead in every direction, some are deserving of more 
than this general mention. The Alameda, a broad and beautiful avenue leading to 
Santa Clara, is three miles in length, as level as a floor, and shaded by trees 
planted by the Mission Fathers a hundred years ago. Bordered throughout its 
whole extent with beautiful residences, it puzzles the passerby to know where 
San Jose ends and her sister city begins. Another notable drive is to Alum Rock, 
a distance of seven miles over a road as perfect as art can make it, through a 
deep gorge with a prattling stream keeping company, to a natural park of four 
hundred acres owned by the city. Here, in a sheltered nook, a comfortable hotel, 
shaded by mighty oaks, is kept, with mineral springs of every quality and every 
temperature bubbling up in every direction. Scarce a day in the summer that a 
party is not found picnicking in this park, and making the hills ring with music 
and merriment. To the west, within a dozen miles, is the Almaden quicksilver 
mine, employing three hundred laborers, and supporting a population of a 
thousand; a place interesting as being the richest deposit of cinnabar on the 
continent, or perhaps in the world, and also for the thorough system and 
scrupulous neatness exhibited on every hand.
        Another drive is to the Guadalupe, second only to the Almaden ; another 
to Los Gatos, where all the zones and all the seasons seem to have combined to 
crown this favored spot with the choicest treasures of them all; another to 
Saratoga, with its soda spring, unsurpassed in the State, gushing from the 
hillside; to Lexington, last of this triad of mountain beauties; and 
everywhere�in the little valleys, garlanding the hillsides, climbing to the very 
summit of the mountains�orchards, orange groves, and vineyards. The drive into 
these hills is always delightful; but it is in the spring, when everything is in 
bloom, that it appears in all its glory. Then, as far as the eye can reach, 
hillside and plain are decked in all the splendors of the rainbow. Here the 
white blossoms of the prune sway in the breeze like drifting snow, while, beside 
these, the valley is blushing with the dainty hues of the apricot, the peach, 
and the apple, and the vineyards are upon every side, in their delicate green. 
It is, in fact, one vast parterre of floral beauty�its coloring by acres�and 
stretching away for miles, until the distant hills frame in the gorgeous 
picture. In all these mountain villages are to be found hotels, cozy and 
pleasant, and as the guest sits in the evening upon the porches and sees the 
lamps of the distant city twinkling like fireflies below him, with the electric 
lights gleaming like planets above them, with the soft, dry air that stirs but 
in zephyrs, he can but feel that this is indeed an earthly elysium.
        In the morning a striking sight sometimes awaits the visitor. The sky is 
blue and cloudless as ever, but the valley has disappeared. A fog has crept in 
during the night and engulfed the plain, as though the ocean was asserting its 
old dominion. Upon every hand the hills, that held the ancient sea in their long 
embrace, now clasp this fleeting phantom as though in its shadowy image there 
were cherished memories of the past. Above it, like islands, rise hills and 
peaks. As still as fleecy wool sleeps this soft white sea. But even while you 
look and wonder, the sun asserts his power and the still lake swells in waves 
and rolls in billows. Through rifts, you catch glimpses of houses, of forests, 
and of fields, and then �you know not how, you see not where�the fleecy mantle 
is gone, an and the valley, in sheen and sunshine, is again before you.
        Eighteen miles east of San Jose, upon the summit of Mount Hamilton, is 
the Lick Observatory. The road by which it is reached is twenty-four miles in 
length, was built by the county at a cost of $85,000, and is as complete as 
money and skill can make it.  It connects with the Alum Rock Avenue, about four 
miles from San Jose, and from this point is carried up the western slope of the 
hill. As the road ascends, the valley comes into view, each turn of the road 
disclosing some new charm. Seven miles of this and the road passes to the 
eastern side; the valley is no longer in sight. But with this change comes a new 
attraction. You are now in the mountains, and deep gorges upon the one hand, and 
the steep hillside on the other, make the landscape; again, and the road is 
traversing valleys gorgeous with wild flowers or rolling hills dotted with 
stately oaks. Ten miles of this and Smith Creek is reached. Here, in a charming 
nook of the mountain half encircled by a sparkling stream, a comfortable hotel 
is found. Near as the summit appears from this point, there yet fifteen hundred 
feet of sheer ascent and the road winds three times round the peak and is seven 
miles long in ascending it. As the summit is approached the valley unrolls 
before you like a vast panorama, and the picture that was left behind is again 
in view; until, at last, at a height of four thousand two hundred and fifty 
feet, you are at the observatory.
        From here, the view is grand and impressive. At your feet, dotted with 
villages and rimmed with a cordon of protecting hills, sleeps the valley in all 
its loveliness, and, beside it, the Bay of San Francisco, flecked with the sails 
of commerce. To the east, the snow-clad peaks of the Sierras bound the distant 
horizon, while south, the valley stretches away till hid by the misty hills. 
Upon the west are the forest slopes of the Santa Cruz Mountains, with lakes and 
reservoirs that gleam in the sunlight like burnished silver; while, upon the 
more distant horizon, a lighter shade tells where sea and sky meet and mingle in 
the blue Pacific. North, if the day is clear, you are pointed to a dim shadow 
scarce outlined on the distant sky, and, as you strive to fix the wavering, 
doubtful image, you are told that this is Shasta, which, four hundred miles 
distant and fourteen thousand four hundred and forty feet high, is enthroned in 
undisputed majesty over the great valley. As you note this horizon stretching 
away on every hand, you can readily accept the statement of Professor Whitney, 
that from the summit of this mountain, more of the earth's surface is visible 
than from any other known point upon the globe; and the blue sky and translucent 
atmosphere attest the assertion that there are here twice the number of nights 
that are favorable to observations than are anywhere else to be found. Upon this 
height stands the observatory, which the founder decreed should have the most 
powerful glass and thorough equipment that skill and ingenuity could produce; 
and most thoroughly have those assigned to this duty executed their trust.
        If years have been employed for the erection of these buildings, it is 
because they are to remain for the centuries, and they are as massive and as 
durable as the rock of which they seem but a part. In the equipment, the 
scientific knowledge and mechanical ingenuity of the world were called into 
requisition, and this is the grand result. Nor are the appointments of this 
place, perfect and ample as they are, better adapted to its purposes than are 
the natural surroundings. Elsewhere, observatories are erected amid the busy 
marts of trade, and among the haunts of men. Here, the rugged mountain forbids 
all other companionship, and sterility and solitude keep sentinel watch at the 
portals of this temple of science. It is fitting that this be so, for what, to 
the watcher of the skies, are the aspirations of life, the ambitions of men? 
What to him are the boundaries of nations or the measures of time? The field of 
his explorations is illimitable space, the unit of his line, the vast orbit of 
the earth. The centuries of Egypt, hoary with age are scarce seconds on his 
dial. The Pharaohs are to him but men of yesterday. He gauges the nebulous mist 
that enwraps Orion, that veils Andromeda, and proclaims the natal day of systems 
yet to be. He notes the changing hues and waning light of blazing stars, and 
declares when, rayless and dark, with retinues of dead worlds, they shall 
journey on in the awful stillness of eternal night. Well may he who deals with 
these, the problems of the skies, dwell alone and apart from other men.
        In the central pier, which supports the great telescope, is the tomb of 
James Lick. Lonely in this life, alone in his resting-place; this seems indeed 
his fit mausoleum, and the visitor reads, though it be unwritten, as his 
epitaph, the inscription in England's great cathedral on the tomb of its 
architect "Si monumentum requiris, circumspice."
        The return trip is much more agreeable than the ascent. As the carriage 
sweeps down the mountain road, with its many curves, the landscape again unfolds 
with scenes and shades that come and go like the figures of a kaleidoscope; and, 
in three short hours, the traveler is again in San Jose, with recollections of 
the mountain road, the marvelous prospect, the lofty mountains, and the lonely 
tomb, that can never be effaced.         
*          *          *          *
        Much of the happiness of a community depends upon the social habits of 
its people. In San Jose, social gatherings and festivities, picnics and 
excursions, are more frequent than in most Eastern communities. The weather 
permits, and the disposition of the people encourages them; and those 
relaxations which, in most places, are the privilege of the few, are here the 
practice of the many. In the summer, many families resort to the hills or to the 
shores of Monterey Bay. Here, in cottages readily hired, in tents or booths, 
they remain for weeks, relieved of much of the formality, as well as the 
drudgery, of ordinary domestic life. Others, more adventurous, make up 
expeditions to the Sierras, Yosemite, or even Shasta. They take their own teams, 
and in capacious wagons store the bedding and supplies required for a month or 
more of nomadic life. Of the weather they take no heed, for that is assured.
    Wherever night overtakes them they camp, and remain or move on as 
inclination or fancy may prompt. From the farm-houses they replenish their 
larder and procure feed for their teams. And they return after weeks of this 
gypsy life, with bronzed cheeks, to resume with vigor the duties of life, to 
live over their past wanderings, and to plan new expeditions for the future. 
*           *         *          *          *          *          *
        In this paper I have endeavored to represent to the visitor the 
surroundings he will here find; to the settler, the conditions with which he 
will have to deal. I shall make no attempt to forecast even the near future; it 
is proclaiming itself. The tramp of a coming host is upon every hand�the tide of 
a human sea, impelled by forces that permit no ebb. It comes, and between the 
desert and the sea it finds the promised land�Egypt in its fertility; Sicily in 
its fruits and flowers; Italy in its beauty; America in its freedom, its 
enterprise, and its energy.