The Californian loves his state because his state loves him. He returnsher love with a fierce affection that to men who do not know Californiais always a surprise. Hence he is impatient of outside criticism. Thosewho do not love California cannot understand her, and, to his mind,their shafts, however aimed, fly wide of the mark. Thus, to say thatCalifornia is commercially asleep, that her industries are gamblingventures, that her local politics is in the hands of professionalpickpockets, that her small towns are the shabbiest in Christendom, thather saloons control more constituents than her churches, that she is theslave of corporations, that she knows no such thing as public opinion,that she has not yet learned to distinguish enterprise from highwayrobbery, nor reform from blackmail,—all these statements, and otherseven more unpleasant, the Californian may admit in discussion, or maysay for himself, but he does not find them acceptable from others. Theymay be more or less true, in certain times and places, but theconditions which have permitted them will likewise mend them. It is saidin the Alps that "not all the vulgar people who come to Chamouny canever make Chamouny vulgar." For similar reasons, not all the sordidpeople who drift overland can ever vulgarize California. Her fascinationendures, whatever the accidents of population.
The charm of California has, in the main, three sources—scenery,climate, and freedom of life.
To know the glory of California scenery, one must live close to itthrough the changing years. From Siskiyou to San Diego, from Alturas toTia Juana, from Mendocino to Mariposa, from Tahoe to the Farallones,lake, crag, or chasm, forest, mountain, valley, or island, river, bay,or jutting headland, every one bears the stamp of its own peculiarbeauty, a singular blending of richness, wildness and warmth. Coastwiseeverywhere sea and mountains meet, and the surf of the cold Japanesecurrent breaks in turbulent beauty against tall "rincones" and jaggedreefs of rock. Slumbering amid the hills of the Coast Range,
"A misty camp of mountains pitched tumultuously",
lie golden valleys dotted with wide-limbed oaks, or smothered underover-weighted fruit trees. Here, too, crumble to ruins the oldFranciscan missions, each in its own fair valley, passing monuments ofCalifornia's first page of written history.
Inland rises the great Sierra, with spreading ridge and foothill, likesome huge, sprawling centipede, its granite back unbroken for a thousandmiles. Frost-torn peaks, of every height and bearing, pierce the bluewastes above. Their slopes are dark with forests of sugar pines andgiant sequoias, the mightiest of trees, in whose silent aisles one maywander all day long and see no sign of man. Dropped here and there restturquoise lakes which mark the craters of dead volcanoes, or which swellthe polished basins where vanished glaciers did their last work. Throughmountain meadows run swift brooks, over-peopled with trout, while fromthe crags leap full-throated streams, to be half blown away in mistbefore they touch the valley floor. Far down the fragrant cañons singthe green and troubled rivers, twisting their way lower and lower to thecommon plains, each larger stream calling to all his brooks to followhim as down they go headforemost to the sea. Even the hopeless stretchesof alkali and sa