THOMAS LAMB ELIOT

When Horatio Stebbins in 1864 a.s.sumed charge of the San Francisco church he was the sole representative of the denomination on the Pacific Coast.

For years he stood alone,--a beacon-like tower of liberalism. The first glimmer of companionship came from Portland, Oregon. At the solicitation of a few earnest Unitarians Dr. Stebbins went to Portland to consult with and encourage them. A society was formed to prepare the way for a church. A few consecrated women worked devotedly; they bought a lot in the edge of the woods and finally built a small chapel. Then they moved for a minister. In St. Louis, Mo., Rev. William Greenleaf Eliot had been for many years a force in religion and education. A strong Unitarian church and Washington University resulted. He had also founded a family and had inspired sons to follow in his footsteps. Thomas Lamb Eliot had been ordained and was ready for the ministry. He was asked to take the Portland church and he accepted. He came first to San Francisco on his way. Dr. Stebbins was trying the experiment of holding services in the Metropolitan Theater, and I remember seeing in the stage box one Sunday a very prepossessing couple that interested me much--they were the Eliots on their way to Portland. William G., Jr., was an infant-in-arms.

I was much impressed with the spirit that moved the attractive couple to venture into an unknown field. The acquaintance formed grew into a friendship that has deepened with the years.

The ministry of the son in Portland has been much like that of the father in St. Louis. The church has been reverent and constructive, a steady force for righteousness, an influence for good in personal life and community welfare. Dr. Eliot has fostered many interests, but the church has been foremost. He has always been greatly respected and influential. Dr. Stebbins entertained for him the highest regard. He was wont to say: "Thomas Eliot is the wisest man for his years I ever knew."

He has always been that and more to me. He has served one parish all his life, winning and holding the reverent regard of the whole community.

The active service of the church has pa.s.sed to his son and for years he has given most of his time and strength to Reed College, established by his parishioners. In a few months he will complete his eighty years of beautiful life and n.o.ble service. He has kept the faith and pa.s.sed on the fine spirit of his inheritance.

CHAPTER XI

OUTINGS

I have not been much of a traveler abroad, or even beyond the Pacific states. I have been to the Atlantic sh.o.r.e four times since my emigration thence, and going or coming I visited Chicago, St. Louis, Denver, and other points, but have no striking memories of any of them. In 1914 I had a very delightful visit to the Hawaiian Islands, including the volcano. It was full of interest and charm, with a beauty and an atmosphere all its own; but any description, or the story of experiences or impressions, would but re-echo what has been told adequately by others. British Columbia and western Washington I found full of interest and greatly enjoyed; but they also must be left unsung. My outings from my beaten track have been brief, but have contributed a large stock of happy memories. Camping in California is a joy that never palls, and among the pleasantest pictures on memory's walls are the companionship of congenial friends in the beautiful surroundings afforded by the Santa Cruz Mountains. Twice in all the years since leaving Humboldt have I revisited its hospitable sh.o.r.es and its most impressive redwoods. My love for it will never grow less. Twice, too, have I reveled in the Yosemite Valley and beyond to the valley that will form a majestic lake--glorious Hetch-Hetchy.

I am thankful for the opportunity I have enjoyed of seeing so fully the great Pacific empire. My church supervision included California, Oregon, and Washington, with the southern fringe of Canada for good measure.

Even without this attractive neighbor my territory was larger than France (or Germany) and Belgium, England, Wales, and Ireland combined.

San Diego, Bellingham, and Spokane were the triangle of bright stars that bounded the constellation. To have found friends and to be sure of a welcome at all of these and everywhere between was a great extension to my enjoyment, and visiting them was not only a pleasant duty but a delightful outing.

IN THE SIERRAS

Belated vacations perhaps gain more than they lose, and in the sum total at least hold their own. It is one advantage of being well distributed that opportunities increase. In that an individual is an unsalaried editor, extensive or expensive trips are unthinkable; that his calling affords necessities but a scant allowance of luxuries, leaves recreation in the Sierras out of the question; but that by the accidents of politics he happens to be a supervisor, certain privileges, disguised attractively as duties, prove too alluring to resist.

The city had an option on certain remote lands supposed to be of great value for water and power, and no one wants to buy a pig of that size in a poke, so it was ordained that the city fathers, with their engineer and various clerks and functionaries ent.i.tled to a vacation and desiring information (or _vice versa_), should visit the lands proposed to be acquired.

In 1908 the supervisors inspected the dam-sites at Lake Eleanor and the Hetch-Hetchy, but gained little idea of the intervening country and the route of the water on its way to the city. Subsequently the trip was more thoroughly planned and the result was satisfactory, both in the end attained and in the incidental process.

On the morning of August 17, 1910, the party of seventeen disembarked from the Stockton boat, followed by four fine munic.i.p.al automobiles.

When the men and the machines were satisfactorily supplied with fuel and the outfit was appropriately photographed, the procession started mountainward. For some time the good roads, fairly well watered, pa.s.sed over level, fruitful country, with comfortable homes. Then came gently rolling land and soon the foothills, with gravelly soil and scattered pines. A few orchards and ranches were pa.s.sed, but not much that was really attractive. Then we reached the scenes of early-day mining and half-deserted towns known to Bret Harte and the days of gold. Knight's Ferry became a memory instead of a name. Chinese Camp, once harboring thousands, is now a handful of houses and a few lonely stores and saloons. It had cast sixty-five votes a few days before our visit.

Then came a stratum of mills and mines, mostly deserted, a few operating sufficiently to discolor with the crushed mineral the streams flowing by. Soon we reached the Tuolumne, with clear, pellucid water in limited quant.i.ties, for the snow was not very plentiful the previous winter and it melted early.

Following its banks for a time, the road turned to climb a hill, and well along in the afternoon we reached "Priests," a favorite roadhouse of the early stage line to the Yosemite. Here a good dinner was enjoyed, the machines were overhauled, and on we went. Then Big Oak Flat, a mining town of some importance, was pa.s.sed, and a few miles farther Groveland, where a quite active community turned out en ma.s.se to welcome the distinguished travelers. The day's work was done and the citizens showed a pathetic interest which testified to how little ordinarily happened. The shades of night were well down when Hamilton's was reached--a stopping-place once well known, but now off the line of travel. Here we were hospitably entertained and slept soundly after a full day's exercise. In the memory of all, perhaps the abundance of fried chicken for breakfast stands out as the distinguishing feature. A few will always remember it as the spot where for the first time they found themselves aboard a horse, and no kind chronicler would refer to which side of the animal they selected for the ascent. The munic.i.p.ally chartered pack-train, with cooks and supplies for man and beast, numbered over sixty animals, and chaparejos and cowboys, real and near, were numerous.

The ride to the rim of the South Fork of the Tuolumne was short. The new trail was not sufficiently settled to be safe for the sharp descents, and for three-quarters of a mile the horses and mules were turned loose and the company dropped down the mountainside on foot. The lovely stream of water running between mountainous, wooded banks was followed up for many miles.

About midday a charming spot for luncheon was found, where Corral Creek tumbles in a fine cascade on its way to the river. The day was warm, and when the mouth of Eleanor Creek was reached many enjoyed a good swim in an attractive deep basin.

Turning to the north, the bank of Eleanor was followed to the first camping-place, Plum Flat, an attractive clearing, where wild plums have been augmented by fruit and vegetables. Here, after a good dinner served in the open by the munic.i.p.al cooks, the munic.i.p.al sleeping-bags were distributed, and soft and level spots were sought for their spreading.

The seasoned campers were happy and enjoyed the luxury. Some who for the first time reposed upon the breast of Mother Earth failed to find her charm. One father awoke in the morning, sat up promptly, pointed his hand dramatically to the zenith, and said, "Never again!" But he lived to revel in the open-air caravansary, and came home a tougher and a wiser man.

A ride of fifteen miles through a finely wooded country brought us to the Lake Eleanor dam-site and the munic.i.p.al camp, where general preparations are being made and runoff records are being taken. In a comfortable log house two a.s.sistants to the engineer spent the winter, keeping records of rainfall and other meteorological data.

While we were in camp here, Lake Eleanor, a mile distant, was visited and enjoyed in various ways, and those who felt an interest in the main purpose of the trip rode over into the Cherry Creek watershed and inspected the sites and rights whose purchase is contemplated. Sat.u.r.day morning we left Lake Eleanor and climbed the steep ridge separating its watershed from that of the Tuolumne. From Eleanor to Hetch-Hetchy as the crow would fly, if there were a crow and he wanted to fly, is five miles. As mules crawl and men climb, it takes five hours. But it is well worth it for a.s.sociation with granite helps any politician.

Hetch-Hetchy Valley is about half as large as Yosemite and almost as beautiful. Early in the season the mosquitoes make life miserable, but as late as August the swampy land is pretty well dried up and they are few. The Tuolumne tumbles in less effectively than the Merced enters Yosemite. Instead of two falls of nine hundred feet, there is one of twenty or so. The Wampana, corresponding to the Yosemite Falls, is not so high nor so picturesque, but is more industrious, and apparently takes no vacation. Kolana is a n.o.ble k.n.o.b, but not quite so imposing as Sentinel Rock.

We camped in the valley two days and found it very delightful. The dam-site is not surpa.s.sed. Nowhere in the world, it is said, can so large a body of water be impounded so securely at so small an expense.

There is an admirable camping-ground within easy distance of the valley, and engineers say that at small expense a good trail, and even a wagon-road, can be built along the face of the north wall, making possible a fine view of the magnificent lake.

With the argument for granting the right the city seeks I am not here concerned. The only purpose in view is the casual recital of a good time. It has to do with a delightful sojourn in good company, with songs around the camp-fire, trips up and down the valley, the taking of photographs, the appreciation of brook-trout, the towering mountains, the moon and stars that looked down on eyes facing direct from welcome beds. Mention might be made of the discovery of characters--types of mountain guides who prove to be scholars and philosophers; of mules, like "Flapjack," of literary fame; of close intercourse with men at their best; of excellent appet.i.tes satisfactorily met; of genial sun and of water so alluring as to compel intemperance in its use.

The climbing of the south wall in the early morning, the noonday stop at Hog Ranch, and the touching farewell to mounts and pack-train, the exhilarating ride to Crocker's, and the varied attractions of that fascinating resort, must be unsung. A night of mingled pleasure and rest with every want luxuriously supplied, a half-day of good coaching, and once more Yosemite--the wonder of the West.

Its charms need no rehearsing. They not only never fade, but they grow with familiarity. The delight of standing on the summit of Sentinel Dome, conscious that your own good muscles have lifted you over four thousand feet from the valley's floor, with such a world spread before you; the indescribable beauty of a sunrise at Glacier Point, the beauty and majesty of Vernal and Nevada falls, the knightly crest of the Half Dome, and the imposing grandeur of the great Capitan--what words can even hint their varied glory!

All this packed into a week, and one comes back strengthened in body and spirit, with a renewed conviction of the beauty of the world, and a freshened readiness to lend a hand in holding human nature up to a standard that shall not shame the older sister.

A DAY IN CONCORD

There are many lovely spots in New England when June is doing her best.

Rolling hills dotted with graceful elms, meadows fresh with the greenest of gra.s.s, streams of water winding through the peaceful stretches, robins hopping in friendly confidence, distant hills blue against the horizon, soft clouds floating in the sky, air laden with the odor of lilacs and vibrant with songs of birds. There are many other spots of great historic interest, beautiful or not--it doesn't matter much--where memorable meetings have been held which set in motion events that changed the course of history, or where battles have been fought that no American can forget. There are still other places rich with human interest where some man of renown has lived and died--some man who has made his undying mark in letters, or has been a source of inspiration through his calm philosophy. But if one would stand upon the particular spot which can claim supremacy in each of these three respects, where can he go but to Concord, Ma.s.sachusetts!

It would be hard to find a lovelier view anywhere in the gentle East than is to be gained from the Reservoir Height--a beautifully broken landscape, hill and dale, woodland, distant trees, two converging streams embracing and flowing in a quiet, decorous union beneath the historic bridge, comfortable homes, many of them too simple and dignified to be suspected of being modern, a cl.u.s.ter of steeples rising above the elms in the center of the town, pastures and plowed fields, well-fed Jerseys resting under the oaks, an occasional canoe floating on the gentle stream, genuine old New England homes, painted white, with green blinds, generous wood-piles near at hand, comfortable barns, and blossoming orchards, now and then a luxurious house, showing the architect's effort to preserve the harmonious--all of these and more, to form a scene of pastoral beauty and with nothing to mar the picture--no uncompromising factories, no blocks of flats, no elevated roads, no glaring signs of Cuban cheroots or Peruna bitters. It is simply an ideal exhibit of all that is most beautiful and attractive in New England scenery and life, and its charm is very great.

Turning to its historic interest, one is reminded of it at every side.

Upon a faithful reproduction of the original meeting-house, a tablet informs the visitor that here the first meeting was held that led to national independence. A placard on a quaint old hostelry informs us that it was a tavern in pre-Revolutionary times. Leaving the "common,"

around which most New England towns cl.u.s.ter, one soon reaches Monument Street. Following it until houses grow infrequent, one comes to an interesting specimen which seems familiar. A conspicuous sign proclaims it private property and that sightseers are not welcome. It is the "Old Manse" made immortal by the genius of Hawthorne. Near by, an interesting road intersects leading to a river. Soon we descry a granite monument at the famous bridge, and across the bridge "The Minute Man." The inscription on the monument informs us that here the first British soldier fell. An iron chain incloses a little plot by the side of a stone wall where rest those who met the first armed resistance. Crossing the bridge which spans a dark and sluggish stream one reaches French's fine statue with Emerson's n.o.ble inscription,--

"By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood And fired the shot heard round the world."

No historic spot has a finer setting or an atmosphere so well fitted to calm reflection on a momentous event.

On the way to Concord, if one is so fortunate as to go by trolley, one pa.s.ses through Lexington and catches a glimpse of its bronze "Minute Man," more spirited and lifelike in its tense suspended motion than French's calm and determined farmer-soldier. In the side of a farmhouse near the Concord battle-field--if such an encounter can be called a battle--a shot from a British bullet pierced the wood, and that historic orifice is carefully preserved; a diamond-shaped pane surrounds it. Our friend, Rev. A.W. Jackson, remarked, "I suppose if that house should burn down, the first thing they would try to save would be that bullet-hole."

But Concord is richest in the memory of the men who have lived and died there, and whose character and influence have made it a center of world-wide inspiration. One has but to visit Sleepy Hollow Cemetery to be impressed with the number and weight of remarkable names a.s.sociated with this quiet town, little more than a village. Sleepy Hollow is one of a number of rather unusual depressions separated by sharp ridges that border the town. The hills are wooded, and in some instances their steep sides make them seem like the half of a California canyon. The cemetery is not in the cuplike valley, but on the side and summit of a gentle hill. It is well kept and very impressive. One of the first names to attract attention is "Hawthorne," cut on a simple slab with rounded top.

It is the sole inscription on the little stone about a foot high.

Simplicity could go no farther. Within a small radius are found the graves of Emerson, Th.o.r.eau, Alcott, John Weiss, and Samuel h.o.a.r.

Emerson's monument is a beautiful boulder, on the smoothed side of which is placed a bronze tablet. The inscriptions on the stones placed to the memory of the different members of the family are most fitting and touching. This is also true of the singularly fine inscriptions in the lot where rest several generations of the h.o.a.r family. A good article might be written on monumental inscriptions in the Concord burial-ground. It is a lovely spot where these ill.u.s.trious sons of Concord have found their final resting-place, and a pilgrimage to it cannot but freshen one's sense of indebtedness to these gifted men of pure lives and elevated thoughts.

The most enjoyable incident of the delightful Decoration Day on which our trip was made was a visit to Emerson's home. His daughter was in New York, but we were given the privilege of freely taking possession of the library and parlor. Everything is as the sage left it. His books are undisturbed, his portfolio of notes lies upon the table, and his favorite chair invites the friend who feels he can occupy it. The atmosphere is quietly simple. The few pictures are good, but not conspicuous or insistent. The books bear evidence of loving use.

Bindings were evidently of no interest. Nearly all the books are in the original cloth, now faded and worn. One expects to see the books of his contemporaries and friends, and the expectation is met. They are mostly in first editions, and many of them are almost shabby. Taking down the first volume of _The Dial_, I found it well filled with narrow strips of paper, marking articles of especial interest. The authors' names not being given, they were frequently supplied by Mr. Emerson on the margin.

I noticed opposite one article the words "T. Parker" in Mr. Emerson's writing. The books covered one side of a good-sized room and ran through the connecting hall into the quaint parlor, or sitting-room, behind it.

A matting covered the floor, candlesticks rested on the chimney-piece, and there was no meaningless bric-a-brac, nor other objects of suspected beauty to distract attention. As you enter the house, the library occupies the large right-hand corner room. It was simple to the verge of austerity, and the farthest possible removed from a "collection." There was no effort at arrangement--they were just books, for use and for their own sake. The portfolio of fugitive notes and possible material for future use was interesting, suggesting the source of much that went to make up those fascinating essays where the "thoughts" often made no pretense at sequence, but rested in peaceful unregulated proximity, like eggs in a nest. Here is a sentence that evidently didn't quite satisfy him, an uncertain mark of erasure leaving the approved portion in doubt: "Read proudly. Put the duty of being read invariably on the author. If he is not read, whose fault is it? I am quite ready to be charmed--but I shall not make believe I am charmed." Dear man! he never would "make believe." Transparent, sincere soul, how he puts to shame all affectation and pretense! Mr. Jackson says his townsmen found it hard to realize that he was great. They always thought of him as the kindly neighbor. One old farmer told of his experience in driving home a load of hay. He was approaching a gate and was just preparing to climb down to open it, when an old gentleman nimbly ran ahead and opened it for him. It was Emerson, who apparently never gave it a second thought. It was simply the natural thing for him to do.

Walden Pond is some little distance from the Emerson home, and the time at our disposal did not permit a visit. But we had seen enough and felt enough to leave a memory of rare enjoyment to the credit of that precious day in Concord.

FIVE DAYS

There are several degrees of rest, and there are many ways of resting.

What is rest to one person might be an intolerable bore to another, but when one finds the ultimate he is never after in doubt. He knows what is, to him, _the real thing_. The effect of a sufficient season, say five days, to one who had managed to find very little for a disgracefully long time, is not easy to describe, but very agreeable to feel.