Poor, weak, silly old man!
Forgive him, however, for what he has done when truly the poet. He
was noble then and didn't know it; now he is a sham noble and
_knows_ it. Punishment enough that he stands no more upon the
mountain heights o'ertopping the petty ambitions of English life,
"With his garlands
And his singing robes about him."
His poet's robes, alas! are gone. Room, now, for the masquerader
disguised as a British peer! Place, next the last great vulgar
brewer or unprincipled political trimmer in that motley assembly,
the House of Lords!
The weather is superb, the sky cloudless; the train stops to allow
us to see the celebrated Cape Horn; the railroad skirts the edge
of the mountain, and we stand upon a precipice two thousand feet
high, smaller mountains enclosing the plain below, and the
American River running at our feet. It is very fine, indeed, but
the grandeur between Pack Saddle and San Francisco, with the
exception of the entrance to Weber Canon and a few miles in the
vicinity, is all here; as a whole, the scenery on the Pacific
Railroad is disappointing to one familiar with the Alleghanies.
At Colfax, two hundred miles from San Francisco, we stop for
breakfast and have our first experience of fresh California grapes
and salmon; the former black Hamburgs not to be excelled by the
best hot-house grapes of England; and what a bagful for a quarter!
We tried the native white wine at dinner, and found it a fair
Sauterne.
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