“Come to Belmont
; give you a rest, and do you good,” cries the magnate.
We accept, for not to see Belmont
is not to see the Bay of San Francisco
Ten years since, Belmont
was a rocky cafion, cleaving a mountain side, so choked with spectral oaks and cedars that the mixed bloods called it the Devil
Coyotes and foxes hung about the woods, and Indian hunters, following elk and antelope, lit their fires around the springs.
No track led up the ravine, for no civilised man yet dreamt of making it his home.
is like a valley on Lake Zurich
A road sweeps up the glen as smooth as any road in Kent
The forests have been tamed to parks.
A pretty chalet peeps out here and there, with lawns and gardens trimmed in English taste.
Five or six villas crown the knolls and nestle in the tress.
Geraniums are in flower, and roses bloom on arch and wall.
Sheep dot the sward, and cattle wander to the creeks.
A chapel and a school arrest the eye. On every side there is a sense of home.
Our villa is a frame house, built in showy Californian style; a new order of architecture, with a touch of Moorish taste, and not a little Chinese