REDUCTION WORKS AT THE NEW ALMADEN MINE. a large proportion of the population attend some place of public worship. The excursions from abroad which often on this day visit the pleasure grounds of the vicinity, pass through the streets in orderly silence, con strained thereto, as much by public sentiment as by positive ordinance. The roads of San José and vicinity are wide, well graded, and ballasted with gravel and rock, of which there is an inexhaustible Unaffected supply in the immediate vicinity. Of the hundreds of miles of these drives, which lead in every direction, some are deserving more than this general mention. The Alameda, a broad and beautiful avenue, leading to Santa Clara, is four miles in length, as level as a floor, and shaded by trees planted by the Mission Fathers a hundred years ago. Bordered through its whole extent with beautiful residences, it puzzles the passer-by to know where San José ends and her sister city begins. Another notable drive is to Alum Rock, a distance of seven miles, over a road as per fect 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 Guadaloupe, 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, un CHERRY ORCHARD IN BLOOM. 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." surpassed in the State, gushing from the hillside; to Lexington, last of this triad of mountain beauties; and everywhere-in the little valleys, garlanding the hill-sides, climbing to the very summit of the mountainsorchards, 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 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, cosy and pleasant, and as the guest sits in the evening upon the porches and sees the lamps of the distant city twinkling like fire flies 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 often 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, and the valley, in sheen and sunshine, is again before you. Eighteen miles east of San José, 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 $75,000, and is as complete as money and skill could make it. It connects with the Alum Rock avenue, about four miles from San José, 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, and the valley is no longer in sight. with this change comes a new attraction. You are now in the mountains, and deep gorges upon the one hand, and the steep hillside upon 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. But Here in a charm ing nook of the mountain, half-circled by a sparkling stream, a comfortable hotel is found. Near as the summit appears from this point, there is 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 4,250 feet, you are at the observatory. From here, the view is grand and impressive. At your feet, dotted with villages, and rimmed in 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 hidden 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 ten thousand feet high, is enthroned in undisputed majesty, over the great valley. As you note this horizon stretching away upon 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 that is 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 |