ariety in San
Francisco in those days, and venison steak was as often served up to
us at Frank's as beef, while canvasback ducks had not yet flown out of
the poor man's sight; so we had many a savory meal there, generally
served by a waiter named Monroe, with whom Mr. Stevenson now and then
exchanged a friendly jest. I remember one day when Monroe, remarking
on the depression of spirits from which Louis suffered during the
temporary absence of the women of his family, said: "I had half a mind
to take him in a piece of calico on a plate."

Once more the picture changes, now to the town of Calistoga--with its
hybrid name made up of syllables from Saratoga and California--where
we stayed for a few days at the old Springs Hotel while on our way to
Mount Saint Helena, to which mountain refuge Mr. Stevenson was fleeing
from the sea-fogs of the coast. The recollection of this journey seems
to have melted into a general impression of winding mountain roads, of
deep canyons full of tall green trees, of lovely limpid streams
rippling over the stones in darkly shaded depths where the fern-brakes
grew rankly, of burning summer heat, and much dust. At the Springs
Hotel we lived in one of the separate palm-shaded cottages most
agreeably maintained for the guests who liked privacy. On the premises
were tiny sheds built over the steaming holes in the ground which
constituted the Calistoga Hot Springs. It gave one a sensation like
walking about on a sieve over a boiling subterranean caldron.
Determined not to miss any experience, we each took a turn at a
steambath in these sheds, but the sense of imminent suffocation was
too strong to be altogether pleasant.

Then came the wild ride up the side of the mountain, in a six-horse
stage driven at a reckless rate of speed by its indifferent driver,
whirling around curves where the outer wheels had scarcely an inch to
spare, while we looked fearfully down upon the tops of the tall trees
in the canyon far below. If the horses slackened their pace for an
instant, the driver stooped to pick up a stone from a pile that he
kept at his feet and bombarded them into a fresh spurt. At the Toll
House, half-way up the mountain, which still exists in much the same
condition as in those days, we arrived as mere animated pillars of
fine white dust, all individuality as completely lost as though we had
been shrouded in masks and dominoes.

The Toll House was a place of somnolent peace and deep stillness,