are here provided for by nature—only the houses for hiding the bathers from general observation being a work of art. Centuries ago, the unlettered Indians of the Pacific coast were accustomed to resort here to soak away rheumatism and the many ills which aboriginal flesh is heir to, by wallowing in the hot, black, sulphurous mud, which boiled and bubbled like the witches' broth in infernal cauldrons. Wide grain fields, trim vineyards, and tea plantations spread away in all directions from the hamlet which surrounds the hotel. The proprietor of all this magnificent—I may say princely—estate of Calistoga, is Samuel Brannan, one of the most enterprising of the early business men of the Pacific coast. He has recently disposed of all his productive property in the heart of San Francisco, and come here to make his homeland devote the autumn of life to building up as a monument of his energy, taste and public spirit, the great health and pleasure resort of California. The soil is wonderfully productive; the air in autumn, winter, and early spring pure and bracing; in summer tropical; the mountains round about are filled with attractions for the tourist and pleasure-seeker, and altogether Calistoga is one of the pet institutions of California. Just across the way from the hotel piazza is a little house, enclosing a spring of peculiar character. The water is clear as crystal, scalding hot, and impregnated with mineral substances of wonderfully health-restoring properties. A dash of salt and pepper causes a bowl of it to become, so far as sight, taste and smell can distinguish, the exact counterpart of fresh chicken broth. Many
