Alone, on the other side of the railway, stands the Springs Hotel, with its attendant cottages.  The floor of the valley is extremely level to the very roots of the hills; only here and there a hillock, crowned with pines, rises like the barrow of some chieftain famed in war; and right against one of these hillocks is the Springs Hotel—­is or was; for since I was there the place has been destroyed by fire, and has risen again from its ashes.  A lawn runs about the house, and the lawn is in its turn surrounded by a system of little five-roomed cottages, each with a verandah and a weedy palm before the door.  Some of the cottages are let to residents, and these are wreathed in flowers.  The rest are occupied by ordinary visitors to the Hotel; and a very pleasant way this is, by which you have a little country cottage of your own, without domestic burthens, and by the day or week.

The whole neighbourhood of Mount Saint Helena is full of sulphur and of boiling springs.  The Geysers are famous; they were the great health resort of the Indians before the coming of the whites.  Lake County is dotted with spas; Hot Springs and White Sulphur Springs are the names of two stations on the Napa Valley railroad; and Calistoga itself seems to repose on a mere film above a boiling, subterranean lake.  At one end of the hotel enclosure are the springs from which it takes its name, hot enough to scald a child seriously while I was there.  At the other end, the tenant of a cottage sank a well, and there also the water came up boiling.  It keeps this end of the valley as warm as a toast.  I have gone across to the hotel a little after five in the morning, when a sea fog from the Pacific was hanging thick and gray, and dark and dirty overhead, and found the thermometer had been up before me, and had already climbed among the nineties; and in the stress of the day it was sometimes too hot to move about.

But in spite of this heat from above and below, doing one on both sides, Calistoga was a pleasant place to dwell in; beautifully green, for it was then that favoured moment in the Californian year, when the rains are over and the dusty summer has not yet set in; often visited by fresh airs, now from the mountain, now across Sonoma from the sea; very quiet, very idle, very silent but for the breezes and the cattle bells afield.  And there was something satisfactory in the sight of that great mountain that enclosed us to the north:  whether it stood, robed in sunshine, quaking to its topmost pinnacle with the heat and brightness of the day; or whether it set itself to weaving vapours, wisp after wisp growing, trembling, fleeting, and fading in the blue.

The tangled, woody, and almost trackless foot-hills that enclose the valley, shutting it off from Sonoma on the west, and from Yolo on the east—­rough as they were in outline, dug out by winter streams, crowned by cliffy bluffs and nodding pine trees—­wore dwarfed into satellites by the bulk and bearing of Mount Saint Helena.  She over-towered them by two-thirds of her own stature.  She excelled them by the boldness of her profile.  Her great bald summit, clear of trees and pasture, a cairn of quartz and cinnabar, rejected kinship with the dark and shaggy wilderness of lesser hill-tops.