It is a pleasant journey of 150 miles through the pine forests from Portland to Tacoma.  Any one of the splendid steamers of the Union Pacific may be taken for a trip to Victoria.  Leaving Tacoma in the morning, we sail over that noble sheet of water, Puget Sound.  The hills on either side are darkly green, the Sound widening slowly as we go.  Seattle is reached in three hours, a busy town of 35,000 people, full of vim, push, and energy.  Twenty million dollars’ worth of property went up in flame and smoke in Seattle’s great fire of June 6, 1889.  The ashes were scarcely cold when her enthusiastic citizens began to build anew, better, stronger, and more beautiful than before.  A city of brick, stone, and iron has arisen, monumental evidence of the energy, pluck, and perseverance of the people, and of their fervent faith in the future of Seattle.  Then Port Townsend, with its beautiful harbor and gently sloping bluffs, “the city of destiny,” beyond all doubt, of any of the towns on the Sound.  Favored by nature in many ways, Townsend has the finest roadstead and the best anchorage ground in these waters, and this must tell in the end, when advantages for sea trade are considered.  Victoria, B.C., is reached in the evening, and we sleep that night in Her Majesty’s dominions.  The next day may be spent very pleasantly in driving and walking about the city, a handsome town of 14,000 people.

[Illustration:  Cascades, from the Oregon shore, Columbia river.  On the Union Pacific Ry.]

A thorough system of macadamized roads radiates from Victoria, furnishing about 100 miles of beautiful drives.  Many of these drives are lined with very handsome suburban residences, surrounded with lawns and parks.  Esquimalt, near Victoria, has a fine harbor.  This is the British naval station where several iron-clads are usually stationed.  There is also an extensive dry-dock, hewn out of the solid rock, capacious enough to receive large vessels.

In the evening after dinner, one can return to the steamer and take possession of a stateroom, for the boat leaves at four in the morning.  When breakfast time comes we are well on our return trip, and moving past Port Townsend again.  The majestic straits of Fuca, through which we have passed, are well worth a visit; it is a taste of being at sea without any discomfort, for the water is without a ripple.  As we steam homeward there is a vision which has been described for all time by a master hand.  “One becomes aware of a vast, white shadow in the water.  It is a giant mountain dome of snow in the depths of tranquil blue.  The smoky haze of an Oregon August hid all the length of its lesser ridges and left this mighty summit based upon uplifting dimness.  Only its splendid snows were visible high in the unearthly regions of clear, noonday sky.  Kingly and alone stood this majesty without any visible comrade, though far to the north and south there were isolated sovereigns.  This regal gem the Christians have dubbed Mount Rainier, but more melodious is its Indian name, ‘Tacoma.’”