Part 13

"Of the mission bells there are many traditions known to all the older people of San Juan. One of these relates to the good old padre, Fray Jose Zalvidea. Of all the mission padres, he more than the others, still survives in the living memory of the people and his name is the 'open sesame' to the treasure caves of local tradition.

"Adhering to the ancient custom of his brethren, he always traveled afoot on his journeys to other missions, or on calls to the sick. Once while returning from a visit to a rancheria in the north, the story runs, he was overtaken near El Toro, some twelve miles away, by the other padre of the mission, who rode in a carreta drawn by oxen. On being invited to get in and ride, he refused and answered pleasantly.

"'Never mind, my brother, I shall arrive at the mission before you to ring the Angelus.'

"The other father, respecting Padre Jose's desire to proceed afoot, did not urge him further, but continued on his way in the carreta.

"Now in those days El Camino Real came into San Juan from the north, not as it does now, along the level side of the Trabuco Valley, but some rods to the east, over the rolling breasts of the lomas. From the mission patio one may still see the depression in the hill-top to the northwest of the mission, where the roadway came over the swelling ground there, and gave the weary traveler from the north a first full view of the mission. When the father in the carreta reached this point on the King's Highway, it was just the hour for the Angelus, and promptly on the moment the bells rang out the three-fold call to prayer. Wondering who could have rung the Angelus in the absence of both fathers, he hastened forward and found that Father Zalvidea, true to his word, had reached the mission before him; but how he did so to this day remains a mystery.

"Another of the traditions is as follows: There lived with her parents near the mission an Indian maid named Matilda, who was very gentle and devout and who loved to care for the sanctuary and to keep fresh flowers upon the altars. She took sick, however, and died just at the break of day. Immediately, in order to announce her departure, the four bells all began of their own accord, or rather, by the hands of angels, to ring together—not merely the solemn tolling of the larger ones for an adult nor the joyful jingling of the two smaller ones for a child, but a mingling of the two, to proclaim both the years of her age and the innocence of her life. Some say it was not the sound of the mission bells at all that was heard ringing down the little valley at dawn, but the bells in heaven which rang out a welcome to her pure soul upon its entrance into the company of the angels."

This church was built of hewn stone and lime mortar, though most of the other buildings are of adobe.

Capistrano has many interesting relics. There are several statues, including one of San Juan Capistrano in military-religious habit, and of the Blessed Virgin. In the library are numerous illuminated books done by the old-time monks, who always ended their work with a flamboyant "Laus Deo." There are numerous old paintings of doubtful value and several beautiful silver candlesticks.

The story of the mission is soon told, for it was very much like that of every other. It was founded in November, 1776, Father Serra himself taking part in the ceremonies. Ten years later there were five hundred and forty-four Indians under the padres, who had made good progress in the cruder arts and manufactures as well as agriculture. The beautiful church was consecrated with great ceremony in 1806 and was destroyed just six years later. It was the first of all to be "secularized." "The administration of the mission," writes Father O'Sullivan, "passed from the fathers into the hands of salaried state officials and it was only a short time until the lands and even the buildings themselves were sold off and the Indians sent adrift. Some years later, 1862, smallpox appeared among them and almost entirely wiped them out of existence, so that to-day not half a dozen San Juaneros remain in the vicinity of the mission." Even this pitiful remnant has disappeared since the foregoing words were written. On our last visit, Father O'Sullivan told us that on that very day he had buried the last descendant of the once numerous San Juan Mission Indians. "Surely," said he, "the day marks the end of an era in the history of San Juan Capistrano Mission, since it witnesses the utter extinction of the race of people for whose welfare this mission came into existence."

It was a lowering evening as we left after our first visit. The sky had become overcast by a dark cloud rolling in from the sea and raindrops began to patter on the ruin about us. "I am sorry to have the weather interfere with your pleasure trip," said Father O'Sullivan, "but I know that you yourselves would welcome the rain if you understood how badly it is needed here." And so we cheerfully splashed over the sixty miles of wet roads, reaching Los Angeles by lamplight.

We made other pilgrimages to San Juan Capistrano under more favorable weather conditions, for the road is a lovely one. I have already told of a trip through the charming country to Santa Ana through the orange, lemon, and walnut groves that crowd up to the road much of the way. Beyond Santa Ana there are fewer fruit trees; here grain fields and huge tracts of lima beans predominate. The latter are a Southern California staple, and it was some time before we learned what they were planting with wheeled seeders the latter part of May. The beans usually mature without rain or irrigation—a crop that seldom fails. The country in the main is flat and uninteresting between Santa Ana and Capistrano, but there is always the joy and inspiration of the distant mountains. On one shimmering forenoon we saw a remarkable mirage in this vicinity—the semblance of a huge lake with trees and green rushes appearing in the distance. It receded as we advanced and finally faded away. Its startling distinctness forcibly recalled the stories we had read of travelers being deceived and tormented by this strange apparition in waterless deserts.

IX

SANTA BARBARA

San Gabriel and San Fernando we had already visited in our rambles out of Los Angeles. The next link in the chain is Ventura, seventy-two miles to the north. From there we planned to follow El Camino Real beyond the Golden Gate to Sonoma, where San Francisco de Asis, the last and remotest of all, passed its short existence—and it proved in all a journey of nearly two thousand miles before we returned to the City of the Angels. A day or two was spent in preparation, studying our maps, packing our trunks, and tuning up the car for the rough roads and stiff grades that it must soon encounter. We were in high anticipation of a glorious trip, for had we not already felt the lure of the open road in California?—and when an old-time friend and his charming wife accepted our invitation to accompany us, our cup of happiness was full.

It is not necessary to say that it was a beautiful day when we finally set out; all California days are beautiful after the first of May and call for no special remark. Leaving Hollywood, with its gorgeous banks of bloom, we crossed over Cahuenga Pass into San Fernando Valley. Of this I have written elsewhere, but it looked even better than when we visited it last; the barley fields were maturing and the olive and apricot groves promised a generous crop. Along the road the roses were in bloom and here and there new houses were going up. Lankershim and Van Nuys are clean, modern towns joined by the splendid new boulevard and show many signs of making good the numerous sweeping claims which they advertise on billboards near at hand. Beyond Calabasas we entered the hills and pursued a winding course through a maze of wooded canyons. On either hand were magnificent oaks, which often overarched the road. Under one of the noblest of these—four or five feet in diameter, with a spread of perhaps one hundred and fifty feet—we paused for our noonday lunch, while the birds among the branches furnished a concert for our benefit. This hill country was but thinly populated and the little ranches which we occasionally passed had anything but a prosperous look. It has shown a marked improvement in many ways since the completion of the new state highway, work on which began shortly after the time of which I write.

The long easy loops of the Canejo Pass led us from the hills to the beautiful Santa Clara Valley, affording an unrivalled view as we descended. This grade is four miles long and, while not very steep at any point, is dangerous because of its many turns and precipitous sides, which in places drop almost sheer for hundreds of feet. A notice at the top restricts speed to four miles per hour, which, if obeyed, would require just an hour for the descent—an example of the ridiculous extremes of many of the "speed limits." A Ventura garage man told me that a few years ago a driver made a wager that he could "do the Canejo" at thirty miles an hour—a piece of folly that resulted in his death as well as that of a companion who was riding with him. We ourselves had ocular demonstration that the descent might be dangerous, for we saw parts of a wrecked car near the middle of the grade and also the tackle used for hauling it up the steep bank down which it had tumbled. The Canejo has since been paved and the grades and sharp turns so greatly reduced that one may do twenty-five miles per hour with far less risk than twelve under the old conditions.

In the valley the road was straight and level for many miles and bordered much of the way by giant eucalyptus trees. The eucalyptus, so common in Southern California, is a wonderfully quick grower and serves some very useful purposes, especially for piles in sea water, since the teredo will not attack it. On either side of the road were vast fields of lima beans; one tract, we were told, comprising more than four thousand acres. Here again we saw a distant mirage—waves of the sea apparently sweeping over the low, level ground before us. We soon came in sight of the ocean and caught a glimpse of Oxnard—the beet-sugar town—a few miles off the main road.

There are two alternate routes which every tourist should take should he make subsequent trips between Ventura and Los Angeles. One of these follows the San Fernando Boulevard to San Fernando town. Here one takes the road past the old mission—about a mile from the town—and leaves the valley a few miles farther through the Santa Susana Pass over a moderate grade—practically the only unimproved section of this road. The highway continues through the wayside hamlets of Simi, Moorpark and Saticoy, running through a well-improved and fertile valley and joining the state road a few miles south of Ventura.

The other route follows the San Fernando Boulevard through Newhall Tunnel past Saugus to Castaic, where it branches to the left. It takes us through the fine fruit-growing and farming country of the Santa Clara Valley and the well-improved towns of Fillmore and Santa Paula. Near Camulos Station on the S. P. R. R. is the famous old Spanish ranch house of the same name which served Helen Hunt Jackson as the prototype of the early home of Ramona. It is said to be the best example extant in Southern California of the hospitable home of the old-time Spanish grandee and one may read a very accurate description of it in Mrs. Jackson's novel. It was formerly freely shown to tourists, but frequent acts of vandalism led the owner to close the house to practically all comers.

The Santa Clara Valley road is now all improved and is bordered with some of the finest fruit ranches in Southern California. It has been very interesting to the writer to note how the improvement of the highways to which I have just referred has been followed by the improvement of the country and villages through which they pass. We made our first runs through these valleys when there was little but sandy trails to guide us and our impression of the towns and ranches was far from favorable. No stronger argument could be made in favor of highway improvement than to cite the rapid strides made in these valleys immediately following the coming of better roads.

Our first impression of Ventura, with its broad streets and flower-girded cottages, was wholly favorable, nor have we any occasion to alter it after several visits. It is a quiet, prosperous town of over four thousand people according to the census—which rapidly becomes inaccurate in California—and depends mostly on the productive country about it, though it is gaining some fame as a resort. The new county courthouse, a white stone palace fronting the sea from the hillside above the town, is of classic design and cost, we were told, a quarter of a million dollars. It would be an ornament to a city ten times the size of Ventura and is a fine illustration of the civic pride of these California communities. The situation of the town is charming indeed—on a slight rise overlooking the shimmering summer sea and just below a range of picturesque hills.

The chief historic attraction is the old mission of San Buenaventura, which gives its name to the town and which was founded by Father Serra himself in 1782. It reached the zenith of prosperity in 1816, when the neophytes numbered thirteen hundred and thirty. The result of secularization here was the same as elsewhere: the property was confiscated and the Indians scattered. In 1843 it was restored to the padres, who eked out a moderate living until the American occupation.

All the buildings of the mission have disappeared except the church, which lately was restored and renovated quite out of its ancient self. The interior is now that of a rather gaudy Catholic chapel and most of the relics of early days have been lost. It is situated in the midst of the town and the priest's house and garden adjoin it. In the latter is a fig tree which has survived since the mission days. Taken altogether, San Buenaventura is one of the most modernized and least interesting of the entire chain. Its redeeming feature is the beautiful bell-tower, though the old-time bells are gone. The church is now in daily use and had a great display of wooden figures and lighted candles when we saw it.

Leaving the town we took the new Rincon "cut off" road following the coast to Santa Barbara and avoiding the Casitas Pass—long a terror to motorists. We took the Casitas route on another occasion and while the road was narrow, rough and steep in places, with many sharp turns, we have done so many worse mountain trails since that the recollection is not very disquieting. Just across the river we passed through a beautiful wooded park, the gift of a public-spirited citizen now deceased. Beyond this we began the ascent of the first hill range—East Casitas—which is rather the steeper of the two. But all the disadvantages of the road are atoned for by the shady nooks, the wild flowers and the magnificent outlooks from frequent vantage points, especially from the eastern summit. Here one looks for miles over wooded hills abloom with the pale lavender of the wild lilac and fading away, range after range, into the blue and purple haze of the distance. West Casitas is practically a repetition of East so far as the climb and descent are concerned; in all there were about seven miles of moderately heavy grades before we came into the level roads through the walnut and lemon groves on the western side. We agreed that Casitas Pass was well worth doing once or twice, but generally the Rincon road is to be preferred.

The coast road was opened in the summer of 1912, and was made possible by the construction of more than a mile of plank causeway around cliffs jutting into the sea and over inlets too deep to fill. The county of Ventura contributed fifty thousand dollars to the work and an equal amount was raised by subscription. It closely follows the shore for the whole distance and is about nine miles shorter than the mountain route. It was quite unimproved at the time we first traversed it, and really rougher than the Casitas road.

The Rincon Route, as it is called, has since been paved and now carries practically all traffic between Ventura and Santa Barbara. It affords a glorious drive along a sea of marvelous light and color and the long shelving boulder-strewn beach is a popular camping and play ground. This route may lack the thrills and rugged scenery of the Casitas Pass road, but its smooth level stretches appeal to the average motorist and the usually bad condition of the Casitas is another deterrent to its frequent use.

Both routes converge at Carpinteria, about twelve miles south of Santa Barbara. This little village has two distinct settlements. The site of the old Spanish settlement was visited by the Monterey expedition as early as 1769 and was named "Carpinteria"—carpenter's shop—because some Indians were building a canoe at the spot. The newer American community is more thriving and up-to-date.

A little to the northwest of the village is a monster grapevine famed throughout the section as the Titan of its class. It is near a farmhouse just off the main road and we turned in to view it. The enormous trunk is ten feet in girth and the vines cover a trellis one hundred feet square. Its maximum crop, said the farmer, was fourteen tons a few years ago—enough to make a big carload. One single cluster, of which he showed us a photograph, weighed no less than twelve pounds. The average yearly crop is ten to fifteen tons. Legend has it that it was first planted in 1809, in which case it would be a little more than a centenarian. It is of the mission variety and shows no signs of decay. A comparison of the trunk with the old man shown in our picture should substantiate at least one "tall California story."

A year or two later we paused to view it again, only to find the dead trunk remaining as a sad witness of its former glory. The immense crop of fruit that it had borne the previous year had so sapped its vitality that it withered and died.

At Summerland, a few miles farther, is the curious phenomenon of large oil derricks standing in the ocean. Here are prolific oil wells beneath the water and the oil gives the surface an opalescent appearance for some distance from the shore. The place was originally founded as a spiritualist colony, but for lack of the promotive genius of a Madame Tingley, it never throve. Possibly the creaking oil pumps and pungent odors of the vicinity had something to do with the disappearance of mediums and their ghostly visitants.

On reaching Santa Barbara we decided on the new Arlington Hotel, an imposing structure of solid concrete and dark red brick, the design following mission lines generally. The towers are beautiful copies of those of the Santa Barbara Mission and the roof is of dark red tiling modeled after the antique pattern of the padres. The plainness of the mission, while carried throughout, is everywhere combined with elegance and comfort. The interior of the public rooms is decidedly unique, the finish being dark brown brick and cement, without wood trimming of any kind. Our rooms were furnished plainly but comfortably; the doors were of undressed lumber stained dark brown and furnished with heavy wrought-iron hinges, latches and locks. In such a land of plenty and variety of food products as California, it is not strange that the better hotels are famous for their "cuisine," as the handbooks style it. The Arlington is no exception to the rule, and the quiet and attentive young waitresses add to the attractiveness of the dining-room.

The first query of the stranger in Santa Barbara is for the mission and no sooner had we removed the stains of travel—and they are plentiful when you motor over the dusty roads of California—and arrayed ourselves in fresh raiment than we, too, sought the famous shrine. An electric car leads almost to its door; or, one will find the walk of a mile a pleasant variation after several hours on the roads.

You have the impression of being familiar with Santa Barbara Mission even before you have seen it, for I doubt if there is any other object in California that has been photographed and illustrated in greater variety. Its position is a superb one, on a hillside looking down on the town and fronting the glorious channel. From its tower balconies you may have one of the finest views to be seen in a land of magnificent views and you can not but admire the wisdom of the old padres in selecting the site when Santa Barbara was nothing but a collection of Indian hovels. Directly in front of the mission is the ancient fountain and below it a huge tank in which the natives washed their clothes—a practice to which they were little addicted before the padres came.

Entering the heavy oaken doors, we found system here for handling the troops of tourists who come almost daily; the guide had just gone with a party and we must wait his return. In the meanwhile we found plenty to interest us, for there were many old paintings, books, and other objects on exhibit. Our guide soon arrived—a spare-looking old priest who spoke with a German accent; he was very courteous and kindly, but not so communicative as we might wish a guide to be in such a place. He led us first to the church, a huge apartment forty by one hundred and sixty-five feet, gaudily painted in Indian designs. It is built of stone with enormously heavy walls—six feet thick—supported by buttresses nine feet square. Its predecessor was destroyed by an earthquake and it would seem that in the new structure the fathers strove to guard against a second disaster of the kind. The interior had been modernized and the decorations reproduce as nearly as possible the original Indian designs. There are numerous carved figures and paintings brought from Spain and Mexico in an early day. One of the paintings is a remarkable antique, representing the Trinity by three figures, each the exact counterpart of the other. A stairway leads to one of the towers and as we ascended we noted the solidity of the construction, concrete and stone being the only materials employed. We were shown the mission bells, two of which are one hundred years old, suspended by rawhide thongs from the beams on the roof. There is a magnificent view from the tower, covering the town and a wide scope of country and extending seaward to the islands beyond the channel. Descending, we were conducted into the cemetery garden where, the guide told us, were buried no less than four thousand Indians during mission days. It is a peaceful spot now, beautiful with flowers and shrubbery and affording a quiet retreat for the monks. There are many rare trees and shrubs and we were especially interested in a giant datura as old, perhaps, as the cemetery. In one corner is a mausoleum where the fathers have been buried since the founding of the mission. Some thirty have been laid to rest here and only five crypts remained unoccupied at the time of our visit.