Part 16

A few miles south of San Miguel we forded the Salinas River, a broad but shallow stream winding through a wide, sandy bed. Two men with a stout team of horses were waiting on the opposite side to give a lift to the cars which stalled in the heavy sand—for a consideration, of course—and their faces showed plain evidence of disgust when we scrambled up the bank under our own power. In the wet season the Salinas often becomes a raging torrent and a detour of several miles by the way of Indian Valley to Bradley becomes necessary. At Bradley we again crossed over a long bridge and the road then swings away from the river and runs through the wide level wheatfields of the Salinas Valley. And for the rest of the day, except when crossing an occasional hill range, we passed through endless wheatfields, stretching away to the distant hills. On our first trip the fields did not look very promising, owing to protracted drouth, but a year later we saw the same country in the full glory of a magnificent crop. In these vast tracts harvesting and threshing are done at one operation by huge machines drawn by steam engines. A farmer told us he had seen the valley covered with grain that was above his head when he walked in it, and he was a sizable fellow, too.

There is nothing at Jolon except a country store and two or three saloons—typical western drinking-resorts with a few lazy greasers loafing about. There is a good-looking hotel here, but we preferred our usual open-air luncheon under a mammoth oak—there are hundreds of them above Jolon. Just beyond we crossed the Jolon grade, which had some of the steepest pitches we had yet found. The road took us through beautiful oak-covered hills and at the foot of the grade we came back to the Salinas River. We had been using a map issued by a prominent automobile manufacturer, which showed San Antonio Mission just across the river at King City. Of course we should have to visit this, even if we were late in reaching Monterey. A farmer of whom we inquired for the old mission at King City looked at us blankly.

"Old mission," he echoed, "I don't know of any in these parts."

"But our map shows San Antonio Mission at King City."

"Well, your map is wrong, then—San Antonio is back over the grade six miles from Jolon." And one of the ladies declared that Father Nevin at San Miguel had said something of that sort—why didn't we pay attention at the time? We recognized the futility of any attempt at argument under such circumstances and prudently held our peace. But it was clear enough that San Antonio was not at King City.

"Oh, well," we finally decided, "we shall have to come back this way, in any event, for we have missed La Purisima near Lompoc and we have determined to see them all."

Soledad is a dozen miles farther on the road and near there "Our Lady of the Solitude" was founded in 1791. Crossing the Salinas again over a ram-shackle bridge—the flood swept it away a year later—we came into the street of the little village, which consisted of a few cottages, several stores, and a blacksmith shop—we remember the latter particularly because we hailed the worthy smith and inquired for the mission. He met us with a counter query:

"Are you just on a sightseeing trip?" We admitted this to be our prime object and he quickly rejoined,

"Then there ain't no use in your goin' to see the mission, for there ain't nothin' to see. Besides, the road is mighty bad—all cut up just now"—but seeing we were not satisfied, he added,

"It's just across the river yonder; you'll have to go back to the bridge and turn to the right."

We thanked him and acted on his directions, and we soon found he was right enough—about the road, at least. It had recently been ploughed, leaving a long stretch of powdery dust, axle-deep. We plunged into it, rolling from one side to the other and making exceedingly slow progress. At no time on our tour did it seem more likely that a team of horses would have to be "commandeered," but by keeping at it—had we stopped a single instant we could never have started on our own power—we came through at last, and seeing nothing of the ruins inquired of some men at a pumping station.

"Just over the hill," they replied; but we stopped to see one of the California irrigation wells, and it was something of a spectacle to behold a huge centrifugal pump pouring out six thousand gallons of crystal-clear water every minute.

"She will keep up that gait for four months at a time," said one of the workmen, "and there are several bigger wells in the neighborhood; there surely must be something of a lake under our feet."

The effect of these wells was shown in the green fields, which contrasted with the brown, withered country through which we had been passing.

Our friend the blacksmith was right again when he said that the mission "wasn't worth seein'"—just as a spectacle removed from any sentiment it would never repay for the strenuous plunge through the sandy stretch. But "Our Lady of the Solitude" means something more than a few crumbling bits of adobe wall; here is the same human interest and romance that clusters around beautiful Capistrano or delightful Santa Barbara. There is not enough left to give any idea of the architectural or general plan of the buildings; there is even doubt if some of the buildings were not erected after the American occupation. The material was adobe and this does not appear to have been protected by stucco or cement; as a consequence the ruin is complete and in a few years more only heaps of yellow clay will mark the site of the mission. The principal ruins are of the church, which the Sobranes family of Soledad claim was erected by their grandfather in 1850. He was baptized and married in the original church and when this fell to ruin he built the structure whose remains we see to-day. If this claim be true, there is indeed little left of the original mission.

The site is a superb one. The mission stood on one of the foothills which overlook the wide vale of the Salinas, stretching away to the rugged blue ranges of the Sierras. The river may be seen as a gleaming silver thread in the wide ribbon of yellow sand through which it courses, fringed now and then by green shrubs and trees. Across the river is the village of Soledad and the wheatfields beyond are dotted with ranch-houses at wide intervals. It was a fine, invigorating day; the wind, which whiffed sand into our faces all the afternoon, had subsided; a soft, somnolent haze had settled over the landscape; and the low, declining sun reminded us that we must be moving if we were to reach Monterey before dark.

There is not much of history connected with the pitiful relics we were leaving behind. The records belonging to Our Lady of the Solitude have perished with her earthen walls and we could learn only the general details of her story. Founded in 1791 by Father Lasuen, the mission reached its zenith in 1805, when there were seven hundred and twenty-seven neophytes under its control. They possessed large numbers of live stock and had built an extensive irrigating system, traces of which may still be seen. Soledad faded away even more rapidly than its contemporaries following the Mexican confiscation. Six years after this event, which occurred in 1835, only seventy Indians remained, and ten years later the property was sold for eight hundred dollars to the Sobranes, who claim to have built the church. Our Lady of the Solitude is quite past any restoration and it is not likely that a new building will ever be erected on the spot. It will soon take its place with Santa Cruz and San Rafael, which have totally disappeared.

But while we were moralizing about the fate of the mission we were running into some dreadful road. We decided on the advice of a farmer not to retrace our way to Soledad village, but to follow the road on the west side of the river to the crossing at Gonzales, some ten miles distant. It proved a rough, narrow, winding road and we managed to lose it once or twice and came very near stalling in some of the sandy stretches. But the series of views across the valley from the low foothills along which we coursed atoned for the drawbacks, and the bridge at Gonzales brought us back to the main Salinas highway. This proved an excellent macadam road and its long, smooth stretches enabled us to make up for the numerous delays of the day. Salinas, a modern, prosperous-looking town of some four thousand people, is the commercial center of the vast wheatfields surrounding it. Here is located the largest beet-sugar factory in the world and fruit-raising is also a considerable industry. Our run had been a long one and we were quite weary enough to stop for the night, but visions of Del Monte and Monterey still lured us on. We quickly covered the twenty miles to the old capital, the road winding between the glorious hills on either side. These were clothed with a mantle of velvety grass variegated with pale blue lupines and golden poppies and studded with sprawling old oaks—a scene of rare charm in color and contour. We reached the Del Monte just at dusk and were glad that darkness partly hid our somewhat unkempt and travel-stained appearance.

XI

THE CHARM OF OLD MONTEREY

"I say God's kingdom is at hand Right here, if we but lift our eyes; I say there is no line nor land Between this land and Paradise."

So sang Joaquin Miller, the Good Gray Poet of the Sierras. What particular place in California he had in mind I do not know, but if I were making application of his verse to any one spot, it would be Monterey and the immediate vicinity. Perhaps I am unduly prepossessed in favor of Del Monte, for here I came on my wedding tour many years ago, and I often wondered whether, if I should ever come again, it would seem the same fairyland and haven of rest that it did on that memorable occasion. I say "haven of rest," for such indeed it seemed in the fullest sense after an all-day trip on a little coast steamer from San Francisco. It was my first voyage and the sea was as rough as I have ever seen it; great waves tossed the little tub of a boat until one could stand on deck only with difficulty. Perhaps I am not competent to give an opinion about standing on deck when during most of the trip I perforce occupied a berth in the ill-smelling little cabin. When the Captain called us to dinner we made a bold effort to respond and I still recall the long, boxlike trench around the table to keep the dishes from sliding about. One whiff of the menu of the "Los Angeles" satisfied us and we retired precipitately to the cabin. The boat was twelve mortal hours in making the trip. When we landed the earth itself seemed unstable and it was not until the following morning that "Richard was himself again."

I do not know that such a digression as this is in place in a motor-travel book. However that may be, I shall never forget the first impressions of Del Monte and its delightful surroundings on the following morning; nor can anything eradicate the roseate memory of the scenes of the seventeen-mile drive, although we made it in so plebeian a vehicle as a horse-drawn buggy.

But Del Monte was not less satisfying or its surroundings less beautiful on the lovely morning—an almost unnecessary qualification, for lovely summer mornings are the rule at Del Monte—following our second arrival at this famous inn. Its praises have been so widely sounded by so much better authorities than myself that any lengthy description here would surely be superfluous. I shall content myself with introducing a page from "America, the Land of Contrasts," by that experienced traveler, Dr. Muirhead, author of Baedeker's guides for Great Britain and the United States, who unqualifiedly pronounces Del Monte the "best hotel on the American continent" and while such a statement must be largely a matter of personal opinion, all, we think, will concede that the famous hotel is most delightfully situated. Dr. Muirhead writes:

"The Hotel Del Monte lies amid blue-grass lawns and exquisite grounds, in some ways recalling the parks of England's gentry, though including among its noble trees such un-English specimens as the sprawling and moss-draped live-oaks and the curious Monterey pines and cypresses. Its gardens offer a continual feast of color, with their solid acres of roses, violets, calla lilies, heliotrope, narcissus, tulips, and crocuses; and one part of them, known as 'Arizona,' contains a wonderful collection of cacti. The hotel is very large, enclosing a spacious garden-court, and makes a pleasant enough impression, with its turrets, balconies, and verandas, its many sharp gables, dormers, and window-hoods. The economy of the interior reminded me more strongly of the amenities and decencies of the house of a refined, well-to-do, and yet not extravagantly wealthy family than of the usual hotel atmosphere. There were none of the blue satin hangings, ormolu vases, and other entirely superfluous luxuries for which we have to pay in the bills of certain hotels at Paris and elsewhere; but on the other hand nothing was lacking that a fastidious but reasonable taste could demand. The rooms and corridors are spacious and airy; everything was as clean and fresh as white paint and floor polish could make them; the beds were comfortable and fragrant; the linen was spotless; there was lots of 'hanging room;' each pair of bedrooms shared a bathroom; the cuisine was good and sufficiently varied; the waiters were attentive; flowers were abundant without and within. The price of all this real luxury was $3.00 to $3.50 a day. Possibly the absolute perfection of the bright and soft California spring when I visited Monterey, and the exquisite beauty of its environment, may have lulled my critical faculties into a state of unusual somnolence; but when I quitted the Del Monte Hotel I felt that I was leaving one of the most charming homes I had ever had the good fortune to live in."

All of which is quite as true to-day as it was more than twenty years ago, when it was first written, excepting that the good doctor would not linger very long at Del Monte on $3.50 per day. And it should be remembered that since the time of Dr. Muirhead's visit many new hotels, which rival Del Monte in location and excellence, have been built in California. The variety and extent of the grounds, the golf links and other amusements, are attractions that might well detain one for some time, even if the surrounding country were not the most beautiful and historic in California. The miles of shady, flower-bordered walks, the lake with its friendly swans, the tennis and croquet grounds, the world-famous golf course, the curious evergreen maze—a duplicate of the one at Hampton Court Palace—the bath-house and the fine beach a few hundred yards to the rear of the hotel, and many other means of diversion always open to the guests, combine to make Del Monte a place where one may spend days without leaving the grounds of the hotel.

Before one begins the exploration of the peninsula he should gain some idea of the historic wealth of Monterey. No other town on the Pacific Coast can vie with this quiet little seaport in this particular. Discovered by Spaniards under Viscaino in 1602—before the Pilgrim Fathers landed—it was named in honor of the Count of Monterey, ninth viceroy of Mexico. It was the record of this explorer and his testimony to the beauty of the spot that led good Father Serra to select Monterey as the site of his second mission, as related elsewhere in this book. This was in 1770, one year after the founding of San Diego. It will be recalled that the first expedition sent out from San Diego returned without reaching Monterey, but it did discover the great harbor of San Francisco. The second expedition, accompanied by Serra himself, resulted successfully and the good Franciscan had the joy of dedicating San Carlos Borromeo in this beautiful spot. The presidio, or military establishment of the soldiers who came with Serra, was located on the present site of the town and later Monterey was made the provincial capital, a distinction which it retained after the Mexican revolt in 1822 until the American occupation in 1846. It was the center of brilliant social life and gallant adventure during the old Spanish days—some hint of which may be gleaned from our description of the second act of the mission play, which is represented to have taken place at San Carlos. There were battles with pirates who more than once attempted to sack the town and who caused the wreck of many ships by erecting false lights on the shore. But all this came to an end and a new era no less picturesque was opened when the two small vessels, the Cyane and the United States, entered the harbor in July 1846. A landing party under the commander, Commodore Sloat, came ashore and hoisted the stars and stripes over the old custom-house, which is standing to-day, still surmounted by the staff which bore the historic flag. We saw this when we began our round of the town—a long, low building guarded by a lone cypress and consisting of two square pavilions with balconies, with a lower edifice between in which dances and social events were held.

It is now used as a lodge room for the Monterey Chapter of the Native Sons of the Golden West and is usually closed to visitors. We had the good fortune to find it open and in charge of a very interesting Native Son, an old-time resident of the town, whose personal experience dated back to the time of the American occupation. He showed us the various relics collected by the organization, among them the base of the old flag-pole, the trunk of a tree blazed by Kit Carson, and two chairs made from the oak under which Viscaino and Serra are said to have landed. He also told us many incidents in the early history of Monterey and I shall never forget his comment on the result of the work of the missions.

"Ah, they were grand old fellows, those Spanish priests; they ridded California of the Indians and a good job it was—if you don't think so, look at Mexico, where they still exist. Civilization and the white man's diseases were the Spaniard's gifts to the Indian and they finally wiped him out of existence."

Certainly an unique if not very cheerful or appreciative view of the work of the Franciscan fathers.

There is a broad plaza before the custom-house and from this the principal streets of the town begin and each seems distinctive of a particular phase of Monterey. Modern improvements have followed Alvarado, while Main is bordered with adobes—some old and tumble-down but nevertheless very picturesque with their tile roofs, white walls, and little gardens bright with roses and geraniums. On this street is the house occupied by Thomas Larkin, the last American consul, who was much involved in the intrigue preceding the American conquest. To the rear of this house is a little rose-embowered, one-room cottage which was occupied by two young lieutenants, Sherman and Halleck, whose names were afterwards to become so famous in the Civil War.

And this is not the only romantic memory of Sherman still existing in Monterey. Over an arched gateway a sign, "The Sherman Rose," attracted our attention. We made bold to enter and knocked at the door of the solid old stone house inside the enclosure. A little old woman, good-looking in spite of her years, answered our call, but soon made it clear that she spoke no English. She pointed to the ancient rose-vine, several inches in diameter, which scattered its huge fragrant yellow blooms in reckless profusion over the trellis above our heads and we understood that this was the rose which legend declares Sherman and a lovely young senorita of Old Monterey planted as a pledge of mutual affection. But we did not know at the time that the old lady who so kindly showed us about the house and gardens and gave us little bouquets of geraniums and rosebuds is reputed in Monterey to be the identical senorita of the story. I think there must be some mythical elements in this supposition, for the lady hardly looked the years made necessary by the fact that Sherman was in Monterey nearly seventy years ago. The legend is that Sherman, when stationed in Monterey, was enamored of Senorita Bonifacio, the most beautiful young woman of the town. In the midst of his romance the young lieutenant was ordered to the east and when he called on his inamorata to acquaint her with the mournful news he wore a Cloth-of-Gold rose in his coat. His sweetheart took the rose, saying,

"Together we will plant this rose and if it lives and flourishes I shall know that your love is true."

He replied, "When it blooms I will come back and claim you."

But whether the story is true or not, it had not the usual ending, for the young officer never returned to redeem his pledge.

Not far from the Larkin house is the long, low, colonnaded home of Alvarado, the last Spanish governor, and near it stands Colton Hall, famous as the meeting-place of the constitutional convention which assembled within its walls on the day that California was admitted to the Union. Its handsome Grecian facade, with a portico supported by two tall white columns, reminds one of some of the stately Colonial homes of the Southern States. It now serves the very useful though somewhat plebeian purpose of the tax collector's office. Some day we hope it may be converted into a museum to house the historic relics of Monterey. It took its name from Walter Colton, the chaplain of the convention and first American alcade or mayor of the town. A diary which he kept during the three years of his office records many stirring incidents of Old California.

Another structure nearing the century mark, built in 1832, is the Washington Hotel, though that was not its original name, and near it is the ramshackle old adobe known by common consent as the Robert Louis Stevenson house. For the well-beloved author was for four months of 1879 a resident of the town at a time when his health and fortunes seemed at their lowest ebb. Even then he was the leading spirit of a little coterie of Bohemians—artists and litterateurs—among them Charles Warner Stoddard, Jules Tavernier, and William Keith, who often met for dinner in the restaurant kept by Jules Simonneau. To the last named, Stevenson gives credit for saving his life by careful nursing during a severe illness which he suffered shortly after coming to Monterey. Simonneau was a rough, full-bearded old frontiersman, but he conceived an attachment for Stevenson which lasted to the day of his death, and never, even under stress of direst need, would he part with the letters or autographed books which the author had sent him. Neither would he permit the publication of any portion of the correspondence—"letters from one gentleman to another," as it was his whim to refer to them. After his death, which occurred a few years ago, his daughter sold the collection to a San Francisco gentleman and it is to be hoped that the letters will ultimately find their way into print, revealing as they do a very intimate and lovable side of Stevenson's character.