Part 17

The house was in a sad state of disrepair, the first floor being occupied by a sign-painter's shop at the time of our visit. An erect old fellow, who looked as if his chief failing might be a too free indulgence in one of California's chief products, came out to greet us as we paused before the house, and pointed out the room the great writer occupied during his stay in Monterey. It must have been hard indeed for this prince of optimists to "travel hopefully" under the conditions that surrounded him those few months of his life—exiled, penniless, and ill, domiciled in such rude and comfortless quarters, he must have been as near despair as at any time in his career, yet out of it all came some of his best work.

Our informant refused a fee in a lordly manner.

"I'm a retired officer of the United States Navy, a classmate of Bob Evans, and I was on the Minnesota during the fight with the Merrimac," he declared, and left us with a formal military salute.

Our picture, the work of a Monterey artist, shows the harsh outlines and bare surroundings of the old house accentuated by a flood of California sunshine.

There are many other interesting and picturesque old buildings about the town, among them several that claim the distinction of being the first—or last—of their kind in the state. A tumble-down frame structure is declared to have been the first wooden house in California, built in 1849 of lumber brought from Australia. Talk of "carrying coals to Newcastle," what is that to bringing lumber ten thousand miles to the home of the redwood! The first brick house and the first adobe are also to be seen in the town and the first theatre—where Jenny Lind sang in 1861—still stands.

As one views the historic buildings of Monterey, the painful thought is forced upon him that nearly all are in a deplorable state of dilapidation and that many will have disappeared in a few years unless steps are taken to restore and preserve them. Neither Monterey nor the State of California can afford to lose these memorials of the romantic days of old and it is to be hoped that an enlightened movement to protect them, as well as the missions, may soon be inaugurated by the state.

The one ancient building in Monterey which bears its years very lightly is the fine old church of San Carlos. This is often confused with the mission, but the fact is that it was the parish, or presidio church, as it was called in Spanish days, and was really built as a place of worship for the soldiers, who were at considerable distance from the mission proper at Carmel. There were often bickerings between the Indians and soldiers and the monks judged it best to give the latter a separate chapel. The church was built some time later than the mission—the exact date is not clear—and was enlarged and restored about sixty years ago. The material is light brown stone quarried in the vicinity and the roof is of modern tiles. The pavement in front of the church is made of curious octagonal blocks which we took for artificial stone, but which are really the vertebrae of a whale—reminding us that at one time whale-fishing expeditions often went out from Monterey.

The interior is that of a modern Catholic church, but there are numerous relics in the vestry which the priest in charge exhibits to visitors for a small fee; candlesticks and vessels in silver and brass, and richly broidered vestments and altar cloths. Most interesting are many relics of Father Serra, including several books inscribed by his own hand. These were brought from Carmel Mission when it was finally abandoned.

Another object that aroused our curiosity was the trunk of a huge oak set in cement and carefully preserved. This, the priest told us, was the Serra Oak, under which Viscaino landed in 1602 and which sheltered Serra himself in 1770, when he took possession of Monterey for the king of Spain. It grew near the present entrance of the presidio, but withered and died shortly after Father Serra passed away. The trunk was thrown into the sea to dispose of it, but two pious Mexicans dragged it ashore and it was finally placed where we saw it, in the garden of San Carlos Church.

The church stands on the hill which overlooks the town and of old must have been the first object reared by human hands to greet the incoming mariners. At one time it commanded a fine view of the bay, but this is now obstructed by the buildings of St. Joseph School.

Monterey was one of the points visited by Dana in 1835, towards the end of the Spanish domination, and the picture he gives is a charming one:

"The pretty lawn on which the village stands, as green as sun and rain could make it; the low adobe houses with red tiles; the pine wood on the south; the small soiled tri-color flag flying and the discordant din of drums and trumpets for the noon parade," were the salient features of the town that he sets down. Of these, the low adobe houses with the red tiles and the pine wood still remain, but the green lawn and the tri-color flag of Spain are to be seen no more.

After the town the mission will be the next goal of the tourist—if, indeed, it has not been the first object to engage his attention. It is on the other side of the peninsula, some five miles from the Del Monte and a short distance beyond the lovely little village of Carmel-by-the-Sea. The road for half the distance climbs a steady grade and then drops down through the village to the shore of the bay. Here, within a stone's throw of the rippling water, sheltered by the hills on the land side, stands the restored mission church which probably outranks all its contemporaries in historic significance. For it was in a sense the home of the pious old monk whose zeal and energy were responsible for the long chain of Christian missions; and in its solemn confines he was laid to rest. We saw in it a striking resemblance to the presidio church which we had just left, a square, simple bell-tower with a domed roof to the left of the fachada, which is of the prevailing Spanish type. This is broken by a star window of simple yet pleasing design—the only attempt at artistic effect about the severely plain old structure. As it stands, it is the result of a restoration, thirty years ago, from an almost complete ruin—just how complete one may judge from a drawing made by Henry Sandham for Mrs. Jackson's "Glimpses of California," which appeared in 1882. Only two slender arches of the roof were standing then and the space between the walls was filled with unsightly piles of debris. Underneath this was the grave of the reverend founder, Father Serra, the exact location of which was lost. No doubt the earnest appeal of the author of "Ramona" had much to do with the rescue of Carmel Mission Church from the fate which threatened it. She wrote:

"It is a disgrace to both the Catholic Church and the State of California that the grand old ruin, with its sacred sepulchres, should be left to crumble away. If nothing is done to protect and save it, one short hundred years more will see it a shapeless, wind-swept mound of sand. It is not in our power to confer honor or bring dishonor on the illustrious dead. We ourselves, alone, are dishonored when we fail in reverence to them. The grave of Junipero Serra may be buried centuries deep, and its very place forgotten; yet his name will not perish, nor his fame suffer. But for the men of the country whose civilization he founded and of the church whose faith he so glorified, to permit his burial-place to sink into oblivion is a shame indeed."

Such an appeal could hardly pass unheeded; the old church rose from its ruins and the grave of Serra was discovered near the altar. Above it on the wall is a marble tablet with a Latin inscription which may be translated as follows:

"Here lie the remains of the Administrator Rev. Father Junipero Serra Order of Saint Francis Founder of the California Missions And President Buried in peace. Died 28th day of August A. D. 1784 And his companions Rev. Fathers John Crespi Julian Lopez and Francis Lasuen May they rest in peace."

Surely it is a pleasant resting-place for the weary old priest and no doubt the spot above all others which he himself would have chosen. Could he look back on his field of work to-day perhaps his sorrow for the wreck and ruin of his cherished dream might be mitigated by the tributes of an alien people to his sincerity of purpose and beauty of character.

Beautiful as was the situation of nearly all the missions, we were inclined to give to Carmel preeminence in this regard. Around it glows the gold of the California poppy; a bright, peaceful river glides quietly past; rugged, pine-crested hills rise on either side and a short distance down the valley is the blue gleam of Carmel Bay, edged by a wide crescent of yellow sand. Beyond this is the rugged, cypress-crowned headland, Point Lobos—why called the Point of Wolves I do not know unless it be that the insatiable waves that gnaw ceaselessly at the granite rocks suggested to some poetic soul the idea of ravenous beasts.

The mission is the sole object in this magnificent setting. The tiny cot of the keeper and a quiet farm-house are almost the only indications of human life in the pleasant vale. The monastery has vanished and only a bank of adobe shows where the cloisters stood. The roof of the church has been renewed, but the walls are still covered with the ancient plaster, which has weather-stained to mottled pink and old ivory. It is now guarded with loving care and with the reviving interest in things ancient and romantic in California is sure to be preserved to tell to future ages the story of the brave and true Little Brother of St. Francis, who sleeps his long sleep in its hallowed precincts.

Carmel's story may be told in few words. Founded by Serra himself in 1770, it did not reach its zenith of prosperity until after his death, which occurred in 1784. The story of his last illness and demise—a pathetic yet inspiring one—is beautifully told in Mrs. Jackson's "California Sketches." It was on August 28th that he finally passed away, so quietly and peacefully that all thought him sleeping. The distress and sorrow of his Indian charges on learning of his death is one of the strongest tributes to his lovable character. A year after his death his successor as president was chosen—Padre Lasuen, who himself founded several missions, as we have seen.

The hospitality of the fathers is shown by the recorded incident of the English navigator, Vancouver, who reached Monterey in 1787. Lasuen gave a grand dinner and even a display of fireworks in honor of his guest, although he belonged to a nation very unfriendly to Spain. The good priest, however, was rebuked by the governor, who was away at the time, for allowing the Englishman to discover the weakness of the Spanish defenses in California.

Carmel Mission declined earlier and more rapidly than many of its contemporaries, for in 1833, the year prior to secularization, there were only one hundred and fifty Indians remaining and in a decade these had dwindled to less than fifty. In 1845 the property was completely abandoned and sold at auction for a mere trifle. No one cared for the building and seven years later the tile roof fell in. Of the restoration we have already told.

One will hardly return from the mission without a glance about Carmel village. Indeed, if he be fond of quiet retirement, and his time permits, he may even be tempted to a sojourn of a day or more. It is a delightfully rural place, its cottages scattered through fragrant pines which cover most of its site, and running down to a clean, white beach along the bay, from which one has a splendid view of the opposite shore, including Point Lobos. Carmel is a favorite resort for college professors and there are numerous artists who find much material for their skill in the immediate vicinity. Our frontispiece, "The Gate of Val Paiso Canyon," is the work of a talented member of the Carmel Colony and a fine example of some of the striking and virile things they produce—though we must concede them a great advantage in the wealth of striking and virile subjects so readily at hand. Carmel claims that its climate is even more genial and equable than that of the other side of the peninsula—but I believe I stated at the outset that climate is not to be discussed in this book.

No road in the whole country is more famous than Monterey's seventeen-mile drive; one could never become weary of its glorious bits of coast—wide vistas of summer seas and gnarled old cypresses, found nowhere else in the New World. It is still called the seventeen-mile drive, though it has been added to until there are forty miles of macadam boulevard on the peninsula. Leaving Monterey we passed the presidio, where a regiment of United States regulars is permanently stationed—being mostly troops enroute to, or returning from, the Philippines. Near the entrance is a marble statue of the patron saint of Monterey, Father Serra, commemorating his landing in 1770. It shows the good priest stepping from the boat, Bible in hand, to begin work in the new field. This monument was the gift of Mrs. Leland Stanford, to whose munificence California is so greatly indebted. A cross just outside the entrance, standing in the place of the ancient oak whose dead trunk we saw at San Carlos Church, is supposed to mark the exact landing-spot of both Serra and Viscaino. There is also the Sloat monument, reared of stones from every county in the state, which commemorates the raising of the American flag by the admiral in 1846. The roads in the presidio are open to motors and one may witness the daily military exercises from a comfortable seat in his car.

Beyond the presidio is Pacific Grove, a resort town nearly as large as Monterey—just why "Pacific Grove" is not clear, for there are not many trees in the town. It was founded in 1869 as a camp-meeting ground and is still famous as a headquarters for religious societies. From here one may take a glass-bottomed boat to view the "marine gardens," which are said to surpass those at Avalon.

Beyond Pacific Grove we passed through a dense pine forest—this is the Pacific Grove, perhaps—and coming into the open, we followed white sand dunes for some distance along the sea. A sign, "Moss Beach," called for an immediate halt and the ladies found treasures untold in the strange, brilliantly colored bits of moss and sea-weed washed ashore here in unlimited quantities. It is a wild, boulder-strewn bit of beach, damp with spray and resonant with the swish of the waves among the rocks. Beyond here the road continues through dunes, brilliant in places with pink and yellow sand-flowers. We passed Point Joe, Restless Sea—where two opposing currents wrestle in an eternal maelstrom—Bird Rocks, and Seal Rocks—the latter the home of the largest sea-lion colony on the coast. The sea was glorious beyond description; perhaps the same is true of any sunny day at Monterey, and nearly all days at Monterey are sunny. It showed all tones of blue, from solid indigo to pale sapphire, with a strip of light emerald near the shore, edged by the long, white breakers chafing on the beach. Here and there, at some distance from the shore, the deep-blue expanse was broken by patches of royal purple—an effect produced by the floating kelp. A clear azure sky bent down to the wide circle of the horizon, with an occasional white sail or steamer to break the sweep of one's vision over the waste of shining water. It is not strange that Stevenson, who had seen and written so much of the sea, should say of such a scene, "No other coast have I enjoyed so much in all weather—such a spectacle of ocean's greatness, such beauty of changing color, and so much thunder in the sound—as at Monterey."

The climax of the seventeen-mile drive is Cypress Point, with its weird old trees. Description and picture are weak to give any true conception of these fantastic, wind-blown monsters. It is, indeed, as Stevenson wrote—and who was able to judge of such things better than he?—"No words can give any idea of the contortions of their growth; they might figure without a change in the nether hell as Dante pictured it." And yet, with all their suggestion of the infernal regions, there is much of beauty and charm in their very deformity. There is about them a certain strength and ruggedness, born of their age-long defiance to the wild northwestern winds, that is alike an admonition and an inspiration to the beholder. If you would get my idea, select one of these strange trees standing by itself in solemn majesty on some rocky headland—as shown in Mr. Moran's splendid picture—and note how its very form and attitude breathe defiance to the forces that would beat it down and destroy it. Or take another which lies almost prone on the brown earth, its monstrous arms writhing in a thousand contortions, yet its expanse of moss-green foliage rising but little higher than your head, and note how it has stooped to conquer these same adverse elements.

Among the most familiar objects of the Point is the "Ostrich," two cypresses growing together so as to give from certain viewpoints a striking resemblance to a giant bird of that species. It is not the forced resemblance of so many natural objects to fancied likenesses, but is apparent to everyone at once. The traveler of to-day, however, will look in vain for this curious natural freak; it was swept away with hundreds of other ancient pines and cypresses in the violent hurricane of April 1917.

At the extremity of the Point, the road turns and enters a second grove of cypresses which, being farther removed from the storm and stress of the sea, are more symmetrical, though all of them have, to some extent, the same wind-swept appearance. Their branches overarched the fine road and through their trunks on our right flashed the bright expanse of Carmel Bay. Our motor was throttled to its slowest pace as we passed through the marvelous scenes and there were many stops for photographs of picturesque bits that struck our fancy.

The cypresses were superseded by pines when we came into the projected town of Pebble Beach, which is being vigorously exploited by a promotion company—a rival, we suppose, to Pacific Grove, which lies directly opposite on the peninsula. In the center of the tract is Pebble Beach Lodge, a huge rustic structure of pine logs from the surrounding forest, which serves as an assembly hall and club house for the guests of the Del Monte. A short distance beyond Pebble Beach the drive swings across the peninsula and returns to the Hotel Del Monte.

In addition to the route following the coast—the seventeen-mile drive proper, which I have just described—there is a network of boulevards in the interior swinging around the low hills in easy curves and grades. A moderate-powered car can cover the entire system on high gear, even to Corona Del Monte, the highest point of the peninsula, which takes one nearly nine hundred feet above the sea and affords a far-reaching outlook in all directions. The dark blue bay of Monterey, the white crescent of the beach, the drives, the pine and cypress groves, the red roofs of the town, and the Hotel Del Monte near by, half hidden in the dense green of the forest surrounding it, make a lovely and never-to-be-forgotten picture. The mountain to the east is Fremont Peak, forty miles away—a name that reminds us how much the Pathfinder figured in the old California of which Monterey is so typical.

They told us that Point Lobos, the rocky, cypress-crowned headland which we saw across Carmel Bay, is the equal of anything on the peninsula in scenic beauty, and there we wended our way on the last day of our stay at Del Monte. Crossing to Carmel, we glided down the hill past the old mission and over the river bridge at the head of the bay. From there a road following the shore took us to the entrance of Point Lobos Park, which is private property, and a small fee is charged for each vehicle. A rough trail led to the cypress grove on the headland, where we found many delightful nooks among the sprawling old trees—grassy little glades surrounded by the velvety foliage—ideal spots for picnic dinners. In one of these is the complete mounted skeleton of a ninety-foot whale, which might serve as an argument against the learned critics who discredit the story of Jonah and his piscatorial experience. Like the pavement of San Carlos Church, it is another reminder of one of Monterey's vanished industries.

A good authority testifies that there are few more strikingly picturesque bits of coast on the whole of the Pacific than Point Lobos. The high, rugged promontory falls almost sheer to the ocean, which raves ceaselessly among the huge moss-grown boulders that have yielded to the stress of storm and tumbled down on to the beach. The play of color is marvelous; scarped cliffs of red-brown granite, flecked with gray and green lichens; black boulders with patches of yellowish-green moss; and hardy, somber trees which have found a footing on the precipices, here and there, almost down to the water's edge. Out beyond we saw a steely-blue ocean, with frequent whitecaps, for it was a fresh, bright day with a stiff breeze blowing from the sea. I believe there may be finer individual trees on Point Lobos than on the Monterey peninsula—some of them in their kingly mien and grim solemnity reminding us of famous yews we had seen in English churchyards such as Twyford, Selborne and Stoke Pogis. A great variety of wild flowers still farther enhanced the charm of the place. It is a spot, it seemed to us, where anyone who admires the sublime and beautiful in nature might spend many hours if he had them at his disposal.

Returning, we noticed a good-sized building on the bay with the sign, "Abalone Cannery," and our curiosity prompted us to drive down to it. It was not in operation, a solitary Jap in charge telling us that the season was now closed. He was an obliging, intelligent fellow, and showed us the machines and appliances of the plant, explaining as best he could in his scanty English. The abalones are taken by Japanese divers, who find them clinging to rocks under the water. The mussels are removed from the shells, cooked in steam drums, and tinned, the product being mainly shipped to Japan. In this connection it may be remarked that the fishing industry about Monterey produces a considerable annual total, several canneries being in operation in the vicinity. Many kinds of fish are taken—and as a field for the sportsman with rod and line the bay is quite equal to Catalina Island waters.