Usually we were only too willing to leave a hotel for the open road, but we must confess to a lingering regret as we glided away from the fairyland of Del Monte and its romantic environs. Our first words after leaving were something about coming back again—a resolution fulfilled but a year later. The road to Salinas was rebuilding and pretty rough part of the way, but we found a fine boulevard when we returned after the lapse of several months. During our tours we had bad going in many places where state highway work was in progress and this is an inconvenience that the California motorist will have to suffer for some time to come—though I fancy that few obstacles to his smooth progress will be more cheerfully endured.
Our objective was San Juan Bautista, the next mission of the ancient chain. Like the pious pilgrim of old, we would visit them all—though their shrines be fallen into decay and their once hospitable doors no longer open to the wayfarer. San Juan lies beyond the San Benito Hills, the blue range rising to the north of Salinas. We began the ascent with some misgivings, for at Monterey they declared the San Juan grade the steepest and most difficult on El Camino Real. They did not tell us that a longer road by the way of Dumbarton entirely missed the grade or we probably should have gone that way. We are glad we did not know any better, for most mountain climbs in California well repay the effort and this was no exception. The ascent was a steady grind for more than a mile over grades ranging up to twenty per cent and deep with dust. There was a glorious view of the mountain-girdled valley and the ancient village from the hill; we paused to contemplate it—and to allow our steaming motor to cool. The descent was a little over two miles and steeper than the climb; we had a distinct feeling of relief when we rounded the last corner and glided into the grass-grown streets of the village.
I hardly need say that to-day a broad, easy, paved road swings around the mountain instead of attempting the arduous route of the old trail. The little run between Salinas and Bautista is only a joy ride for driver as well as passengers. But we are none the less secretly pleased that we "did" the nerve-racking old grade—now almost abandoned—for such things are usually done only of ignorance when an easier and safer route is the alternative.
San Juan Bautista's excuse for existence was the mission and now that the mission is a shattered ruin the village still lives on without any apparent reason for doing so. It is one of the least altered towns of the old regime in California—not unlike San Juan Capistrano, which, according to the 1910 census had exactly the same population as its northern counterpart, some three hundred and twenty-six souls. But San Juan Bautista is more somnolent and retired than Capistrano, which lies on the San Diego highway. Sheltered behind the mighty hills, with their formidable grades, it is missed by a large proportion of motorists who go by the more direct route between Salinas and Santa Cruz. Its very loneliness and atmosphere of early days constitute its greatest charm; in it we saw a village of mission times, little altered save that the Indians here, as everywhere, have nearly disappeared. There are many old adobe houses—just how old it would be hard to say, but doubtless with a history antedating the American occupation.
The village surrounds a wide, grass-grown plaza upon which fronts the long, solid-looking arcade of the mission. Through this we entered the restored dormitory and a portly Mexican woman left her wash-tub to greet us. The padre, she said, was old and blind and seldom received visitors. We were disappointed, but soon found this apparently ignorant housekeeper fully equal to the task she had assumed. She led us to the church, which was unique in that the auditorium had three aisles separated by arches—something after the style of many English churches we had seen. It was in use until the great earthquake of 1906, which had cracked the arches, shattered the walls, and left it in such a precarious state that one could scarcely stand within it without a feeling of uneasiness. The walls still showed the original decorations, though sadly discolored—these were done in paint made by the Indians from ground rock of different colors. The original tiles covered the roof, though they were rent and displaced, allowing the winter rains to pour through in places. Early repairs and restoration would preserve this remarkable church, but if allowed to remain in its present state its complete ruin is inevitable. The bell-tower had already disappeared and was replaced by a ridiculous wooden cupola totally out of harmony with the spirit of the mission builders. And yet we can hardly censure the fathers in charge for such structures as this and the angle-iron tower at San Miguel, when we consider the scanty means at their disposal—public funds should be available to maintain these historic monuments.
It was a relief to step from the dismal ruin of the church to the well-kept cemetery, with its carefully trimmed evergreens and flower beds. Here in the old days the Indians were buried, though it is not in use now. Our guide showed us, with a good deal of pride, her flower garden on the other side of the church; most of the flowers and plants, she said, had been collected from the other missions—she had visited all of them except one. Then she led us into the plain—almost rude—quarters of the old priest and showed us the relics of which San Juan Bautista has its share. There was a curious organ which worked with a crank and was sometimes used to call the Indians; there were old books, pictures, and furniture; articles in wrought-iron, the work of the natives under the tutelage of the padres; images from Spain and many rare embroidered vestments. All of these were shown, with evident reverence for the—to her—sacred relics of the olden days. It was a labor of love and we could but respect her simple faith and evident loyalty to the aged priest, who manifestly endured many hardships in his humble field of work.
San Juan Bautista Mission was founded in 1797 by the indefatigable Lasuen, who, next to Serra himself, was the most active force in promoting the work in California. The site was a favorable one and the enterprise was successful from the start, its converts exceeding five hundred in less than three years' time. Attacks from hostile Indians and several severe earthquakes disturbed its earlier progress, but its population went on steadily increasing. Twenty-five years after its establishment there were twelve hundred and forty-eight neophytes and it ranked as one of the most successful of all the chain. The beautiful valley surrounding the town responded luxuriantly to tillage and San Juan was able to assist its sister missions from its surplus.
The present church was completed in 1818 and a curious bit of the record is that the decoration was done by a Yankee—assisted by Indians—who assumed a Spanish name for the occasion. In 1835, the date of secularization, the mission had already begun to decline, the population having fallen to less than half its greatest number. This state of affairs was true of so many of the missions that there is reason to believe that even if the Mexican Government had never molested them, their ultimate extinction would only have been delayed. Semicivilization did not breed a hardy race and the white man's diseases more than offset his improved methods of making a living. The records state that there were only sixty-three Indians remaining at the mission in 1835, when the decree went into effect. At this time the property was valued at about one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Mexican governor, Alvarado, declared that secularization was a success here and at San Antonio, though nowhere else, but it was a queer kind of success at San Juan Bautista, for all traces of the community disappeared a year or two later.
The village was occupied by Fremont in 1846 and the stars and stripes were hoisted over the mission at his command. Here he organized his forces for the conquest of the south and marched as far as San Diego, as we have already seen.
Out of San Juan the road was rough and dusty, though we came into a fine macadam boulevard some distance out of Watsonville. Here we entered one of the great fruit-producing districts of California; vast orchards of apples, prunes, and cherries surrounded us on every hand. The blossoming season was just past, and we missed the great ocean of odorous blooms for which this section is famous.
Watsonville is a modern city of perhaps five thousand people, the capital of this prosperous fruit and farming district. It is only a few miles from the ocean and the summer heat is nearly always tempered by sea breezes. Its broad, well-paved main street led us into a fine macadam road which continued nearly all the way to Santa Cruz.
Santa Cruz lies on the north bend of the bay, directly opposite Monterey, and is known as one of the principal resort towns of the California coast. Its population, according to the last census, was nearly eleven thousand and I ran across some "boom" literature which claimed only twelve thousand—an unusual degree of modesty and conservatism for a live California town. There was also a mission here, though it has practically disappeared.
Santa Cruz was associated in our minds with neither seaside resort nor mission, but with the grove of giant redwoods second only to the mighty trees of Mariposa. Our first inquiries were for the road to this famous forest, and we learned it was a few miles north of the town. We followed the river canyon almost due north over a shelflike road cut in the hillsides some distance above the stream. It commands a beautiful view of the wooded valley, which we might have enjoyed more had we not met numerous logging-wagons on the narrow way. The drivers—stolid-looking Portuguese—frequently crowded us dangerously near the precipice along the road; in one instance, according to the nervous ladies in the rear seat, we escaped disaster by a hair's breadth. According to the law in California, a motorist meeting a horse-drawn vehicle on a mountain road must take the outside, even though contrary to the regular rule. The theory is that the people in the car are safer than those behind a skittish horse, though in instances such as I have just mentioned the motorist faces decidedly the greater danger. We climbed a gradual though easy grade for six or seven miles and turned sharply to the right down a steep, winding trail to the river bank.
We left the car here and crossed a high, frail-looking suspension foot-bridge which swayed and quivered in a most alarming manner, though it probably was safe enough. The trees are at the bottom of the canyon in a deep dell shut in by towering hills on either side. They are known as Sequoia Sempervirens (a slightly different species from the Sequoia Gigantea of the Mariposa Grove) a variety never found far from the sea. The grove is private property and the guardian nonchalantly said, "Two bits each, please," when we expressed our desire to go among the trees. He then conducted us around a trail, reciting some interesting particulars about the tawny Titans.
"There are eight hundred trees in the grove," he said, "and of these one hundred and fifty are over eleven feet in diameter and two hundred and twenty-five feet high. This is the only group so near the coast and generally they grow much higher above the sea level. I saw two of them fall in a terrific storm that swept up the valley a few years ago, and the shock was like an earthquake. You can see from the one lying yonder that their roots are shallow and they are more easily overthrown than one would think from their gigantic proportions. This old fire-hollowed fellow here could tell a story if he could speak, for General Fremont made it his house when he camped in this valley in '48. Yes, it is a good deal of a picnic ground here in season—the grove is so accessible that it is visited by more people than any of the others."
All of which we counted worth knowing, even though recited in the perfunctory manner of the professional guide. One needs, however, to forget the curio shops, the pavilions and picnic debris and to imagine himself in the forest primeval to appreciate in its fullest force the solemn majesty of these hoary monarchs. They are indeed wonderful and stately, their tall, tapering shafts rising in symmetrical beauty and grace like the vast columns of some mighty edifice. Millenniums have passed over some of them and all our standards of comparison with other living things fail us. The words of William Watson on an ancient yew recur to us as we gaze on these Titans of the western world:
"What years are thine not mine to guess;
The stars look youthful, thou being by,"
—but our musings were cut short when we noted that the shadows were deepening in the vale. We had some miles of mountain road to traverse if we were to spend the night at San Jose and we retraced our way to Santa Cruz as fast as seemed prudent over such a road.
We could not think of leaving the town without a visit to the mission, even though they told us that little but the old-time site could be seen. We climbed the hill overlooking the sea to a group of buildings now occupied by a Catholic convent; among these was a long, low, whitewashed structure, now used as quarters for the nuns. This, they told us, was the ancient monastery. Or, more properly, the ancient monastery stood here and the present building was reared on its foundations.
The church-tower fell in 1840 as the result of an earthquake and ten years later a second shock demolished the walls of the building. Being within the limits of the town, the debris was not allowed to remain, as in lonely Soledad or La Purisima, and the site was cleared for other purposes. And this reminds us that we owe the existence of many of the mission ruins to their isolation; wherever they stood within the limits of a town of any size they either have been restored or have disappeared. Of the former we may cite Santa Barbara and San Luis Obispo and of the latter, Santa Cruz and San Rafael.
The mission at Santa Cruz was another of Padre Lasuen's projects—founded under his direction in 1790. It never prospered greatly, its highest population being five hundred and twenty-three in 1796. From that time it declined rapidly and at the secularization in 1835 the Indians had almost disappeared. The property at that time was valued at less than fifty thousand dollars and, as we have seen, the church was destroyed five years later. Santa Cruz would doubtless rejoice to have her historic mission among her widely heralded attractions to-day, but it is gone past any rehabilitation.
As a seaside resort, Santa Cruz is one of the most popular in California; during the season no fewer than thirty thousand visitors flock to its hotels and beaches. It is the nearest considerable resort to San Francisco and a large proportion of its guests come from that city. The climate, according to the literature issued by the Board of Trade, compares favorably the year round with Santa Barbara or Long Beach. It claims a great variety of "amusement features, including a palatial casino and a three-hundred-room, fire-proof hotel." It seems a pleasant place, more substantial and homelike than the average resort town.
Retracing our way for four or five miles over the road by which we entered the town, we left it at the little wayside village of Soquel, taking an abrupt turn northward and following a wooded canyon. The road ascends the western slope of the Santa Cruz Mountains, winding through a forest of stately redwoods intermingled with many other varieties of trees. These crowd up to the road, overarching it in places—as beautiful a scene of virgin wildwood as we had yet come upon; through occasional openings we had far-reaching views down wooded canyons already haunted by the thin blue shadows of the declining day. The grade is moderately stiff, ranging up to twelve per cent, and the road was deep with dust, making an exceedingly heavy pull, and more than once we paused to cool the steaming motor. An almost continuous climb of a dozen miles brought us to the summit of the range, and coming to a break in the forest a glorious view greeted our vision—a vista of green hills sloping away to the sunset waters of Monterey Bay, with dim outlines of mountain ranges beyond. A faint blue haze hung over the nearer hills, changing to lucent amethyst above the bay and deepening to violet upon the distant mountains. An occasional fruit farm or ranch-house reminded us that we were within the bounds of civilization; and the Summit School, near by, that there must be youngsters to educate, even in this wild region, though there was little to indicate where they came from.
The descent presented even more picturesque scenes than the climb. The grade was steeper and the distance less; and the road followed the mountain sides, which sloped away in places hundreds of feet to wooded canyons now dim with mysterious shadows. Majestic redwoods, oaks, birches, pines, sycamores, with here and there the red gleam of the madrona, pressed up to the very roadside and their fragrance loaded the air. At the foot of the grade, some nine miles from the summit, we glided into the well-kept streets of Los Gatos, the "City of the Foothills," one of the cleanest and most sightly towns that the wayfarer will come across, even in California. It has few pretentious homes, but the average cottage or bungalow is so happily situated and surrounded by green lawns dotted with flower beds and palms, that the effect is more pleasing than rows of costly houses could be. In the public buildings such as the library and schools, the Spanish mission type is followed with generally fortunate results. In the foothills near by are several villas of San Francisco people which are steadily increasing in number, for Los Gatos is only an hour by train from the metropolis and has hopes of becoming a residence town of wealthy San Franciscans.
Out of Los Gatos we pursued a level, well-improved road to San Jose, running through the great prune and cherry orchards for which the Santa Clara Valley is famous and which gave promise of a bounteous yield. A little after sunset we came into the city of San Jose, closing an unusually strenuous run over steep and dusty mountain roads. We found the new Montgomery Hotel a comfortable haven and its modern bathrooms an unspeakable boon. Our first move was to segregate ourselves from the California real estate which we had accumulated during the day and to don fresh raiment, after which we did full justice to a late dinner, despite very slack service and not altogether unexceptionable cuisine—excusable, perhaps, by the lateness of the hour.
San Jose is a modern city of forty or fifty thousand people, the commercial capital of the Santa Clara Valley. There is not much within the town itself to detain one on such a pilgrimage as our own. The mission first occurred to us and we learned that it was at Mission San Jose, twelve miles from the city to which it gives its name; our next inquiry was concerning the Lick Observatory, which they told us might be reached by a twenty-five mile jog up the slopes of Mount Hamilton, overlooking the town from the east. It was clear that we should have to take a day for these excursions and early the next morning we were off for the Mount Hamilton climb.
Out of the city we ran straight away on Santa Clara Street for a distance of five or six miles to Junction House, where the mountain road begins. It was built nearly forty years ago by Santa Clara County at a cost of eighty thousand dollars, the work being authorized to secure the location of the Lick Observatory on the mountain. It is a smooth, well-engineered road, with grades not exceeding ten per cent excepting a few steep pitches near the summit. It swings upwards in wide arcs or narrow loops as the topography of the mountain demands. It is broad enough for vehicles to pass easily, presenting no difficulty to a moderate-powered motor, though in places a sheer precipice falls away from its side and there are abrupt turns around blind corners which call for extreme care.
The winding course of the road up the mountainside affords vantage for endless panoramas of the surrounding country. Indeed, were there no observatory on Mount Hamilton the views alone would well repay the ascent and we paused frequently to contemplate the scene that spread out beneath us. The day was not perfectly clear, yet through the shimmering air we could see the hazy waters of San Francisco Bay some twenty miles to the northwest, and beyond the valley to the southwest, the blue Santa Cruz Range which we crossed the previous day. Just beneath us lay the wide vale of the Santa Clara—surely one of the most beautiful and prosperous of the famous valleys of the Golden State—diversified by orchards and endless wheatfields, with here and there an isolated ranch-house or village. The foothills nearer at hand were studded with oaks and sycamores, with an occasional small farm or fruit orchard set down among them. It was a beautiful day—the partial cloudiness being atoned for by many striking cloud effects and the play of light and color over the landscape.
Midway of the ascent is a little settlement in a pleasant grassy dell, where a plain though comfortable-looking hotel—the Halfway House—offers the wayfarer an opportunity for refreshments, which can not be obtained at the summit. Here we arranged for a lunch on our return, but we had no idea of eating it in the hotel with the delightful nooks we had passed still fresh in mind. The last three or four miles of the climb are by far the most difficult, reminding us not a little of the Mount Wilson ascent; but we experienced no trouble and soon came to the open summit with the vast dome of the observatory crowning it. Around this clusters a village of about fifty people who live here permanently—the families and assistants of the men who devote their lives to the study of the stars. One of the ladies whom we met in the observatory office said, when we asked her of life on the mountain,
"We get used to it, though it is cold and lonely at times and we feel a kind of desperation to get back to the world. But we do not complain; the views from the mountain under varying conditions of night and day are enough to atone for our isolation. You can not even imagine the glories of the sunrise and sunset; the weird effects of the sea of clouds that lie beneath us at times, glowing in the sun or ghostly white in the moonlight; the vast wilderness of mountain peaks losing themselves in the haze of distance or mantled in the glaring whiteness of the winter snows. All these and many other strange moods of the weather bring infinite variety, even to this lonely spot." And yet, for all this, she confessed to an intense longing to make a trip to "the earth" whenever occasion presented itself.
The obliging janitor shows visitors about the observatory, telling of its work and explaining the instruments with an intelligence and detail that might lead you to think him one of the astronomers—if he had not confessed at the outset to being an Englishman in the humble position of caretaker. And we might have known that he was an Englishman, even if he had not told us so, by his thoroughness and pride in his job. Among the instruments which interested us most was the seismograph, which records earthquakes from the faintest tremor hundreds of miles away to the most violent shock—or perhaps this is not strictly correct, for the great quake of 1906 threw the needle from the recording disk and left the record incomplete.
"There is seldom a day," said our guide, "that a quake is not registered and so long as they occur regularly we have little to fear, but an entire absence of tremors for several days is likely to precede a violent shock."
The great refracting telescope is the prime "object of interest" to the visitor and we were shown in minute detail how this is operated. It stands on a granite pedestal—underneath which rests the body of the donor, James Lick—in the center of the great dome which one sees for many miles from the valley and which revolves bodily on a huge platform to bring the opening to the proper point. This, at the time of its construction, was the largest telescope in the world, the great lens, the masterpiece of Alvan Clark & Sons, being thirty-six inches in diameter. It is equipped with the latest apparatus for photographing the heavens and some of the most remarkable astronomical photographs in existence have been taken by the observatory. The telescope and dome are operated by electric motors and our guide gave exhibitions of the perfect control by the operator. Besides this there is a large reflecting telescope housed in a separate building and several smaller instruments. Visitors are allowed to look through the great telescope on Saturday night only, but are shown about the observatory on any afternoon of the week. No other great observatory is so accommodating to the public in this regard; and the annual number of visitors exceeds five thousand. The official handbook states that "while the observatory has no financial gain in the coming of visitors, no pains are spared to make the time spent here interesting and profitable to them." The same book gives a list of the important achievements of the Lick Observatory, with other information concerning the institution and may be had upon application to the managing director.
James Lick, who devoted three quarters of a million dollars to found the observatory, was a California pioneer who left his whole fortune of more than three millions to public benefactions. He was born in Fredericksburg, Pa., in 1796 and died in San Francisco in 1876. He came to California in 1847 and engaged in his trade of piano-making, but his great wealth came from real estate investment. He was a silent and somewhat eccentric man—a pronounced freethinker in religious matters. The observatory is now under the control of the University of California, which supplies the greater part of the finances for its maintenance.
Returning to the city, we found there was still time to visit the mission, about fifteen miles due north on the Oakland road. This is a macadam boulevard through a level and prosperous-looking country skirting San Francisco Bay and the run was a delightful one. Mission San Jose is a tiny village of a dozen houses and a few shops, bearing little resemblance to its bustling namesake to the southward. The dilapidated monastery is all that is left of the old-time buildings and the rude timber arcade stands directly by the roadside. We found a young fellow working on the place who gladly undertook to act as guide. He proved an ardent Catholic and an enthusiast for the restoration of the mission. This work, he said, had been undertaken by the Native Sons of California and they were organizing a carnival to raise funds. The building through which he led us is a series of dungeonlike adobe cells, with earthen floors and cracked and crumbling walls; it is roofed with willows tied to the roughly hewn rafters with rawhide. The tiles from the ruined church are carefully piled away to be used in the restoration and our guide declared that a wealthy Spanish family of the vicinity had a quantity of these which they would gladly return when needed. The church was destroyed by the earthquake of 1868 and has been replaced by a modern structure. This suffered but little in the great quake of 1906, but we were shown the curious spectacle in the cemetery of several marble shafts broken squarely in two by the shock. To the rear of the church and leading up to the orphanage conducted by the Dominican sisters, is a beautiful avenue bordered by olive trees planted by the padres in mission days. This is crossed by a second avenue running at right angles and no doubt these served as a passageway for many a solemn procession in days of old.
The location is charming indeed; one can stand in the rude portico of the dilapidated building and look over as pleasant a rural scene as can be found in California. The green meadows slope toward the bay, which gleams like molten silver in the late afternoon sun. Beyond it is a dark line of forest trees, the rounded contour of the green foothills, and, last of all, the rugged outlines of the Santa Cruz Mountains shrouded in the amethyst haze of evening. To the rear, rolling hills rise above the little hamlet and southward stands the sturdy bulk of Mission Peak.
No wonder, with such beautiful, fertile surroundings, San Jose Mission prospered in its palmy days. Founded in 1797—the fruitful year of Padre Lasuen's activity—it reached its zenith in 1820, when its Indian population numbered seventeen hundred and fifty-four. Its property at secularization exceeded one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in value and it even seemed to prosper for a while under the Mexican regime. Its decline began in 1840 and five years later less than two hundred and fifty natives were to be found in its precincts. Of the wreck and rebuilding of the church we have already told; in the new structure may be seen two of the original bells, nearly a century old. The baptismal font of hammered copper is still in use. It is about three feet in diameter and is surmounted by a small iron cross.
A few miles out of San Jose on the San Francisco road, at the pretty town of Santa Clara, was formerly the mission of that name. It has totally disappeared and on its site stands the new church and the buildings of Santa Clara College, the principal Catholic university of California. We drove into the large plaza in front of the church and walked in at the open door. The interior is that of a modern Catholic church, with an unusual number of paintings and images, among the latter a gorgeously painted Santa Clara with her bare foot on a writhing snake. The paintings are of little artistic merit and the effect of the interior is rather tawdry. The slightly unfavorable impression speedily fades from mind when through an open side door one gets a glimpse into the garden around which run the college cloisters. It is a beautiful green spot, with olives planted in mission days, palms, and masses of flowers. About it are slight remains of the old cloisters; hewn beams still form the roof, and portions of the walls some three feet thick still stand.
Santa Clara College, the oldest on the coast, was founded in 1855, and is now the largest Catholic school west of the Rockies. The buildings are quite extensive and the mission style of architecture appropriately prevails. In its museum is a good collection of relics once belonging to the ancient mission; furniture, candlesticks in silver and brass, vessels in gold and silver, crucifixes, bells, the mighty key to the oaken door, embroidered vestments, and a very remarkable book. This is an old choral on heavy vellum, hand-written in brilliant red and black; the covers are heavy leather over solid wood, and the corners and back are protected with ornamental bronze. It originally came from Spain and is supposed to be five hundred years old.
Santa Clara Mission, the tenth in order, was founded in 1777, twenty years earlier than its neighbor, San Jose, and the close proximity caused heart-burnings among the padres of Santa Clara when its rival was first projected. They declared that there was no necessity for it; that it was not on the beaten route of El Camino Real, and that it encroached on Santa Clara's lands and revenues. The dispute assumed such proportions that a special survey was made in 1801 to prevent further controversy. Despite the contention of Santa Clara that there was no room for its rival, it did not lack for prosperity, since in 1827 its population numbered fourteen hundred and twenty-four—about the same as San Jose, so there seems to have been ample room for both. At secularization, in 1835, there were less than half as many and after that the decline was rapid. This is only another instance showing that the regime of the padres had begun to decay before the interference of the Mexican Government. The mission fell into ruin after the American conquest and the debris was gradually removed to make way for the college buildings.
Santa Clara is a quiet, beautiful town of about five thousand—really a suburb of San Jose, since they are separated by only a mile or two. Its streets are broad and bordered with trees and its residences have the trim neatness and beautiful semi-tropical surroundings so characteristic of the better California towns.
Northward out of Santa Clara a fine macadam road follows the shore of the bay at a distance of a mile or two. In the days of the padres this country was a vast swamp, but it is now a prosperous fruit and gardening section which supplies the San Francisco markets. At Palo Alto we turned aside into the grounds of Leland Stanford Jr. University, which sprang into existence like Minerva of old—full armed and ready for business—with nearly thirty millions of endowment behind it. It immediately took high rank among American universities, but as its attendance is limited by its charter to about two thousand, it can not equal its rivals in this regard.
Everyone knows its pathetic story—how Senator Stanford, the man of many millions, lost his only son, a boy of sixteen, and determined to leave the fortune to "the boys and girls of California" as a memorial to the idolized youth. A little strain of selfishness in the project, one may think, since if Leland Stanford Jr. had lived it is unlikely that his father would have remembered the boys and girls of his state, but you forget all about this when you enter the precincts of this magnificent institution. It is free from the antiquated buildings and equipment of the schools of slow growth, and full scope was given to architects to produce a group of buildings harmonious in design and perfectly adapted to the purposes which they serve. The mission design properly prevails, carried out in brown stone and red tiles. The main buildings are ranged round a quadrangle 586 x 246 feet, upon which the arches of the cloisters open and in the center of this was a bronze group of the donor, his wife, and son, since removed to the University Museum.
The earthquake of 1906 dealt severely with Stanford University, destroying the library building, the great memorial arch, and wrecking the memorial chapel, said to be the finest in America. The latter was being restored at the time of our visit, a timber roof replacing the former stone-vaulted ceiling. The structure both inside and out bears many richly colored mosaics representing historic and scriptural subjects; in this particular it is more like St. Mark's of Venice than any other church that I know of. It is said that a large part of the destruction done by the earthquake was due to flimsy work on the part of the builders. Fortunately, the low, solid structures around the quadrangle were practically unharmed, and the damage done is being repaired as rapidly as possible. The grounds occupied by the University were formerly Senator Stanford's Palo Alto estate and comprised about nine thousand acres. From the campus there are views of the bay, of the Coast Range, including Mount Hamilton with the Lick Observatory, and of the rolling foothills and magnificent redwood forests toward Santa Cruz. The university is open to students from everywhere and owing to its vast endowment, instruction is absolutely free.
Palo Alto is a handsome town of about six thousand people. Its climate is said to be much pleasanter the year round than that of San Francisco. A local advertising prospectus gives this pleasing description of the climatic conditions:
"There is no extreme cold, and there are no severe storms. Even the rainy season, between December and March, averages about fifteen bright warm days in each month; and flowers blossoming on every hand make the winter season a delightful part of the year. The acacia trees begin blooming in January, the almonds in February, and the prunes, peaches, and cherries are all in bloom by the last of March or the first of April, when the blossom festival for the whole valley is held in the foothills at Saratoga, a few miles by electric line from Palo Alto."
From Palo Alto we followed the main highway—El Camino Real—to San Francisco. It is a broad macadam road, but at the time in sad disrepair, unmercifully rough and full of chuck-holes. It was being rebuilt in places, compelling us to take a roundabout route, which, with much tire trouble, delayed our arrival in San Francisco until late in the afternoon, though the distance is but fifty-two miles from San Jose.
It looked as if our troubles were going to have a still more painful climax when, as we entered the city, a policeman dashed at us, bawling,
"What on earth do you mean by driving at that crazy rate? Do you want to kill all these children?"
As we were not exceeding twenty miles and were quite free from any homicidal designs against the children—of whom not a single one was in sight on the street—we mildly disclaimed any such cruel intention as the guardian of the law imputed to us. We had learned the futility of any altercation with a policeman and by exceeding humility we gained permission to proceed. A little back-talk in self-defense would doubtless have resulted in a trip to the station house, where we should have been at every disadvantage. I attribute in some degree our lucky escape from arrest to the fact that we always adopted an exceedingly conciliatory attitude towards any policeman who approached us, even if we sometimes thought him over-officious or even impudent. A soft answer we found more efficient in turning away his wrath and gaining our point than any attempt at self-justification could possibly have been—even though we knew we were right.