San Diego to Santa Barbara.--The Old Mission.--The Inner Cloister.--The
Afternoon Ride.--The Lady of the Blue Jeans.--Samarcand.
Our car moved off from San Diego in the early morning, before
breakfast. We enjoyed that meal _en route_ for Los Angeles, returning
there by the way we came. After a delay of a few hours in the lovely
city of rose-covered homes and embowering trees, we began our journey
to Santa Barbara, which we reached well on into the evening. Our course
brought us soon again to the ever-attractive shores of the great
tossing ocean, ever full of mystery, and provocative of brooding
thoughts.
When we arrived at Santa Barbara, it was toward evening, so tea and a
stroll filled up the close of our day of travel.
The next morning found us ready for a full day of what turned out to be
exquisite pleasure. A drive to the old Mission of Santa Barbara, with a
prolonged stay within the charmed shade of the old cloister, filled the
forenoon.
The antiquity of more than a hundred years seems an eternity in such a
new land as this, and hence the old mission seemed old indeed; but it
had the lustre of the dim past also, for our guide was a monk of St.
Francis, and his religious dress carried us back for over six centuries
to sunny Italy and the cradle of his order, Assisi, where St. Francis
dwelt.
Santa Barbara Mission is one of the best preserved of the many old
Spanish religious settlements yet remaining in Southern California, and
its style gives the norm of all the rest. It has a certain grandiose
air suggestive of Spanish magnificence, and reminds one of those
stately creatures one meets so often in Spain, who ask for alms with
high-toned elegance, and return thanks with the manners of a prince.
Such was Santa Barbara. Before the chief entrance of the chapel was a
grand flight of steps, with a generous platform capable of giving
standing-room to any church ceremonial or gathering of worshippers. It
was made up, it is true, of small mason work and stucco; but the effect
was there, and that effect was good. Entering the chapel, we found
ourselves in a stately, flat-roofed building of considerable height and
length. There were several altars at each side, and a number of
religious pictures, quite of the Murillo school, and a Pieta in
plaster, just as one finds Michael Angelo's great masterpiece in St.
Peter's. Beyond all, was the high altar, rather poor and shabby, but
pathetic, nevertheless, in its earnest purpose, with its hanging lamp
telling of the Sacramental Presence within the Tabernacle. The tomb of
the first Roman Catholic bishop of California is at the Epistle side of
the altar; and close by, on the outside, are other graves.
A lay brother took us all over the place. We rang for him at the
entrance door in the cloisters, and found him a sweet-faced, cheerful,
humble man, delighted to please us and be our guide.
We were shown the little museum with some splendid old service books,
those huge folios which, before the present cheap reproduction of
modern small volumes, stood in grand state in the centre of the choir,
and all placed themselves around and sang from the noble and precious
pages. There were relics, too, of the times when the Indians were in
their primitive condition, the child-like pupils of the patient
Franciscans. It was not much of a display, but its very meagreness made
it pathetic.
Our lay brother took us into the second enclosure; that is, within the
convent proper, where no women are admitted, except in most special
cases, and as a mark of honor to noble ladies. Some of us felt quite
elated at the distinction thus given to us as men, but the ladies
pooh-poohed at our airs, for from the neighboring tower they could look
down and see into the whole place, and declared there was nothing
specially in it. Well, there was not, but there would be if they were
there.
We went also into the well-kept cemetery, where a great crucifix kept
solemn watch over the sleeping dust of the departed. It was all
beautiful with flowers, a lovely place of peace and rest. One cannot
help respecting those missions which are so frequently met in
California. They represent an immense amount of patient, humble, and
persistent labor.
We all took a great, four-horse vehicle in the afternoon for an
excursion to Sycamore Canon, to which spot, however, we never got, and
did not regret it a particle. We stopped at an orange ranch half-way,
and there we stayed. We wanted to have an "orange wallow," as I called
it, and that we got under the trees of a superb orange orchard, where
the ground was lush with grass and a general air of luxurious opulence
was on every hand. This verdure results, I understand, from the higher
elevation of the place, which catches the "high fog" from the Pacific.
The moisture of this vapor condenses on the trees and plants, taking
the place of rain, and, to a great extent, of irrigation.
As we were winding our way up the steep ascent, with its
ever-increasing view down the valley and over the Pacific, we could not
but be elated and inspirited with our surroundings. We were, it may be
said, a rather noisy crowd.
In this happy state on we went. As we journeyed, we noticed a woman
dressed in blue jeans busy at work in her garden. She seemed too busy
to notice us. The ordinary rustic curiosity to see the noisy newcomers
was entirely absent. She never once looked our way.
In ten minutes or so we were, in various groups, returning from the
farmhouse where we had gotten permission to have all the orange wallow
we wanted. Then we again met the lady of the blue jeans; but this time
she was looking at us with an amused expression on her face, and when
one of our company, yielding to an impulse of gallantry, lifted his hat
to her, she pleasantly returned the salute, and called out to us, from
the height on which she stood, in a clear, ringing voice, "Won't you
come up and see my roses? Come, and you will find more surprises." Of
course, we climbed the hill, and soon found ourselves in a veritable
fairyland. We were on a spur of the mountain which spread out in a
plateau covered with beautiful turf. Rich trees surrounded it on three
sides, while on the other it was open to the sea view, revealing to us
the curving beach of Santa Barbara, miles away, with the white breakers
dashing upon the shore. The great deep beyond was dim and empurpled
with the haze, while all around us was a garden glowing with fruits and
flowers of kinds that were rare and beautiful, and for the most part
strange to us.
After enjoying all this under the guidance of our hostess, who bestowed
La France roses and American Beauties among us with liberal hands, we
were invited into her house. This was a rambling, one-story structure,
beautifully planned, and filled with treasures of art from many climes.
The lady of the place gradually let us know in the most simple way that
she had travelled far and wide. She was at home in India, and had
passed through the principal countries of the world. We spent a good
long time in this charmed spot. We were offered refreshment, and left
with a sense of gracious hospitality offered in a most graceful way.
Her blue jean working dress, for she lived almost at work in her
garden, became her well. The only consciousness she showed that she
might have wished it otherwise was as she prepared to escort us to our
brake; she discarded her sunbonnet and donned coquettishly a little
white one of muslin, which, there was no denial, became her better than
that she wore at her lovely work.
We waved her farewell as we descended from "Samarcand," the name of her
beautiful place, the site of which she herself had selected, planning
also her home and all its beauties of tree and flower and fruit.
The poet of the party put his impressions of the whole affair in verse,
and here it is: