amid this ancient history a bit of fresh news imparted to me yesterday
by a carriage driver. He showed me from the road a high plateau
overlooking the sea, where plainly to the naked eye were to be seen
preparations for receiving a statue, which is to be in place and to be
dedicated before long. It will be in honor of Father Junipero before
mentioned; it will cost ten thousand dollars, and the wife of Senator
Leland Stanford will foot the bill. The site for the statue is a
magnificent one, and if the work of art be worthy of its position, the
city of Monterey will have something it may be proud of.
There’s a “History of Monterey County” by E. S. Harrison. I didn’t know
before I came here and looked into it that Monterey was the first place
settled in the State of California; that the first custom house in the
[Illustration: HOTEL DEL MONTE.]
State (now an old rookery) was established here; that Monterey was once
not only a bustling city, but the capital of the State. It is not a
wholly deserted village now, but its commercial glory, like that of
Newport, R. I., which was once a greater port of entry than New York,
has departed, never to return. But Monterey will always be dear to the
hearts of Californians, from its historic associations and connections.
“The first European lady to come to California,” says Harrison, “was the
wife of Governor Fages, who arrived in Monterey in 1783. Their child,
born about 1784, was probably the first child born in California of
European parents.”
Monterey is one hundred and twenty-six miles from San Francisco, and is
reached in four hours by the Coast Division of the Southern Pacific
Railroad Company. On the way, in San Mateo county (_en passant_, what
musical names all these counties and mountains have), within ten to
forty miles from the starting point, Fourth and Townsend streets, you
pass the rural homes of San Francisco’s millionaires. Some are set in
great forests of oak surrounded by acres of flowers in perennial bloom.
Next, the beautiful city of San José comes in view, and a flourishing
city it appears to be from the car windows. As the train rolls along you
keep in sight for many miles the dome of the Lick Observatory, which
glistens in the sunlight on the summit of Mount Hamilton.
And then you haven’t eyes enough to take in and enjoy the beautiful
views of ocean, river, valley and mountain as the train dashes
along--the Coast Range mountains on your left, on the right the Santa
Cruz mountains, with the sun setting behind them--a glorious moving
panorama.
After passing what is called the most fertile valley in the State
Monterey is reached, if that be your destination, but there is a more
important station one mile this side of Monterey. When the conductor
calls out “Hotel del Monte” very few passengers in the cars remain
seated, and the train speeds on to the sleepy old town of Monterey,
almost empty.
The first action which the Pacific Improvement Company took when they
concluded to make of this place a summer and winter resort was to
purchase some land for the purpose, so they purchased _seven thousand
acres_. Part of this domain was a forest, and of this they selected for
their hotel “garden” a simple matter of _one hundred and twenty-six
acres_. Forty acres of this they cultivated in flower-beds, lawns,
vegetables and fruit; the rest they allowed to remain as nature left it,
after hiring the services of a landscape gardener to lay out within
their gates a few miles for drives and paths.
Then it occurred to them that it would be well to have a grand outside
drive as an additional attraction, so they made one, cutting away
mountain, forest and bluff; going through the woods, four or five miles;
skirting the ocean for the same distance; altogether a nice little
post-prandial drive of _seventeen miles_. But this is not much--for
California. The drive being private property it is used only for the
guests of the Hotel del Monte, the owners of which keep it in the best
order, and in summer time have it watered. It is macadamized and in as
good condition as the drives in Central Park, New York.
The road winds toward the bay through a forest of oaks and pines. For
two or three miles it will be cool, dark, shaded and sweet smelling, and
presently you get a view of the ocean. If the wind is high, as it was on
the twenty-second of March, you will see foaming white-caps in the
distance, and the spray dashing wildly on the bare brown rocks in the
foreground, making a picture which, on the day we saw it, was awfully
grand. I don’t mean this in the sense that girls do when they
[Illustration: THE SEAL ROCKS AT MONTEREY.]
say a thing is “awfully nice;” I mean that the boisterous waves were
almost frightful with their impetuous rush and their terrible roar.
To quote dear old Fitz-Greene Halleck, whose statue in Central Park few
recognize:
The winds of March were humming
Their parting song, their parting song.
It was a habit of my predecessor on the _Home Journal_, General George
P. Morris, to publish annually this sweet song of Halleck’s in the _Home
Journal_ during the first week of March. It was a singular fancy of
Morris’s and it pleased his brother poet.
But I am getting away from my story--and the surf. The seals didn’t seem
to mind the roaring surf or howling wind. Their unearthly bark formed
part of the grand chorus. They tossed their heads and rolled their
ungainly bodies about with all the grace at their command, which is not
saying much for their sylph-like movements. No; water is their element.
If you expect to see the seals of the same color as the sealskin sacques
worn by women, you may not see the seals at all, for they match in color
with the brownish gray rocks on which they romp. They have not gone
through the process of “London dyeing.” I didn’t take the trouble to get
out of the carriage and go down to the shore, so in this instance I
accepted the driver’s word that there were five hundred seals on the
rocks.
The cultivated grounds of the Hotel del Monte astonish you with their
size and beauty and with the neatness and order in which they are kept.
Probably not elsewhere is there such variety in horticulture. Everything
from everywhere seems to thrive here. Nor do I know of any section of
country where there are such noble oaks and pines, but probably the
company claim too much when they say that “the garden is the finest,
the most gorgeous, the richest and most varied in all the world.” A few
years have elapsed since I examined Kensington and Kew closely, but it
seems to me that the Tuileries gardens, which I saw one year ago, are
richer, and I know that the gardens in Hyde Park, through which I
strolled last August, are more pleasing to the eye and to the sense of
smell. I speak of the floral display only; it must be remembered,
however, that the Del Monte gardens are not at their best in March.
The trees are wonderful. I carry with me not only a thermometer but a
tiny tape measure, the latter in my pocket. I asked the driver to stop
as we were driving through the grounds, while I measured a pine and I
found that it was four and a half yards in circumference near the
ground. The driver told me how tall it was, but I will not quote him as
I’m not giving you “California stories.” This pine was not pointed out
nor did I select it for its size. There were others within a few feet of
where this giant stood just as large, and for all I know there are
hundreds on the ground much larger.
Of course the palm abounds, all trees of tropical growth are here; there
are calla lilies for borders, violets, heliotrope, nasturtium,
honeysuckle in wild profusion, and this in March, mind you. Is there
ivy? “Well, rather,” as an Englishman might answer such a question. A
leaf now lies on my table which measures five inches across. The grounds
are in charge of a skilled landscape gardener with a force of
thirty-five men--English, American and Chinese.
Foreigners from other lands may rail against the Chinese as much as they
please, and our legislators may be right in excluding them lest they
overrun the country, but it must be said in their favor that they are a
peaceful, industrious set, and there are no better servants for indoor
or outdoor work. Under certain conditions, however, they are as
obstinate as mules. When you engage them you must be exceedingly
careful in giving them instructions, for they will always continue to do
what they are at first told to do; you cannot change their ways.
Mr. George Schönewald, manager of Hotel del Monte, while we were
chatting in his office, illustrated it to me in this way: “Observe that
Chinaman wiping carefully the casing of that white door. He was told
when he first came here that he was to do that sort of work at this time
of day, and if the heavens fall he’ll do it. If I were to ask him this
minute to leave that door and polish this plate glass window he might
obey, but it would upset him for the day, if not for all time. If you
change your mind and want the work done in a different way you had
better change your Chinaman, you can’t change their ways. But seven
Chinamen will do the work of fourteen white men.”
And this brings me to the fact that nearly all the walls and all the
interior woodwork of these great buildings are painted white. The lack
of color becomes a little tiresome to the eye, but one thing comforts
you, it is kept white--not a mark, not a spot to mar its perfection.
Chinamen are always washing either doors, windows, surbase, or whatever
part of the floor is not carpeted; all is pure white except the floor of
the beautiful dining-room, which is of dark English oak kept highly
polished.
The series of buildings is in the modern Gothic style, the main building
three hundred and fifty feet front, with a central tower eighty feet
high and wings or annexes two hundred and eighty feet long, showing an
entire floor area of sixteen acres. An acre or two, more or less, is
nothing--in California. The bed-room in which this is written is an
ordinary room here, eighteen by sixteen feet. Even the marble wash-basin
is worth measuring--three feet three in circumference. Running water,
gas, fireplaces; and closets built with partition walls in every room.
There are five hundred and ten rooms, and seven hundred people can be
accommodated comfortably.
I am surprised here, as I have been elsewhere in California, at the low
rates which obtain at hotels. A placard on the door of this
well-furnished room, with beautiful walls and ceiling and a luxurious
bed, reads: “Rate for this room, with board, for one person $3.50; for
two $6.50. With bath-room $4 and $7 per day.” And in the bath-room there
appears to be an inexhaustible supply of boiling water. There is no
charge made in the ladies’ billiard room, which adjoins the parlor; no
charge for use of boats on the twenty-acre lake.
If the plumbing is right, and so it appears to be, there is no trouble
with the question of drainage, the ocean being at the door. The drinking
water is brought from Carmel river, eighteen miles distant, in the
mountains. A ton of ice per day is made on the premises. Some of the
vegetables are raised near the hotel, and there is a dairy farm
connected with the property measuring untold acres.
Native wines are sold at Hotel del Monte lower than I’ve seen them
either here or abroad. It’s easy to be a “swell” at Del Monte. A half
bottle of Zinfandel is opened and served at table for fifteen cents, and
a very good wine it is, too, so far as pleasing my palate goes. But I
don’t profess to be so well versed in wines as the late Sam Ward or the
present Ward McAllister. There is a secret, however, in the low charge
for California wine at Hotel del Monte--the company have their own
vineyards. What haven’t they got? They have nothing less than a Steinway
concert grand in the parlor and another in the ball-room.
There’s a feature that almost escaped being put down, and yet it is
worthy of special mention. To the first floors in the two annexes you
neither ascend nor descend any stairs; nor do you to the second floor.
To the first floor you descend an inclined hall or arcade; to the
second you ascend an inclined arcade. If you have a room even on the
third floor you only walk up one flight of stairs, unless you prefer the
elevator.
This is not a new idea, however. I remember being shown through an old,
unused palace in Berlin which was constructed in the same way, A member
of the royal house was weak in the knees from rheumatism and so was
rolled on a sedan chair up and down in this way. The porter at this
hotel, wheeling his truck “upstairs” loaded with trunks, reminded me of
the rheumatic royalty.
In all hotels recently constructed there is an electric bell as well as
an electric button in every room. If you leave word to be called in the
morning, there’s no rapping outside your door--rapping loud enough to
awaken every sleeper near your apartment. There is an electric button in
the office which connects with a bell in your room, and to this call you
will respond. There is no escape from it; you must get out of bed to
stop the ringing.
The first Hotel del Monte, opened in 1880, was destroyed by fire: the
new house was erected four years ago. The present manager, Mr. George
Schönewald, opened the first house and superintended the construction of
the second. As his name indicates, he is not to the manor born. He
arrived in this country twenty-five years ago without a penny in his
pocket, but with a determination to make a position for himself. There
is no secret in his success. Anybody can gain success who will follow
the Schönewald method. It was not “blind luck “ with him, but industry,
unceasing industry, directed with unusual intelligence.
Schönewald fitted himself thoroughly for his position. On his arrival in
this country he decided to be a practical confectioner, and not long
after he received the highest salary ever paid in the State to a
confectioner. Then he took to cooking and earned the highest salary
ever paid to a cook in the State. Step by step has he moved from the
very bottom round of the ladder to the management of one of the largest
and finest hotels in the country.
Schönewald is a worker. He is supposed to take three meals a day, but
sometimes his breakfast is not touched till late in the afternoon. From
my window I have seen him driving about rapidly in a buggy before my
toilet was completed; and your humble servant, as a general rule, is out
of bed before seven A.M. The interests of the company first, his own
comfort last, seems to be this manager’s motto.
Yes, your Germans are workers. Mrs. Schönewald is her husband’s
helpmeet: she fills the position of housekeeper at Hotel del Monte, and
that probably accounts for the bed-rooms being so comfortably
furnished--a rocker here, an easy, arm-chair there, with a neat white
“tidy” on the upholstered back. There’s nothing like a woman’s eye, a
woman’s thoughtfulness in providing all the tasteful etceteras which
make a home comfortable and complete.
I will close with a clipping from the tourist book, “To the Golden
Gate,” issued by the Pennsylvania Railroad:--“The Eastern traveler
coming to California’s coast and failing to see ‘Del Monte’ has indeed
missed not everything, but a goodly part.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration: OLD OAKS, DEL MONTE.]
[Illustration: PROFILE OF FRONT. HOTEL DEL MONTE.]
[Illustration: HOTEL DEL CORONADO, CORONADO BEACH, CALIFORNIA.] SAN
DIEGO AND CORONADO.
CORONADO BEACH, CAL., March 5, 1891.
I was induced to think about coming to Southern California by the
tempting descriptions in Henry T. Finck’s book, “Scenic Tour of the
Pacific Coast,” and by interesting articles in the Century Magazine.
Toward San Diego and Coronado Beach my steps were turned by Charles
Dudley Warner’s glowing accounts in Harper’s Magazine.
I had always accepted with a grain of salt the flattering reports so
widely published, and now that I have seen for myself these wondrous
things, my friends will scarcely credit my story, so enthusiastic have I
become.
However, I do not intend that you shall rely on my mere “say so.” I’ve
been looking up official and other authorities--men of wide reputation,
who have a name to lose.
First, as to climate. This is the fifth of March; I have been here one
week to-day, and every day of the seven has been about alike--dry,
sunshiny, only on one or two days cloudy. On some days of the seven I
have seen men bathing in the ocean, and the bathers said that the
temperature was enjoyable--this in February. I am told that you can
bathe in the surf the year round, but never mind what “I am told.”
And in temperature, I believe it to be the most equable climate in the
world--but away with “beliefs,” I have a thermometer of my own, and the
hotel has one also, but I have watched closely a government,
self-recording instrument which is so placed that no ray of the sun nor
no reflection can approach it, and the figures, signed by an official of
the signal service in the United States army, record something like this
for the current week: five A. M., 55 degrees; noon, 68 degrees; five P.
M., 64 degrees. The figures quoted, to be exact, are those recorded on
February 28; some days since then have been a trifle cooler.
You may suggest: “If there is almost continual sunshine during daylight,
and the ground is always covered with grass and wild flowers, it must be
very hot and trying in summer.”
Must it? Remember there is a bay on three sides of Coronado, and the
Pacific ocean is on the other. But I will ask you to remember nothing.
From the compiled records of the United States signal station here, I
have “boiled down” a lot of facts and figures into this condensed form,
to wit:--in ten years, from 1876 to 1885, both years inclusive, there
were only one hundred and twenty days on which the mercury rose higher
than 80 degrees. And the summer nights are far more pleasant than those
you experience in New York.
What about the winter then? Here is the answer, gathered in the same
way from the same official source. There were only ninety-three days in
those same ten years upon which the mercury reached as low as 40, and on
no day did it remain at 40 for more than two hours.
By comparing, as I did, the United States record of the mean temperature
at Coronado for one year with a computation--made in the same year by
Dr. Bennett of the mean temperature of the Mediterranean records, I find
that the winter temperature of Coronado is 8 degrees _higher_ than the
winter temperature of the most favored foreign winter resorts, and the
summer temperature 10 degrees _lower_, thus making an average of 9
degrees in favor of Coronado as an all-year-round resort.
I haven’t the honor of Mr. Douglas Gunn’s acquaintance, but in his
interesting pamphlet concerning this region he says: “With scarcely a
perceptible difference between summer and winter you wear the same
clothing and sleep under the same covering the year round. The average
annual rainfall is about ten inches, with an average of thirty-four
rainy days in the whole year. And here most of the rain falls at night;
there are very few of what Eastern people would call “‘rainy days.’”
My week’s experience agrees with Mr. Gunn’s observations. He says:
“Almost every morning, about two hours after sunrise, a gentle sea
breeze commences, attaining its maximum velocity between one and three
P.M., then decreasing, and changing to a gentle land breeze during the
night. The sea breeze increasing as the sun gains its height, modifies
the power of its rays, and keeps the skin just comfortably warm. The
gentle land breeze at night cools off the heat absorbed during the day,
and makes every night refreshing.”
I could go on and quote to the same effect from no less distinguished an
authority than the scientist Agassiz, who was in this locality nineteen
years ago; also from Dr. Chamberlain in the New York Medical Record, who
says “it is the sanitarium of the Military Division for the Pacific,”
and from one known to me personally, Dr. Titus Munson Coan, a New York
littérateur of reputation, who calls this “the most charming spot on
earth;” but I fear that you might make some such remark as a very young
clubman did (fifty years ago) on seeing “Hamlet” for the first time.
Asked for his opinion, he said: “It’s a very good play, Fred, but too
d----d full of quotations.”
THE LOCATION.--Coronado Beach proper occupies about one-half of the
peninsula that forms the bay of San Diego. It is situated in the extreme
southwestern corner of the State, in latitude 32 degrees 42 minutes 37
seconds north, longitude 117 degrees 9 minutes west, and is four hundred
and eighty miles southeast from San Francisco. The peculiar shape of
this unique peninsula makes it difficult to describe. Beginning as it
does, very near the boundary line of Lower California, in Mexico, it
reaches away to the westward for miles, until, at a point opposite the
present city of San Diego, it forms a conjunction with what seems to
have been an island, which, if squared, would measure about a mile and a
half on each side. On the northeast and southeast are the slopes and
peaks of the Coast Range and Lower California chain of mountains;
southward lies the Pacific ocean; on the west is Point Loma, which forms
the western boundary of the entrance to the bay, and breaks the force of
the winter winds from the Pacific.
But how do you get to the hotel? Well, Coronado is one and a half miles
from San Diego, San Diego is one hundred and twenty-five miles from Los
Angeles, and Los Angeles is a station of the Southern Pacific Railroad,
also a station of the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fé road. San Diego is
also reached by steamer from San Pedro and from San Francisco, eight
hours from the former, two days from the latter.
The Pacific Coast Steamship Company runs a fine line of boats. I made
the trip on one, the Corona, a well-appointed vessel of 1500 tons, built
on the plan of the Olivette and Mascotte, which run between Tampa and
Havana. The Corona makes about thirteen knots; not so swift as the
Olivette; no boat of her size is as swift as the Olivette.
Some of the conditions of land and water are similar to those at Fire
Island--ocean on one side, bay on the other. But while Fire Island lacks
vegetation, every inch of ground here which is allowed to remain so is
green, or is carpeted with flowers--literally carpeted. No; Fire Island
will not quite answer for comparison. There is no use for a horse, nor
is there a horse on the land or the sand of Sammis, while here there are
fast trotters, lovely drives and a race course. The two places are
alike, in that surf and still water bathing can both be had, as well as
sailing and rowing. But there is other sport here--shooting, for
instance. I saw two men go out this morning after breakfast,
empty-handed (one of them was E. S. Babcock), and I saw them return this
evening with a bag which they said contained “about one hundred quail.”
I saw the birds counted and they numbered one hundred--lacking eight.
Is the ocean too cool for you or the surf boisterous, there is a plunge
bath off shore with water heated to 80 degrees. The tank measures 40 x
60 feet, so you can flounder about like a veritable fish.
But you neither shoot, fish, swim, ride nor drive? Then there are
charming and varied walks--on the edge of the rough ocean, on the edge
of the smooth bay, on the high bluff at the side of the former, or
through pretty country lanes and lovely gardens.
There is a charming walk of about one mile from the hotel to the ferry,
and planks are laid about half the distance. You pass by or pass
through pretty parks. On each “sidewalk” there is a row of young fan
palms six to eight feet high, these alternate with daisy bushes six feet
in circumference, the palm trees and bushes being about eight feet
apart; here and there rows of young pines ten or twelve feet high.