Chapter XVI

Sunday at San Jose.--The Big Trees.--The Fruit Farm at Gilroy.--Hotel del Monte.--The Ramble on the Beach.--The Eighteen-Mile Drive.--Dolce far Niente.

We stayed at San Jose over Sunday, and attended church morning and evening, furnishing from our number the preacher for both services. The church had a good choir of men and boys, surpliced, which was, very sensibly, placed near the organ in one of the transepts. A much better arrangement this is than putting all in the compass of a small chancel. To have choristers close up to the altar is not a commendable use, though very general. The structural choir of a cathedral gives ample room for singers and worshippers, with dignified and clear space about the chancel proper. The ordinary parish church, in its whole extent, should be treated as if it were just such a structural choir, with the singers well among the people in raised seats, for the prominence of their office and the better effect of the music.

We had time on Monday to take another stroll among the roses and palm trees of San Jose, and then the car "Lucania" in the forenoon took all our party, except one, to Santa Cruz, for an excursion to the Big Trees, about ten miles from there. All this I missed. From the leaves of the diary of one of the party I quote the impression of the trip:

"When we reached Santa Cruz we found a four-horse stage and a carriage awaiting us, into which we got, and were driven back into the woods about ten miles, along a road that wound round with a deep canyon on one side, at the bottom of which ran a river. We finally forded this river, and went into deeper woods, where we found the 'big trees.' They were a grand sight, these solemn old trees, said to be four thousand years old, some of them towering up three hundred feet or so, and sixty and ninety feet in circumference. We all got into one, and our party of thirteen had plenty of room left for several more people. This tree was called after General Fremont, who lived in it while surveying in this region. Before that, it was occupied by a trapper, whose children were born in it. There are sixty acres of these trees which have been preserved from the ruthless greed that is rapidly destroying those priceless giants of the ages."

It was a regret to me that I could not have seen the mystery of those venerable trees, but I had a duty to perform in visiting some relatives residing near Gilroy. It gave me a nearer impression of the Santa Clara Valley and its life. My visit was to a fruit ranch entirely given over to the growth of prunes. The part of the great plain where I was, is cut up into small farms, and these are tended, usually, by the members of the family. The work is limited and light. After the trees are planted, nature, pretty much, does all the rest. When the fruit is ripe is the time of most applied and constant labor. Then, under the shadows of the live-oaks, the whole family attend to the curing of the fruit, which has to be dipped in lye and dried in the open air. It is a pretty and pastoral occupation; and with a horse, and a cow, and some poultry, an easy and comfortable life can be had. It lacks, however, the robust discipline of legitimate farming, with its varied enterprises, and constant changes of crops, of times and seasons. It is a lotos kind of existence, and when I heard of the meeting of reading circles, and of whist clubs, in which regular accounts of rubbers were kept, all through the winter, I knew that leisure was ample and life easy.

While in Gilroy I saw the little Episcopal church, and enjoyed the happy pride of the old English gentleman, who for more than thirty years, had been senior warden, and had seen Breck and the other California pioneers who labored arduously for the Church in early days. I understood that Breck had planted the two eucalyptus trees which guarded the entrance porch of the little building, trees which have now grown up to be quite large and imposing.

Leaving Gilroy, I awaited our Santa Cruz party at a junction somewhere, and joined them for our run to the Hotel del Monte, and Monterey.

As in all Santa Clara Valley, our way was through fruits, and flowers, and rich vegetation, until at last, we were once more at anchor, in the grounds of the Hotel del Monte.

After tea we wandered out in the twilight through the umbrageous woods, and found that we were separated from the ocean only by a fringe of trees and shrubs, and some sand dunes, over which we had an exciting climb.

The lonely walk, with the roar of the breakers in our ears, and their white foam breaking upon the beach, was a charming close for our day, whether we had seen the solemnity of the giant sequoia, or the humbler conditions of rural life on a ranch.

Stunted cedars in contorted shapes, battered and twisted by storms, began to look more weird in the gathering gloom, but before the light had quite faded out, we had filled our hands with bunches of a pale pink flower, like a morning-glory, with which the sands were dotted. The little fragile flower clung tenaciously to the shifting ground in which it grew, and gathered from all its hopelessness of surroundings, a vigorous life, much of tender beauty, and a fragrance which was refreshing. Nature always shows us how to make the best possible use of any environment whatever. Here, in sands which shifted, amid storms which blew, in utter humility and loneliness, the flower developed firmness, beauty, and fragrance, and gave evidence of constant vigor and of useful life.

We had two full, glorious days at Del Monte, and they were hours of utter enjoyment. The hotel and its well-kept and extensive grounds were enough for a week, at the least, of intense pleasure. The site is a promontory of sand dunes, covered with pine and other native forest trees. The surrounding waters, the yellow sands, the clear, delicious air, the equable climate, the illimitable ocean--these were the raw material for the exquisite result, which one sees at Del Monte.

In the immediate neighborhood of the hotel the landscape gardener has done his best. There, one hundred sixty acres of well-kept grounds feast the eye. Irrigation brings the life-giving current to the sandy soil, and, while we look almost, the turf is green and velvety, the flowers bloom, and the fruits appear.

Nothing can be more bewitching than the winding drives to the hotel. Great forest glades intercept the view, and give impression of still greater distance; or, a vista opens before one, and the huge pines tower up, their naked trunks wreathed closely to their topmost branches, with ivy and other creeping plants.

Wherever one looks there is evidence of intelligent care. One sees it in the rich flower-beds, models of good taste; in the arboretum; in the cactus garden; in the Maze; in the unexpected groups of cultivated plants, where the enclosed garden joins on to the outlying wild. And, in this wild itself, what beauty does one find! The great ocean, the cliffs, the sea-lions, the Chinese shell-gatherers; the winding drive of eighteen miles, by ocean, through rich land, and through the wild-wood, winding back again to the hotel, and all its graceful beauty and luxury. The place has all the sumptuousness of an English ducal palace standing on its ancestral grounds, with the added charm here, of space, and vastness, and that the whole place belongs to every eye which sees it--that is, if the hand can dip into the pocket and pay the necessary bills. But even without this, it does seem to belong to everybody in a certain true sense. The American hotel of every class, has about it a generous air of freedom for all, which is most remarkable.

We were independent of the place in our own well-appointed car, and yet how freely all was at our bestowal; the corridors, the music, the reading and reception rooms, and all the magic perfection of the gardens. All was free as air, and we could wander at will, by the lovely lake, or in the charming gardens, or in the splendid hotel, without let or hindrance.

Here is a place where one might enjoy a thorough good rest, lapped in soft airs, close to the throbbing bosom of mother earth, within sight and sound of the sea, and housed in a hostelry which on every side speaks of comfort and refinement. There is no gaud or glitter, but ever the suggestion of home and all that home means.

On one of our days there we took the eighteen-mile drive which I have incidentally mentioned above. It brought us through the old town of Monterey, a little sleepy place, with many relics yet in it, of the days of '49. Houses still remain, of which the bricks, or iron plates, used in their construction, were brought from Liverpool or Australia, or other points, when upon the shores of Monterey the fierce tide of adventure dashed high, made eager for effort by the thirst for gold.

During our stay at Monterey we--that is, some of us--passed hours on hours strolling on the sands, and reclining in utter abandon on the shore. It was, to the full, the unutterable delight of an entirely irresponsible existence, which took no thought of time, not even of its flight, and luxuriated in the clear, pure air, the dashing breakers at our feet, and the blue heavens above.

There was little of minute attraction upon the beach. It seemed as if all was on too huge a scale for mere minor attractions. There were no rocks to sit upon, but a whale's huge skull, half buried in the sand, made a good enough seat, and debris of that colossal character was all about us.

But it mattered not. The very place itself, and the great Pacific, stretching off westward to the Orient, gave scope enough for the wings of our imagination, and we had present pleasure also, as we lay, in complete idleness, prone upon the warm sands.

The declining sun, however, warned us to retrace our steps once more to the "Lucania," where all the pleasures of home awaited us, and the varied experience of our day gave us conversation until bedtime.

But before that hour, we were on our way back once more to San Jose, where, the next day, we spent some hours renewing our former pleasant experiences, even with greater zest. Our ladies, who went out for a walk, came back laden with gifts of flowers from hospitable friends, the acquaintances of the moment; and, as we started from San Jose for Oakland, our car looked like a bower of roses, laden with perfume.