Chapter XVII: Lake Tahoe 358 (3)

It has been a parish church since the American conquest in 1846, though its old-time glory vanished and for a period it was almost forgotten. But the troops of tourists who came yearly to California rescued it from oblivion. The coming of the electric car, which clangs past its door, brought crowds daily; and when the motor arrived on the scene, old San Gabriel became a shrine of pilgrimage such as it never was in its palmiest days. Now a brown-robed priest welcomes you at the door, collects a modest fee—to be devoted to maintenance and restoration—and conducts you about every part of the ancient building. He leads you to the roof and shows you the bells at close range, and you may as a special favor be allowed to test their musical qualities. They are Spanish bells, older than the mission, and are looked upon by the fathers with a pride that verges on reverence. Then you will be shown the curios, the relics, paintings, vestments, old manuscripts, and books, some of doubtful value and authenticity and others of real antiquity and importance. You will be given a glimpse into the quiet burying ground, where many of the fathers are at rest and beyond which is the sheen of orange groves and the blue peaks of the Sierras. The monster grapevine that supplied the cellars of the old padres will not be overlooked and many rude utensils of early days may be seen scattered about the place. It is all very quaint and interesting, this bit of old-world mediaevalism transplanted to the new world by the western sea and about which has grown up one of the most enlightened and prosperous communities in the whole country.

You will be told as much of its story as you may wish to hear; how one time this fertile plain about the mission was tilled by the Indians whom the padres had instructed and partially civilized—at one time as many as five thousand of them. They raised vast herds of cattle, estimated from eighty to one hundred and twenty thousand, and twenty thousand horses and forty thousand sheep were numbered in their possessions at the height of their prosperity. Allowing for probable exaggeration, the wealth of the mission was undoubtedly great, reaching two million dollars in 1842. Shortly after, this was confiscated by the Mexican Government and the ensuing war with the United States marked the end of San Gabriel's prosperity.

When the town of Los Angeles was founded during the palmy days of the mission, a chapel was built there by the fathers and it stands to-day, time-stained and demurely unpretentious, in the midst of the bustling metropolis that has grown up around it.

But San Gabriel to-day has an added interest—the result of one of the happy inspirations which come periodically to Frank Miller of Riverside—in the Mission Play first given in the winter of 1910. It occurred to this loyal Californian that the romantic zeal and self-sacrifice that led to the foundation of the missions and the wealth of historic incident connected with their active career would furnish splendid material for a play—or, more properly, a pageant. The idea was presented to Mr. John S. McGroarty of Los Angeles, editor of the Pacific Coast Magazine, who combined the necessary qualities of historian and poet. He entered zealously into the plan and in due time the libretto was written. A playhouse was built—somewhat crude and cheaply constructed, it is true—directly opposite the old mission. It was not, however, inharmonious with the idea and spirit of the play and was surrounded by an open-air corridor or ambulatory containing small models of the twenty-one missions as they appeared in their most prosperous days. The actors were mostly local people who, during the performance, lived in the cottages of the village or near-by towns.

The play—or pageant—has but little plot, depending on scenic effect, rich in life and color, and on a wealth of interesting incident. We saw it during the first week of its performance and our only disappointment was the clearly inappropriate ending—but evidently the writer recognized this defect, for when we visited the play next season, the last act had been rewritten more in harmony with the spirit of the subject.

Before the play begins you are at liberty to saunter about the ambulatory to gain some idea of the subject with which it is to deal; the clang of a mission bell hanging over the stage will call you to your seat when the performance commences. Three figures pass like shadows in front of the darkened curtain before it rises—a crouching, fearful Indian, a fully accoutered and gaudily dressed soldier, representing the Spanish conquistador, and, lastly, the brown-robed priest bearing his crucifix—symbols of the three human elements with which the play is to deal. It proves more of an historical pageant than a miracle play—but, after all, what is Oberammergau but an historical pageant?—though it seldom occurs to us in that light.

The curtain rises on False Bay, San Diego—a piece of scene-staging that would do credit to any metropolitan playhouse. A little group of monks and soldiers sit disconsolately in their camp in the foreground; they are awaiting the arrival of Portola, their leader, who has gone northward to explore the coast and whose return they momentarily hope for. They have suffered from disease and hunger; hostile Indians have continually harried them and shown no signs of being converted to Christianity, despite the efforts of the monks. The soldiers are quite ready to re-embark in the crippled little San Carlos, lying temptingly in the harbor, and to return to Mexico for good. Here enters the hero of the play, Father Serra, and his influence is at once apparent, for complaint ceases and the rough soldiers become respectful. He addresses cheerful words to the dejected men—speaking like a hero and prophet—and to some extent rouses their depressed spirits. But the gloom is doubly deep when Portola staggers on the scene with the wretched remnant of his band of explorers—unkempt, footsore, starving, many of them sick and wounded—and declares that the port of Monterey has not been found—that all is lost. They must return to Mexico and when Father Serra insists that if all go he will remain here alone, Portola tells him he will not be allowed to do so. They will compel him to board the ship. The priest pleads for one more day of grace; he is to baptize his first native—an Indian child—and this may be the turning point of their fortunes. In the midst of the ceremony the savage parents become terror-stricken, snatch the babe from Serra's arms and flee to their retreat in the mountains. The sad outcome of the ceremony only confirms Portola in his determination to sail on the following morning; the San Antonio, which was despatched months ago for relief supplies, has never been heard of—she must have been lost at sea—there is no hope! The sooner they sail the greater the chance of reaching home—all are ordered to prepare for embarking. Serra raises his hands to heaven in deep contrition; it was his pride and vain glory, he laments, over his promise of success that has been punished—it is just; but he pleads in desperation with the soldier not to turn his back on God's work—to wait one more day; God may yet work a miracle to prevent the overthrow of the plans to save the heathen. His words fall on deaf ears, but while he pleads the watch sets up a joyful cry—a light is seen rounding Point Loma—the good ship San Antonio comes—the spirits of all revive—the mission is saved! It is indeed a thrilling and dramatic climax; the ship glides into the harbor in a truly realistic manner and the denouement is creditable alike to author and stage director.

The second act pictures the court of San Carlos at Monterey fourteen years later. It is rich with the semi-tropical splendor of that favored spot; green trees, waving palms, and flowers lend color and cheeriness to the gray cloisters through which the brown-robed figures march with solemn decorum. It is the great day when all the mission fathers—nine in number at that time—have assembled at Monterey to make report of progress of their respective stations to the president, the beloved Junipero. He has aged since we saw him last; hardships and wounds have left their furrows on his face, but it still glows with the old-time zeal. His strength of character comes out in one of the opening incidents—the military captain of the presidio comes to carry off a beautiful half-breed girl to whom he has taken a fancy, but the soldier's arrogance speedily fades before the stern rebuke of Father Serra, his sword is wrested from him by the athletic young "fighting parson" of San Luis Obispo, and he is ignominiously ejected from the mission.

In the second act it seems to me that the influence of Oberammergau can be seen in opulence of color and picturesque effects. The fathers gather about a long table and Serra listens with pious approbation to the optimistic reports of his subordinates. As an example of the fervent and self-sacrificing spirit of the aged president, as illustrated by the play, we may quote from Serra's address on this memorable occasion:

"Francisco, my beloved brother, and you, my brethren, all bear me witness that I have never sought for world honor; I have asked only to serve God in the wilderness, laboring to bring the light of Christ to the heathen. I would gladly be forgotten when I lie down with death in this poor robe of our Franciscan brotherhood, my hands empty, and rich only in the love of God and my fellow-man. But oh, California is dear to me! It is the country of my heart. It were sweet to be remembered here by the peoples which shall some day crowd these golden shores and possess these sweet valleys and shining hills that I have loved so well. My feet have wandered every mile of the way between the great harbor of St. Francis and San Diego's Harbor of the Sun so many, many times! and on this, my last journey which I have just taken, I stopped often amid the oaks and cypress, kissing the ground in loving farewell. I have looked down from the hilltops and embraced in my soul every vale carpeted with poppies and aflame with wild flowers as the mocking bird and the linnet sang to me on the way. To be remembered in California—ah, God grant that I shall not be forgotten in this dear and lovely land."

After this the pageantry begins—there is a church procession and the fathers with approving interest inspect the examples of handiwork proudly exhibited by the Indian pupils of San Carlos. The festivities begin; the spectators and performers, some scores in all, are artistically grouped on the stage. There are Indian and Spanish dances and the dark, gaudily dressed senoritas who perform the latter never fail of an encore—the rather high-stepping hilarity affording a pleasing relief from the more serious and even somber parts of the play. The young women have become adepts in these roles; in many cases they are of Spanish descent and take with natural aptitude to the fandango and castanets. The Indians, as well, have their dances and ceremonies—all carefully studied—and I doubt not that the second act of the play gives a fair idea of the peaceful, industrious, and yet joyous life that prevailed at many of these missions in their halcyon days. The entertainment wanes, the crowd breaks up and melts away, just as in real life, and finally Father Junipero alone remains on the scene, his features fairly beaming with satisfaction and devotion in the waning light. Finally, overcome by the labors and excitement of the day, he falls asleep at the foot of the cross in the mission court, after having offered the following beautiful and touching prayer:

"Hear, oh Lord, Thy servant Junipero, whose days upon the earth are about to close, even as the day has now closed upon this scene. Bring to the foot of Thy cross these wild gentiles of the plains and hills. Bless this dear and lovely land of California, its white peaks of glory and its sunlit valleys, where the wild flowers are ever blooming. Bless California now and in the centuries to come when newer peoples shall crowd her golden shores. This is the prayer, O Lord, of Junipero, Thy servant, who is old and worn and who soon must say farewell. Amen."

The third scene, as I have already intimated, was rewritten for the second year and much improved, though the staging remained practically unchanged. In the first draft the heroine falls a victim to the bullets of American soldiers, who fire upon the helpless Indians coming to bury their dead priest in the ruined cloisters of San Juan Capistrano. She had spurned the love advances of the captain, who rushes into the ruin only to find her breathing her last. All of which seemed incongruous and left a painful recollection with the audience; but on our second visit to San Gabriel playhouse we were delighted by a happy change in the ending of the play.

The new version shows the ivy-covered ruins of Capistrano seventy years later than the time of the second act. Confiscation by the Mexican Government has ruined the property of the missions and American occupation still further hastened their dissolution and decay. An old Indian shepherd is telling his story to a youth and declares that he was the first Indian child baptized by the sainted Serra. He is interrupted by the entrance of Senora Yorba, a lovely, devout Spanish lady who grieves over the destruction of the old regime and comes at times to muse and pray at the deserted altar, and in a graceful monologue she laments the downfall of the mission and the cessation of its beneficent work. While she is at her devotions a small company of wretched Indians enter the ruin, bearing the dead body of the padre, who ministered to them in their retreats in the hills; they would bury him in the consecrated ground of the old mission. Senora Yorba mourns with the Indians and joins them in laying the body to rest. In the folds of the dead priest's robe she discovers the golden chalice, richly bejeweled, which he had rescued from the ruined church and which the loyal natives—though they knew its value—would have interred with him. In the closing scene of the play the Senora, with a look of rapt devotion, raises the golden cup aloft and solemnly promises that she will lay it on the altar of Santa Barbara, the nearest mission still unforsaken.

The curtain falls on the melancholy scene; we pass out into the May-day sunlight and gaze reverently on the gray old mission across the way. The play has given to it new meaning, just as Oberammergau on another May day gave us a new conception of the old story that has never lost its interest to humanity. I am very sure that there are few people who witness either the famous and very ancient play of the Bavarian peasants or the very recent and less pretentious production of the artists of San Gabriel, who are not spiritually elevated and benefited thereby.

Within easy reach of the city, either by trolley or motor, is San Fernando, the next link in the mission chain to the north of San Gabriel. We made our first journey thither on a showery April day, following a steady downpour for nearly twenty-four hours. The country was at its best, as it always is in California after a spring rain. We edged our way out of the city, along the wide sweep of Sunset Boulevard to Los Feliz Avenue, which soon brought us into the San Fernando road at Glendale. From here a straight-away dash of twenty miles to the northwest takes one to the mission—one of the easiest and most delightful runs in the vicinity of Los Angeles.

It was a brilliant day, despite a dark cloud-curtain whose fringes hovered over the peaks of the rugged mountains in the north toward which we were rapidly coursing. We swept along the narrow valley—then a desert, cactus-studded plain—reaching on our left to low, green hills which stood in sharp outline against the deep azure of the sky. On the right, closer at hand, were low foothills, dominated by the distant mountains—their summits white with snow and touched in places by clouds of dazzling brilliance. Directly in front of us we saw the glistening phalanx of a summer shower, which rapidly advanced to meet us, giving us barely time to raise our cape top before it was upon us. Such a rain in our home state would have meant liquid roads and constant danger, but on this perfect highway it only heightened our enjoyment as our steadily purring engine carried us along the smooth wet surface. The green hills to the left and the cloudless sky above them seemed doubly glorious through the crystal curtain of the falling raindrops.

By the time we reached the village of San Fernando, the rain had ceased and we paused to inquire the whereabouts of the mission. We saw about us at the time a straggling, unsubstantial-looking hamlet which bore little resemblance to the smart, well-improved town that greeted us a year later—but so it often is in California. Then a new double boulevard with a parked center stretched away to the southeast—the work of an enterprising land company—with the inviting sign, "Speed limit one hundred miles per hour," but we were content with a fraction of this generous figure. The mission is about a mile out of the town and is best approached by the new boulevard, since this gives the advantage of a little distance for the front view, which the public road, directly passing, does not allow. Before you see the building itself you will note the two giant palms, over a century old, and perhaps a hundred feet high—all that remain of the many planted by the monks.

The structure is long, low, solid-looking—utterly devoid of artistic touches save the graceful, rounded arches of the long "portello" and the simple grille-work of wrought iron that still covers a few of the windows—work of the rude artisans of a hundred years ago. The old tile roof is the glory of San Fernando; the huge, semicircular tiles are time-stained to a color combination to delight the eye of an artist. Moss greens, silver grays, dull reds, and soft browns predominate, blending together in a most pleasing manner. Back from the mission extends a row of old-time living apartments, now little more than shapeless heaps of adobe, while the huge church, a little farther to the rear, seems approaching the final stages of dissolution. It was once a massive structure, built as well as loving care and endless industry could do—walls five or six feet in thickness, bound together at the top by heavy beams perhaps fifteen inches square. Traces of the ancient decorations appear, though they are nearly effaced by the weather, to which they have been long exposed. Apparently the earthquake began the work of ruin and long neglect has done the rest.

One enters the church with some trepidation, for it seems as if the cracked and crazy structure may stagger to shapeless ruin at any moment. What a pity that the material of California's missions was not enduring stone, like the English abbeys, rather than the quickly disintegrating adobe! Back of the church is a pathetic little burying ground where wooden crosses and simple memorials indicate that the present parishioners of San Fernando are the poorest of the poor,—probably a few wretched Mexican families such as the one we found in charge of the mission.

I have anticipated, perhaps, in describing the church before the mission itself, but, after all, the church is a part of the exterior with which I have been dealing. On our first visit we found a Mexican family living in two or three of the damp, cavernous rooms of the old building. They could speak but little English, but it was easy to see that visitors were welcome, and gratuities no doubt afforded their means of livelihood. When we returned a year later, another family was in possession and had reduced sightseeing to a business basis. We were required to pay "two bits" entrance fee and an extra charge was assessed for a peep into the ruinous church, all doors and rents in the wall having been religiously boarded up. Each member of our party was given a lighted lantern—a wise precaution, it proved, for there were dilapidated and broken stairways and unsound floors in the dimly lighted building. There was little enough to see; only a series of prison-like cells with tiny windows piercing the massive walls, with earthen floors, and rude beamed ceilings—surely life at best was hard and comfortless at San Fernando, and the fathers had little advantage over their Indian charges. There was one large room, apparently for assembly purposes, on the second floor. Our Mexican guide grinned gleefully as he pointed out a little conduit in the wall through which wine flowed from the presses to vats in the ample cellars; evidently the fathers made a plentiful supply of the genial liquor to counteract the hardships they must have endured.

One need explore but a corner of the mission; he will find it typical of the whole huge structure, perhaps two hundred feet in length. There is a pathetic little chapel—the altar covered with tinsel and gewgaws—where services are held at long intervals. As a whole, the building is in fair condition and a little intelligent repair and restoration would insure its preservation for many years to come. It is, in some respects, one of the most typical of the missions; except for decay, which has not impaired the structure or interior arrangement to any great extent, it stands to-day much as it did one hundred years ago and gives an excellent idea of the domestic life of the padres and their converts. A narrow stairway led to a platform on the roof and coming out of the dimly lighted interior into the broad sunlight—for the rain had ceased—we were struck with the remarkable beauty of the situation.

The mission stands in the center of the wide plain at the head of the valley, around which sweeps a circle of green hills and mountains, their rounded tops and rugged peaks lending infinite variety to the skyline. On one hand blue vapors softened the snowy summits; on the other, the sky bent down, crystal clear, to the gently undulating contour of the hills. The fertile plain was being rapidly brought under cultivation—dotted with fruit-tree groves and ranch-houses, with here and there a village—and this was before the coming of the waters of the great Owens River Aqueduct. It would take a bold flight of the imagination to picture the future of the San Fernando Valley—anything I might write would be ancient history before my book could get to the press. The whole plain will become a garden of wondrous beauty; only the mountains and hills will abide unchanged.

The history of the old mission which has been engaging our attention was not important as compared with many of its contemporaries. And, speaking of history, I have been wondering whether I should burden my pages with dates and incidents concerning these ancient memorials, but perhaps a short sketch, given in as few words as may tell the bare outlines of each mission as we visit it, will be of service to pilgrims who follow us.

San Fernando was seventeenth of the California missions in order of founding, and was considered a necessity by the padres to fill in the gap between San Gabriel and Ventura, being about thirty miles from either. Padre Lasuen performed the dedicatory ceremonies on September 8, 1797, and by the end of the year, fifty-five neophytes had been enlisted. These, in three years, had increased to three hundred, and the record reads that they possessed five hundred horses and about as many sheep, and harvested a crop of one thousand bushels of grain. The first church, built in 1802, was almost destroyed by the great quake of 1812, which left its impress on nearly every mission of the entire chain. The church was repaired and its shattered remnants are what we see to-day.

San Fernando never prospered greatly, though at one time there were nearly a thousand Indians on its rolls. It was cramped for want of productive land and its decline began many years before the act of confiscation by the Mexicans. This occurred in 1834, when the Government agent computed the wealth of the mission at around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, of which the "liquors" represented more than seven thousand. In January, 1847, General John C. Fremont took possession of the scanty remains of the property and the active history of San Fernando was ended. Mr. George Wharton James, to whose interesting book, "The Old Missions of California," I am indebted for much of the foregoing information, tells of an important incident in San Fernando's history as follows:

"Connected with the mission of San Fernando is the first discovery of California gold. Eight years before the great days of '49, Francisco Lopez, the major-domo of the mission, was in the canyon of San Feliciano, which is about eight miles westerly from the present town of Newhall, and, according to Don Abul Stearns, 'with a companion while in search of some stray horses about midday stopped under some trees and tied their horses to feed. While visiting in the shade, Lopez with a sheath knife dug up some wild onions, and in the dirt discovered a piece of gold. Searching further he found more. On his return to town he showed these pieces to his friends, who at once declared there must be a placer of gold there.'

"Then the rush began. As soon as the people in Los Angeles and Santa Barbara heard of it they flocked to the new 'gold fields' in hundreds. And the first California gold dust ever coined at the government at Philadelphia came from these mines. It was taken around Cape Horn on a sailing vessel by Alfred Robinson, the translator of Boscana's 'Indians of California,' and consisted of 18.34 ounces, and made $344.75, or over nineteen dollars to the ounce.

"Davis says that in the first two years after the discovery not less than from $80,000 to $100,000 was gathered. Don Antonio Coronel, with three Indian laborers, in 1842 took out $600 worth of dust in two months."

No doubt this discovery and others which followed had a far-reaching effect on the destinies of California. The influx of Americans who were attracted by the love of gold was beyond question a strong factor in bringing about the annexation of the state to the American Union by the treaty of 1849.

V

THE INLAND ROUTE TO SAN DIEGO

There may be a more delightful drive in the world than the sixty miles between Los Angeles and the Riverside country following Foothill Boulevard on an ideal California April day, but it would take an ocular demonstration to make us believe it! On such a day we made our first run over this road and perhaps the peculiarly favorable conditions for first impressions may have unduly prejudiced us, though many subsequent trips never dispelled the charm.

Leaving the city by the Broadway Tunnel and pursuing the broad curves of Pasadena Avenue to Orange Grove—which we could never traverse too often—we turned into the long stretch of Colorado Street, which leads directly into the broad oak-bordered Foothill Boulevard. Here we came into the first open country, some dozen miles from the center of Los Angeles, and until we reached the outposts of Monrovia, we ran between the sylvan glades of the Baldwin Oaks. To the left rose the rugged bulk of Mount Wilson, and peak after peak stretched away before us to the white summit of Old Baldy—as Mount San Antonio is popularly known—which rises to an altitude of more than ten thousand feet. It was a mottled spring day, rich in gorgeous cloud effects such as are not common in California; blue-gray cumulus clouds rolled above the mountains, occasionally obscuring Old Baldy's white pate and showing many entrancing phases of light and color. Beneath, a blue haze stole softly down the slopes to the tender green of the foothills. The sky above was peculiarly beautiful—pearl gray, deep blue and snowy white, all shading into each other, with lucent patches of pale blue breaking through here and there.

We paused at the Seven Oaks Inn in Monrovia and were delighted with its artistic "atmosphere" and cleanly, appetizing service. It is modeled on the higher-class English country inn—just a hint of the Lygon Arms at Broadway or the Red Horse at Stratford. Its main room had an immense fireplace with many cozy chairs, a most inviting place to spend a dull evening, and its windows looked out on pleasant gardens whose shady nooks had an equally strong lure for the daytime. We only regretted that our plans did not admit of a longer acquaintance with the attractive Seven Oaks.

We glided slowly through the broad, shady streets of the trim little town and just as we left it we turned a corner at an ivy-covered stone church that awakened recollections of England. Then we were away again on the long stretches of the boulevard, which here for a few miles runs through desert country—desert indeed, but no doubt quite the same as that now covered by the orange groves about Azusa must have been a few years ago. Out of Azusa for miles and miles the orange and lemon groves crowded up to the roadside, their golden globes glowing through the green sheen of the leaves. The air was heavy with the perfume of the blossoms, which lent an added charm to the sensuous beauty of the day and scene.

At Claremont we left Los Angeles County and at the time of our first trip the road was rough and inferior from that point, though plans for its improvement were already made and may be completed by this time. But the orange groves continued, alternating with huge vineyards which were just beginning to send forth green shoots. Near Upland we passed one of more than four thousand acres, said to be the largest single vineyard in the world, and near it was a huge concrete winery. A vineyard in this country in springtime presents a strange sight to a newcomer—a stretch of sand studded with rows of scraggly stumps two or three feet high—for the vines are cut back to the stump after the bearing season. Few of the vineyards are irrigated and one marvels that nature can produce the luscious clusters from the arid sands.

And here I may pause to remark upon the peculiar and unexpected result of national prohibition upon the California grape growers. For years the threat of state prohibition had been their bugbear and it was uniformly defeated in their interests whenever the issue came before the people of the state. When they were finally overwhelmed in the tide of National Prohibition originating in the war, they resigned themselves as lost and a few vineyards were pulled up to replant the ground in fruit trees. But, strange to say, while the wails of distress were still sounding, there came a sudden and unexpected demand for dried grapes of any kind or quality—even those which, before the war, would have been thrown away as spoiled sold for more than the top quality did in old times. Unprecedented prosperity settled down upon the vineyard men and I am told that at this time (1921) grapes are selling for from two to three times as much per ton as they brought from the wineries in pre-war days. New vineyards are now being planted in many sections of the state.

Just before we came to San Bernardino we passed the Fontana Orchards, a tract of seventeen thousand acres of young citrus trees recently planted by an improvement company. Rows of newly planted rose bushes and palm trees on either hand will, in a few years, add still further to the charm of the boulevard—another instance of the determination everywhere present in California to beautify as well as improve.

On our first trip to San Bernardino we stopped, for personal reasons, at the comfortable Stuart Hotel, though the majority of motorists will probably wend their way to Riverside's Mission Inn. San Bernardino is a lively town of nearly twenty thousand people and has gained fame as a prosperous railroad and jobbing center. Its name is pretty much of a mouthful and the traveling fraternity generally has abbreviated it to San Berdoo—a liberty which gives offense to every loyal San Bernardinian, and I saw a card posted in public places with the legend, "Please call it San Bernardino; it won't hurt you and it pleases us."

No matter what you call it, San Bernardino is a lively place and has a good deal to interest the wayfarer if he can find some kindly disposed native to point it out. The town is well-built, with numerous handsome public buildings. It has a remarkable number of hotels for its size—but I might add here that one never knows the size of a California town; before the census figures can be compiled they are often ancient history. The water supply of the town comes from artesian wells and is practically unlimited. There are many fine drives in the vicinity, though the county had as yet done little in the way of permanent roads. Since our first visit, however, a bond issue of two million dollars has made possible an excellent county road system. I recall my record "coast" over the fine stretch leading down from Mill Creek Canyon towards Redlands, where, with engine dead, our odometer showed a distance of seven and one-half miles before we came to a standstill.

One of our drives took us to the oldest orange grove in the section. The trees are fifty years old and a foot in diameter; they are hale and strong, bearing profusely. No one, as yet, can say how long a California orange tree may live. Near this grove a few shapeless heaps of adobe may be seen, remains of the branch founded here by padres from San Gabriel shortly after the establishment of that mission. The country about the town is beautiful and productive—a wide, level plain encircled by mountains, some of which are usually snow-capped except in midsummer. Near the town is Arrowhead Mountain—so called because of the strange outline of a great arrowhead upon the side next the valley. Formerly it was quite plain, though a recent forest fire to some extent obliterated the sharp definition of the outlines. Just beneath the point of the arrow is the famous spring, the hottest known, with a temperature of one hundred and ninety-six degrees, and a large, well-appointed resort hotel formerly offered comfortable quarters to visitors throughout the year. Since the war, however, the Government has leased the Arrowhead Hotel as a sanitarium for disabled war veterans, especially those who suffer from nervous disorders, and from our knowledge gained by a month's sojourn at this pleasant inn, we would declare it ideal for this worthy purpose.

Arrowhead Mountain is about four thousand feet high and it is said that the temperature at the summit averages twenty degrees cooler than in the valley. It is not strange that it is a popular resort, and a well-engineered road leads up its slopes. The grades are fairly heavy—up to fifteen per cent; there are many "hairpin" curves and the road often runs along precipitous declivities. It is, however, nearly everywhere wide enough for vehicles to pass and presents no difficulties to a careful driver.

For some distance after leaving the hot springs we followed a clear mountain stream through a wooded canyon. From this we emerged into the open, ascending the mountain slopes in sharp upward zig-zags. We had many magnificent views of the wide plain beneath, with its orange groves, ranch-houses, towns and villages, intersected by the sinuous white line of the river washes. Frequently there was scarce a shrub between the road and a sheer precipice—a downward glance gave some of our passengers a squeamish feeling, which, after all, was purely a psychological phenomenon, for with ordinary care the ascent is as safe as a drive on a boulevard. The day was warm and the engine sizzled a good deal, but, fortunately, there are means of replenishing the water at frequent intervals. Near the summit there was much fine forest, though some of it was badly injured by the big fire of 1910.

A winding drive along the crest for a mile or two brought us to Squirrel Inn—a rustic lodge named from Frank Stockton's story—the property of a San Bernardino club. Through the courtesy of a friend we had luncheon here and admired the fine situation at our leisure. The lodge, built of logs and stones, is surrounded by pines and firs, and near it are vantage points for wide views over the valley. Among the mementos of the inn is an autograph letter from Mr. Stockton, expressing his appreciation of the compliment offered in the name. In the vicinity are a number of cottages which are in great demand by local people during the heated season, for the summer is hot in the valley, sometimes reaching one hundred or even one hundred and ten degrees in the daytime, though invariably cool nights greatly relieve the situation.

The Arrowhead Road, which Californians are fond of designating as "The Rim of the World Drive" continues from Squirrel Inn to Big Bear Lake, a distance of about twenty miles. It winds through magnificent pines, which fortunately escaped the conflagration, and just beyond Strawberry Flats a detour of a few miles takes us to Arrowhead Lake, an artificial reservoir about a mile in diameter, surrounded by pines which crowd almost to the water's edge. The road winds through these around the pretty little lake, which gives slight hint of its artificiality. It is famous for its trout and being some twelve hundred feet lower than Big Bear, is usually accessible much earlier in the season. Returning to the main road, we pursue our way along the mountain crests, soon crossing Strawberry Peak, the hoary patriarch of the range. We pass out of the pine forest into a denuded section where the ravages of the axe are sadly apparent, with every evidence of the wanton waste that destroys with no thought of the future. At Green Valley the road begins to rise rapidly and passes some of the finest scenery of the trip. There are points where one's vision reaches over the orange-grove studded plain to the ocean, a hundred miles away, or turning eastward sweeps over the dun stretches of the Mohave Desert.

Coming in sight of the lake, we realize that though in common parlance it is only a dam, it is none the less a beautiful and very respectable body of water. In contemplating its rugged natural surroundings and the splendid groves of pines that line its shores, we quite forget that it is man-made; it seems almost as much a child of the ages as Klamath or Tahoe. It is six or seven miles long, with an average width of almost a mile and in places it attains considerable depth. It is usually snowbound from December to May, though of course this varies considerably. The road executes a sharp turn around the eastern extremity of the lake and just beyond the bend are located the various camps and cabins that furnish quarters for the tourists, vacationists and fishermen who visit Bear Lake in great force during the summer season. There are also numerous privately owned summer cottages, belonging principally to Los Angeles business men. The lake is well stocked with fish and record catches are often reported early in the season.

The return trip of the "Rim of the World Drive" is made by the way of Santa Ana and Mill Creek Canyons over a road which has been greatly improved in the last few years but which still furnishes plenty of thrills for any but the most seasoned mountain driver. The highest point attained, 7950 feet, is opposite the western extremity of the lake and an inspiring panorama spreads out beneath Lookout Point, near the summit of the range. The road descends rapidly from this point in a series of "switch-backs" which require extreme vigilance on part of the driver. From Clark's Ranch the descent is easier, ending in the long smooth stretches of Mill Creek Canyon road. It was on this road, as mentioned elsewhere, that we made our record "coast" of seven and one-half miles. Big Bear Valley may also be reached from Victorville, crossing the range over the El Cajon Pass. This road is open practically the year round and affords access to the lake when the Arrowhead route is closed by snow. Stages make the "Rim of the World" trip regularly during the summer and if one does not care to pilot his own car he can still make the journey easily and comfortably as a passenger in one of these vehicles.

Riverside is one of the Meccas of California which every tourist must visit, and if he does not care to pay the price at the Glenwood Mission Inn, he is bound to find some excuse for dropping into this unique and delightful hotel, just to say he has been there. One visit will not suffice for many people; in the course of our three springtime sojourns in California we gravitated to Riverside a dozen times or more, often going out of our way to pass the night at the Glenwood. On our first trip we followed the Crest road from Redlands and enjoyed another fine view of the valley with its towns and encircling mountains from the grade which crosses the hills northeast of Highgrove.

Riverside we found a clean, handsome town with wide, well-paved streets bordered with trees, and lawns and gardens bright with flowers and palms. Within its limits are one hundred and sixty miles of graded streets, a large part of which is paved or macadamized, while out of the town are two of the most famous drives in California—Magnolia and Victoria Avenues. The former, bordered with double rows of pepper trees—there are a few magnolias among them—under which were mammoth rose bushes in full bloom, was lovely beyond description. It passes Sherman Institute, a government Indian school, where the rising generation of red men—and ladies, for that matter—are being trained in the ways of civilization. Surely, the location and surroundings are nearly ideal, and the whole institution seemed like a far echo of mission days, for the buildings are mainly of mission type and the students—neophytes?—are educated in arts and crafts; but the padres are supplanted by Uncle Sam's trained teachers.

There are many other drives about the town, which is almost completely surrounded by orange groves, and one may see all phases of the orange-producing industry if he has the time and inclination. The first naval oranges were developed here and the parent tree still flourishes, hale and green, in the court of the Mission Inn.

But whatever the visiting motorist at Riverside may elect to do, he will probably place first on his program the ascent of Rubidoux Mountain. This is a rugged hill to the west of the town which commands a wide view of the surrounding valley and whose summit may be reached by one of the easiest mountain roads in California. It ascends in long loops, following the edge of the hill, and a separate road provides for the descent, thus avoiding the annoyance and danger of passing on the grades. So easy is the ascent that a powerful car can jog upward most of the way on "high," though care must be taken in rounding the frequent loops.

From the boulder-strewn summit the view of the semi-tropical valley beneath will hardly be surpassed, even in California. The dominant note is the shimmering bronze-green of the orange groves, which surround the mountain on every hand. It is broken here and there by emerald-green alfalfa fields and by frequent towns and villages. Around the valley sweeps a wide circle of snow-capped peaks whose rugged outlines are softened by the blue haze of distance. Just below lies Riverside, half hidden in palms and pepper trees, with here and there a dash of color from the masses of flowers; San Bernardino is plain in the distance, while a little to the right, Redlands nestles at the foot of the mountains. Through the center of the valley runs the wide sandy bed of the Santa Ana River, with a gleaming thread of water coursing through it.

It was the conservation of this river and other mountain streams that has had everything to do with the beautiful and prosperous scene beneath us. It is indeed difficult to conceive that fifty years ago this green, thriving plain was an arid desert, but such has been the history of more than one prosperous locality in California, and in the future many other seeming deserts will burst into bloom under the magical touch of water. Much of the water in the valley comes from artesian wells and when these began to fail from increasing demands, it occurred to some resourceful mind to divert water from the river during the flood time to the vicinity of the wells. Sinking into the earth, it greatly augmented the subterranean supply and it is hoped in the future to conserve the surplus water in this way.

On the highest point of the mountain stands a tall cross with a tablet to the memory of Father Serra, and a huge bell has been erected on one of the boulders as a memento of California mission days. On Easter morning a large part of the population of Riverside repairs to the summit of the mountain to join in an open-air song-service as the sun rises. On this occasion the winding drive, as well as the parking-place, is lined with hundreds of cars, showing how completely the automobile has become the accepted means of transportation in Sunset-land.

More recently, however, the crowds have so increased—fifteen to twenty thousand people attending the services—that parking on the road or mountaintop is prohibited. The cars must quickly discharge their passengers at the summit and immediately descend. Many people, therefore, make the ascent on foot.

The time has slipped away rapidly while we have been admiring the prospect from Mount Rubidoux or clambering over the huge boulders to get vantage points for our camera. Luncheon hour is at hand and with pleasant anticipations we glide down the winding descent and through the broad streets to Frank Miller's Mission Inn, of which we have heard so much and—I may say—expect so much. After this and many subsequent visits to this unique hotel we can frankly say that our expectations have been more than fulfilled; it would be hard from any description that one might read or hear to get any true conception of this charming retreat for the discriminating tourist. Standing as it does in the business part of the city and being confined to a single block, one can not conceive of the air of quiet and restfulness with which Mr. Miller has invested his delightful inn. Once past its arched portals it seems as if we have entered some secluded retreat miles and miles away from the turmoil of the workaday world. Our car is left in the court with a dozen others and we are welcomed as though we were expected guests.

Our rooms are on the second floor, for the Glenwood is no sky-scraper. Everything is plain but substantial and homelike, a basket of California fruit stands invitingly on the table. The lattice windows open upon a little balcony above the court, with its flowers, climbing vines, palms and orange trees; in the center is the quaint adobe tea-house, and around it run corridors reminiscent of mission cloisters. It is a cool, pleasant retreat, quite atoning for the absence of large grounds surrounding the hotel. Luncheon is served by young women in spotless attire; I like the girl waiters of the California resort hotels—Coronado, Del Mar, Del Monte, Santa Barbara, and Riverside—they are more attentive, prompter, and pleasanter to look upon than their brothers of the greasy tuxedo in evidence in so many hotel dining-rooms.

One does not find the time hanging heavily upon his hands at the Mission Inn. It will be long ere he has explored the interior of the great rambling building to his satisfaction, from the curious collection of bells on the roof to the dim mysteries of the cloistered chapel. A building so redolent of the ancient missions would of course be incomplete and unsatisfying without its chapel, and most fittingly has Frank Miller supplied this need. A large, dimly lighted apartment with heavily beamed ceiling, high oaken pews, and antique chairs; with stained-glass windows and figures of saints and prophets and supplied with a magnificent organ, is certainly an ideal chapel for the Mission Inn. Its principal window, "St. Cecilia," is a Tiffany masterpiece, but even more appropriate seem the huge sepia-brown photo-graven negatives of western wonders of forest, mountain and stream. Here we delighted to linger, listening to the musical recitals which occupy a good part of the afternoon and inspecting the costly furniture, rugs and curios which form a part of a collection from all over the world. Some of these were "For Sale," at figures well beyond the reach of common persons like ourselves; but there is a little shop just off the chapel with a stock of books, pictures, and Indian work, in basketry, and trinkets of silver and bronze, where a modest purse has a fair show. From this one can wander away into subterranean apartments furnished like a dream of old Spain and lighted with the subdued glow of many-colored lamps. Altogether, it is strangely romantic and effective; it has an oriental savor as well as the atmosphere of mission days.

The collection of bells in a nook on the roof always interests the guests and you can hear the mellow notes at all times of the day. There are bells from California missions, bells from old England, bells from Spain, bells from China and Japan—and Heaven only knows from what other corners of the earth. There are antique bells, hundreds of years old, and bells with queer histories. Altogether, it is a remarkable collection and in keeping with the characteristics of the inn.

If one grows weary of indoors, the court invites him to muse amidst its semi-tropical trees and flowers, to lounge in the vine-laden pergolas, or to wander through the long vistas of arched arcades, listening to the murmuring of fountains and warbling of the birds. He will catch glimpses of Moorish towers against the blue sky and with the chiming of the vesper bells one might indeed imagine himself in one of the old-time missions—Santa Barbara, San Juan Bautista, San Antonio—a hundred years ago.

A notable new addition was completed in 1915, containing many de luxe suites and a remarkable picture gallery, a replica of a hall from a grand old Spanish palace. The ceiling is unique, being formed by loosely hung folds of cloth of gold. The walls are decorated with notable paintings, ancient and modern, and many interesting objects of art are scattered about. It is a notable apartment in which one might spend hours and yet wish to come again. This addition is constructed of steel and concrete, making it absolutely fire-proof.

On one of our later visits I had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Mr. Frank Miller, the Master of the famous Inn, and to learn from him personally something of the founding and progress of this unique institution. His father came to Riverside when the surrounding country was a cactus-studded desert and was a pioneer in shaping the marvelous development which we see to-day. The Millers, among other enterprises, kept a small tavern, the Glenwood Inn, which was the precursor of the great establishment of to-day. No one who knows Frank Miller will wonder that he has achieved such great success; he is a perfect dynamo—full of energy, keen, alert, with a remarkable quickness of decision which enables him to rapidly dispose of the multitude of details that come to his attention daily and he seldom makes an error in such cases. He has been most fortunate in choice of his aides, it is true, but that only exhibits another side of his genius. Elbert Hubbard's dictum that "every great institution is the lengthened shadow of some man" is surely exemplified in the instance of Frank Miller and his Riverside Mission Inn.