A Flight in Spring / In the car Lucania from New York to the Pacific coast and back, during April and May, 1898

by J. Harris Knowles

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.