Overland THE Monthly. Vol. XX. (Second Series).-November, 1892.-No. 119. I. OVER THE SANTA LUCIA. Na hollow on the seaward side of the Santa Lucia mountains, about sixty miles south of old Monterey, is such a community as one reads about, but seldom sees. Should you be dropped there from the sky, and told that there is no water exit, you would resign yourself to wait for a gigantic feat of engineering, or an improved flying machine. But if you gazed long enough at the impassable looking mountains to the east, your hopes might sight some means of rescue nearer than the millennium. Not that the mountains grow less formidable on close inspection-it is the habit of mountains to do otherwise; but you might by chance see a far-off mule with its rider tacking and veering down the ridge, and taking in general a course like a telescoped letter S continued indefinitely. Then, well for you if you are a good equestrian, tough of fiber, and bold of heart, for your exit is assured. It was in August, 1891, that I bade farewell to civilization, and set my face southwestward, with this place as an objective point. About noon we entered Monterey County. Fremont's Peak VOL. XX.-39. (Copyright, 1892, by OVERLAND MONTHLY PUBLISHING CO.) All rights reserved. Bacon & Company, Printers. loomed in sight on the left, and the names of the stations, such as Pajaro (Pä-hä-rō) and Soledad, reminded the passenger that he was on ground that had belonged to an earlier civilization than ours. As we came farther south it grew hotter, and dryer, and dustier, and flatter. Trees became scarce, and the few that remained to illustrate the survival of the fittest had set their branches LA CASA DE HIDALGO. southward as if fleeing before the wind. Great wheat-fields spread out to right and left. The blue line of the Gabilan Mountains on the left, and a straggling line of gray willows skirting some small stream on the right, gave a needed relief of color to the glaring yellow of the stubble. The passengers became fewer, and those who boarded the train were of a different type. The heat was intense, and the portly Spanish don took off his wide straw hat, and mopped and fanned with plebeian vigor. I could not help thinking these Spaniards a more social and happy race than ourselves. They took even the heat as a joke, and without descending to the loud or familiar, had soon established an easy good-fellowship in the car, which included in its embrace the few Americans among them. After the English, the Americans are certainly the least gregarious of human animals. About half-past two P. M. we reached Kings City, a dry and dusty but thriving town. Here we left the train for the stage. But let no vision of a long, high-topped coach, with hurricane deck, and six, or at least four, prancing and restive horses, arise in your mind's eye, as it did in mine, until I faced and climbed into the stern reality. On the contrary, imagine, a little, old, dried-up, two-seated, shabbily-covered vehicle, drawn by two horses that looked as though they would stand without holding until they died from inanition, and you will be near the facts. After driving westward for ten more flat, hot, and dusty miles we began to ascend a mountain, in the shadow of which it grew much cooler. This was a comparatively insignificant out-lying guard of the Santa Lucia Range, covered with scrub live-oak and chemisal brush. After four o'clock we encountered many dirty-faced urchins with bare and dusty feet and gleaming tin pails, "just let loose from school," and occasionally we had a view of the homely and sometimes squalid interior of some redwood shanty, with the mother and half-a-dozen small children sitting about the porchless door. After coming down the opposite side of the mountain we drove through groves of large white oaks, with graceful, drooping branches. It was twilight as we neared the little sleepy hollow town of Jolon (Hōlōń). From thence the journey was to be on horseback, baggage being carried on mules. There is no regular means of conveyance at all, and even no mail probably not met one of them before, they mixed without a ripple, and the talk glided on, or paused, with equal unconstraint, as though they were friends of every day. One wondered if it was the touch of religion and humanity, or the effect of the climate. interest as a study. English, Ameri- he was among them, and though he had cans, Danes, Spanish, and Mexicans are scattered around. Ordinary social distinctions are dropped, and your visa-vis at table may be anyone, from a blacksmith or stage-driver to a retired army officer in the person of "mine host," or a Church of England clergyman, of which denomination there was a representative during my stay. If the days are disagreeable, the evenings almost compensate, and only fail to do so on account of their brevity. They When the stage rattled in, even this sound was subdued into keeping with the scene. There was no hurry, no loud or quick tones, as it unloaded its one or two passengers and its few mailbags. are balmy as the tropics; the katydids made music, and we sat on the veranda in long stretches of easy silence, broken occasionally by the jog-trot gait and jingling spurs of some passing horseman. Occasionally one stopped and asked for the mail, or for tobacco, for our hotel is store and post office also. Two or three Spanish youths loitered on the steps, talking in soft broken English, or in their own more musical language. Our clergyman drifted, as it were, from his seat farther back, until Even these failed to create any excitement. On Sunday we followed our Episcopalian to a tiny chapel among the oaks and manzanitas, where we heard the service read with simplicity and appreciation, followed by a simple and sincere little discourse on spiritual blindness. An after-dinner talk, which glanced from Matthew Arnold, Maurice, Kingsley, and Dr. Haweis, to Renan, with variations on Besant, the latest fiction, apostolic succession, and the Ethical Society, sounded queerly with its back- ligent and kindly looking, but not speakwoods setting. ing much Ingles, as he told me. Next morning we rose betimes, intending to start at six; but it was halfpast six when my baggage was strapped on the mule, and we were ready to mount. Probably never in his existence had that mule known the honor of carrying fifty pounds of Shakespearian and philosophical literature, with the English poets thrown in; but he seemed not to |