All along the motor road even in what looked like primitive wilds, one was distracted all the time by placards on the road which hampered one’s conversation. Mostly they were directions for the motor driver who it was taken for granted must be a complete idiot. It left him no choice, no doubt whatever as to the right thing to do. “Blow your horn”--“Dangerous curve ahead” accompanied by a diagram illustrating the kind of curve to expect,--further directions as to what to do with the throttle, etc., etc., and wherever there was a flat wood fence there was inscribed a reminder that Christ loved me, and the option of deciding whether I would sin, or choose the other path. Occasionally we were informed “Picture ahead, Kodak as you go.” Apparently a man may be blind, the state will see for him. As the day advanced we speeded, so as to catch the sun before it set into the sea. We fetched up eventually at his sister’s house which is above the rocks on the wild seashore, known as Pebble Beach. The house, which has arcades and is Italian in design, reminded me of Shelley’s house at Lerici, the house to which Shelley was sailing back from Sorrento, when the storm overtook him and he was drowned. The peace, the loneliness, and the sea sounds that pervaded this house on the Pacific shore were balm to my socially weary soul. I walked in the dusk among the gnarled and tortuous storm beaten cedars of Lebanon that have their roots among the rocks. These are the only trees that grow, and the only place where they grow. No one can explain how the seeds were brought, whether by hand of human, or by a bird, or with the wind. But here on this coast, with the grip of centuries that no storm can dislodge, and with their heads as bright young green as their stems are old and warped, the cedars of Lebanon reign supreme. I was sorry that I had only one night to spend, it seemed too beautiful to leave so soon. I know that some day, when I have seen all I want to see of people, when I have travelled more and allayed some of my curiosity, when I have worked some more and am more tired, then I will go away into a silent and lonely and beautiful place and never more be seen, and my children will say: “We have a funny old mother, who lives way off somewhere, and whom we go and visit now and then.” THURSDAY, OCTOBER 21. _Monterey._ Next morning we motored along the coast, visited the old mission of San Juan, which is interesting. The guide showing us over the church announced impressively that it was 170 years old. “Is _that_ all?” I exclaimed, looking round at the primitive walls that might have been archaic and pre-historic. My companion in reply commented on “the _arrogance_ of foreigners” and completely shut me up. We then went and called at the house of Francis McComus, the painter. He and his wife were in. Mrs. McComus is the first human being I have ever seen who looks like a Gauguin, and attractive, which I never thought a Gauguin!