changeful Orient seas, and even the turbulent Atlantic, never can
impart. Instinctively we stand uncovered in the presence of the
mightiest ocean on our planet. It is at once the symbol and the fact
of majesty; and the appalling sense of trackless space which it
inspires, the rhythm of unmeasured and immeasureable waves, together
with the moaning of the surf upon the sand, at times completely
overwhelm us with suggestions of the Infinite, until no language
seems appropriate, unless it shapes itself in prayer.

[Illustration: "A SEA-BIRD FASHIONED BY MAN'S HAND."]

[Illustration: A LONELY OCEAN.]

In Helen Hunt Jackson's novel, "Ramona," the romance of this region
has found immortality. What "Romola" is to mediaeval Florence,
"Ramona" is to Southern California. It has embalmed in the memory of
the nation a lost cause and a vanished race. Less than one hundred
years ago, where the Anglo-Saxon has since built railroads, erected
manufactories, and created cities, a life was lived, so different in
its character from all that followed or preceded it, that only a
story like "Ramona" could make it appear real. At that time about
twenty "Missions"--which were in reality immense ecclesiastical
farms--bordered the coast for seven hundred miles. For when the New
World had been suddenly revealed to the astonished gaze of Europe, it
was not merely the adventurous conqueror who hastened to these
shores. The priest accompanied him, and many enthusiastic soldiers of
the Cross embarked to bear to the benighted souls beyond the sea the
tidings of salvation. Missionary enterprises were not then what they
are to-day. Nothing was known with certainty of the strange tribes on
this side of the globe, and there was often a heroism in the labors