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CALIFORNIA COAST TRAILS. A Horseback
Ride from Mexico to Oregon. Illustrated.
YOSEMITE TRAILS. Illustrated.
CONE-BEARING TREES OF THE CALIFOR
NIA MOUNTAINS. IUustrated.
^p C-Jbarles franrici StaniOiets

THE INDIANS OF THE TERRACED HOUSES.
Illustrated.
UNDER THE SKY IN CALIFORNIA. Illustrated.
WITH THE FLOWERS AND TREES IN CALI
FORNIA. Illustrated.
A WINDOW IN ARCADY. Illustrated

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AT MISSION SAN JOSf

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THE SAN CARLOS MISSION AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS

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ACTIVITY J ?

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AND
THEIR MISSIONS

BY
CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS
AND J. SMEATON CHASE
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
MDCCCCXV

COPYRIGHT, IpIJ, BY CHARLES FRANCIS SAUNDERS AND I. SMEATON CHASE
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published April iqis

^vefac^

^N making another presentation of the oft-told story of the
^ Franciscan Missions of California, a few words in explan
ation of the plan of this volume may not be amiss.
A chapter is devoted to each of the Missions, except that
the three closely associated Missions near the Golden Gate
are treated in one: and each chapter is divided into two sec
tions. In the first section, the historical facts most likely to
interest the general reader are discursively woven into a per
sonal narrative, together with matters pertaining to the pres
ent-day condition and activities of the establishment. Fol
lowing upon this, and forming a second section of the chapter,
is an essay or story, designed to portray some feature of Mis
sion hfe or history. While in many instances the treatment
of this second section is fictional, when it takes the form of a
story it has for its nucleus some tradition or historic fact, in
every instance except in Chapters VIII and X, where the
story is purely fanciful.
A special feature of the volume is the collection of facts
presented (for the first time in popular form, the authors be
lieve) regarding the Padres themselves. Those remarkable
characters have been practically unknown, even by name,
to the thousands of travelers who every year visit the Cali
fomia Missions, and even to many residents of California:
yet many of them deserve to be household names in the land
they did so much to civilize. The Franciscans were never
self-advertisers, and the personal element in their written
records is accordingly very meager. Nevertheless, by glean
ing a little here and a little there, one gets a fair taste of their
quality, finding them in general a very human and lovable sort.
v

^vefac^

For the facts regarding both the Missionaries and the Mis
sions, the authors are indebted particularly to Fr. Francisco
Pal6u's Life of Junipero Serra and Noticias; the narratives
of such travelers as Vancouver, Beechey, and Duflot de
Mofras; the books of residents under the Mexican regime,
such as Alfred Robinson and William Heath Davis; and the
histories of Fr. Zephjnin Engelhardt and Hubert Howe Ban
croft. To Father Alexander Buckler, of Mission Santa Ines,
and Father St. John O'SuUivan, of Mission San Juan Capis-
trano, an especial meed of thanks is due for invaluable as
sistance on many points, as well as for hospitahties enjoyed
by the authors wliich have been peculiarly serviceable in
putting them in touch with somewhat of the Missions' inner
Ufe that it would not otherwise have been possible to obtain.
C. F. S.
J. S. C.
Pasadena, California,
Deceinber, 1914.

CHAPTER ONE
I. San Diego de Alcala, the Mother Mission, and
how the Devil had a Beating there ... 3
II. Padre Urbano's Umbrella  13
CHAPTER TWO
I. Mission San Luis Rey de Francia, and Somewhat
of the Padre who does not Die  33
II. The Little Christians or San Apolinario ... 42
CHAPTER THREE
I. San Antonio de Pala and its Hanging Garden . 49
n. The Exiles of Agua Caliente  55
CHAPTER FOUR
I. San Juan Capistrano, the Melrose of the Mis
sions  65
II. The Penance of Magdalena  75
CHAPTER FIVE
I. Mission San Gabriel Arcangel and the Miracle
OF the Virgin's Banner  93
n. The Bells of San Gabriel  103
CHAPTER SIX
I. Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana and " Padre
Napoleon"  in
n. The Buried Treasxtre of Sim!  120
CHAPTER SEVEN
I. Mission San Buenaventura: Its Gardens and
"Padre Calma"  139
n. The Memorable Voyage of Padre Vicente . . 144
vii

CHAPTER EIGHT
I. Mission Santa Barbara, and of Padre Ripoll
who Built It  157
II. Love in the Padres' Garden  166
CHAPTER NINE
I. Mission Santa iNis, the Feast of All the Dead,
AND Other Pertinent Matters  179
II. Pasquala of Santa Ines  192
CHAPTER TEN
I. La Purisiua: Its Mission and its Rebellion . . 207
II. A Little Mystery of La PuRfsniA  213
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I. Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa: Its Bears
AND its Bells  227
II. Fray Luis the Light-Hearted  236
CHAPTER TWELVE
I. Mission San Miguel ArcAngel and the Case of
the Gentile Guchapa  247
II. The Tragedy of San Miguel  254
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I. Mission San Antonio of the Oaks and the
Tradition of the Friar who flew thither . . 263
II. A Christmas Pastoral  271
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I. Mission Soledad, and how Papa Arrillaga's Soul
lacks a Mass  279
II. Faithful unto Death  284
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I. San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel, and
how Padre Junipero entered into Rest . . 291
II, Gabriel the Old, of Mission Carmel .... 303
viii

Confute
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I. Mission San Juan Bautista and Padre Arroyo of
the Many Tongues  313
II. "He hath made of one flesh . . ."  321
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I. Looking in at Santa Cruz, and the Story of
Padre Gil's Adventure in English . . . .327
II. The CfflLDREN of Holy Cross  5^^
CHAPTER EldfeTEEN
I. The Mission of Madre Santa Clara de Asfs and
HER "Padre Santo"  339
II. A Miracle of the Mail  349
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I. Mission San Jose: the Padre's Little Game at
Tortillas, and some Remarks about Flogging 357
II. The Music of the Missions  366
CHAPTER TWENTY
I. Mission Dolores and the Two Missions of the
Contra Costa  381
II, The Rose and the Pine  392
How to Reach the Missions  403
Pronouncing Glossary of Spanish Words and Phrases . 407

3UviBttcd%om
In the Dominican Sisters' Garden, Mission San
Josi  Half-title
The San Carlos Mission at the Height of its
Activity  Frontispiece
Fro-m a draitnng by Eric Pape.
San Diego de Alcala  i
Map showing Approximate Situations of the
Franciscan Missions of California  3
Brush Chapel, Cross, and Bells formerly at
Santa Ysabel, an Outpost of Mission San
Diego  26
Like this, doubtless, were the temporary structures
erected at the founding of all the Missions, and serv
ing until permanent buildings were established
San Luis Rey  31
Doorway and Old Fountain at Mission San Luis
Rey  34
San Antonio de Pala  47
San Juan Capistrano  63
One of the Bells, Mission San Juan Capistrano 66
San Gabriel ArcAngel  91
San Fernando  109
In the Ruined Church, Mission San Fernando . 114
San Buenaventura  137
xi

Santa BArbara  iS5
Franciscan Brothers at Work, Mission Santa
Barbara  162
Santa IniSs  i77
La Purisima  205
San Luis Obispo  225
San Miguel Arcangel  245
San Antonio de Padua  261
Old Adobe Outbuilding, said to have been used
as a Jail at Mission San Antonio de Padua . 266
An interesting survival of Mission architecture, show
ing method of roofing, arching of windows, etc.
Soledad  277
San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel . , .289
San Juan Bautista  311
In the Indian Cemetery, Mission San Juan
Bautista  322
Santa Cruz  325
Branrni from a photograph copyrighted, 1904, by C. C,
Pierce &* Co., Los Angdes, Cal.
Santa Clara de Asfs  337
San Jos£  355
Dolores  379
In the Cemetery, Mission Dolores, San Fran
cisco  382

SAN DIEGO DE ALCALA

'lifet.^-^-^ ^.^'¦

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... "-** -.^¦- *"'-

La Punsima (.1787^ —
sta. /H^(ree4f«»..^
Santa Barb^iTijTleT^ iu£f:S5L"™*"™i'^?^L>
— ' V^ oT^Fernando (1797)
'^C-^'CvSoX  ^ ^~eabrieH1771)
^^LOS ANGELES?
S. Juan Capistrano ( V<7^) -
^S. Airtonio de P.ala (1816) »-
San 0/ego (77(3.0) - ^--^^

MAP SHOWING APPROXIMATE SITUATIONS OF THE
FRANCISCAN MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA

San Diego de Alcala, the Mother Mission, and how
the Devil had a Beating there
fi! an Diego's antiquities center at Old Town — the adobe
^^ cradle of modern CaUfornia. There, in the spring of
1769, foregathered the friars and leather- Jacketed soldiers,
the ships and the mule trains, the servants and the cattle of
Portola's motley expedition; their purpose, to make a start at
insuring the title of CathoUc Spain to her long-claimed Upper
California coast, upon which Russia and England were show
ing signs of pouncing; the means, not arms, but reUgion, And
there on July 16 of that year, upon the slope of a hiU overlook
ing the San Diego River Valley and the placid mirror of False
Bay, was founded very modestly the Mother Mission of
CaUfornia, and dedicated to St. James of Alcala. A wooden
cross had been planted and blessed and a Uttle brush chapel
constructed, and in it high mass was celebrated by Padres
Jimipero Serra and Fernando Parr6n, A few soldiers, mule
teers and Indian servants from the Missions of Lower CaU
fornia, kneeled on the ground while the aid of Mary Most
Holy was implored for this undertaking of her suppUants who
were zealous to put to flight the army of hell in the region
roimdabout, and place upon its savage folk the easy yoke of
Christ. To-day all that remains of those beginnings of civiUzation
in CaUfornia is one ancient date palm and some mounds of
melted adobe. Amid the latter rises a huge cross, built of
pieces of square tUe and bearing a commemorative inscription
in Spanish and EngUsh. There were some Uttle girls watching
3

t^t CaCifomia ^cibx^s

me idUng about, and I asked one where the tiles came from —
from the old Mission buildings? "Oh, no, sir," she repUed
joyously; "they come out of the groimd. Us girls helped pick
'em" — which I record as first-hand evidence for future
antiquaries. It seems that first site proved undesirable for at least two
reasons — proximity to the Presidio's corrupting influences,
and lack of fertile soil at hand. The buildings were accord
ingly tumed over to the Presidio in 1774, and a fresh start
was made with the Mission at a place two leagues farther up
the river where was an Indian rancheria caUed Nipaguay.
That is the site of the Mission as we know it to-day, and, be
cause of the adjacent aboriginal viUage, it was often referred
to as San Diego de Nipaguay,
I foimd it a pleasant five-mile wait on an old-fashioned
country road from Old Town to the Mission, Cattle grazed
in the river bottom, half hidden in guatamote, as old San
Diegans call the groundsel bushes; Uttle ranch houses smiled
at me from amidst their palms and oUves, figs and pomegran
ates; and far ahead the mountains lifted their aUuring peaks,
cumulus clouds, thrust up by the desert, drifting along them.
By this way walked the old ^ Padres, sandal-shod, joumejdng
between Mission and port; and along it, too, the screeching
ox carts, piled with hides and tallow, jolted their slow way to
the beach when the droghers of Yankeedom awaited them
there. No ox carts or Padres passed me, but an occasional
automobile did; and from the crest of the hiUs that walled the
little valley in at the south, the trim bungalows and villas of
twentieth-century San Diego looked coldly down. Only a shy
wild "rose of Castile," Ufting its blessed face from the wayside
1 I say "old," merely meaning long ago. In point of fact, most of the Mis
sionaries were youngish men — at least on the sunny side of forty — when they
entered into their wilderness work. It took the enthusiasm and physical vigor
of life's prime to carry forward an enterprise of that sort,
4

(Xrxb iSftw (nii00ioni5
tangle, and the meadowlarks pouring Uquid melody down the
air, spoke of the Padres' day.
Where the highway turns to cross the stream by a bridge,
I cut down by an old wagon track through the wiUows and
across the dry river bed to reach the Mission by the back way.
Skirting the old oUve orchard, whose oUves, tradition says,
were the equal of Seville's, I came to a white cross attached to
a boxUke arrangement of paling fence, such as often encloses
graves in Mexican cemeteries. There was no inscription, and
the whole affair was tottering on the brink of a guUy, A
teamster was resting his horses near by and refreshing himself
with a pull at his pipe,
"That marks where a priest dropped once when he was
kiUed by the Indians," he remarked, in reply to my inquiry.
"Yess'r. You see, it was like this. In them days the Mission
up there — you see it on the hiU — was all walled in, they say,
and this here priest, he was a young feUow, yess'r, and enthu
siastic like, and he said, begosh, he 'd go outside and preach to
the Indians, and the waU be hanged to it, Yess'r; and so he
did; and, while he was preaching, one of them red devils up
and shot him dead with a bow and arrow, Yess'r; and the
Padre he dropped in his tracks, with his head where the cross
is and his legs the other direction. They put that fence there
to mark the place. Of course, the priest ain't there: they
buried him up at Old Town safe enough. This here fence gits
rotten every once in so often, and then they put up a new one.
They're mighty partic'lar about that, Yess'r,"
In such crabbed fashion is the story of California's first
Christian martjrrdom passed along; for the Uttle cross does
stand for that — hallowing the spot where, so far as known,
Padre Luis Jayme ^ was brutaUy murdered, San Diego de
* There is a difference of authorities about this name. Engelhardt, who
ought to know, writes it as above, which is the spelling in the Spamsh text
s

Nipaguay had been estabUshed Uttle over a year, and the zeal
of Padre Jayme and his compa-nero, Fr. Vicente Fuster, had
been blessed with many conversions. On a single day, indeed,
October 3, 1775, the remarkable record of sixty baptisms was
made. This conspicuous encroachment upon the devil's king
dom, as Padre Palou, the Franciscan historian, saw the mat
ter, aroused "the infernal fury," and two apostate neophytes
were diaboUcally inspired to spread a report throughout the
tributary territory that the Padres had started a campaign to
force aU gentiles to embrace Christianity wiUy-nilly. Accord
ingly, a plot was hatched involving about five hundred gen
tiles ^ to wipe the Mission out of existence.
Of this plot the Fathers had no warning: and when, in the
middle of the night of November 4-5, Indian shouts and the
glare of burning buildings aroused them from their beds, they
thought only of some accident having occurred, and rushed
out to see what. Fray Luis ran into the midst of a yelling
mob whom, taking them for his neophytes, he saluted with
the customary "Amar d Dies, mis hijos" — "Love God, my
children," The response was a cruel shower of blows from
wooden swords and stones, under which the blinded friar
dropped; and then, like the proto-martyr of Christianity, he
"feU asleep," a prayer upon his Ups, When his body was
foimd next day, near the river, it was, Palou teUs us, without
other garment than a garment of blood — a mass of wounds
from head to foot — "only his consecrated hands uninjured,"
of Palou's Life of Serra. Bancroft, on the other hand, imiformly writes it
Jaume, which I notice is the spelling of Serra's manuscript preface to the San
Diego Mission Book of Deaths and Burials,
• In the language of the Franciscans, the unchristianized Indians were
called "gentiles." When baptized and attached to the Mission, they were
nedfitos, i.e., neophytes. Perhaps it need hardly be said that baptism, far
from being forced on the Indians, was administered only after preliminary
instruction; except, of course, in the case of infants, and then parents were
consenting. 6

The total white population, opposed to that frenzied mob of
five hundred, was but nine men and two boys. Of the eleven,
two were kiUed outright and one mortaUy wounded ^ before
the situation was realized; and one marvels that a single Span
iard Uved to teU the tale. The remaining eight were soon
forced out of the blazing buildings and took refuge in a smaU
adobe enclosure, about eight feet square. Here, assaUed on aU
sides, they fought it out with the courage of old Romans, their
musketry and prayers to the saints pitted against Indian
arrows, stones, and firebrands. In this devoted band (aU,
sooner or later, suffering from wounds) Padre Fuster made a
striking figure. While two men reloaded the muskets and
handed them up to the corporal to fire at the savages, who
continued discharging their missiles under cover of the dark,
this doughty friar covered with his outspread skirts the stock
of gimpowder, thus perilously shielding it from falUng fire
brands. His trust in God was sure, but he was the sort that
keeps the powder dry, too.
With the dawn the cowardly crew made off to the hiUs. The
night of horror was ended, and the neophytes, who claimed to
have been imprisoned in their huts by the gentiles during the
fight, straggled in to talk it over around the Mission's smoking
ashes, Serra, when the news reached him, thanked God for
the blessing of a mart3T:; for, now that the land was watered
with such blood, gentiUsm could not longer hold out, he
thought. Of course, the miUtary govemment was for bloody
vengeance; but Serra pleaded forgiveness, and, through his
1 This man was a carpenter named Urselino, who gave a remaikable exhi
bition of practical Christianity. He was sick at the time of the attack, and;
some Indians shot arrows into him as he lay in bed. Feeling himself mortally-
struck, he cried: "Ha, India, que me has muertol Dios te lo perdonel" (" Ah„
Indian, you have killed me. May God forgive youi") He died a few days
later, but, before he died, made a will, and, having no legal heirs, he left his-
estate (the savings of his wages for some years) to the selfsame Indians who had
murdered him. Had a king done so, would not all the school-books record it?

€^i: CaCifomia ^cibxts

influence with the Viceroy, carried his point — gaining for his
graceless Indians a Uteral appUcation of the law of Christ;
but, like the practical dreamer he was, he did not object to an
increase in the Mission guard, "Let the Uving Padres," he
exhorted, "be guarded as the apple of God's eye; but let the
dead one be left to enjoy God: and thus good be retumed for
evil," There was no further uprising. The Mission was rebuilt
the foUowing year, Serra himself working with the rest, and
the "conquest" was peacefuUy resumed as if nothing had
happened. So successfully, indeed, did it proceed that San
Diego was the first Mission to score one thousand baptisms,
and was for years the most populous of aU. Obviously Satan
had met his match in Padre Jimipero.
The Mission church, whose facade we now see, is not that
which rose from the ashes of 1775, but is of much later date,
having been finished and dedicated in November, 1813. It
was never architecturally ambitious, but the present wreck
gives little idea of the original look. An old painting now in
St. Joseph's rectory, San Diego, shows a triple-storied belfry
at the west corner of the church. There were corridors, too,
extending not only along the front of the convento wing where
the Padres' Uving-rooms were (now practiqaUy gone), but
before the church entrance also. vJ O
It would seem as though of all the landmarks in CaUfornia
this Mother Mission should be especiaUy cherished, holding
as it does somewhere within its bounds the dust of the martyr
Jayme, as well as of others of Serra's "seraphic and apostoUc
squadron"; yet none has been more shamefuUy treated. The
French traveler Duflot de Mofras found it in 1841 in sad dis
repair, its fields and vineyards waste for want of workers, and
the only occupants of the decaying buildings one white fanuly,
a few Indians, and faithful old Padre Vicente Pascual de
OUva, an Arragonese Franciscan who had been there since
8

anb t^x QUi00ion0
1820, His companion friar for sixteen years. Padre JosS
Bernardo Sanchez, had passed away years before at San
Gabriel, Fat and jovial with a kind word for everybody,
Padre Jose died at last of a broken heart, it is said, because
of the secularization of the Missions,^ In 1846 Padre Vicente,
too, gave up the game, departing sadly to San Juan Capistrano
where soon he was laid to rest. Then came the American
soldiers, during the war with Mexico, occupying the build
ings as barracks and stables; and after them followed the
stripping of timbers and tiles by rancheros in need of building
material. To-day the Mission is all but abandoned. There are stiU
a few acres of land belonging to it, which are farmed out, and
from 1891 imtil four or five years ago, a Sisters' school for
Indian children flourished in a big barn of a building erected
for the purpose hard by the Mission church. Some Federal
law put a quietus on that educational effort, and now the
schoolhouse is as silent as the Mission, save when divine ser
vice is held, as it is occasionally, in its tiny chapel. The visit
ing priest — a quiet, kindly Frenchman — happened to be
present the day of my call, and showed me what there was to
be seen: a few relics in the chapel, the remains of some ancient
irrigation works that brought water from miles back in the
hills, the old well at the foot of the slope whence a tunnel ran
up to the Mission to connect the Fathers with their water
' Secularization, it may not be amiss to say, was in effect the depriving
of the Missionaries of all control over the Mission's temporaUties, which
then reverted to the State, barring provision of a bit of land to each neophyte
family. These Indians, however, seem rarely to have had wit enough to hold
it long against white cupidity and aguardiente. The Missions thus became re
duced from what were practically great ecclesiastical manors to the status of
parish churches. With this change of estate, the Missionaries in some instances
left for fresh fields of usefulness: ia other cases, remained with shom author
ity as curates, to serve the Indians as spiritual fathers so long as life was spared
them and there were any Indians left to serve.

€^t CaCifomta ^cii>x^0

supply in event of an Indian siege. And, of course, the oUve
orchard was to be inspected — the first planted in CaUfornia
— and the fine old date palms.
Excepting Carmel, no other Mission is so intimately asso
ciated with Junipero Serra as is San Diego, though these
associations cluster more particularly about the original site
at Old Town, It was there that occurred that dramatic vic
tory of his faith which is credited with saving the whole Mis
sion enterprise from the defeat that threatened it at its very
outset. This first Mission began amid great discouragement.
Scurvy had attacked the Spaniards to such an extent that
their camp on the shores of the bay was UteraUy a hospital,
and men were daily dying. As time ran on, food suppUes
became low; the Diegueno Indians, by no means of a kindly
sort, were thieving and troublesome and had finaUy to be
taught the lesson of gunpowder and lead to be held in check
at all. Moreover, they were so indifferent to missionary effort
that, for the first twelve months, not a single convert was
made. Then the expedition of Portola northward in quest of
the lost port of Monterey, had retumed after six months'
absence, reduced to the verge of starvation, "with the merit
of having suffered much, eaten their mules, and finding no
such port as Monterey," as Serra puts it. Worst of aU, a ship
that had been dispatched early in July (1769) to Mexico for
suppUes and reinforcements, had stiU not returned in the fol
lowing February, and the days could be covmted to the bot
tom of the barrel. Accordingly Portoli, as commander of the
expedition, notified Serra that if succor did not arrive by
the day of the Feast of St, Joseph (that is, March 19, 1770),
he would start back with all to Mexico on the day following.
Remonstrance was futile. The bluff comandante declared the
Mission might be a faUure, anyhow, and he had not brought
his men to that wUdemess to perish of hunger.
10

anb t^txx (YUt00ton0
This decision, if carried out, meant the postponement
indefinitely, if not forever, of Serra's passionate desire to
rescue Alta California from the grip of Satan — a glorious
spiritual conquest which was the dream of his mediseval soul.
It was in anticipation of such a triumph that he had purposely
selected for the founding of this first of his Missions the date
of July i6, which, in the CathoUc calendar, is the feast day of
the Triumph of the Holy Cross — the day in 1212 when Span
ish Christendom, under that holy standard on the field of Las
Navas de Tolosa, broke forever the Moorish power in Spain.
All the zeal of his intense spirit flamed up at the thought of
possible frustration to his hopes, now, of aU times, when the
enemy was before his eyes. It had taken one hundred and
sixty-six years since Vizcaino's christening of the harbor of
San Diego de Alcala, to get an expedition there to found the
Mission. If, now, this expedition departed, abandoning the
pitiful Uttle tule buUdings to rot away within their stockade,
might not its going be forever — para siemprejamds ? Night
and day, Serra besieged the Throne of Heaven with his
prayers, imploring God to bring the relief ship quickly that
the work, undertaken for his glory, might go on. Meantime
the heroic priest made up his mind that, even if the expe
dition did desert, he would himself remain if one friar would
stay with him, and Padre Juan Crespl said he would be the
one. Joyous Padre Juan! Is it any wonder that, as we
shaU see later, Serra's dying wish was to Ue forever by his
side at Carmel? So, we find Serra comfortably taking ad
vantage of some soldiers' going south to dispatch a letter to
Palou in one of the Lower Califomia Missions, requesting
him to send up a supply of incense and holy oUs. Of course,
Heaven helped such a spirit.
The Feast of St. Joseph at last arrived, but no sign of the
ship; and the preparations for departure, which had been car-
II

€^6: CaCifotnta ^<x}>xts
ried on simultaneously with Serra's praying, were complete
for the foUowing morning. For nine consecutive days at the
last, prayers had been addressed to St. Joseph himself, as
patron of the Califomia Spiritual Conquest (he had been sc
nominated before the expedition set out from Mexico), and
the invocations culminated in a high mass. Then, as evening
drew on, a response came. To the eyes of watchers scanning
the lonely waters of the South Sea there appeared with per
fect distinctness a ship : and then it disappeared. But the sight
was enough to stagger Portola, and the Mission got a reprieve.
Four days later, the relief ship was seen heading gaUantiy
into the harbor. She had, it seems, on leaving Mexico been
ordered to make directly for Monterey where it was expected
the Portola party would then be; but mishaps in the region of
the Santa Barbara channel had forced her to put about and
make for San Diego for repairs. Was that vision of St, Jo
seph's day really the ship, or was it a miracle graciously
vouchsafed in response to the prayers of faith? Pious Padre
Palou, who has recorded the details in his "Life " of Serra, has
no doubt about its being a case of heavenly intervention; and
had you been through all that lonely Uttle band of Spaniards
underwent for the best part of a year, you, too, would doubt
less join with them in giving God and St. Joseph the credit.
As for Serra, so great were his joy and gratitude that he said
high mass in honor of the Patriarch on the nineteenth of each
month thereafter till the end of his Ufe.

(mb t^^x (JUi00ion0
II
Padre Urbano's Umbrella
rV^ADRE Urbano, priest in charge of the Mission of San
Vf^ Diego, was in a bad humor. If he had been asked what
was the most necessary article in the cargo of the supply ship
Santiago on the first of her haU-yearly visits in the year 1830,
he would almost certainly have said, the umbrella. The can
dles were important, no doubt; so was the new altar-cloth, for
the present one had .become shockingly worn under the im-
skilUul treatment of the Indian lavanderas; so were the seeds,
all the more so because he had included in the Ust seeds for an
onion-bed, and onions were a deUcacy to which his soul had
long been a stranger. And many others of the articles he had
named in his requisition had passed from a state of shortage
into one of absolute vacancy on the storeroom shelves. But
foremost in his thoughts was the umbreUa, He had specified
it with care, — such an umbreUa as he had used in Spain,
before ever he came to this destitute and heathen land; the
size, a vara and a half across; the material, silk; the color,
yeUow; and as the warm spring sun smote ever more fervently
upon his tonsured head, his thoughts had daily turned with
yearning towards the good, ample quitasol that was to shield
him from the fiery persecutions of his enemy, the prince of the
power of the air.
Well, the vessel had come that day, and with it the um
breUa; and now, most crueUy dashing his long-cherished
hopes, one of his Indians had stolen it! Moreover, to-morrow
he was to start on his annual visitation of the outlying sta
tions, and he had especially reUed for comfort, on that long,
hot, dusty round, upon the umbreUa, — the fiend fly away
13

€^^ CaCifotnia ^cibx^B

with the miscreant who had taken it! thought the Father in
his wrath.
This is how it happened : The ship had sailed into the bay at
early morning, and the lieutenant at the fort had straightway
sent a runner up to the Mission with the cheering news, add
ing that the articles for the Father's personal use had been
thoughtfully packed separately from the heavier goods, and
the captain had obUgingly kept the special package in his
own cabin, so that it could be deUvered to the expectant
consignee at once on arrival. The Father had immediately
dispatched two of his most trusted Indians, Pio and Jose, to
receive the goods, which the captain had promised to have
brought ashore in the first boat-load.
The sergeant who deUvered the goods to the Indians, in
order to make the unwieldy package easy of transportation
by the two men over the two leagues of road that lay between
the bay and the Mission, had unwisely opened it in the pres
ence of the Indians, so as to arrange the contents in two loads.
The men had each taken one of the bundles and started for
the Mission. In due course, Jos6 had arrived with his load,
but alone, and in explanation had reported that at a mile or
two from the bay his companion had fallen behind — to rest,
as he supposed — while he continued on his way. After a
time he had waited for Pio to come up, but the latter had not
rejoined him. Jose had left his own load by the roadside and
gone back to see what had become of him, but no trace was to
be found of either Pio or his burden. There was nothing for
him, Jose, to do but to continue on his way with his own part
of the Padre's property, and here he was. Pio would doubtless
come soon with the remainder.
But Pio had not come, and the Father's fears, born as he
Ustened to Jos6's story, grew into angry certainty as hours
passed and no Pio appeared. Examination of Jose's bundle
14

AVib t^txx (Wtt00ton0

had revealed the altar-cloth, the ink, the sugar, the onion-
seed, some books, and a few of the articles of clothing he
expected, but the umbreUa and part of the clothes were num
bered with the missing; and though the clothes were not only
valuable but much needed, somehow it was the umbrella that
made the head and front of the crime in the Father's mind.
Calling the Indians together after vespers, he announced the
theft, denotmced the thief, and pronounced his severest dis
pleasure, with punishments proportionate, against any who
should fail to do all in his or her power toward the appre
hension of that ungrateful sinner, Pio.
Let us see what had become of the rascal from the time
when he disappeared. He had really dropped behind to rest,
as Jose had supposed; but whUe resting, the desire had come
to him to look again at that strange thing in his package.
What could it be? He had seen the sergeant take it out of the
box, a long, thin object; then he put his hand somewhere on it,
and pushed, and, wonderful! it had changed in an instant into
a huge flower! Such a flower! Yellow like a sunflower, nay,
like a thousand sunflowers, or the sun itself. Then he had
done something again, and aU at once it was as it had been at
first. Talk about magic! All the things his father, old Kla-
quitch, the medicine-man, used to do were nothing to this.
He simply must have another look at it, and now was his
chance, while Jos6, who might tell the Padre, could not see.
He sUpped the cords from the bundle and took out the thing
of mystery. A long stick, with some yeUow cloth rolled round
one end: but how to tum it into the other wonderful thing?
He could not resist trying, and he felt about the stick, pushing
this way and that, as he had seen the soldier do, and — it
began to open. He pushed again — it was done; behold the
magic sunflower, beautiful, wonderful! And turning it roimd
and round he feasted his eyes on it, the most astonishing
IS

' t^^^ CaCtfomia ^Cibxts
thing he had ever seen; yes, and done, for he, Pio, knew how
to make the Big Flower open.
That is where the tempter caught him. What power that
would give him over the other Indians! What was Kla-quitch,
with his painted sticks and bones, compared with him, if only
he were the possessor of this marvel ! He should need no other
stock in trade as medicine-man. The people would pay well
to have it opened — that would be good medicine : and simply
keeping it shut would be bad medicine: — deUghtfully easy!
How did it shut, by the by? He fumbled at the stick, but it
did not close: he pushed and pulled, it made no difference.
He pressed on the cloth; an ominous creaking warned him
that Big Flower objected to being shut by force, and threat
ened to break.
A nice fix he was in now: the genie he had raised would not
down! He grew hot and cold by turns, Jose was far ahead by
now : he ought to overtake him, but he could not appear be
fore the Padre like this. He did not know what the purpose
of the thing was, but most Ukely it had something to do with
the Church, and he knew how stiict the Padre was about even
the handling of such objects. What should he do? The
tempter had the answer ready, — there was only one thing he
could do, — run away with the magic thing and be a medicine
man, as his father had been, only he would be a much more
powerful and cunning one. Sly tempter! Poor Pio! Hehad
only meant to nibble, and here he was, fairly hooked.
Well, since he was in for it, he had better get away before
any one saw him. He caught up the clothes and the umbrella
and hurried off into the brush. It was not easy for him to
make his way along with the obstreperous load, and he soon
discovered that the best way to manage the umbrella was to
carry it over his head. Very comforting he found it, too,
though it did not for a moment occur to him that this was its
i6

atib t^dx (JHi00ton0
real purpose. His plan was to go to his father's tribe, the
Elcuanams, in the mountains far away. There he should be
safe from the Padre, and should also have the prestige of his
father's reputation. If there were another medicine-man in
the tribe Pio could easUy outrank him and capture the busi
ness. So he made a long detour, and came back by evening
to the valley, but a mile or two above the Mission. It would
be easier to travel with Big Flower by keeping to the river-bed
instead of going through the brush, which constantly threat
ened to tear it. He had a faint idea that it might close of its
own accord at evening, and glanced up anxiously several
times to see if it was doing so; but evidently it was not that
kind of flower.
He heard the beUs of the Mission ringing the Angelus, and
shuddered as he thought of the wrathful Padre, no doubt now
denouncing him publicly as a thief and renegade, and he
hurried on till dark, when he found a sheltered spot and lay
down. The night was chilly, and after a time the thought
came to him that Big Flower would make a fine shelter: so he
got up and arranged it so as to keep off the wind. Another
idea: the clothes, why not put them on and be warm? It
seemed a terrible thing to do, but he was running away from
the Padre anyhow, so he might as well be comfortable as not.
He got up again and spread out the clothes in the dim Ught:.
two woolen undershirts, two pairs of unmentionables to
match, four large handkerchiefs of red silk, three pairs of blue
woolen stockings, and a queer, three-cornered article, white,
with strings, which he took to be some kind of pouch, but, by
a happy thought, found to make an agreeable protection for
the head. Also there was a pair of thick sUppers of dark felt..
He rolled the handkerchiefs up in a ball, and then drew on all'. •
the other garments except the sUppers, not troubling to first
remove his own scanty clothes consisting of a cotton jacket
17

€^^ CaCifomia ^cxbxts
and pantaloons. He now felt pretty comfortable, and l3ang
down again was soon fast asleep.
When he awoke it was early moming. It was still cold, and
he kept the clothes on. Indeed, it occurred to him that this
was just the thing to do; it was much easier than carrying the
bundle in one hand while Big Flower occupied the other. He
would stUl have the sUppers to carry, for he saw that they
would soon be worn out if he wore them. With a few edible
roots and berries he made a sort of breakfast, not without
pensive recollection of the warm atole now being dished out at
the Mission. When he was ready to go on he thought of the
morning prayers at the Mission, and beUeving Big Flower to
be something connected with the Church, the natural thing
to do was to say his prayers before it, which he did, and then
started on his way. After a few miles he knew he was near the
shut-in valley (which we caU El Cajon) and he remembered
that there were Indians there who might know him. It is
doubtful, really, whether any of his acquaintances would have
stopped to recognize him had they caught sight of the figure
he made, for it is safe to say that no such spectacle had ever
been seen thereabouts as our friend Pio made, attired in the
Father's imderclothes, adomed with a nightcap, and carrjdng
in one hand a vast yellow umbrella and in the other a pair of
sUppers. The handkerchiefs, much too fine to be wasted, he
had tied together by the comers and made into a sash, such as
he had seen the Mexican caballeros wear; and in his piebald
of red, white, and blue, he made altogether a decidedly strik
ing appearance.
As he was considering turning aside and making another
d6tour, he had an object lesson of the effect he produced upon
his countrymen. An Indian appeared at a Uttle distance. He
was gathering wood, and as he straightened from stooping his
eyes feU upon Pio. With a yeU he dropped his load and fled at
i8

Mib t^dx (Ult00ton0
topmost speed, emitting such sounds as we try, but vainly, to
utter in a nightmare. This, though a tribute to Pio's impres
sive aspect, and a gratifying omen of his success in the r61e of
medicine-man, was also a warning of danger. He dived again
into the brush and devoted strenuous hours to threading his
way through thickets of chaparral until he emerged on the
trail that led northeast into the heart of the mountains. Big
Flower was happily intact, and the nightcap also except for a
missing string, but the outer layer of the other garments had
paid toll to many an affectionate scrub-oak and manzanita,
and the stockings that had stood the bmnt were practically
footless. Pio surveyed the damage ruefuUy, and rebuked him
self for not having preserved his new property by wearing his
own clothes outside. He would make the change now, and as
it was getting hot he decided to wear only one set of the un
dergarments (the damaged ones) under his own clothes, and
to carry the others. When the change was made, he hurried
on. He had made one or two more attempts to make Big
Flower close, but had not succeeded, so he now marched along
in a businesslike way under the great parasol, apparently an
Indian gentleman more than usuaUy careful of his complex
ion, taking a brisk walk.
One thing, however, he had to attend to, the question of
food, for he was getting very hungry. He was now on a steep
traU that led up to the vaUey now known as the Santa Maria,
and there, he knew, was another ranckeria, or vUlage. Here,
too, he might be known, but he must take the chance : he must
have food, and would boldly go and ask for it. As he pushed
his way through the trees he came unexpectedly upon three
fat squaws who were sitting beside the creek, pounding acorns
and grass seeds into meal. Just as he saw them, they saw him,
umbrella, nightcap, sUppers, and all. There was one shriek,
or rather, a trio of shrieks that sounded like one, and the
19

^^t CaCifomia ^cCbx^s
women rushed Uke deer (albeit very fat deer) down the creek,
and Pio heard them gabbUng at top voice to what he knew
must be the assembled and startled rancheria.
Our friend was a philosophical fellow, as we have seen, and
as the natural thing to do was to gather up the Uttle piles of
meal, tie them up in the extra shirt, and make off with them,
he did it. There was no need now for him to trouble the vil
lage, so he quietly withdrew by the way he liad come, and,
guided by the excited sounds that stiU reached his ears, made
a roundabout way back to the trail, strUdng it beyond the
viUage. At the next water, he mixed some of the meal into a
gruel and ate it. It was not very palatable, and again he
thought of the good food at the Mission, from which he was
now forever debarred. But a look at Big Flower, gleaming
like a great golden mushroom in the sun, consoled him, as he
thought of the wealth and power he would enjoy among his
tribe by means of this unparalleled marvel.
Night found him halfway between the Santa Maria VaUey
and the next higher one, to which the Spaniards who had first
seen it had given the name of BaUena, from the long mountain,
like a whale in outUne, that shuts it in on the northwest. He
found water, made a fire in the time-honored Indian way by
rubbing two dry sticks together, and cooked the remaining
meal. There was enough for a good supper, and some over,
which he made into Uttle cakes, drjdng them hard on the hot
stones. He put on aU the clothes again to sleep in, and made
a wind-break as before with the umbreUa. It was reaUy more
comfortable than the hard bed in his hut at the Mission, and
he felt more than contented, even jubilant, over the change
in his fortunes.
In the moming he said his prayers again before Big Flower,
and started on his way early. He had puUed on the extra
clothing at night over what he was then wearing, and as the
20

avib t^txx O(Ui00ion0
morning was cold, and the traU good, so that the clothes
would not be harmed, he did not take them off, except the
extra stockings, nor change so as to wear his own outside.
Thus he again presented the tricolor aspect that had paralyzed
the natives he had met. It now occurred to him to make a
Uttle experiment, a sort of trial canter, of his new profession,
upon the Indians in the next vaUey. He was not far now from
his own viUage of the Elcuanams, and might as weU be getting
into training. He would avoid surprising any stragglers at
the next viUage, and would get iato touch with the head men,
explaining that he was the long-lost son of Kla-quitch, who
had escaped after aU these years from the Mission, and had
come back, leamed in aU the knowledge of the white men and
armed further with this most wonderful appUance of magic,
to take his place as hereditary medicine-man of his tribe. He
should see by that means what sort of impression he would
be likely to make on his own people. NominaUy they were
Christians; but they were hardly ever visited by the priest,
and he knew that the bulk of them were stiU much as in
his father's day, and stUl placed reUance on the fetishes of
the shamans.
Accordingly he made his approaches to the BaUena viUage
with caution. It was about noon when he came near, and he
could see, as he reconnoitered, that a group of men were talk
ing together in the open space about which the houses were
irregularly placed. That was exceUent. He crept cautiously
near, having some trouble to keep the umbreUa out of sight
tiU the psychological moment: and then, holding it high over
head with one hand and the sUppers and extra garments in
the other, in token of amity, he uttered the orthodox Indian
greeting which answers to our "How d' ye do? " and advanced
upon them.
They looked up aU together: there was a yeU that wakened
21

€^t CaCifotnia ^(Ctxts
echoes that had slept for many a year; and in a twinkling
the plaza (so to caU it) was empty but for himself, and the
braves were dodging about behind the houses in mortal
terror of the hideous monster, worse than the white men,
for he was an unheard-of, polychromatic kind of being, not
only white, but red, blue, and yellow as weU, It was no
doubt the monster of whom the priest had warned them, who
would appear one day, if they were not careful of their Chris
tian duties (and they could not say they had been), and de
stroy them aU and bum their village. The thing he had in his
hand was doubtless the torch — see how it shone, just like
fire! In vain poor Pio declaimed his speech: it fell on ears too
demoraUzed to hear; and when one or two of them began to
fit arrows to their bowstrings, the best thing to do was plainly
to beat a prompt retreat. This he did, holding Big Flower
ignominiously behind him to catch the arrows that he ex
pected every moment to hear whizzing about him.
He ran for some distance tiU he was out of sight of the in
hospitable viUage, and then sat down to rest and think. The
adventure began to take on an unpleasant complexion. If
every one he came near acted like this he could not be a medi
cine-man, for there would be no one on whom to practice; and
the bow and arrow episode was reaUy alarming. What if his
own people refused to hear him? No one would recognize him
there, for he was a boy when he had been taken to the Mis
sion, and he had never been chosen to accompany the Padre
on his rare visitations to the Elcuanams, as it had been thought
wise not to aUow him to retum to the old surroundings. What
had he better do? Of course he might discard Big Flower and
aU the other fine things, and return to his people an undis
tinguished runaway from the Mission (as not a few others had
done, to the scandal of good Father Urbano); but he could
not bring himself to that, not yet, at least. WeU, he would
22

cm'b t^txx Q[Ht00ion0
go on: probably the weU-remembered name of Kla-quitch
would make it aU right.
His discouragement over the BaUena reception caused him
to travel slowly, and it was nearly sunset when he drew near
the Elcuanam viUage. It had been a cool day, so he had kept
aU the clothes on (except the extra stockings). The viUage
was in an open place, near the upper end of a wide vaUey, and
he could see it and be seen from it for a good distance. He
could not think of a better plan of operations than the one he
had tried at BaUena, badly as it had worked there: namely,
to maneuver so as to make his first appearance when a num
ber of the chief men were together, and then get the name
of Kla-quitch to their ears as quickly as possible. That would
arrest their attention, and further particulars could foUow.
When he came in sight of the ra-ncheria he stopped and sat
down to bide his time. Only a few women and chUdren and
an old man or two were about: the braves were probably out
hunting, or, perhaps, bravely sleeping imtU the squaws should
announce that supper was served. So he waited, hidden be
hind a rise of ground. At last the men, to the number of ten
or a dozen, had congregated for the evening loimge and pow
wow. Pio sUpped into the shadow of one of the Uttle houses
whence he could issue in fuU view of the conclave. He settled
the nightcap on his head, grasped the umbreUa in one hand
and the sUppers and stockings in the other, and at a luU in the
conversation advanced. He had decided to dispense with the
"How d'ye do?" in order to play his best card at once: so as
he stepped into the Ught of the fire he merely uttered in a
loud tone the word "Kla-quitch," to catch their attention.
He succeeded. A dozen startled heads tumed toward him,
and as he spoke his taUsman again, and moved toward them,
there came a hysterical howl from a dozen most unmusical
throats, and his audience, followed by the women, chUdren,
23

€^t CaCifotnta ^cxbxts
and dogs of the village, aU shrieking in chorus, vanished into
the night. It was a striking tribute to the memory and
prowess of Kla-quitch (who, it was naturally supposed, had
appeared and announced his return from the spirit world);
but it was far from being what his son and intending successor
had hoped.
This was the very dickens (or whatever the Elcuanam
equivalent may be) , for poor Pio ! Whatever was he to do now?
He prowled about among the houses trying to find some one
to whom to explain, but the panic had swept even the old
men and women away. He could hear the people calUng to
one another from their spots of refuge, and ever the burden
of the shout was either "Kla-quitch!" or "YeUow!" — that
is to say, the Elcuanam word for that suddenly unpopular
color. He began to feel bitterly toward Big Flower, the cause,
it seemed, of so much trouble, and even toward his departed
parent, whose name, so long after his death, was such very
bad medicine as to wreck his son's chances everywhere.
He squatted down by the fire, hoping that some of the men
would retum after a time, but none came. After sitting again
by the fire for two hours or so, hoping vainly for company and
pondering on his doubtful future, he felt sleepy, and stretched
out with his feet to the blaze, not forgetting to set up his
wind-break, really the only thing, he began to think, that Big
Flower was good for.
He did not wake till mormng, when he looked round anx
iously. He could see the whole population gathered a quar
ter of a mile away, pointing toward him and skirmishing for
the best positions for viewing his actions. Evidently he was
taboo for good and all, and the vision he had had of himself
as the feared and prosperous medicine-man of his tribe had
been a very fancy portrait: feared he certainly was, but there
it ended. It looked as if he had to choose between being a
24

cxxi'b t^txx (mi00ton0
medicine-man aU by himself, or abandoning aU his parapher
naUa and, after a day or two's judicious absence, rejoining
his tribe in the humble capacity of a mere runaway from
the Mission.
MeanwhUe he found some food — with dfficulty, for the
proprietors had removed their valuables during the night —
and made a middling breakfast. He had not fully determined
what to do, so he stayed where he was imtU his next step
should become clearer. The morning passed slowly, with no
developments. He kept an eye on the crowd of watchers,
and once or tv/ice he was puzzled to see that they pointed not
only at him, but along the traU to the south, by which he had
come. Let us now go back a few hours, and take a look at Padre
Urbano. We shall find him, not at the Mission, but only a
few mUes away — in fact, at BaUena. He had started on his
visitations the next day after Pio's defalcation, and in any
thing but good temper. He had come, with his Uttle party
of half a dozen Indians, by the same general route that Pio
had traveled, and had been only a few hours behind him. He
did not stop at the Cajon and Santa Maria viUages, as he
meant to attend to his pastoral duties in those places on his
return; but rumors reached him of some apparition having
been seen by the natives. He knew these superstitious people
only too well, however, and smiled at their creduUty, At
BaUena he stayed for the night, and was entertained with a
more circumstantial account of a parti-colored demon who
had been chased out of the village at arrow's point: but as
he had not had time to check up the shortage in his clothes
before leaving home, he did not recognize Pio under the des-
scription. He told the Indians, on general principles, that it
was, as they supposed, a monster who had scented their slack
ness in reUgious affairs, and who would certainly caU again if
2S

t-^t CaCifotnta ^abt;e0
they did not amend, and next time would not be so easUy put
off. He left the BaUena rancheria early and started for El
cuanam. This was the farthest from headquarters of all his
parishes. An outpost station had been estabUshed there nine
years before, under the name of Santa Ysabel, but, with only
yearly visits since then, it was in a moribund condition and
had not progressed beyond the architectural stage of a ramada,
or brush shelter. A message had been sent a few days before
(without Pio's knowledge, as it happened), telling the In
dians to get the ramada ready for use, and giving the time of
the Padre's intended arrival.
The Uttle procession. Padre, six Indians, and two burros
carrying the necessaries for the observance of mass, wound
its way slowly up from the lower to the higher vaUey, and
just before noon arrived at the top of the last rise before the
Elcuanam, or Santa Ysabel, vUlage should be reached. The
Father was in the lead, our early acquaintance Jos6 close
behind. They halted for a moment to rest before going on to
the viUage. The Father noticed with gratification that the
whole population was stationed on a hiUock just beyond the
village, evidently ui expectation of his arrival; but he won
dered why the fooUsh people waited there, instead of hasten
ing to meet him. They had caught sight of him, for he saw
them gesticulate, and it seemed to him that they pointed to
ward the houses, as if to draw his attention to something. So
he looked, and his eyes caught the gleam of a large yeUow ob
ject, set up as if it were a shrine, in the center of the viUage.
Very odd, he thought; what had the silly Indians been up to
now? They moved on toward the viUage, and as they ap
proached, the Elcuanams cautiously approached also. When
the Father arrived pretty near, he stopped, gazed hard,
rubbed his eyes, gazed again, and then said to Jose, "Jose,
26

(Sopyright C. C. Pierce c5r= Co., Jqos
BRUSH CHAPEL, CROSS, AND BELLS FORMERLY AT SANTA YSABEL,
AN OUTPOST OF MISSION SAN DIEGO

cxtxb t^txx QUi00ion0
your eyes are better than mine: what is that in the viUage? "
Jos6's eyes were already starting from his head, as if to get
a better focus on what he saw. "Padre," he said, almost in
a whisper, "I think it is the yeUow thing that Pio stole.
The sergeant made it open when we went for the package,
and it was like that." "Holy Saints!" cried the Father; "it
looks Uke that to me, too, but it cannot be. How could my
umbreUa get to Santa Ysabel? And what has become of
Pio? If it is the umbreUa, he must have brought it here."
"Padre," said Jose, "there he is. I think it is Pio, but he
looks very funny, and he is kneeling in front of the yellow
thing as if he was saying his prayers." "Saying his prayers!"
said the priest with warmth; "indeed, he had better say his
prayers if it is he!" And the party hurried forward.
As we know, there was no mistake about its being Pio. As
for the prayers, — an unusual demonstration from the El
cuanams had caused him to glance again to the trail where
they were pointing. There his horrified eyes had seen what
seemed a miracle, but a most unfortunate miracle for him —
Padre Urbano himseU, a sight as unmistakable as unbeUev-
able. Panic seized him, but on the instant he had an inspira
tion, too : he was caught, and something awful was bound to
happen; but why not at least make an attempt to disarm the
Father's indignation by being caught in the attitude of
worship, which the Padre was everlastingly inculcating? It
might not mitigate his wrath, but then it might. He propped
the unlucky Big Flower up so that it would stand, hurriedly
stuffed a pair of stockings into each sUpper, dropped them
beside the umbreUa, and then feU on his knees and began to
patter Ave Marias, faster, and much more fervently, than he
had ever said them before the altar at the Mission, In his
haste he forgot to take off the nightcap, though, indeed, he
hardly viewed it in the Ught of a hat, or cap.
27

€S>6: Caftfotntia (pabt:60
In this position the culprit was found by the Padre and his
escort, and also by the Elcuanams, who, emboldened by the
Father's fearless demeanor, had ventured back to the zone of
danger, "Pio!" cried the Father, "get up and show yourself,
if it is you, Sancta Maria! what is aU this? Why, those are
my clothes you are wearing, you graceless rascal! Take
them off instantly, and teU me what you mean by this out
rage. Bring him to me in the ramada, Jose, and be sure you
bring the umbreUa. Praise to the Saints! I have foimd it,
and it seems to be undamaged, after aU."
On the way to the ramada the Father could not help look
ing round once or twice at the prisoner, who followed with
hangdog look, escorted by the scandalized Indians from the
Mission and a mob of astounded Elcuanams. His indigna
tion began to melt as he thought of the miraculous recovery of
the umbreUa, and, since he was a genial and lenient soul, each
glance he took at the wretched Pio tickled his risibles more
and more, until his shoulders shook with merriment. Arrived
at the court of justice he managed to get up an aspect of
terrific severity as the malefactor was led in by Jose, The
umbrella and the other incriminating evidence were deposited
beside him. The Elcuanams and the other Indians, crowding
about the entrance, crooked their necks with anxiety to see
what would happen. Pio had not yet disrobed, and stood
dolefully awaiting the worst, from nightcap to stockings a
clownUke and altogether incomprehensible figure. Again the
Father's funny vein got the better of him. He knew that he
was compromising himself forever, but for the Ufe of him he
could not help it — his Up trembled, he tried to control it but
failed, he chuckled, giggled, cackled, and burst into a roar of
laughter. It was no use to think of punishment after that. When
Father Urbano at last got the shreds of his dignity together
28

cmb t^^x QUi00ion0
the whole history was extorted from the trembUng Pio, who,
however, was shrewd enough to say nothing of his pagan
dream of turning medicine-man. Gladly enough he shed the
unlucky clothing. Vast quantities of water were brought
from the spring and blessed by the Padre: the umbreUa was
sprinkled and sprinkled tiU no taint could remain; and then
Pio, guarded by Jose, spent the afternoon in scrubbing the
desecrated garments with bucket after bucket of holy water,
while the assembled viUage, down to the smaUest papoose,
jeered at that most ignominious of spectacles — a man, wash
ing clothes like a squaw!
To complete Pio's penance, it was his task to carry the
umbreUa over the Padre during aU the rest of the roimd of
visitations, which, it seemed to him, as he marched mile g,f ter
mile with aching arms, would never end. But end it did, and
Father Urbano's umbreUa at last arrived at its original des
tination, San Diego Mission. FinaUy, after many and vari
ous further peregrinations, it ended its travels at the sister
Mission of Santa In^s, where to-day the reader may find it
reposing, a treasured item in Father Alexander Buckler's cu
rious collection of relics. It is but fair to say, however,
that I am doubtfiU whether Good Father Alexander wiU
vouch for my story of its early adventures.

SAN LUIS REY

Mission San Luis Rey de Francia., and Somewhat of
THE Padre Who Does not Die
¦T^ravelers by raU, intending for San Luis Rey, leave the
^^ train at Oceanside whence the four miles to the Mission
in its beautiful vaUey may be done as one chooses. I set out,
camera on shoulder, to walk it in the sparkling freshness of a
sunny morning succeeding a showery night; but soon a soci
able Jewish peddler, overtaking me in a buggy, invited me to
share a seat with him. At a crossroad, somewhat short of the
Mission, he set me down, our ways parting there, and assum
ing me to be an itinerant portrait photographer, eamestly
advised me to come again after the walnut-picking when
everybody would be flush and I could make "a fortune of
money" taking their pictures.
I had visited San Luis Rey in other years, when it was com
pletely and frankly in ruins, save as to the church, and that
with its scaling plaster and mellow color had the picturesque
charm of half a ruin. So it was a shock to find that moming
a smugly restored two-storied convento with a hard, white,
cheerless front corridor unreUeved by vine or flower. The
facade of the noble church, too, and the campo santo waU were
sleekly plastered in glaring white, the decorations startlingly
outlined in red. Remembering the dignified beauty of the
dilapidated old edifice of ten years before, sunning itseU under
the sky like a Spanish hidalgo of broken fortunes in his ragged.
cloak, I could have cried for vexation at the sight of that spick-
and-span product of plumb-line and rule. It was not until I
bethought me of the meUowing influence that Time could be
33

^§^ Cafifoma ^abt;e0
depended upon to exert and the fact that meantime the de
vastation of the elements had been stopped, that I felt recon
cUed to proceed farther, and touch the beU of the convento.
A small community of Franciscans inhabit the Mission, and,
responding to my ring, there shortly appeared a Brother in
a brown skuU-cap matching his brown robe. He was a taU
man of comfortable girth, with a good-humored face and a
fatherly manner; and he went about the task of showing me
over the premises with the leisurely thoroughness of one who
Uved only for that purpose.
Passing from the corridor to the low, broad platform of
square Mission tiles, or ladrillos, before the church door, the
friar paused: "Here," said he with a smack of Germany in
his accent, " the Indian band of forty pieces used to play of
ef enings, AU this ground in front of the Mission was a plaza
then. There were games and good times in the efening, after
the day's work was over. This pavement looks new, but it is
not. It is the original bricks; but, when we began restoring,
we found them so wom we just turned them bottom up, and
it inakes a smooth pavement yet. Look, I want to show you"
— and the Brother, stooping, put his finger on a depression
in one, "You see that mark? — the print of an Indian child's
foot: it stepped there, the Uttle foot, when the tile was soft
yet — so many years ago."
He imlocked the church door and we entered into the stiU-
ness and twiUght of the building. It is larger, they say, than
San Juan Capistrano's great church was.
"For forty-six years, from 1846 to '92," the Brother went
on, "the church was abandoned, left to the owls and bats and
human vandals. Is n't it a miracle that anything is left? And
in the Mexican War it was bombarded by cannons to drive
out some poor Indians who hung around yet after the last
Missionary had died. Then came the soldiers in and camped
34

DOORWAY AND OLD FOUNTAIN AT MISSION SAN LUIS KEY

Mib t^^x QUt00ion0
for ten months. Ach, but it was a sorry wreck when the priests
came again in 1892 and buUt their coUege across the way.
Eferything that could be made use of had been carried away
by people to buUd houses, timbers and raUings and tiles —
anything they had a mind to — not scmpUng to rob the house
of God. Yes, images of saints were chopped down, and fools
hunting for buried money had dug up aU the ground about the
sanctuary. And the Mission lands that once stretched away
north twenty, thirty mUes, and away east as far as San
Jacinto, they aU were taken. That is what secularization
meant. But let me teU you, mein friendt, as the old saying
is, 'Who Uves off the Pope, dies by the Pope': and the de
scendants of those robbers of Mission property, they do not
prosper — no, no; there's a curse on their goods. But,
though we haf no more much property, and the Indians are
aU gone, the work goes on. There are many people in the
country now, and the Sisters' school across the road, they
haf many scholars, and efery moming at eight o'clock is
mass for them; and we haf our gardens once more and young
orchards are growing, and already are vegetables for the
school and ourselves both,"
AU this chat as we walked leisurely the length of the
church, with a look, now at Padre Peyri's old adobe font with
its built-in bowl of stone, now at the Indian mural adorn
ments restored to their aboriginal red, blue, green, and yeUow,
and again at divers other matters now forgotten, A side
chapel, octagonal in shape, projecting into the old cemetery,
was of more than ordinary interest with an altar of reaUy
exquisite workmanship. Here, it seems, the mortuary services
of the Indians were held; and, moming and evening, at such
times, they came hither to utter their wailings and mournings,
"It was like the ancient Jews in the Bible," said the
Brother, "The noise was disturbing in the main church; so
35

^^t Caftfotnia ^cxbx^s
the Fathers had them come here. It is good now for private
devotions," Over it a domed roof of tile and plaster was being restored
by an expeditious Uttle fraile in a tattered straw hat, his
soUed brown gown tucked up under his girdle and two paisa-
nos assisting him,
"He is a Mexican Brother," said ray fraile; "the Americans
don't know how to make a dome of tUes, like that. And now,
you must go up into the beU tower for a view of the country,
and that wiU be aU."
At the top of a winding staircase I came among the bells
and there was indeed a view — mile after mUe of lonely lomas,
with only here and there a cluster of blue-gum trees betoken
ing the presence of some rancher's home. A sinuous line of
yellowing willows and cottonwoods marked the course of the
San Luis Rey River, seawardbound from the other side of
Palomar veiled in a tender blue haze. To the northeast
stretched the white crests of San Jacinto and the San Ber
nardino sierra — one lone ethereal snowbank, poised be
tween heaven and earth. It was a beautiful picture of rural
peace to carry away in my memory, but I did not like the
Brother's sentence of finaUty. I had a recoUection from my
former visit of a particularly fine old doorway somewhere, by
a flight of steps that led to the choir loft, against an outer
waU, as at San Gabriel. Where was it? The big Brother
looked down at me indulgently.
"You wiU haf to go inside the convento to see that, for it is
now buUt about," he remarked. "If you were now a woman,
I could not let you within the convento, but you are a man,
and it is permitted. Come." And he led the way out of the
church to the cloisters within.
"We haf not yet any place for guests," he lamented, as we
waUced together. "Not long ago, a gentleman and his wife
36

Mx'b t^^x (VUi00ton0
they came one efening in their carriage, and I was so humiU-
ated that we haf no room for such a fanuly that want to
camp." Turning into an echoing inner corridor we came to a smaU
courtyard, two sides of it new and sleek, but one, thank
Heaven, stiU as of yore with its time-stained, broken plaster;
and there, opening through it, was the side door of my mem
ory — a doorway with simple but beautiful piUars, capitals,
and mouldings, just as it was when the processions of Indians
went chanting in and out in Padre Peyri's time — a lovely
reUc of the best in Mission architecture. The Uttle patio was
paved with big, square ladrillos, wom and moss-grown, and
an ancient fountain, broken and waterless now, stiU remained
in the midst. Here the Brother, having other matters to at
tend to, excused himself, shook my hand, and enjoined me
to take any photographs I wanted, make myself at home, and
leave when I was ready without further ceremony. For an
hour I loitered about in quiet undisturbed, except for the
scratching of a rake in the hands of a Brother at work among
his roses and caUas in the garden of the larger patio adjoin
ing, and the occasional footfaUs of some other Brother as he
pattered along the inside corridors.
As I set out to depart by the door through which I had been
brought, I encountered the big Brother again.
"And haf you seen aU?" he inquired, "Ach, but I must
show you Father Pejni's music-book,"
He preceded me into a Uttle room where a few broken old
reUcs lay, and among them a huge hide-bound volume, some
two feet square. The friar had aU he wanted to do to lift it
from the floor, and open it in the Ught of the deep window
seat, that I might see. It was an excellent specimen of Mis
sion work, with great square notes in black and red, and let
tering so big and fair the blind might almost read it; and aU
37

^f e CaCifomia ^Cibx^B
on yeUow, crinkly veUum, made, I take it, from San Luis Rey
skins. It brought "Ramona" to my mind, and I could maag-
ine Alessandro's father, old Pablo, whom the novel makes
choir-master at this Mission, singing from the pages.
In point of size the Mission San Luis Rey was the king of
them aU, both as to the extent of its buUdings and the popu
lation of its Indian viUage, which, at the crest of its pros
perity (in 1826), numbered 2869, As for the church, if it
lacked something of the magnificence of San Juan Capis
trano's stone edifice in its prime, that was simply because
adobe — the material used for San Luis — falls short of stone
in its possibUities. Alfred Robinson, a Yankee tiader who
settled in CaUfornia and who visited San Luis Rey in 1829,
has left a graphic picture of it in his "Life in Califomia."
What he saw was typical of CaUfornia Mission life generaUy.
Of the neophytes, "some were engaged in agriculture, while
others attended to the management of over 60,000 head of
cattle,' Many were carpenters, masons, coopers, sadlers,
shoemakers, weavers, etc., while the females were employed
in spinning and preparing wool for their looms, which pro
duced a sufficiency of blankets for their yearly consumption.
Thus every one had his particular vocation, and each depart
ment its official superintendent or alcalde. These were sub
ject to the supervision of one or more Spanish ma'yordomos,
who were appointed by the missionary Father. . . . The buUd
ing occupies a large square of at least eighty or ninety yards
each side ... in the center of which a fountain constantly
suppUes the estabUshment with pure water. The front is pro
tected by a long corridor, supported by thirty-two arches
omamented with latticed railings. . . . The interior is divided
* Bancroft's figures, based on an examination of the ofiScial records, are, at
the highest, some 28,000 cattle, 28,000 sheep, and 2500 horses and mules.
Popular estimates of Mission stock have usually been greatiy exaggerated,
38

Mib t^^x QUi00ion0
into apartments for the missionary and mayordonws, store
rooms, workshops, hospitals, rooms for unmarried males and
females, ... In the interior of the square might be seen the
various trades at work. . . . Adjoining are two large gardens,
which supply the table with fruit and vegetables, and two or
three large ranchos or farms . . . where the Indians are em
ployed in cultivation, and domesticating cattle."
The founding of the Mission was in 1798, the location being
then known as San Juan Capistrano el Viejo. Portol§,'s party
had camped there on July 18, 1769, on their way north, in
search of Monterey; and Padre Crespi, who has left a diary of
the trip, makes this note of the matter: "We gave to this val
ley, which is exceUent for a Mission, the name San Juan
Capistrano, so that this glorious saint, who in his Ufetime con
verted so many souls to God, would pray Heaven for the con
version of these poor Gentiles, to whom on the next moming
we addressed a few words about God and Jesus Christ, heaven
and hell. They seemed to comprehend somewhat." Who wiU
say the saint did not hear? For when the Mission was even
tually founded here, — though named for another than him
of Capistrano, — it prospered from the start. The building
of the great church that we now see must have been com
menced very promptly, for the records state it was com
pleted in 1802, This was a remarkable accompUshment for an
infant Mission in a bare wUdemess with only Indians for
laborers, San Luis Rey, however, had for its architect and
director one of the ablest and most energetic of aU the Francis
cans — Padre Antonio Peyri, whose parental rule extended
from the very hour of the founding untU the coining event
of secularization cast its black shadow athwart the Mission
doors. He had, of course, a companion friar at times; but
such came and went: Peyri never left, and for years he was
the only priest. For thirty-three years he threw himseU self-
39

€^t CaCifomia {p<xbxt0
sacrificingly, and with aU the ardor of an intense nature, into
the task of building up this Mission. Working and praying
ceaselessly, he had success abundantly. To deUver this sacred
trust of his Ufe into the hands of a self-seeking secular gov
emment, to be dismembered and in general played ducks and
drakes with, was more than his spirit could bear; and, one
night in 1831, he fled secretly, never to retum, abandoning
the Mission to the inevitable. Tradition has it that when his
neophytes leamed that he had gone, five hundred of them set
out in haste to overtake him and implore him to retum, for he
was greatly beloved; but the anxious throng reached San
Diego (whither he had ridden to take ship for Mexico) only
in time to receive his parting blessing as the vessel stood out
to sea. Two bright Indian boys accompanied him, whom he
entered in the College of the Propaganda at Rome, where
they were the object of much interest.
The incontinent ffight was the impulse of an overwrought
heart, and Peyri Uved to repent the error of it. An Indian
servant who went with him used to teU that, when they
reached a hUltop at the edge of the vaUey, the Padre turned
and in his grief kneeled on the ground and prayed God to
guard and keep his Mission. I wish we might know the spot
where that prayer was uttered — that ultimo suspiro, as
touching in its way as King Boabdil's "last sigh" when he
tumed and, from the mountain overlooking the Vega of
Granada, took a parting look at his lost AUiambra,''
At the time of De Mofras' visit to San Lids Rey in 1841,
' Alexander Forbes, an English merchant who met Peyri on the latter's way
to Mexico, has left a pleasant sketch of him: "The excellent climate from which
he had come, and his constant emplosonent ui the open air, made him look like
a robust man of fifty years of age, although he was then sixty-seven; and al
though his general character and manners were necessarily very diflferent from
what could be expected from a mere cloistered monk, yet in his gray Franciscan
habit, which he always wore, with his jolly figure, bald head and white locks,
he looked the very beau ideal of a friar of the olden time."
40

anb t^txx (Wlt00ion0
there was in the Mission a picture representing Peyri sur
rounded by Uttle Indian children, and the neophytes in their
devotions would stop before it and make to it the same prayers
as to the saint's image. Even then, after ten years of absence,
his people had not given up hope that he would some day
retum to them. At the Mission's rancho of Las Flores, where
the same traveler found a remnant of the San Luisenos living,
an old Indian alcalde saluted him and said, —
"Captain, they say you are from Spain, Did you see the
king?" "Yes," repUed De Mofras.
"And Padre Antonio?"
"No, but I know he is at Barcelona."
"Don't they say he is dead?" put in another Indian.
"Senor," said the alcalde, turning to him reprovingly,
"este Padre no muerel" (Sir, this Padre does not die!)
"Ach, but he was a man, that Father Peyri," the big
Brother at the Mission had said to me, "and he from a uni
versity, making adobes!"

t^t CaCifomta ^(ibx^s
II
The Little Christians of San Apolinario
One of the most picturesque chapters in aU the early his
tory of what have come to be the United States is that
which describes the overland expedition which on July 14,
1769, left the newly occupied port of San Diego in search of
its twin port of Monterey. I name them twin ports inasmuch
as they were twin objectives of the expedition under Don
Caspar de Portola for the exploration and conquest of the
country of which only the coast had then been seen by a few
venturous navigators, and to which had been given the name
of Alta California.
The party consisted of Don Caspar himseU, Captain Fer
nando Rivera y Moncada, Lieutenant Pedro Fages, an engi
neer, Miguel Costans6, some three score soldiers, muleteers,
and Indians, and (for Church and State as comrades was
ever the ideal of Spain) two of the newly arrived Fathers,
Fray Juan Crespi and Fray Francisco Gomez. It is to the
honor of the Franciscan clergy, indeed, that, from Serra
downward, always they were to the fore when exploration or
hardship was on hand, whether by sea or land. Certainly,
no reproach of shirkers can ever be leveled at them. In this
case, too. Fray Juan plays other parts beside that of priest.
Incidentally, he acts also as "navigator" to the party, manip
ulating compass and astrolabe as neatly as Senor CostansS,
official ingeniero, himself; and it is in his excellent diary that
we find the best record of this interesting page of history.
To a man of Serra's energy and idealism it was a disap
pointment that in the two weeks that had passed since his
arrival at San Diego no converts had been made. Instead, the
42

avib t^txx (Yltt00ion0
nativtes showed a thievish and troublesome spirit, which very
soon brought on an affray in which a muleteer was killed and
some others of the Spaniards, including one of the Fathers,
wounded. This gave, indeed, a dark beginmng to the whole
enterprise. However, faith was strong in the hearts of all;
and the outcome having been, in a solemn service, committed
afresh to the special care of St, Joseph, the advance to Mon
terey was confidently undertaken. Farewells, ceremonious,
no doubt, but heartfelt, passed between those who remained
to guard the germ of the San Diego settlement from perish
ing and those who went to found the new outpost at Mon
terey: and after a parting voUey or two of musketry, with
which the Spanish soldier must open and conclude every
enterprise, the adventurers began their joumey.
We cannot follow them every step of the way, as Fray
Juan's careful journal shows it: the qjitos, or "Uttle eyes"
(pools of fresh water), where they camped; the pozas, or wells,
that refreshed their dusty noonday rests, the reals (camps)
to which snakes, or fleas, or some such incidents of travel,
gave a name, though generaUy it is by some more churchly
phrase (Valley of the Triumph of the Most Holy Cross, for
example) that the diarist marks the stages of the way; —
sometimes, by the by, uniting the two methods in some such
happy title as La Canada de Santa Pragedis de los Rosales,
where the abundance of wild-rose bushes, "like those of
Castile," was affectionately commemorated.
The fourth night found them camped in the San Luis River
Valley, and here for the first time the priests' hopes were
raised that their spiritual work, as regards the natives, was
about to begin. A large body of Indians, perhaps a hundred,
visited the camp, and friendly gifts were exchanged, the
Spaniards' ever reUable beads being repaid with a present of
nets of native fabric. In the moming, when the Indians again
43

^^^ Cafifomia (pabte0

came to the camp, an attempt was made by the Fathers to
convey to them some first ideas of the new reUgion. But the
time was not ripe; and in fact, with aU regret for the friars'
disappointment, it seems more to the credit of the natives'
good sense than a matter of surprise that the mystified people
should have refused to go through the unmeaning form of
kissing the crucifix — to them, no doubt, some kind of "medi
cine" the purpose and effect of which were doubtful.
But at a halt a few nules farther on, word was received from
their advance party of two girl babies having been found in
a native viUage near by, apparently djdng. The good priests'
humanity and zeal were both at once moved at the story.
With a few soldiers for safety they proceeded to the place.
In one of the rude dome-shaped huts of brush and grass that
formed the viUage, the mother and child were found. Some
fatal disease, perhaps pneumonia, a dangerous foe to the
white, but certain doom to the iU-nourished Indian, had the
Uttle body in its unreleasing clutch, even whUe the poor
woman clutched it to her own dusky, sorrowful breast. Now,
Padres, you have our fullest sympathy, even though we may
not share your fears for the child m the event that your
kmdly efforts faU with the distracted mother. "We begged
the woman to allow us to wash the head of the child, so that,
in case it should die, it would go to heaven," says Fray Juan.
If, good Padres, you can by the mystery of baptism — mys
tery, indeed, to this dark aborigme — shed any least, faintest
ray of hope or resignation into this dumb, aching heart, in
God's name beg, then, as for your Uves, and we shaU rejoice
as much as you, if you gain your desire.
And so, happUy, it proves. The dogma may weU be un-
comprehended, but the good humanity that shines in the
Fathers' kindly urgency wms its way. The mother at last
consents. Soldiers, priests, and wondering Indians press
44

Mxb t^xx (JHi00ion0
about as water is poured and words are said. The name of
Maria Magdalena — strange name, it seems, for Uttle chUd,
but after aU a touching one — is given the Indian baby-girl:
and perhaps, perhaps, some gleam of the Light that shineth
in darkness did, indeed, remain to befriend that dark and
cheerless heart.
The other child is visited then. She has been, perhaps, in
jured in the burning of the parents' miserable dweUing, and
by possibUity can hardly Uve, though, indeed, death wUl be
the kindUer outcome. Again the Fathers ply their unintel-
Ugible request, and again, to their joy, are successful. The
child is baptized in the name of Margarita: and here, too, we
wiU hope, some Presence of Love abode that lightened a Uttle
the somber shadow that chiUs in tum every scion of our
mortal race alike.
So it was that, somewhere contiguous to the vaUey of San
Luis Rey, occurred the first Christian baptisms in CaUfornia.
"If this be aU the reward we Fathers are to enjoy for the long
joumey and hardships already endured and which we expect
in the future, we are weU satisfied." So writes honest Fray
Juan in his diary for the day; and indeed, the expected trials
were not to fail them.'
' Some miles to the north of the Mission of San Luis Rey there is a cafion
that is called by the name Los Cristianitos (the Littie Christians). Fray
Crespi notes that the name of Los Cristianos was given by the soldiers to the
place where the children were baptized, though he called it San Apolinario.
I leam from Father O'SuUivan, of San Juan Capistrano, that local tradition
runs that the present Los Cristianitos Cafion is the place where these first
baptisms were made. It is interesting to see that, as seems plainly to be the
case, the soldiers' name, slightiy changed, has persisted to this day.

C^nptix t'^xtt
san ANTONIO DE PALA

'TilwilMWlilii i«i I — ¦'-^"Cl!^*^i

•'>-^fe:'^

San Antonio de Pala and its Hanging Garden
|Y\adre Peyri's evangeUcal appetite was by no means
Vr^ appeased by gathering in only those (JentUes who dwelt
within easy reach of his Mission San Luis Rey. The mountain
country twenty miles to the eastward was also weU popu
lated, but the people were shy of coming to the Mission; so,
in 1816, Peyri, Mahomet-wise, went to the mountain, foimd-
ing in the beautiful Uttle vaUey of Pala,' along the upper
waters of the San Luis Rey River, a Mission outpost which
he dedicated to the Paduan St. Anthony. Here he stationed
his companion friar, and within a couple of years, it is said,
a thousand converts were added to the Mission roU. This
estabUshment was never officially a Mission, but simply an
appanage of San Luis Rey — an asistencia, in Spanish par
lance. Nevertheless, it was in effect a Mission, with its church,
its Padres' quarters, its corrals and storehouses and orchards;
and in its taU campanario or belfry — stiU intact, built to
itseU apart from the church — it possesses a feature unique
in Mission architecture, if not the world's. After seculariza
tion, Pala, of course, went the way of aU, and its bmldings feU
into decay, although the occasional visits of a secular priest,
and the continued interest of Indians inhabiting the hills
roundabout, were instrumental in keeping part of them from
1 This would appear to be the Pale of a missionary reconnaissance of 1795,
a site proposed at first for Mission San Luis Rey, but rejected because, for one
thing, too far removed from the Camino Real. Father Doyle teUs me "Pale"
is the local Indian word for "water," and was the name of the aboriginal vil
lage in existence when the missionary estabUshment was founded.
49

^f ^ Caftfotnia ^abt;^^
entire obUteration. Then, in 1903, came a new lease of life
through the transfer thither of about three hundred Indians
evicted from their old-time home on Wamer's Ranch; and
with this accession of communicants to Pala the CathoUc
Church had a priest take up his permanent residence there.
The land on aU sides is a United States Indian Reservation;
but the Church stiU owns in the midst an islanded acre or so
which the Mission buildings and cemetery occupy.
Pala is connected with the outside world by a daily auto-
mobUe stage, which runs to Oceanside in the moming, re
turning in the afternoon. On leaving San Luis Rey, I was
lucky enough to catch it Pala-bound, and the run up the val
ley was fuU of pleasure. It was a fine, autumnal day, and the
road foUowed closely the course of the Uttle river which was
bordered with sycamores, cottonwoods, and wiUows, whose
falUng leaves shed a golden glory about our way. An hour
and a half brought us to Pala.
There I hardly know which caught my fancy more — the
Mission or the Indian viUage nestling about it. The former
consists of one low rambling building with whitewashed waUs
and red tile roof. In this, cheek by jowl, are the chapel, the
priest's rooms, and the trader's tienda and storerooms. Ad
joining the church and neatiy enclosed within a whitewashed
adobe waU is the campo santo, in which stands the remarkable
belfry of Padre Peyri, dominating the scene. The viUage is of
Govermnent manufacture and consists of rows of Eastern-
made portable frame cottages of one story, each as like the
other as machinery could make them, and each topped off
with a "gingerbread" frUl along the ridgepole. A garden
plot surrounds each house, and here the aboriginal fancy is
allowed to have its way. Sometimes it takes the form of
planting to fruit and flowers, as taught by the Govermnent
farmer; at other times, the ground is neglected, occupied by
SO

anb t^txx QUi00ion0
the usual assortment of dogs, chickens, and ramadas (bmsh
shelters wherein to whUe away the sunny hours of a summer
day) that one sees in the mountain rancherias of southem
CaUfornia. The broad streets, intersecting one another at
right angles, had been set to pepper tiees and eucalyptus, and
were now more or less shaded, and roses and marigolds were
here and there intmding upon the thoroughfare from the
better kept house-lots. Ten years before, this viUage, caUed
into being by Govemment fiat, to provide for three hundred
homeless wards, must have been a hideous sight with its
monotonous boxes of houses in straight rows, more like an
army encampment than a coUection of homes; but now
Time's pitying hand has softened the hard contours, and
shrubs and vines have broken up many a hard line. The
stage-driver had told me that many of these Pala foUi were
mestizos, which may account for the prevalence of flowers in
many of the gardens; for the aboriginal Californian in his or
her purity is not much of a flower-grower. Here and there,
too, the Govemment cottage, warping to pieces, has given
place to a CaUfornia bungalow, such as Salvadora Roberts's,
where I had a room to lodge.
Taken altogether, Pala impressed me as having about it,
in a way, more of the old-fashioned Franciscan atmosphere
than other missionary estabUshments. To the Mission itseff,
looking in its tiles and whitewash every inch a Mission, there
was this added element of a considerable contemporary In
dian Ufe, the Mission's natural nurseling, clustered about the
walls. From time to time through the year, it blossoms out in
picturesque _^e5to, wherein the Padre has a part. Sometimes
it is a blessing and a procession when some pubUc work, like
an irrigation ditch, is achieved; sometimes it is a church festi
val, like AU Souls' Day, when the candle-Ughting takes place
in the cemetery; again it is some modified remnant of former
SI

€^^ Cafifomia ^Cibx^»
pagan days, as occurs in midsummer, when Indians gather
from surrounding rancherias, and after mass in the chapel, the
old Indian nature is given swing in dances, games, and songs,
feasting and gossip, and a deal of gambling.
It was neither Simday nor feast day at the time of my visit
to Pala; but the church door stood invitingly open, and from
the dim interior issued the stiaios of a reed organ. Passing
within the wicket and crossing a Uttle garden enclosure, I
entered. The music stopped, and a startled Indian girl passed
like a shadow behind me and vanished in outer air before I
could apologize for my intrusion. The interior was quite in
keeping with the old-time look without. Here, in this chapel
of the hiUs, lingered the real flavor of the ancient day. The
roof of great, unhewn beams, brought from Palomar Moun
tain; the rough adobe waUs with cmde Indian decorations; the
queer old wooden statues of saints about the unpretentious
altar (one being of patron Anthony and so Aztec of feature
that the tradition that it was carved by a Mexican Indian is
probably tme) ; the wom square ladrillos of the floor; — aU
this was very satisfying, the only note to jar on the anti
quarian soul being the Uttle cottage organ. However, as it
stood unobtrusively in a dark comer by the door, I forgave it.
That the building is in the good repair it now is, we may thank
the Landmarks Club of CaUfornia which interested itself a
decade or so ago in re-roofing it. Many of the tiles now cov
ering it are said to have once been upon Mission San Luis Rey,
whence they were taken three quarters of a century ago in
the general despoUation by neighboring rancheros, and the
descendants of some of these donated or sold them for the
restoring of Pala. The waUs inside were imtil recently elabo
rately adomed with Indian paintings; but a few years ago a
priest in charge, whose interest in aboriginal art was on a par
with that of the old Spaniards who made bonfires of Aztec
52

Mxb t^xx (mt00ion0
hieroglyphics, whitewashed most of them out of sight. Per
haps time wUl eventuaUy bring them to Ught again, Uke writ
ing on a palimpsest.
The beU tower, which stands just within the cemetery waU,
rises upon a high base composed apparently of river boulders
cemented together. At the rear, a weU-wom ffight of steps is
buUt in, leading to the bells, which swmg one above the other
in separate embrasures and are suspended by their ancient
rawhide thongs from worm-eaten beams set in the adobe.
I amused myseU by deciphering the inscriptions cast into
their iron rims. It was by no means an easy task, as many
letters were indistinct, and the monkish abbreviations taxed
my Latin. One bore a prayer: —
gtU9 J)3 gte ptiS gtUS iMMORT^
MICERERE NOBIS, AN, DE 1816. I. R.
(Holy Lord, Holy Most Mighty One, Holy Immortal One,
Pity us. Year of 1816. Jesus Redemptor.)
The other was inscribed in Spanish with these names: Our
Seraphic Father Francis of Assisi. Saint Louis, King. Saint
Clare. Saint EulaUa. Our Light.
Companioning the cross that tops the belfry is a cactus
plant of considerable size, flourishing in midair without other
care than Nature bestows upon it. It is rooted in a crack of
the adobe tower, close to the spot where the Christian symbol
is fixed, and seemed, I thought, to typify how Uttle of material
substance is needed by the soul that dwells always at the foot
of the cross. Genial Father Doyle, the resident priest, who
has a keen interest in the history of his parish, has told me
that this curious hanging garden of Pala is, quite likely, as old
as the belfry itseU; for the oldest Uving Indians remember it
as always there. Tradition says that the original cross which
Padre Peyri placed there was of green unhewn oak from the
S3

^§e CaCifotnia ^Cibxi»
mountain, and that the birds came and nested at its foot,
using mud in their home-building. From a chance seed thus
brought the plant sprang. Certain it is that the birds of to
day have a fondness for that airy perch to lavmch their joy
ous songs from, and the Father says that every year a nest
is buUt in the branches.
Altogether, I enjoyed Pala, and its chapel is a worshipful
place, in its old-time simpUcity. Besides, I liked the spirit of
that open door.

anb t^x (JUi00ion0
u
The Exiles of Agua Caliente
T^he wrongs of the Indian — it is an old song, and, perhaps,
^^ to many persons a tiresome one. It is - not unnatural
that people should get out of patience with a troublesome
problem, and the Indian problem has always been trouble
some. Many well-intentioned efforts have been made to
grapple with it, and probably most people feel that when one
has made weU-intentioned efforts there is nothing more to be
done. Yet I venture to say that few of us, when we read his
tory bearing upon the subject, can avoid an uncomfortable
feeling that there is scored somewhere a long account, show
ing a huge balance in favor of the Indian against — weU, the
rest of us.
The visitor to Pala is face to face with the vouchers of one
of the last items on that accoimt, though he may not see any
evident tokens of the fact. Few people, probably, guess that
items are stiU being entered, and it wiU surprise many of my
readers to hear that as late as 1903 there took place in CaU
fornia a smaU coimterpart of the incident that gave rise to
the sad idyU of "Evangeline." I give the facts, sa3Tng noth
ing as to the points of the case that would interest lawyers;
only venturing to ask the reader whether, in his opinion, when
elementary human rights conffict with the law, the rights or:
the law should prevaU.
There are in CaUfornia a considerable number of hot
springs. These, for their curative virtues and for other rea
sons, naturaUy were attractive to the aborigines, who placed
their viUages by preference at such spots. On what is now
known as Wamer's Ranch, far up in the mountains to the
SS

^^t CaCifomta ^abt;e0
northeast of San Diego, there was such a village from the
earUest times of record; how much longer no one can teU.
Lying on the route by one of the few passes from the Colo
rado Desert to the coast, the region was weU known to early
explorers as a fine tract of pasture land, and even before the
date of General Keamy's expedition it had been granted by
the Mexican CJovemment to "Don Juan" Wamer, under the
title of the VaUe de San Jose. The Indians seem to have been
always a peaceable and rather unusually intelUgent tribe,
Uving in a viUage of some thirty good adobe houses, and mak
ing an easy living in the primitive Indian way by hunting,
farming after a fashion, and the harvesting of Nature's wild
bounties. Through several changes of ownership the ranch passed
many years ago into possession of a wealthy estate whose
representatives were leaders in San Francisco society in ante-
earthquake days. In the general progress of things the time
came, about the beginning of this century, when the owners
began to entertain other views for the property than that it
should remain a mere cattle range. There would be no thought
of subdividing for many years to come, but the hot springs
were an asset of some immediate value, and by providing
suitable buUdings, and advertising, visitors would be at
tracted. But in order to this the Indians must go. The ranch
was held, Uke scores of others throughout CaUfornia, under
title of a grant from the Mexican Govemment, these grants
being recognized by the United States when the province was
taken over after the Mexican War.
Notice was served upon the Indians to vacate their homes
and leave. Nothing new, this, at aU, It has been a common
place in the history of the CaUfornia Indians that they should
be aUowed to stay nowhere on land that the white .^erican
wanted. They appealed to a few persons ar»ong the whites to
S6

einb t^txx (Uli00ion0
whom they were in the habit of looking for advice. These,
some of them influential citizens of the southem part of the
State, brought the matter up for decision by the courts, as
to the rights of the Indians, in hope of protecting their help
less cUents. Legal opinion was divided, as — somewhat
oddly, it seems to outsiders — legal opinion almost always
is. The case went from court to court, arousuig a consider
able amount of attention in the process, untU finaUy the Su
preme Court of the United States adjudged in favor of the
owners of the property.
Many people, most, I suppose, wUl say at this point, WeU,
that settles it. Your pardon, good reader, if I differ. It settles
the law, but not the right. If you reply that since the law, in
the Court of final decision, had ruled against the Indians'
claim, nothing more could be done, I object that, the purpose
of the law being to secure justice (in which prime human
rights have always counted as of the essence), when the law
is seen to faU it must be amended, or other means taken
to obtain the end in view. Necessary work does not remain
undone because a given machine is not fitted to do it: another
is found, or made. But it is an old debate, amoimting to
whether the end, or the means made for the end, is finaUy to
mle. Acting upon urgent representations made by the Indians'
friends. Congress had set aside an ample sum for the purchase
of other lands for the tribe that was to be expeUed, and a com
mission appointed to select the land had decided upon a tract
of some 3500 acres, with a good water supply, at Pala. It
came now, then, to a case for ejectment and deportation. Was
it to be peaceable, or by force? For the Indians were deter
mined. The fact (and, thanks to the efforts of then: friends,
it was a fact, for the first time in the history of such transac
tions) that the land upon which they were to be placed off-
57

^^^ CaCifomia {p(xbx^0
ered as good or a better Uving than the present locaUty, had
no weight as against their attachment to their immemorial
homes, the graves of their people. Moreover, some weU-
intentioned but most iU-advised people counseled the Indians
to armed resistance — an absurdly hopeless suggestion, but
one that found favor with a number of the leaders among the
Indians. A Govemment Indian inspector arrived to take charge of
the ejection, and a time was set for the operation, in May of
1903. Teams and teamsters' to the numberof two score gath
ered at the fated viUage of Agua CaUente. Almost to the last
moment it hung in the balance whether the Indians would
or would not fight for their homes. It was known that they
had some forty rifles, with ammunition, while the teamsters,
supposed to be unarmed, mustered in fact many rifles and re
volvers. The inspector, warning his men against doing any
thing that would provoke attack, declared, from his knowl
edge of the feeUng of the people, that the old women would
probably fight with knives when it came to the point of being
forced from their homes. Meeting after meeting was held by
the Indians before deciding upon their course, and only at the
last did they consent, on the earnest appeal of those whom they
knew to be their well-wishers, to obey the Govemment and go.
I quote from an article by Mr. Grant WaUace in the maga
zine Out West (pubUshed at Los Angeles) of July, 1903, the
account of a few incidents of the eviction: —
"Night after night, sounds of wailing came from the adobe
homes of the Indians. When Tuesday (May 12) came, many
of them went to the Uttle adobe chapel to pray, and then
gathered for the last time among the unpainted wooden
crosses within the mde stockade of their ancient bur3Tng-
ground, a pathetic and forlom group, to waU out their grief
over the graves of their fathers. Then hastily loading a Uttle
58

Mib i^xx (Vtli00ton0
food and a few valuables into such Ught wagons and surreys
as they owned, about twenty-five famiUes drove away for Pala,
ahead of the wagon train. The great four- and six-horse
wagons were quickly loaded with the home-made fumiture,
bedding and clothing, spotlessly clean from recent washing
in the boiUng springs; stoves, ollas, stone mortars, win
dow sashes, boxes, baskets, bags of dried fruit and acorns,
and coops of chickens and ducks.
"WhUe I helped Lay-Reader Ambrosio's mother to round
up and encoop a wary brood of chickens, I observed the wife
of her other son, Jesiis, throwing an armful of books —
speUers, arithmetics, poems — into the bonfire, along with
bows and arrows, and superannuated aboriginal bric-a-brac.
In reply to a surprised query, she explained that now they
hated the white people and their reUgion and their books.
Dogged and dejected. Captain Cibimoat, with his wife
Ramona, and Uttie girl, was the last to go. While I helped
him to hitch a bony mustang to his top-buggy, a tear or two
coursed down his knife-scarred face; and as the teamsters
tore down his Uttle board cabin, wherein he had kept a res
taurant, he muttered, 'May they eat sand!'
"At their first stop for dinner they Ungered long on the
last acre of Wamer's Ranch, as though loath to go through
the gates. At night, at Oak Grove, they drew the first rations
ever issued to the Cupefios by the Govemment — some at
first refusing to accept them, saying they were not objects of
charity." (No, they were the objects of something quite
different, the degradation attaching to which did not apply
to them.)
"Although devout church members — scarcely a name
among them being unwashed by baptism — they refused the
first Sunday to hold services in the restored Pala Mission, or
anywhere else, asking surUly of the visiting priest, 'What
59

^^e Cafifomia ^(ibxtg
kind of god is this you ask us to worship, who deserts us when
we need him most?' Instead, thirty of them joined some
swart friends from Pauma in a ' sooish amokat' or rabbit hunt,
killing their game with peeled clubs thrown unerringly whUe
gaUoping at fuU speed.
"Monday, however, the principal men, better pleased after
inspection of the fertile and beautiful valley of Pala, had a
flag-raising at the Uttle school-house — the only buildmg yet
on the site of the projected vUlage. An Indian girl played the
organ, and a score of dusky children — who wiU compare
favorably in inteUigence with average white youngsters —
joined in singing the praises of 'America — sweet land of
liberty.' [Good Heavens!] School was opened, and later a
policeman — young Antonio Chaves — was elected by pop
ular vote,"
So here at Pala you wiU find to-day the exUed Indians of
Wamer's Ranch, some three hundred aU told, in a row of
ffimsy "portable-house" style cottages facing the main street.
You may think there is nothing much amiss with them. No,
there is not. As Indians go, I suppose they are as weU off as,
perhaps better than, the average. But speak to one of the
older women: mention the name of Wamer's Ranch or Agua
CaUente, and you will leam that the Indian, perhaps even
more than the white man, loves his own place, his native
spot. The sentiment of "Land where my fathers died"
moves his heart, reader, exactly as it moves your own; and
the graves of his father, his mother, his children (and Indian
graveyards are sadly fuU of those Uttle mounds) are to him,
exactly as to you, places to think of which is a heart-pang —
and how much keener in absence! — and where undying
memories are stored.
Might such a thing occur again? One would hope not, and
think not. Yet I doubt whether the BibUcal parable of the
60

(mb t^^x (Ult00ion0
one ewe lamb has lost aU its appUcation in these days; and
when an Indian happens to possess something to which the
white man's formula "There's money in it" appUes, that
Indian, if wise, wiU not count it too safely his own. I was
talking, not many months ago, with an Indian woman of the
Palm Springs viUage, on the Colorado Desert (where, as it
happens, there are just such natural hot springs as those at
Warner's). She was bom at Agua CaUente in the old days,
and is married to a Pahn Springs Indian. We had been talk
ing of sundry things, and Dolores was unusuaUy chatty for
an Indian. On my naming Agua CaUente she bent her head
and became downcast. I did not then know of her connec
tion with the place, and asked, "Where you ever there, Do
lores?" "I was bom there," she said: and after a moment,
shaking her head, "My mother, my father, both died there,
both buried there." I remarked that it was very bad to make
the Indians leave Wamer's. "Some day," said Dolores,
"some day they make us leave here too." "Oh, no, I think
not," I said. "You are safe at Palm Springs as long as ever
you want to stay." She shook her head: "You wait, you see:
some day they make us go." And to aU arguments she only
repUed, "Yes, you see."
It is not surprising that she should expect it, for, as I said,
the story of Agua CaUente is the story of many another In
dian viUage in Califomia; and the Indian, silent and patient,
does not quickly forget. I had spoken confidently to Dolores:
yet, I don't know : I should not care to feel that I held my own
house on no greater certainty. But then, it is different: I am
not an Indian.

C^aptex ^oMx
SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO

San Juan Capistrano, the Melrose of the Missions
"Up from the south slow filed a train.
Priests and soldiers of old Spain,
Who through the sunUt lomas woxmd
With cross and lance, intent to found
A Mission m that wild to John
Soldier-saint of Capistran."
./jt'ROM San Luis Rey to San Juan Capistrano, the next
^ Mission northward, is some thirty miles — a beautiful
drive if you can do the joumey so; now beside the surfy sea,
now over cattle-dotted mesas with glorious outlooks ocean-
ward and mountainward, and now threading flowery ca-nons
and ca-nadas among treeless, dumpling foothills of the sort
upon which the Spaniards fixed the name of lama. If your
going be by raU, you aUght at the station of Capistrano within
a stone's throw of the Mission; and many visitors content
themselves with a hurried stop between trains. Seeing it so
in the noontide glare, they get Uttle idea of the poetic beauty
that enveils it when the shadows of evening creep over it, or
in the dewy stillness of the early day, or, better yet, "in the
pale moonlight," as at Melrose, to which its lovers deUght to
compare it; for it is of aU the Franciscan remains the loveUest.
Arrange, then, if you can, to pass at least a night at the quaint
viUage, so populated of Spanish, French, and Basques, to say-
nothing of a sprinkling of other nationaUties, that one of my
f eUow travelers told me he had once spent three months there;
and heard no word of EngUsh. It Ues on one of the main
traveled highways between Los Angeles and San Diego, and
65

t^t CaCifoma ^(xbx^s
since the advent of the automobile era, the Bonifaces of the
place have noticeably improved the quaUty of their enter-
tamment, so that you wiU now be very comfortably cared for
at either of two inns.
The founding of this Mission was an intermpted event.
First came Padre Lasuen, erecting on October 30, 1775, a
cross and celebrating mass al fresco in the presence of a few
soldiers, servants, and muleteers; but hardly had a begmning
at bmlding been made when news was brought of that Indian
uprismg at the Mission of San Diego, The church beUs were
at once buried for safe-keeping, and the Padre and his escort
hastened away to San Diego to assist their comrades there.
A year later — on November i, 1776 — Serra, with two other
missionaries and a file of soldiers, arrived, found the cross
StiU standing, exhumed the beUs, and, blessing the place
afresh, gave the estabUshment its first real start on its evan
geUcal course. The ficrst Mission was not on the site of the
present one; but, according to tradition, was some six miles
to the eastward, in a locaUty marked on the maps as Mision
Vieja.* Just when the move was made to the present site
appears to be uncertain; but early in 1797 work was begin
ning on the great stone church, whose noble nun makes the
Mission's especial charm for visitors to-day.
Father St. John O'SulUvan, the cultured parish priest at
present resident in the Mission, has written an exceUent hand-
1 This tradition seems to conflict with an entry in the joiunal of Vancouver,
who saUed down the CaUfornia coast in 1793, stopping at several of the Mis
sions, When abreast of San Juan Capistrano, he made this note: "Coasting
about two miles from shore we suddenly noticed a Spanish estabUshment
erected close to the waterside in a smaU sandy cove. . . . This Mission is very
pleasantly situated in a grove of trees, having the ocean in front, and being
bounded on its other sides by rugged, dreary mountains." This is very expUcit,
and seems to be the neighborhood of the old embarcadero, since immortalized
by Dana, where ships, stopping for suppUes or to trade with the Mission, cast
anchor. Palou, in his Life of Serra (chap, XLm), gives the situation as half a
league (iJ mUes) from the bay of San Juan Capistrano, beside a stream,
66

ONE OF THE EELLS, MISSION SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO

anb t^ixx (mt00ion0
book of the place which should be obtained by every visitor.
In it he states that the stone used in building came from
Mision Vieja, the large stones being conveyed in carretas or
buU carts, and the smaUer ones carried by the Indian neo
phytes. "Each one walked bearing a stone from the quarry
m the hands or upon the head — the children with smaU ones,
the grown-ups with larger ones, all doing their part accordmg
to their strength; so that during the work, the place resembled
a great anthiU with the busy workers going and coming —
those passing to the east empty-handed, and those coming to
the west bearing their burdens." WhUe the manual labor was
aU done by Indians under the superintendence of the Fathers,
there was a Mexican master mason, sent up from CuUacan,
who had charge of the stone-cutting. The church was some
thing over nine years a-buUding. It was cruciform in out
line, and, when completed, was the most imposing of any in
CaUfornia, with ornamentation on pilasters, doorways, cor
nices, ahd capitals that commands admiration even in its
ruin. The massive roof was a series of vaulted arches, "Local
tradition says" — I quote again from Father O'SuUivan —
" that the bell tower in front was so high that it could be seen
from a point ten mUes away to the north . . , and that the
sound of the bells was carried even farther; and that upon top
of the tower perched a gUded cock, and that upon the dome
over the transept rose a narrow spire of the large, square
Mission tile, or ladrillos."
The blessing of this edifice on September 7, 1806, with a
two-day fiesta following, was a notable event. The ceremony
was performed by Padre Presidente Tapis, assisted by the
two friars froni San Gabriel; and the vast crowd attendmg
included the two resident missionaries of San Juan, visiting
Padres from Santa Barbara, San Femando, and San Luis
Rey, the Govemor Don Jose Joaquin de AniUaga, mUitary
67

^^4 CaCifomta (pabtr^0
lights from San Diego and Santa Barbara presidios with their
soldiery, besides much gente de razon ^ from all the country
round, throngs of neophytes from neighboring Missions, as
well as aU the San Juaneno nedfitos, who themselves mus
tered a thousand or so. But alas for the shortness of human
prevision! Six years and three months later came the tragedy
of the earthquake, when the great edifice was shaken to a heap
of ruins and twoscore of worshipers were crushed to death.
Barring one short-Uved attempt half a century ago, more
destructive than constmctive, the rebuilding of the church
was never undertaken; and I, for one, shaU be satisfied if it
never shaU be. It stands in its devastation a temple eloquent
with the gospel of beauty, the stars its candles, the birds of
the air its choristers, and heaven-sown wild flowers adorning
its broken sanctuary. Meantime a room in the adjacent
convento part is employed as a chapel for Christian worship,
and there the visitor may see in present use old Spanish paint
ings, carved statues of wood, candlesticks, torches and crosses
of sUver, that once did service in the great church. One Sun
day moming during my stay, I found the viUagers at their
worship, and, sitting in a shadowy comer, was entranced by
the solemn music of a beautiful Gregorian chant, sung by a
fine baritone voice to the accompaniment of violonceUo and
violin played by two Frenchmen, The reading of the Gospel
and the announcements were in Spanish,
To the lover of artistic tidbits in architectural design the
Mission buUdings of San Juan Capistrano are a mine of de
Ught, At every tum some charming bit of handiwork catches
the eye. There are handwrought shelves fixed, immovable,
in the thick adobe walls; waU pockets scooped deep in the
adobe; cave-like closets and wood-boxes similarly inset be-
' "People of inteUigence'' — the term by which the whites were caUed, in
contradistinction to the Indians,
68

(x\ib t^^x ^mxom
side their fireplaces; hand-hewn ceiling beams, and snug
joinery without nails; scroUs and designs of simple beauty
worked into doorposts and lintels; and deUghtful mouldings
about the doorways — doorways so low that even a short
man must humble himself to pass through. On aU this work
is the visible impress of the human hand, having joy in the
doing, appealing to our humanity and touching our hearts as
machinery's impersonal output never does. So does the work
of those vanished artsmen do missionary service to genera
tions that never knew them.
While much of the original establishment is unfortunately
gone beyond recognition, there are stiU many rooms in a fair
state of preservation with their pristine ornamentation more
or less intact. Father O'SuUivan is concerned that these
remnants shall be kept, as far as may be, undesecrated by the
hand of the restorer; or, if restored, that the work shall be
done strictly in the original manner, so that none of the old
character shaU be lost, StUl presentable are the Padres'
kitchen with its picturesque tile chinmey, the pantry with
its hand-hewn shelves, and the large room on the east side
of the patio, used for divine worship before the great church
was completed (as weU as after the latter's destmction) and
known as Serra's Church. This last owes its present satis
factory condition largely to the Landmarks Club which newly
roofed it with old tile some years ago,
I found entertainment browsing through the musty re
mains of the Padres' Ubrary where the Father was good
enough to leave me one moming, amid vellum-bound tomes
mostly in Latin and Spanish and printed in Mexico or Spain
a century or two ago. Many bore evidence of having been
rebound by some handy Brother who had lettered the titles
on the new backs in neat, monkish script. Among them I
came upon a many-volumed set of that famous eighteenth-
69

€^t CaCifotmia ^(xbx^&
century work, "The Universal Critical Theater, or Various
Discourses on aU Kmds of Matters for the Reproof of Com
mon Errors, written by the Very IUustrious Senor Don Fray
Benito Geronimo Feyjoo y Montenegro, General Master of
the Order of Saint Benedict, of the CouncU of His Majesty,
etc, Pamplona, Ano 1785" — a very Uvely, revolutionary
sort of work, which, in its day, scandalized the bigwigs of
Spanish erudition with the most radical notions about the
doings of the sun, the status of woman, clerical behavior, the
meaning of comets, and what-not — notions, however, which
are commonplaces to-day. Then there were volumes upon
volumes of Spanish translations of sermons by those renowned
pulpit orators and propagators of the faith, my Lords Bishops
of Meaux and Clermont, Jacques Benigne Bossuet and Jean
Jacques MassiUon, Did any latent spark of their fiery elo
quence carry to CaUfornia, pass into the heart of some Padre
of San Juan, and thence issue to kindle into flame the tow of
neophyte souls? I wonder. The Bible in paraUel columns of
Latin and CastiUan, a weU-thumbed ApostoUc Dictionary
printed at Madrid in 1787, a volume conceming the Sacro
sanct and Ecumenical CouncU of Trent, the Moral Directory
of one Padre Fr. Francisco Echarri and the Panegyrical Ser
mons of another, were additional sideUghts on the Uterary
diversions of the Padres of San Juan Capistrano.
On the whole, I am not surprised that one of them decided
to study mankind at first hand and write a book himseK. He
was Fray Geronimo Boscana, a kind-hearted, stoop-should
ered MaUorcan who was stationed at this Mission from 1814
to 1826, He was noted for his addiction to snuff and an un
accountable interest in Indians purely as Indians. He was
never happier than when investigating their habits, charac
ter, and reUgion in paganism. The result of his years of study
was embodied in a curious treatise entitied " Chinigchinich,"
70

an'b t^^xx (JUi00ion0
which Father O'SuUivan beUeves was written in the Uttle
room at the south end of the present chapel. The work was
left in manuscript and eventually feU into the hands of Alfred
Robinson, who thought enough of it to include a translation
in his volume "Life in Califomia." One of the native customs
that Fray Ger6nimo records has a touch of spiritual beauty
worth repeating. The appearance of each new moon, he says,
was celebrated by the Indians with a. fiesta, when the old men
danced in a circle, singing the while a refrain to this effect:
"As the moon dies and comes to life again, so we, having to
die, shaU Uve again."
The same year that Boscana left San Juan, came Padre
Jos6 Maria Zalvid^a, lamenting, from San Gabriel. His serv
ice at San Juan was from 1826 to 1842, including the first
years of secularization. He was a favorite with aU, and his
memory is stUl revered in the countryside around the Mission.
Bancroft says this Padre's beUef in a personal devU was
exceedingly vivid and he would at times be seen in hand-to-
hand conffict with this — to others — invisible prince of the
power of the air, kicking and sparring at him until the fiend
was vanquished, when the victorious Padre would relapse
into his customary sweetness of temper. Sometimes the Sa
tanic presence assumed bodUy shape. The story goes that
one day, as Padre Jose waUied in the country near the Mis
sion, intent upon his breviary, he attracted the notice of a
lively buU — un toro muy bravo — who pricked up his ears
at the sight.
"Cuidado, Padre!" (Look out. Father!) shouted a vaquero
near by who scented trouble.
The Padre looked calmly up and went on with his walk and
his devotions.
"Whom God cares for, mijo," he observed, "needs himself
have no care." 71

€^i CaCifotnta ^(xbxt&
Senor Toro, feeling himseU defied, trotted out before his
herd, flourishing his taU and snorting ominously. The Padre
started a hjonn. Toro, lowering his head and bellowing,
pawed the earth so vigorously that the dust flew in the
priest's face, and then charged.
"Peace, maUgnant spirit, come, come," smUed the Padre,
"wouldst thou throw dirt at me?"
The buU, in astonishment, stopped before the unfrightened
man of God, dropped his tail and slunk away, while the Padre
continued his walk and his devotions.
Two years after Padre Zalvid6a's departure from San Juan
Capistrano, WiUiam Heath Davis (a Gringo trader, like
Robinson, who settled in CaUfornia and wrote a book about
it) found him at San Luis Rey, walking back and forth in the
Mission corridors, breviary stUl in hand. The old priest was
very unwilUng to converse on worldly topics, to which, if
broached, he would Usten courteously and with averted face,
making one stereotyped reply — " Va-mos, si senor," — and
go on with his waUc. At other times he would be seen to
touch his head on each side with his finger tips, throw his
hands outward, snap his fingers and say, "Vete, Satands"
(Begone, Satan), as though casting out some improper
thought. He was an old-fashioned Franciscan, beUeving in
mortifying the flesh, wore a girdle with spikes on the inside,
and frequently scourged himself with a whip. Perhaps the
same disposition to penance was responsible for his table
manners. It seems that at meals he mixed aU courses on one
plate — fish, meat, vegetables, sours, and sweets — and con
sumed the mass so, as though determined not to indulge his
palate. Then, rising, he would himself clean his fork and
horn spoon, while his servant washed his earthen dish, and
at once march off to his room, carrying all three utensUs
with him. 72

(xvib t^xx (nii00ton0
Not the least interesting feature at San Juan Capistrano
is the odd anangement of the beUs in the waU connecting
church and convento. These are beUs of later date than those
historic ones of 1775. Nor is this campanario the original
belfry; for before the earthquake, the beUs hung in the high
tower of the church. As customary with the Mission bells,
each is personified and bears its name cast in the metal. One
states in mixed Spanish and Latin: "Ave Maria Purisima!
Ruelas made me and I am caUed San Juan, 1796." Another
is San Antonio; a third, San Rafael. The fourth was cast in
honor of two of the San Juan missionaries. Padres Vicente
Fuster and Juan Santiago, whose names it bears. That
Padre Vicente, you remember, was the heroic comrade of the
martjnred Jayme on San Diego's noche triste. He minis
tered at San Juan from 1779 to 1800, and was buried there.
To him doubtless is to be credited very largely the magnifi
cence of the new church. When the edifice was blessed in
1806, his remains were removed to it with great ceremony
and interred in the presbytery.
Touching these bells Father O'SulUvan has found many a
tradition current among the older Spanish folk of the neigh
borhood. One, which he nanates in his "Little Chapters
about San Juan Capistrano," I find particularly to my Uking.
There was once, it seems, a gentle and devout Indian girl
named Matilda, who deUghted in caring for the sanctuary
and keeping fresh flowers upon the altars. By and by she
grew sick, and one moming, at daybreak, she died. "Im
mediately, in order to announce her departure, the four beUs
aU began of their own accord, or rather by the hands of angels,
to ring together — not merely the solemn toUing of the larger
ones for an adult, nor the joyful jingling of the two smaller
ones for a child, but a mingUng of the two ways to proclaim
both the years of her age and the innocence of her Ufe. Some
73

Z^ CaCifomta (pabrw

say it was not the sound of the Mission bells at aU that was
heard ringing down the Uttle vaUey at dawn, but of the beUs
in heaven which rang out a welcome to her pure soul upon its
entrance into the company of the angels."

(mb t^xx QTlt00ion0
n
The Penance of Magdalena
jS^LOWLY, very slowly, the greatest and most beautiful of
^^ the Missions of Alta CaUfornia had risen among the
swelling lomas of the vaUey of the San Juan. Brick by brick
and stone by stone the simple Indian laborers, under the
tutelage of the Fathers, had reared a structure which, in its
way and place, might not unfitiy be compared with those
great cathedrals of Europe in which we see, as in a parable,
how inward love and faith work out in material beauty. Huge
timbers of pine and sycamore, hewn on Palomar, the Moun
tain of Doves, many miles away, had been hauled by oxen
over trackless hiU and vaUey, to form the joists and rafters
that one sees to-day, after the lapse of more than a century,
firm and serviceable, fastened with wooden spikes and stout
rawhide lashings.
In aU these labors Teoffio had taken a principal part. As
a chUd he had been christened with the name of Lucas, and
had carried it through boyhood. But when about fourteen
years of age, he had been tiansferred from the duties of a
herder to learn the simple crafts taught in the workshops;
and his industry and intelhgence had so commended him to
the overseers and Padre Josef that one day the latter, prais
ing him for some task especiaUy well performed, had said,
half in jest, "Hijo mio, we must christen you over again. You
are excelentisimo, as San Lucas said of San Teoffio in the super
scription to his holy evangel; so I shaU caU you Teoffio, ex
celentisimo Teoffio, mstead of Lucas; why not?" And Te6ffio
the boy became from that day, though Lucas he remained in
75

€^^ CaCifomia ^(Cbxte
the record of baptism? kept in the taU sheepskin volume in the
Father's closet.
So useful and dUigent was the boy that the Father soon
took him to be his own body servant, and many an hour did
Teoffio pass handling with reUgious care the sacred vessels
and vestments and books in the sacristy and in the Father's
rooms. One day the Father noticed with displeasure that on
the blank flyleaf of his best iUuminated missal, lately sent
to him by a friend in his old college at C6rdoba, in Spain,
there were some rough drawings in red and blue. Evidently
the person who had drawn them had tried to obUterate his
work, but had only partly succeeded. The Father could not
help noticing, however, that, crude as were the formal floral
designs and sacred emblems that had been copied by the cul
prit from the emblazoned letterings and chapter headings of
the missal, the work showed undoubted taste and talent; and
this gave him an idea. Why should he not adorn with fres
coes, in color, the cornices, and perhaps even the dome, of
the new church? It would be a notable addition, and would
give a finishing touch to the beauty of the building, if it could
be done. And here, evidently, was a hand that might be trained
to do it — the hand, probably, of his favorite, Teoffio, for he
alone had access to the book-shelves in the Father's room.
So when next he saw the boy he asked, "Te6ffio, who has
been drawing in my new missal?" The boy hung his head,
and the Father, taking his silence as an admission of guilt,
added, "That was wrong of you, Teoffio, and I must give you
some penance to remind you not to do such mischief again.
Do you know, boy, what that book is worth? Not less than
twenty pesos, Te6filo, or even more. That is one year's wages
of Agustin the -mayordomo, so you can see such things must
be left alone. But come to me this evening after the Doctrina,
and I wiU set you your penance." 76

anb t^txx (Uli00ion0
When the boy, with downcast look, came to him in his
room that evening, the Father said to him, "What made you
do it, Te6filo?" And the boy answered "I did not mean to
do harm. Padre, but the pictures are so beautiful, and I tried
to make some Uke them. Then I tried to rub them out, but
they would not come off." The Father smUed indulgently.
"No, my son," he said, "the wrong things we do, even in
nocently, do not come off. You must remember that in
future. But they can be forgiven by the good God, Te6ffio,
and even so I forgive you for the book. And your penance
shaU be to come each evening at this time and learn to draw
properly. What do you say?"
"Oh, Padre!" cried the boy; and he took the Father's hand
and put it, Indian fashion, to his forehead in token of grati
tude. Agustin the mayordomo was, next to the Father, the most
important man about the Mission. He it was who, under the
priest's supervision, had charge not only of the labors and
general governance of the Indians, but also of the business
affairs of the estabUshment, even to the care and sale of the
cattle, hides, and tallow, which, produced in enormous quan
tity, were almost the only, but a quite considerable, source of
revenue to all the CaUfornia Missions. Agustin was a half-
breed, or mestizo, the son of one of the Spanish soldiers who
had come to Alta CaUfornia with Serra and Portoli. His
mother was an Indian woman, to whom his father had been
married by Father Serra himself. That was in 1776, the year
of the estabUshment of the Mission, and Agustin, the oldest
son of the marriage, had risen before the age of thirty-five to
his important post, partly by natural abiUty, and partly by
the fact of his mixed Spanish blood, which of itself gave him
prestige and authority with the Indians. He had quarters
adjoining those of the Father, on the main corridor of the cuadro.
77

€^ CaCifomia ^(Cbx^s
His family consisted of his wife, Juana, chief of the lav
anderas, or washwomen, and several children, the oldest of
whom, Magdalena, was now growing into the fresh and early
womanhood of these Southem races. Already she had lovers,
who took such opportunities as the strict discipline of the
Mission life aUowed (and they were rare) to endeavor to
awake a response in her heart. But she held herself aloof
from aU. Proud of the Spanish blood in her veins, though
that blood was but that of a common soldier, she counted
herself to be of the gente de razon, far above the level of the
mere Indians, her mother's people. And, indeed, in her finer
features, quick glance, and more spirited bearing, the differ
ence of strain was manifest: the Latin admixture, though only
fractional, justified itself in evident supremacy over the
aborigine. This proud element in Magdalena's nature had the un
fortunate effect of bringing her into conffict with the Father
and the Church. Not that she would, out of mere perverse
ness, have refused obedience, but the Father, himself a
Spaniard, viewed all who were not of the sangre pura as In
dians, aU alike. This the girl felt and resented, and her resent
ment, though unexpressed, showed in numberless ways; while
the Father, on his part, viewed her only as an obstinate In
dian child, naturally averse to good influences.
It chanced one day that Agustin, overlooking the making
of adobe bricks at the day pits a mUe from the Mission,
needed to send a message to the Father on some point con
ceming the work; and, Magdalena having been sent to carry
their midday meal to the brick-makers, he entmsted her with
the errand, FaiUng to find the Father in his private room,
she went to the next door of the corridor. It was half open,
and she glanced in. The Father was not there, but she saw,
bending over a table set against the window, a young man.
78

anb i^txx (yili00ion0
His back was tumed to her, and he was so intent upon his
occupation that he had not heard her step. She should have
tumed and gone, for the rules were strict, and forbade con
versation between the girls and young men of the Mission:
but her curiosity was keen to know what the Indian boy (as
she knew he must be) was doing in the Father's quarters, and
what it could be that kept him so absorbed. Moreover, a
spirit of defiance was in her. If the Father found her loiter
ing there he would reprimand her. WeU, she would break the
rules: she was no Indian; and if he caught her there she would
teU him so. Yes, she would see what the young man was doing ;
she wanted to know, and she would know. Quietly she stole
into the room and edged round to one side so that she could
see partly across the table. The young man was painting, in
wonderful colors, on a sheet of parchment, painting wonderful
things — beasts, and birds, and flowers, and even angels, a
wonder of wonders to the simple girl.
At some involuntary sound that she made, the young man
— it was Te6ffio — turned and saw her. Her eyes were fixed
upon him, wide with wonder, and her hands half raised in
childlike rapture, while her slender figure, so different from
the heavier forms of the Indian girls, gave her, to his eyes, the
look and bearing of one of the very angels he had been copy
ing. It was a marvel on his side, too; and for a few moments
the two regarded each other, while love (that is bom so often
of sudden wonder in innocent hearts) awoke and stirred in
both their breasts. They had often met before, but it had
been casuaUy, and the hour had not been ripe. Now he saw
her and loved her; she saw him, an Indian, indeed, but trans
figured, for he was an Indian who worked wonders. And the
Spaniard in her gave way, that moment, to the Indian, and
she loved an Indian, as her father had done.
He was the first to recover his seU-possession. "The Father
79

t^fe CaCifomia ^(xbxte '
is not here," he said. "He wUl be back soon, for he set me my
task untU he should retum, and I have ahnost done it." "Is
that your task? " she asked. "How beautiful! How wonder
ful!" And she stepped nearer the table. " Show me, how do
you make them? I never thought that Indians could make
such things. I have heard my father say that holy men in
Spam could make angels, but you are an Indian: how can
you do it?" "I cannot teU you," he said slowly: then —
"Yes, I wiU teU you," and a flush came on his dark face, and
a Ught into his eyes, as he looked at her. " I do not make them,
these angels; they come to me because the Father has taught
me to love them. He says the angels come to those who love
them, and any one can love them. And when I saw you," he
went on, his eyes upon her eager face, "I thought you were
the angel I was painting, for you are lUie an angel, too; and
now I shaU always love you, and it wiU be easy to paint.
Listen! the Father is coming. You must go quickly, but now
I have seen you I must see you again. You are Magdalena,
Agustin's daughter. I shaU find you to-morrow when I take
the orders for the work to your father."
Magdalena sUpped away, and thus was begun the short but
happy love of Te6ffio and Magdalena — short, like the his
tory of the beautiful Mission itself; happy, as aU love is happy,
let its end be what it may. Many a time they met in secret,
for sweet interviews or even a hurried word or glance; but
love grows best in the shade. And meanwhUe, the great
church had been growing too, and now it was Teoffio's proud
task to paint the frescoes on the walls and dome, as the Father
had hoped. Simple designs they were to be at first, — floral
emblems and the symbols used for ages by the Church, —
but later Te6fflo was to essay much more ambitious things,
perhaps even the archangels, and San Juan, the soldier-saint,
himseU. 80

cm^ t^iix (yUi00ion0
It was the winter of 1812, and Te6ffio and Magdalena
had loved each other for over a year, when Teoffio one day
spoke to the Father of Magdalena, and said that he wished to
marry her. For months Magdalena had tried to be dutUul
and to engage the Father's interest, on her side, in their
favor, in preparation for Teoffio's broaching of the subject to
him. But she felt always that he remembered her old hostil
ity, and that he stiU considered her a mere disaffected Indian
of his flock. They had often taUsed of this, but Te6ffio, who
loved the Father for the special kindness he had always shown
him, beUeved that he would agree to the marriage. Why
should he not? he said. It would make no difference to him,
and he, Teoffio, would work better than ever, to show his
gratitude. When at last he spoke of the matter, the Father peremp
torily denied his request. Agustin's daughter was an obsti
nate, perverse child, and would only lead Teoffio away too.
He would give thought to the matter, and would see what
girl there was suitable for him, and then, if he wished to
marry, weU and good. He would give them two rooms in the
corridor, near his own, and would aUow him pay as his body
servant and for his work, and perhaps other privUeges as
weU. And that was all; for Teoffio knew that he would not
be moved from his decision. Good man as the Father was, he
had the Spamard's failing in dealing with a subject race —
a certain hardness arising from a position of authority not
alUed with responsibiUty — except to God, and that, indeed,
the Father felt, but he conceived that his duty to his In
dians, apart from his spiritual ministrations, was entirely
comprised in the teaching, feeding, and just governing of
them. When Teoffio told Magdalena, at their next meeting, what
the Father had said, the gurl was enraged. "So he thinks I
81

^fe CaCifomia (pabtr^0

am not good enough for you!" she cried: "And I have done
everything to please him. But he is only a priest, and has no
heart. Ah! those Spaniards, I hate them!" And then, with
a woman's iUogical tum — "WeU, he shaU see that I am
Spanish too. We wiU go away to the Mission at San Diego,
Teoffio. My father's brother is there, and I have heard my
father say that he has influence with the priest. He wiU marry
us, and you can work there as weU as here."
But Teoffio was in doubt. His love for Magdalena and his
love and reverence for the Father contended. He was a sim
ple, guUeless soul, and the thought of ingratitude to his bene
factor was a misery to him. Some other way must be found:
the saints would help them; he would pray to San Lucas, who,
the Father had told him, was his patron, for he had been bom
on his day and christened by his name: and Magdalena must
pray, too.
Magdalena, however, took up now an attitude of open
rebeUion, and absented herself entirely from the services of
the Church. This was another trouble to Teoffio, and daUy
over his work he prayed to San Lucas, and pondered what was
best to do. But days and weeks went on, and his inward dis
quiet began to take effect in his appearance and behavior.
The Father, busy with the multitudinous affairs of the Mis
sion, had entirely forgotten the matter of Te6ffio's request:
but one day he chanced to notice his favorite's Ustiess air, and
it recalled the affair to his mind. A day or two afterwards
he said to Teoffio, as the latter was with him in the sacristy,
"Te6filo, you are duU and not yourseU. You were right, it is
time you were married, and I have the very one for you. It is
Ana, the daughter of Manuel, who works in the smith's shop.
She is a good girl. I wiU speak of it to her father."
"Padre," said Teoffio, "I cannot marry Ana, nor any one
else but Magdalena, for I love her. Oh, Padre," — and he
82

(m>> t^txx (JHi00ion0
dropped on his knees before the priest, — "let us be married.
You do not know, she has tried hard to be good, and to please
you. And I wiU work for you aU my life. I have been pray
ing to San Lucas ever since I told you, but he has not done
anjrthing." The priest was moved by the earnestness of the boy — for
boy he had always considered him, and indeed he was Uttie
more in age. "WeU, hijo mio," he said, "I do not know about
that. The saints always hear us, as I have told you, and per
haps — who knows? — San Lucas may do something yet.
Or, perhaps," he added with a smUe, "it is because we changed
your name, and he does not look on you as his son. WeU, that
was my fault. But you say that Magdalena has tiled to
please me? Good, then we wiU see. I wiU set her a penance,
for she has not behaved weU; then I shaU see if she wishes to
please me. To-morrow wiU be a day of observance, and there
wiU be early mass in the church. TeU Magdalena, Te6ffio,
that she must come to mass and carry a pemtent's candle.
Let her be in the front row of the women. If I see her there
I shall know she is obedient, and perhaps, yes, perhaps, —
weU, we wiU see about the rest."
"Oh, Padre," Te6ffio exclaimed, "you are my padre, in
deed;" and he put the priest's hand to his forehead. "I know
she wUl come, and I know she wishes to please you. And,
Padre," he said, " I have made a picture of the angels of La
Navidad. I did it to please you" (he was about to add, "and
Magdalena," but prudence stopped him in time). "I thought
— I thought—"
"WeU, what did you think, hijo mio?" asked the priest.
" I thought. Padre, that if you Uked it, and said it was done
weU, it would be fine on the high roof. Padre, the angels, four
of them, in the middle of the roof: Uke this. Padre, see!" And
he raised his hands in the attitude in which he had seen Mag-
83

€^t CaCifomia ^abt:e0
dalena when she met him in the Father's room. "I could do
it, Padre, ff you Uke it."
"Angels, Teoffio!" said the Father. "Hm! I do not know.
It is hard to pamt the holy angels, and dffigent as you have
been, I hardly thmk you are an AngeUco. But go and bring
what you have done, and I wffi see. Indeed, it is just what I
would have, but it must be weU done, or it wffi spoU the rest."
The boy ran off, and retumedquickly with a large sheepskin
on which he had drawn in colors a reaUy fine design: four
angels in attitudes of worship, with upUfted hands, and eyes
that expressed, crudely yet weU, the wonder that the Holy
Ones might weU feel at the Miracle of the Manger.
"Ah, and did you reaUy draw this?" asked the priest. "It
is exceUent, Teoffio; we must make a painter of you in
earnest; perhaps we might even send you to Mexico to be
taught by a good artist. There is one of the Brothers at the
College of San Femando who would train you weU. I think
this is what San Lucas has been doing for you, after aU. But
how did you do it, Te6ffio? What did you draw from?"
"Padre," said Teoffio tremblingly, "I wffi teU you, but do
not be angry. It was Magdalena. I saw her once, at first, and
she was Uke that, yes, exactiy Uke that, with her hands up,
so. She was like one of the angels in your new missal, and I
remembered, and drew it many times over, and — do you
reaUy think it will do for the church. Padre?" he fimshed
eagerly, his face aflush with excitement.
"Yes, it is certainly good enough, Te6ffio," said the Father.
"We wffi have gold round the heads and golden stars on the
robes, and San Juan's church shall be the finest in CaUfomia.
Though how it comes that the girl Magdalena can have been
your model passes my understanding. Indeed, I think it is
the good San Lucas, or San Juan himself, who has helped you.
WeU, you deserve praise, Teoffio, and perhaps some reward.
84

M(b t^^x (J)ili00ion0
But go now, and teU Magdalena to come to first mass to-mor
row, as I said. You may take a candle from the sacristy and
give it to her."
That evening Teoffio told Magdalena aU that had hap
pened. But her Spamsh blood was in hot rebeffion, and in
spite of her love and Teofilo's entieaties, she would not give
in. To carry a candle, as if she were one of the Indian gkls,
caught in disgrace! No, it was too much. Why, the whole
pueblo would see her, and laugh (which, indeed, was tme for
she had held herseU above the girls of the Mission, and was
not loved by them). In vain Teoffio told her of the Father's
words about sending him to Mexico to become a real painter.
No, it would be a victory for the Father if she gave in, and he
should see that she was Spanish as weU as he. And contemp
tuously she tossed the candle aside into the chia bushes in the
courtyard, where they taUied in the shadow of the arches.
It was with a heavy heart that Teoffio left her, yet with a
faint hope that she might repent and come to mass in the
moming. It was a duU, oppressive night, such as comes rarely
in CaUfomia, even in the summer heats. Te6ffio slept but
little, and twice during the night he got up from his bench
bed and prayed to San Lucas, for this seemed to be the final
chance for his and Magdalena's happiness, and after his
interview with the Father aU had seemed so bright that it
was hard now to give up hope. Magdalena, on her part, slept
not at aU, but she did not pray. Instead, she lay with wide-
open eyes in the darkness of her Uttle windowless room, look
ing up at the low ceiling and fighting over in her heart the old
battle of love and pride. One might say that love stood for
the Indian and pride for the Spaniard in her, and that it was
an incident m the old feud that began with Cortes and Ma-
luiche. And then she thought of what Teoffio had told her,
how he had told the Father about painting the angels for the
85

t^t CaCifomia (pabte0

church because he had seen her standing with upraised hands,
like an angel, that day. Poor Teoffio! how he loved her! and
how she loved him, too! It was hard, very hard, that there
was so much trouble. How happy they might be ! And he was
so clever, and might be a real painter, not working in the
fields or at the workshops, but only painting angels and beau
tiful things. And she was the cause, in a way, of his being so
clever: she was proud of that, and the thought made her glow,
simple Indian girl as she was, with a woman's sweetest thriU
— he was clever because of her! Yet now she must spoU it
all, and aU for the Father's hardness.
But then, must she? — for she knew that it lay with her,
after all. She could make aU so happy — why not? Ah, but
the humiUation! No, she could not. But could she not? The
humiUation would soon be over, and the prize was so great.
They might be married, and even at once. Yes and no, yes
and no — so the fight went on, as the hours dragged past and
the heavy air pressed upon her restless nerves and forbade
sleep. It would soon be dawn, and now she must decide. Then
the thought came to her, shoffid she pray to San Lucas, as
Te6ffio had been doing? Perhaps after aU he woffid help them.
She got up, and creeping quietly into the adjoining room,
where her father and mother were asleep, she knelt at the
Uttle crucifix that hung on the waU, and tried to pray. But
no words would come, and she was about to rise and go back
to her bed when it seemed as if words were whispered in her
ear, echoes carried in the brain from something she had once
heard, no doubt, in the church — "... levanto d los humildes
. . . raised up the humble . . ." She had noticed the words,
because they were so averse to her ways of thought: the hum
ble, why, that was Uke the Indians whom she had always de
spised. But, after aU, perhaps that was San Lucas's answer;
86

anb t^txx (Tni00ion0
for she saw that it would settle aU her trouble. WeU, be it so:
she would be humble, if San Lucas told her; and she would
obey the Father, and then, at last, aU would be weU.
She rose, and, remembering the hatefffi candle, went into
the quadrangle and searched for it. There it lay among the
chias, and she picked it up and carried it to her room. Light
was dawning in the east, and she did not Ue down again, but
stood in her door, making up her mind to the humffiation she
was to undergo for the sake of Te6ffio and their love. She did
not waver now; indeed, in her young, strong passion she
gloried in the sacrffice she would make for love's sake. She
dressed herself with care. They ate no meal that day before
mass, which was to be at six in the moming. If offiy, she
thought, she could teU Te6ffio that she had resolved to do the
penance, it would make it so much easier; but there would
be no way of seeing him untU they were at the service, and
then the men would be on one side and the women on the
other; so he would not know untU he saw her, and perhaps he
would not look, for she had said she would not go. Then a
thought came to her with deUcious joy: she would make up
to him, and punish herself, for having refused, by waiting till
the people were aU in the church, and then going in alone, so
that everybody would see her, and Te6ffio would see what she
could do for him.
Solenmly the great beU sounded out the summons to prayer.
It was a special day, the Feast of the Immaculate Concep
tion, and aU were expected to come to mass, old and young.
The moming was heavy and airless, and the people, rising:
from sleepless or restiess beds, moved languidly and in hardly
broken silence toward the church, and, entering, ranged them
selves, men and women separately, on either side of the buUd
ing, facing the altar. Te6ffio was in his usual place, near the
front, and on the margin of the open aisle that divided the
87

€^t CaCifomia ^(xbxt»

sexes. AU had gathered before the beU ceased to sound, but
Magdalena was not there. With a sinking heart Teoffio had
watched, hoping against hope that she would repent and come.
He saw Agustin and Juana come in, and Agustin go to the
place near the altar which he held as mayordomo, whUe Juana
merged in the crowd of undistinguished Indian women. So
Magdalena was obstinate, and the prospect of happiness
that had looked so bright yesterday was aU over and spoiled.
But he must not blame her: she was not just an Indian, Uke
him. And with a sigh he ceased to watch the doorway and
turned to face the altar.
The Father entered, and bent the knee before the altar in
view of the congregation, who also had knelt on his appearing.
The church was in darkness but for the iUumination of candles
about the altar and a gray and sickly dayUght that came in
at the open door. As the Father tumed to the people there
was a stir among the women who had taken places near the
entrance, and a figure appeared, carrying a Ughted candle.
It was Magdalena. She walked steadUy up the passageway
between the men and the women toward the priest, who stood
facing her. A black shawl was thrown over her head, and her
face, pale with sleeplessness and trouble, and Ughted by the
candle she carried, seemed to glow against its dark background
as if iUuminated from within. Teoffio had tumed at the sound
of her entrance, and watched her as ff fascinated during her
passage up the aisle. She did not see him, for her eyes were
on the ground: but she knew his place, for he had often told
her; and as she came near to where he was kneeUng she
tumed a Uttle toward him, and murmured, so that offiy he
should understand, "It is for thee, Teoffio."
As she came close to the altar step, the Father's eyes rested
on her with a glance that seemed to say, "It is weU, my
daughter." Then he began the service, whUe Magdalena
88

(m'b t^dx (l(Ui00ion0
knelt in the front row of the women. There was an unusual
stiUness among the people, for the incident of Magdalena's
penance had not been known, and had taken aU but Te6fflo
and the Father by surprise; whUe the sultry haff darkness and
the stagnant air seemed to add to the feeling of awe. So the
service proceeded.
Suddenly, without warning, at the offertory, destmction
broke. There came a shock; a pause of terror; another shock,
that made the soUd walls rock to and fro; a terrible cry, "El
temblor!" and in pamc the people rose from their knees and
rushed toward the door. A third shock came, heavier than
the other two; and comices and masses of plaster began to
faU. At the first cry of the frightened people Te6ffio had risen
to his feet. He looked to where Magdalena had been kneeling,
and saw her standing, stiU holding her pemtent's candle aUght
in her hand. As the people rushed toward the door both he
and Magdalena were almost carried away by the pamc-
stricken throng; but he made his way to her, and they two
were for a few moments alone, but for the priest, near the
altar. When the tMrd shock came he threw his arms about
her. She seemed to have no fear, nor had he. The spirits of
both had been under strain, and one thing offiy had been in
their thoughts for hours before, so that they were in great
degree obUvious to the general terror. As Teoffio put his arms
about her, a bright smile came on her white face, and she
said, pointing to the candle, " It was hard, but I prayed to San
Lucas, and he told me to do it, and now we can be married,"
The shock continued, and became more violent. Pointing to
the candle she said again, "I did it for thee, Te6ffio mio."
As she spoke, there came a terrifjnng sound from above: the
great stone dome above them parted, and looking up they saw
for a moment the cahn face of the sky through a jagged rent
89

^^^ CaCifomia ^(ibx^B

in the roof; then the ponderous structure crashed down in
ruin upon them and the huddled crowd of Indians that stffi
struggled for escape.
They were found the next day, their bodies cmshed to
gether. In her hand was stiU the pemtent's candle.
In one grave the Father, who escaped the death that feU
that day upon twoscore of ffis flock, buried Te6ffio and Mag
dalena; for, said he, making over them the Holy Sign, they
were married, indeed, though in death. StiU may be seen on
the shattered walls and roof of the Mission church some faded,
simple frescoings, the unfimshed task and the memorial of
Teofilo, the painter-neophyte of San Juan Capistrano.

SAN GABRIEL ARCANGEL

Mission San Gabiuel Arcangel, and the Miracle
OF the Virgin's Banner
TI^here is an electric Une that connects the Uttle town of
^^ San Gabriel with Los Angeles, and from the heart of
the southem CaUfomia metropoUs to the old Mission, wffich
long mothered her, is a matter of ten nffies or three quarters
of an hour. If you enjoy your sight-seeing on the "personaUy
conducted" plan, you may visit the Mission in a special car
with half a hundred other "trippers"; but ff you prefer to
manage your fortunes yourseff, there is a pubUc car, every
half-hour or so, that lets you off under the Mission walls.
UntU recently San Gabriel was one of the quaintest vffiages
in the State, with a certain old-time Spamsh atmosphere that
gave it distinction. Antedating Los Angeles by five or six
years, it is after San Diego the oldest town in southern CaU-
forma. Unfortunately the sin by which the angels feU seized
upon it a year or two ago, and the local govemors, in their
ambition to "improve," wiped out of existence many of the
picturesque old adobes that lined the main street approaching
the Mission, and with them went much of the town's character
as a Spamsh-CaUf orma pueblo. Yet not aU. There is stffi the
charm that goes with an abounding Mexican population, —
blazing gardens of marigolds and hoUyhocks, oleanders and
pomegranates, gnarled old oUves of missionary planting, the
strumming of gmtars, and the murmur of Spamsh gossip
from open door or from behind latticed windows where roses
dangle. There are Uttie Mexican restaurants where you may
93

Z^t CaCifomia ^abif^0
buy tamales and coffee and have them served in the shade of
a tree, and one whose spacious patio is completely roofed
with the branches of a mammoth grapevine. If you are in
search of a taUor, is there not versatUe Magdaleno Moreno
who notifies the world in two languages that he "fixes men's
suits that don't fit," as weU as "aU kinds of men's and ladies'
umbrellas at reasonable prices"? At the rebate court I sat
entianced for an hour. There the youth of San Gabriel as
semble in their hours of leisure to play a sort of hand-baU at
so much a game; but it must be cash. One leams that from
a legend replete with Spamsh wit, painted on the waU: Ahora
no sefia: ma^na^na si (No tiust now: to-monow, yes).
As for the Mission whose beUs caU regffiarly from their
quaint beUry in the waU, it is a wide-awake estabUshment,
mimstering to a large parish, mostly Mexican, I fancy, and
since 1908 in charge of priests of a Spamsh order glowingly
entitled "Los Misioneros Hijos del Inmacffiado Corazon de
Maria" ("The Missionary Sons of Mary's Immaculate
Heart"). Their views about money are by no means Fran
ciscan; for they briskly levy a toll of twenty-five cents upon
each visitor who seeks admittance at their door. A salesroom,
also, is maintained for the vending of souvenirs, and intensi
fies a certain air of commerciaUsm that haunts the premises,
and excuses one for thinking of the money-changers in the
Temple. Nevertheless, the place wUl not maintain itself, I
suppose, and when you have no longer a thousand Indians to
do your work for you for their keep, the most Ukely altema-
tive is the tourist's pocket. And they give you a fair quid pro
quo. There is an ample array of Mission reUcs on view, In
dian mortars and metates, old Spamsh books and music,
priests' vestments and saints' statues and pictures. One of
these pictures is responsible for a tradition once current in the
neighborhood that the Mission possessed a Murffio. It does
94

(mb t^axx (Vni00ion0
look like one, but offiy because the copyist did ffis work weU.
The old baptistiy, a ceU-like offset in the north waU, is very
interesting, graced with an ancient font of beaten copper, at
whose brink, the records testify, over seven thousand Indian
heads have received the waters of baptism. Then the dusky
caro, or choir loft, above the main entrance, and attainable
offiy by an outside stone stairway worn deep by generations
of ascending and descending feet, is haunted, I am sure, by
romances enough to make a story-writer's fame, could he but
trap them. In a mche of the sacristy waU stands a copper
samovar that caught my eye, though the gmde had nothiug
to say about it. It seemed to me an outward and visible sign
of the vamshed days when the Russians had a fur station on
the coast above San Francisco, and traded with the Missions
for much of their food and drink.
The church is the only remaining structure of the once ex
tensive Mission bmldings, and was completed about the
year 1800. The original estabUshment was not on the present
site, but five nailes south, near the west bank of what is now
called the Rio Hondo, a branch of the San Gabriel River
(which, by the way, the Spamards ffist named, in honor of
another archangel. El Rio de San Miguel). ^ Something nearly
like a miracle attended the founding, if we are to fall in with
Padre Palou's pious enthusiasm. It was in September, 1771,
and the founding party were scouting for a location. The
unusual sight of friars, soldiers, and mules drculating about
drew to the scene a great crowd of disapproving Gentile In
dians, YeUing and brandishing their weapons, they at
tempted to drive the Spamards off. The Fathers, fearmg a
> The first intention had been to estabUsh the Mission near the Santa Ana
River, then known as El Rio Jesus de los Temblores, because of numerous
earthquake shocks experienced by Portola's expedition at the time of their
passage; whence the name San Gabriel de los Temblores, by which the Mis
sion sometimes went. 95

t^t CaCifomia ^abife0
battle, bethought them of the time-honored sffield of defense
among the CathoUc pioneers, the picture of the Vurgm; and,
ransacking their baggage, they qffickly got out a canvas on
wffich was pamted an image of Our Lady of Sorrows. No
sooner was tffis held up to the view of the excited throng than
they aU, subdued by the vision, writes Palou, "threw down
their bows and arrows and came runnmg hastily forward.
The two captains cast at the feet of the Sovereign Queen the
beads and trinkets wffich they wore about their necks, as a
sign of their greatest respect and also to mdicate that they
wished to make peace with our company. They mvited aU
the people from the surrounding vffiages, who, m great num
bers, men, women, and chUdren, kept coming to see the Most
Holy Virgin, bringing with them loads of various grains wffich
they left at the feet of Our Lady Most Holy, supposing she
needed food the same as the rest,"
The site at the river was abandoned as unsmtable after
four years, and about 1775 the present location was pitched
upon, amid a forest growth so abundant at that time where
now is open country that thousands of Uve-oaks, sycamores
and elder-trees were feUed to give the Mission necessary el
bow-room and outlook. Here, early in January of 1776, ar
rived Colonel Juan Bautista Anza, convoymg two hundred
colomsts overland from Mexico to make a beginmng of the
pueblo of San Francisco. Padre Pedro Font, chaplam of the
expedition, 1 has given us a picture of San Gabriel m those
wUd days. There were fat milch cows and cheese and butter;
a Utter of pigs and a smaU flock of sheep. He Ungers lovmgly
' The first overland trip to CaUfomia ever accompUshed by colomsts. Two
years before, Anza, with a few companions from Mexico, blazed the way for
them, arriving at La Mision Vieja, by the river, at sunset, March 22, 1774,
where he was received with ringing of bells and the singing of Te Deums, as
befitted one who had opened a way by land between the wilderness of CaU
fomia and civiUzation. 96

(xn}> t^^xx QTli00ion0
over the sheep, "On our coming," he says, "they killed three
or four muttons that they had, whose meat was particularly
good, and I do not remmd myseff of having eaten mutton
more fat and beautiful; and they have also some cffickens,"
As for the products of the ground, the Mission was hardly
warm m its new seat, and besides, it was midwinter; but there
were many nabos (wffich I take to be tumips), that had been
grown from a Uttle seed; and at the old Mission by the river,
watercresses grew, "of wffich I ate enough," he records, as,
indeed, he must have needed to after so many dry weeks on
the desert, "and finaUy is the land, as Padre Patema says,
Uke the Land of Promise," ^"
The situation of San Gabriel m one of the most fertUe val
leys of CaUfomia and on the mam ffighway {El Camino Real)
not only up and down the province, but also between the Col
orado River and the coast, made it one of the most important
of the Missions to travelers, Particffiarly was tffis so after
Los Angeles was founded in 1781, to become in time the
objective pomt of the overland travel that crossed the sierra
by the Cajon and San FeUpe passes. One of the picturesque
features of tffis travel was the annual autumnal " caravan "
from New Mexico with its bales of blankets and textUes to
trade for Califomia horses and mules. Such parties mvariably
stopped at San Gabriel for refreshment and to toast its hospit
able Padres m their own meUow claret. But secularization
changed aU that. In 1840 Padre Tomis Estenaga reported
that there was not a candle m the estabUshment, no taUow to
make a candle, and no fat cattle to make taUow; and m 1841
the poverty of the Mission was such that he discharged the
cook! Yet, ten years before, the herds had numbered 25,000
cattle, 14,000 sheep, and 2000 horses and mules; wffile the
gardens and orchards were famous for their richness, abound-
' EUiott Coues, On the Trail of a Spanish Pioneer, vol, i, p, 261,
97

€^t CaCifomia ^(xbx^»
ing in grapes, oranges, lemons, oUves, figs, bananas, plums,
peaches, apples, pears, pomegranates, raspberries, and straw
berries, to say nothing of the usual run of vegetables. That
Padre Est6naga, by the way, deserves a mche in San Gabriel's
temple of fame. He was an energetic young Biscayan whose
sway feU m troublous times, and that anything was held to
gether at the Mission after secularization appears to be largely
due to him, De Mofras gives a breezy picture of him: "I
found him in a field before a big table, ffis cowl thrown back,
his sleeves roUed up, kneadmg clay and showing some neo
phytes how to make adobes. From afar he saw me, waved his
hand tome, and cried: ' Amiga, con esta familia, consilio manu-
que! ' (Friend, with tffis family, it must be by precept and
example!)" Prior to secularization, the Mission lands extended south
to the ocean, west to the bounds of Mission San Femando,
north to the Sierra Madre of CaUfomia (or the Sierra San
Gabriel, it was then often caUed), and eastward with lordly
indefiffiteness ahnost anywhere — at any rate to the Colorado
River, Much of tffis area was simply a range for cattle, but
some fertile spots would be utilized for farming purposes.
Upon many of those old San Gabriel ranchos flourishmg towns
have risen, such as San Bemardmo, Azusa, Chmo, Cuca-
monga, and Puente, So productive were the San Gabriel
lands and so geffial the climate that tffis Mission has been
caUed the Mother of Agriculture in CaUfomia. It raised
wheat wffich Bancroft says the Russians from far Bodega
Bay sent for, though the land was prepared (as everywhere
m CaUfomia before the Americans came) by merely scratch-
mg with a wooden plough made often of the forked limb of a
tree, shod at the pomt with a flat piece of iron, and drawn by
oxen. One of these wheat ranches of San Gabriel was at La
Puente, ten miles away. In Mission days God was given
98

anb t^ixx (I(ni00ion0
credit for His part in the crop-raisiag, and a picturesque cere
mony always marked the close of the wheat harvest, Poles
were lashed together in the form of a great cross, to wffich the
last sheaves gathered were bound. A procession of the Indian
harvesters was then formed, and, with the cross at their head
they advanced toward the church, the bells of wffich were
set ringmg for the occasion. Out from the Mission marched
the Padre m canofficals, accompamed by the altar boys with
cross, candles, and censers, aU chantmg a hymn of thanks
giving and praise, to meet the approaching procession of the
sheaves. A general fiesta then foUowed, and a certam propor
tion of the neophyte popffiation was granted leave of absence
for a specffied number of days to visit the monte to gather
acorns, seeds, and wUd frffits, as weU as to see their relatives
and friends m the Gentile rancherias.^
Padre Font, aheady referred to, gives m ffis diary a circum
stantial account of the daily Ufe at San Gabriel, wffich he
tells us was much the same at aU the Missions: "The dis
cipline of every day is tffis: In the mormng at sunrise mass
is said regffiarly . . . and the Padre recites with aU the Chris
tian doctrme, wffich is fimshed by singing the Alabado. . . .
Then they go to breakfast on the atole * which is made for all,
and before partakmg of it, they cross themselves and smg the
Bendito, Then they go to work at whatever can be done, the
Padres inclinmg them and applymg them to the work by
1 Guadalupe Vallejo, "Ranch and Mission Life in Alta CaUfomia," Cc»-
tury Magazine, December, 1890,
^ A gmel made of meal (com or barley) and boiling water. Both atole and
pozole are Aztec words for dishes in common use to-day among the Mexican
peones. In modem Mexico com-meal is the basis of both. Among the Califor
nians, the pozole appears to have been a sort of mush made more substantial
than atole by the addition of beans, peas, lentUs, or meat, as the season or
means of the Mission afforded. As the Mission system developed with tune,
only the unmarried were served cooked rations at the Mission; the married re
ceiving every Saturday ^the raw material, including beef or mutton, in sufficient
quantity to last a week,
99

€^t CaCifomia g)abt:^0
setting an example themselves. At noon they eat their ^ozofe,
wffich is made for aU alike; then they work another stmt; and
at sunset they retum to recite doctrme and end by smging the
Alabado." Thrice each day the Angelus beU rang from the
Mission belfry, and every neophyte bowed in sUent prayer.
After supper there were prayers and hymns and a salve to the
Virgm; then music, dances, or games, usuaUy in the cuadro.
At eight o'clock, the beU rang for prayers for the Poor Souls.
At ffine, the Mission gates were locked and every one was
supposed to be m bed. The unmarried girls and widows slept
in the monjerio (a special apartment reserved for them in the
mam Mission buUdmg), and, on repairmg tffither, they ffied
past an Indian overseer who checked off the roU of names.
FaUure to appear meant puffishment the next day. Of course,
after marriage, the woman Uved with her husband m one of
the jacalitos or Uttle houses of the Indian viUage, close by
the Mission walls.
So with the progress of the years did San Gabriel, in com
mon with the Missions generaUy, come to be an Indian pueblo,
the Uke of wffich it is hard for us to imagme who visit it to
day. The Indian houses were arranged regularly in streets,
and at one time the population totaled 1700 souls, as happy
as mankmd usuaUy is, engaged in the varied usefffi mdustries
bf civilized Ufe and earning a Uberal Uvmg from the soU, Tffis
the Padres held not for themselves, but m trust for their In
dian charges, seeking to fit them to be good citizens both of
tffis world and the next.
Now, look on another picture, left by a disinterested eye
witness — the state of the descendants of these same In
dians, after secularization had "freed" them. The mansos'-
then remaining m the viciffity of the Mission ffired themselves
' LiteraUy "tame ones" — the term appUed coUoquiaUy to the neophytes,
as distinguished from the wild Gentiles. IOO

(mb t^^x QT(li00ion0
out to work on the ranches, as sheep-herders, harvest-hands,
horse-breakers, and general hewers of wood and drawers of
water. After a wffile the rancheros began to pay these Indians
in aguardiente. "By four o'clock every Sunday afternoon, the
streets of Los Angeles" — I quote from Major Horace BeU's
"Remiffiscences of a Ranger" — "would be crowded with a
mass of drunken Indians, yelUng and fighting. . . . About
sundown the pompous marshal, with ffis Indian special dep
uties (who had been kept m jail all day to keep them sober),
woffid drive and drag the herd to a big corral m the rear of the
Downey Block, where they would sleep away their mtoxica-
tion and m the morffing they would be exposed for sale as
slaves for the week. Los Angeles had its slave mart, as weU
as New Orleans and Constantinople, offiy the slave at Los
Angeles was sold ffity-two times a year as long as he Uved,
which did not generally exceed one, two, or three years under
the new dispensation."
A dark picture, but it throws some Ught, I think, upon the
San Gabriel Indians' doctrme of heU — that there unques
tionably is such a place, but it is offiy for white people.
Before San Gabriel's altar are mterred the remams of seven
of the early Franciscans, among them Fr. Francisco Dumetz,
the last survivor of those of Serra's old compaffions who re
mamed m CaUfomia. But the friar who, more than any other,
is responsible for San Gabriel's prosperity — that Padre
Zalvidea of whom we read at San Juan Capistrano — does
not rest with this goodly fellowsffip. For twenty years, from
1806 to 1826, he labored zealously at tffis Queen of the Mis
sions, concerned to advance both her spiritual and temporal
mterests. He was a courteous Biscayan of fine presence, an
enthusiast m grape-culture, and it was he who brought the
San Gabriel vmeyards to theu: enviable degree of exceUence.
De Mofras says he was mcknamed El Padre de las Setenta
IOI

€^^ CaCifomia (pabvw
Mil Cepas (the priest of the 70,000 vine stocks). When, how
ever, on top of certam mmor eccentricities that had begun
to disturb ffis superiors, he made the astomsffing proposal to
put an iron fence around the beloved vmeyards, it was deemed
wise to give ffim a change of scene, and, much agamst ffis wffi,
he was transferred to San Juan Capistrano. Thence later he
went to San Lffis Rey, where he died. It was said of him that
he never had an enemy and never spoke an uffidnd word to
man or beast.

^nl t^ixx (nii00ion0
n
The Bells of San Gabriel
AO ather a desolate little spot is the campo santo of San
V£\ Gabriel; rather desolate, and very dusty. The ram
shackle wooden crosses stagger wildly on the shapeless
mounds; the dUapidated wffitewashed railings, cracked and
bUstered by the sun, look much as though they might be
bleached bones, tossed carelessly about; and the badly
pamted, misspeUed mscriptions yield up their brief announce
ments offiy to a very patient reader. On the whole, depress
ing; but m a sleepy, careless way, Uke the Uttle tumbledown
houses of the Mexicans, across the road; like, also, the old
Mission itself, yellowmg and crumbUng m the warm CaU
fomia sun mto early decay.
Walking slowly about among the humble mounds, my mmd
lazily weavmg from the names and dates of Sepffivedas and
Argiiellos and Yorbas, with their romantic sound, a half-sad,
haff-deUghtfffi tapestry of fancy, I found myseff at one in
closure of an appearance so different that I stopped to regard
it particularly. It was the grave of a poor person, clearly,
and not m that way noteworthy, for poverty was the air of
the whole place. But it was carefuUy fenced with a ffigh wffite
raffing; there were fresh flowers upon it; and it was evident
that affectionate hands tended it. The short mscription,
translated from its Spaffish, recorded —
Ysabel, "wife of Ramoti Enriquez,
born July 20, 1875: died October 23, i8qj
Much beloved
Eighteen years old, married, and dead! a sad strand of color
tffis, to nm mto my tapestry, gay with sUver lace, coquettish
103

€^t CaCifomia ^<xbxt0
fans, and ffigh-heeled Spaffish sUppers. Eighteen years old,
married, and dead; and muy querida, much beloved! My
thoughts stayed behmd, as I moved on, and the words, with
their soft inflection, woffid recur dreamily to me, agam and
agam — muy querida; alas! muy querida.
In the shade of a ffigh remaiffing piece of the ancient mud-
brick waU, three Mexicans, with cigarettes and sombreros,
and gaudy as tuUps m their striped scrapes, were gambUng,
sleepily, at cards: from one of the Uttle houses came the sleepy
tinkUng of a mandoUn — muy querida. 1 wandered over to
the edge of the Uttle cemetery, and, sitting down, leaned
agamst the hot waU, under the sleepy, ffickermg shade of the
neglected oUves and expirmg waffiuts of the Mission garden.
SleepUy I watched the anxious labors of a homet, busily =
bmldmg its nest of clay, A dragonfly hung for a moment
before me, then aUghted on a leaf and was suddenly smitten
asleep, Everythmg drowsed, except the everlastmg sun,
pourmg down ceaselessly his shrivehng rays. Agam, over and
over, my mmd dreamily repeated the words — offiy eighteen,
married, and dead: muy querida.
The beUs of the Mission are ringing, clear and strong, under
the practiced hand of old Gregorio, Who can rmg like he?
And to-day, of aU days, he is domg ffis best, for it is the fiesta
of the blessed San Gabriel ffimself , and there are people come
from aU the towns of the vaUey, to say nothing of Los Angeles,
to the fiesta. Not but what the samt has ffis day every year;
but this particular day is a day of days, a fiesta of fiestas: for
the Padre has arranged a procession m San Gabriel's honor,
and what Mexican would not ride tffirty mUes to see a pro
cession? So to the ffitcffing-posts aU up the long street are
tied tired horses that have come that hot mormng from San
Femando, and Calabasas, and farther still. And here and
104

(m'b t^x (ttli00ion0
there is a wagon that has brought a whole famUy, aU to do
honor to San Gabriel, and to see the sight of the day. And
that is, preemmently, Ysabel Alvarado, the beauty of the
vaUey, who is to walk at the head of the procession to the
church. The heart of the beautfful Ysabel is m commotion, some
what Uke the bells themselves, as she listens to them and to
the clamor of the chUdren, who began to gather an hour
ago before the cottage, and are now shriUy calUng, " Y-sa-6e/."
And she can hardly stand stiU wffile her mother is busily put
tmg the last touches to the wonderful array m wffich she is
to appear. Never before has any girl of the village had clothes
so beautiful, entirely of white, yes, even to the shoes and their
rosettes and laces, all of wffite, so dear to the Mexican heart.
Moreover, there was the thought of Ramon; Ramon, who
she thought loved her: to-day would surely prove it, when
he saw her so dressed, like — yes, indeed — like a grand seno-
rita. Ramon had been workmg m Los Angeles, and there
there were so many — she sighed to thmk how many — girls
for him to choose from. But to-day he was to be here: old
Marta, her mother, had found out, and told her: and to-day
would surely tell. There were others, of course: Ramon's
friend, FeUpe, for mstance: he was clever, and sang well, and
she knew he liked her. But it was Ramon's face that would
come between her and the Uttle square of lookmg-glass; and
it was Ramon, too, who came mto her mmd — the samts for
give her! — even when she turned for a moment to her Uttle
crucifix, to say a prayer for good fortune, special good fortune,
that day.
At last aU was ready, even to the final brushing that her
mother must give to the glossy hair wffich, parted by the
dark, beautffffi face, feU m a rippUng shower almost to her
knee. It is no wonder that Marta says, as she hovers, brush
105

^^t CaCifomia ^(xbx^s
in hand, about her, "Thou art Uke the great picture of the
blessed Santa Barbara, chUd, that I used to see m the Mis
sion where I Uved when I was as young as you"; and, to her
self, " Ramon had best take care. Such flowers are not to be
plucked every day as my YsabeUta." And it is no wonder
that when Ysabel appears at the door, carrymg carefuUy up
right the waxen, fragrant spire of wffite Iffies for San Gabriel
wffich the Padre has sent to Los Angeles to procure, the ex
cited expectation of the vffiage and its visitors releases itself
m a prolonged "Ah!" that nearly makes her laugh outright
with happy pride. Least of aU is it any wonder that Ramon
Enriquez, gazmg with aU ffis soffi, says, under his breath,
"She is Uke an angel of heaven; yes, tmly an angel is she, my
Ysabel." The bells of the Mission ring happily, happily, as the Uttle
procession passes into the church: Muy querida, muy querida,
Agam the beUs are swmgmg and ringing m the hot, sunny
air. But it is not old Gregorio who rings now, one may be sure,
so irregffiar are the strokes — loud, soft, qmck, slow — as if
the green old beUs were actuaUy out of breath with laughing.
No, Gregorio has rung for thirty, yes, nearly forty years, and
ffis ringmg is as steady as the pendulum of the Padre's great
clock. Ah, it is Juan, young scapegrace! that rmgs, and out
of breath, tmly, is he; so that for once he is ready to obey
when admoffished by the Padre to leave off. "What a noise
thou art making, Juaffito! I think San Gabriel wffi be stop
pmg ffis ears. Run up the choir steps, boy, and caU to me ff
thou seest them commg." WilUngly enough the bare-legged
urchm raced away, and, perched like an acrobat on the nar
row raU, holdmg by a traUmg branch of the pepper tree,
sffielded ffis merry black eyes as he gazed up the road. His
slender stock of patience was nearly exhausted before the
io6

cmb i^^x (Tllti00ion0
sound_of music reached his ears, and started ffis feet shuffling.
"Padre, oh. Padre," he cried, "they are commg. I can hear
the vioUn: it is Pedro that plays, I woffid bet anythmg. Ah,
he can play! Yes, and Marta is coming first with the holy
water." Down the road comes, again, a procession. One haff of the
vffiage is in it, and the other haff views it with animated
admiration from doorways and verandas. Marta, her old
black dress for once cast aside, arrayed in yeUow and red,
leads the van, as she has at every weddmg for twenty years.
FoUowing her come three musicians; Pedro, m the center,
ffis gray, thin hair straggUng over the coUar of ffis weU-brushed
long black coat, with young Vicente and Arturo, the bride
groom's brothers, one on either side, accompanymg Pedro's
weird, tffin-blooded strain with thrummmg mandoUns, Next
come, by two and two, six little girls, pretty as angels, with
Uttle wUd sunflowers m their glossy tresses, and carrying,
with conscious pride, large bunches of red roses. And here
are the bride and bridegroom, Ysabel Alvarado, the flower of
San Gabriel, and Ramon Enriquez, to whose proud, dark
face hers is often Ufted with happy smUes at the words of
admiration and friendly wishes that reach their ears.
Now, Juan, rmg your loudest, and no one wffi complam:
Muy querida, muy querida , . .
It is the big beU, offiy, of the Mission, that is ringmg now,
the one m the top embrasure of the arched campanario. It
rings steady and clear, as Gregorio always makes it, but
slowly, and the sound that trembles heavUy out upon the
heat-laden air settles down upon the vffiage like a noonday
shadow. Agam there are people gathered for a simple proces
sion, and horses are tied to the posts along the street. But
tffis time it is not at old Marta's house that the people are
107

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(ibxts
gathered, but at the new, white cottage that Ramon Enriquez
buUt, a year ago, for ffis bride. Juan, merry and miscffievous
as a blue jay generaUy, is sober as he hovers on the outskirts
of the Uttle group of people. Agam the six Uttle gurls are wait
mg, two and two, but they carry wffite flowers, UUes, roses,
and jessamme. Presently Marta appears, a creepmg, somber
figure, black from head to foot.
The StraggUng group moves up the street, old Marta at
the head, talking to herseff, and shakmg her head. As they
near the Mission the great door opens, and the Padre comes
out, foUowed by four young men, who carry — alas! my
heart teUs me what they carry — the brightness and light
ness of the face and form of Ysabel Emiquez: and there Ues
upon her breast a tiny baby form. Alas! muy querida! Ra
mon waUis behind, and looks neither to right nor left, as they
take their place at the head of the Uttle procession. And so
they go, up the wffite, dusty road, to the campo santo.
Muy querida, muy querida, says the great beU: slower and
slower, muy querida, muy . . . and so, ceases.
The sun was going down, its warm light dymg away up
the ancient wall. Far away sounded the faint thrummmg of
the mandoUn m the cottage across the road: the three Mexi
cans were stiU silently gambling..
Yes, it is a desolate Uttle spot, the campo santo of San Ga-
briel.i 1 The foregoing sketch was written some short time ago, before certain
renovations were made about the cemetery which have changed the "atmos
phere" of the place, I confess to an unreasonable wish that God's Acre might
have been spared by the industrious hand of the whitewasher, when the zeal
for "cleaning up" seized upon the viUage fathers of San Gabriel.

SAN FERNANDO

¦'4.'

'¦/.

¦T-a::-; ?*,•-(..'
' Mission San Fernando Rey de Espana, and
"Padre Napoleon"
" Still the doves of San Femando
To the Padres' fountain wheel,
And the dark-skinned old sefioras
Tend their roses of Castile."
^N Fr6mont's joumal of ffis travels m CaUfomia in 1844,
*^ there is under date of April 13 the entry of an mcident, per
haps trivial m itseff, but I Uke it both because of its pictur
esqueness and because it gives a ffint of how far the canffie
of Mission civilization sometimes shot its rays. The expedi
tion was m a lonely pass of the Tehachepi Mountams, newly
out of the solitudes of the San Joaqffin VaUey and about to
enter the forbiddmg wastes of the Mojave Desert. "In the
evenmg a Christian Indian rode into camp, weU dressed, with
large spurs and a sombrero, and speakmg Spaffish fluently.
It was an unexpected apparition and a strange, pleasant sight
m this desolate gorge of a mountain — an Indian face, Span
ish costume, jinglmg spurs, and horse equipped after the
Spaffish maimer. He informed me that he belonged to one of
the Spaffish Missions to the south, distant two or three days'
ride, and that he had obtamed from the priests leave to spend
a few days with ffis relatives in the Sierra." The Indian
proved obUgmg, and for the next three days accompamed
the wffite strangers as guide, leading them by sure ways across
an arm of the desert and finally setting them upon the trail
that woffid take them into the old Spaffish trail to Santa F6
wffich they were to follow home. Ill

Z^^ CaCifomia g)abt;^0

"Aqui es camino," he said, "no se pierde, va siempre."
(Here is the trail, it cannot be lost, it goes forever.) Then,
bidding them farewell, he rode away to the south, "where,"
says Fremont, with a touch of-longing, writmg up ffis joumal
that night in ffis camp amid the sagebrush, sand, and wmd,
"the country is so beautiful, it is considered paradise, and
the name of its prmcipal town, Puebla de los Angeles, woffid
make it angeUc,"
The Indian was a manso of the Mission San Femando Rey
de Espana, once one of the richest of the Franciscan cham,
seated m a vaUey famous for its fertffity and beauty. Tffither
from the desert where he left Fremont, the Indian would have
ridden a day, crossmg the Siena Madre of southem Caliform'a
by some traU, perhaps m the Soledad Canon (through which
the Southem Pacffic RaUway now runs). Three years later,
in January, 1847, the whirligig of time landed Fremont him
self at tffis Mission. He and ffis soldiers quartered themselves
for a wffile m its bffildmgs when on their way to Los Angeles
to fight the CaUforffians, and it was here the prelimmary ne
gotiations took place that led to the " Capitulation of Caha-
enga," and completed the American conquest of Califomia.
To reach San Femando Mission from Los Angeles there is
a choice of routes. The most direct is by electric car wffich
wiU drop you m the flowery park of a company that has for
sale a large tract of agricultural lands adjacent to the Mis
sion, and a two-mmute waUi brings you to the Mission doors.
The car ride is through the picturesque Cahuenga Pass from
wffich the Portola expedition of 1769 probably had their first
view of the San Fernando Valley. Padre Crespi m ffis jour
nal tells us that on the ffiUs roundabout they saw Uve-oaks
and waffiut trees, many, though smaU, — we may see some
yet, — and he christened the beautiful mountam-girt vega,
then populous with Indian Ufe, El Valle de Santa Catalina de
112

Anb t^^x (TUi00ion0
Bononia de los Encinos — St. Catherme of Bonoffia's Valley
of the Live-Oaks. If you are motormg to the Mission, there
is no more deUghtfffi route than this. Another way is to take
the steam tram to the town of Femando — it has abandoned
its former pretentions to samtUness — whence a walk of a
mile by ffighway or across the fields wiU lead you to the
Mission. I avaUed myself of the latter method, sandwich m pocket
and camera in hand, resolved to make a day of it. It was
autumn, still dry and dusty, and the sun was ffigh: and, as I
walked through a glory of wild sunflowers and across barley
stubble, my feet released terebmtffine mcense from blue curls
and tarweed, A pleasant breeze played m my face, blown from
the ocean a dozen miles away. At my back rose the Sierra
Madre, capped with cumulus clouds roffing up from the desert
where Fremont's traU was; ahead, to the right, ran the blue
Santa Susana Range, and the Siim Hills (daughter and grand
daughters of the Mother Sierra) ; and, on the left, the Santa
Moffica Mountams stretched to the sea. By and by I passed
a great shallow reservoir of masonry, obviously Mission-made,
and then some juisache trees (the Acacia Farnesiana, whose
fragrant baUs of fluffy bloom were beloved of the Padres).
Then came a Uttle forest of tuna cactus, and a crumbUng
adobe waU, and along the last, a dusty path brought me to
the Mission.
San Femando differs from the other Franciscan estabUsh
ments m the wide separation of its church part from the con
vento wing. Between the two extends a long Une of adobe
rooms, once busy shops, doubtiess, but now fast meltmg
away imder the wmter storms. The convento, with its fine
corridor paraUel and flush with the ffighroad, is the part that
attiacts the passmg traveler, and many never see the old
church at aU, so far is it m the rear. It is said — though can
"3

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(ibxt^
it have been? — that m the Mission's heyday its bffildmgs,
set end to end, woffid have measured a mUe. Across the road
stands a chamung old fountam, its broken and weather-
stamed brickwork fortunately thus far spared by the rutffiess
hand of the renovator; and at the foot of a pepper tree that
shades it, I sat down to rest. Here.agam was the blessed qmet
I had often enjoyed in my Mission rambUngs. The great
world with its hurry and noise, its mad race for gold, and its
cruel competitions, was safe beyond the mountams, and might
go hang, for me. The wmd brought a song from the sea and
sang it among the leaves above my head; and a flock of
pigeons dropped whirring out of the blue to drink at the Pa
dres' fountam. Pigeons and Padres were ever sworn friends,
and a Mission was not qffite complete without its dovecotes.
At Mission San Jose, I have read, the Fathers' doves were fed
their cental of wheat a day besides what they might pick up
foraging. They were of many colors and made a pretty pic
ture on the red tiles of the buUdmgs — that is, those of San
Jose did. Mme of San Fernando tipped unsteadily at the
fountam's upper rim and drank damtily, fluttering their
wmgs the while. I wondered if they might be great-great-
grandcffildren of some old Padre's pets. After the pigeons
flew away there came two motor cycUsts — a lover and ffis
lass, I Uked to tliink them — who stopped their raucous de
mon of a macffine and sat them down to cool beneath a
pepper near my own. They chatted lazily m low murmurs
that harmonized weUwith the cooing of the doves now perched
on the ridge-pole of the Mission over the way. To them, now,
enters a Uttie covered cart most opportunely, drawn by a
discreet pony witii tinkling beUs, the outfit of a geffial ice
cream vender m an immacffiate wffite apron — and the idyl
is complete.By and by an old Mexican afoot stopped at the fountam
114

IN THE RUINED CHURCH, MISSION SAN FERNANDO

(m'b t^v (mi00ion0
to bathe his hands and moisten ffis dusty Ups. He seemed
ambitious to practice ffis EngUsh on me, and from him I got
the foUowing condensed ffistory of the Mission: —
"Long time, Chorch he have aU these Mission; then Com
pany; now Chorch he catch 'em ag'in,"
fy Tffis reqffired some elucidation; but, under the stimulus of
a few cigarritos, we got the matter straightened out. The
facts, I believe, are that, after secularization, the Mission
bmldings and lands passed mto various hands and withm
recent years a company acquired them for a barley ranch.
The buildmgs were used partly to house cholos and chickens,
and partiy to store machmery, hay, and divers ranch pro
ducts. They were rapidly bemg reduced to nun when the
Landmarks Club of CaUfomia secured a ten years' lease of
them, and did what it coffid to arrest decay by repairs to
roofs and waUs; but, through lack of means, accompUshment
feU far short of desire. More recently the bffildmgs have re
tumed to the care of the CathoUc Church, though it is not
evident that the care has progressed further than to clear the
convento of rubbish, and mstaU a Mexican famUy m a room
or two, to watch the estabUshment. Tffis, however, is some
thmg. I found the corridor fuU of charm, the more so for its half
dUapidation. The floor of square brick tiles, worn here and
there mto hoUows by feet whose eartffiy pUgrimage is long
since ended, the quamt mouldmgs about doors and wmdows,
and the deUghtfffi hand-wrought rejas of iron, the work
doubtless of neophyte masons and blacksmiths — aU tffis
was material for the artistic soul. Before one door some potted
plants — a rosemary bush, a geramum, some cactuses, rose
cuttings, and what not — betokened the caretaker's abode,
and I knocked. A dark-skinned senora opened to me, and
I asked ff I miglit see withm. Her knowledge of EngUsh

Z^t CaCifomia ^(xbxt&
seemed Umited to "Please, ten cents." I paid it wilUngly
enough and we prepared for the adventure as ff for a visit to
a cave, a lantern bemg selected from a dozen on the table,
lighted, and placed m the hands of a pretty Uttle barefoot
damsel who woffid act as my gffide. Her name, Consuelo
Valenzuela, was Uke a stram of music, and mdicated member
ship m an old Spamsh-CaUforffian family. She led the way
through the various rooms, givmg me such scraps of mforma-
tion as she knew, wffich was not much, AU was bare to the
bone, and of various degrees of darkness, m some the win
dows bemg boarded up tight to keep out intruders. One was
known to have been the Padres' refectory; m another, some
gapmg cracks m the waU betokened the temblor's visitation.
Upstairs (which we attained by a nanow adobe staircase, so
unconscionably steep that I am surprised stffi that our necks
and lantern were not broken m the retum) was the wreck of
the rooms where guests of old were lodged; and downstairs,
underground, I was shown a great adobe wme-vat — a sort
of Mission version of the Great Tun of Heidelberg — and
the cellar where, I suppose, the stock of wme and aguardiente
was stored to meUow — that far-famed vmtage of San Fer
nando wffich, the ancient encomium went, was "as the smile
of Providence,"
Admittance to the old church a year before, I leamed,
would have cost me an additional fee, but a storm of the pre
vious wmter had brought down a part of the rear waU, and
as it seemed nobody's busmess to close the breach, there was
no longer reason for uffiockmg the big door to let people m-
side. And might I go m by the hole? The lady of the key
smiled pleasantly, " Porque no, senor ?" — wffich is Mexican
for permission.
A dozmg monkey-faced owl fluttered off among the roof
beams as I stumbled mto the old buUdmg, wffich is a sad
ii6

(inb t^txx (WVi00ion0

wreck: yet, thanks again to the Landmarks Club (wffich gave
it a temporary roof some years ago), not a hopeless wreck, ff
the restoration could be financed. The main features of the
buildmg, wffich dates from about 1806, are stffi recognizable;
and the casual visitor finds it hard to understand why the
CathoUc Church m America aUows tffis noble monument of
one of the noblest activities of her past to drop to pieces
before her eyes, without spendmg a copper to stay the decay.
I found the outer surroundmgs of the church more to my
taste than the dismantled mside. There is a Uttle canipo
santo under the north waU, where good Catholics are stffi
laid to rest, and a young Mexican girl, apparently m silent
prayer, stood by a recent grave as I entered. Here some
where among those disheveled mounds, where thousands of
Indians await the Last Day, the record states they laid the
weary frame of old Padre Pedro Cabot, "El CabaUero," whom
we shall hear of agam at Mission San Antoffio, but whose
earthly career was fimshed at San Femando, It was not the
Franciscan way to mark the departed Brothers' graves, and
I could find no trace of tffis one. Some linnets, little CaU
fomia brothers of St. Francis, were smgmg lustily in the dried
mustard stalks by the church waU, and I Uke to think that
their melody found it out, wherever it was, and sweetened
those forgotten ashes.
There is a bit of ffistory m the view from tffis qffiet ceme
tery. Tum your eyes toward the lofty Sierra Madre and let
them foUow the misty crest westward. They wffi be looking
toward the place, some ffiteen mUes away, where gold was
first mmed m quantity m Caffiomia, six years before Mar-
shaU's famous strike m the north. One March day of 1842,
m a canon at the edge of the Camffios Rancho (once a sheep
range of the San Femando Mission, but nowadays known
to fame as Ramona's fabled home), a vaquero of the ranch,
117

^^e CaCifomia ^(xbxte
Francisco Lopez by name, was seekmg some strayed horses.
Wffile takmg ffis siesta at noon, he thought to refresh himseff
with a luncheon of wild offions and, diggmg for them with ffis
sheath-knife, he tumed up both wUd offions and flakes of
gold. The news got about, and then foUowed Caffiomia's
first gold msh. People aU the way from San Diego and Santa
Barbara came flockmg to San Femando to share m the golden
harvest. Operations were under handicap, however, as offiy
placer miffing was attempted, and water for tffis was very
scarce. So, m a couple of years, after about $100,000 had been
got out, the enthusiasm waned and the people retumed to
their mutton and beef and former uffievered pastoraUsm.*
At the foot of the cemetery is a smaU arroyo, and just
across it, on land stiU belongmg to the Church, is the principal
remnant of the Padres' agricultural operations — the oUve
orchard over wffich two fine old date pahns nobly lord it. The
oUve trees have been severely pruned back of recent years, but
they are puttmg on fresh crowns agam, and, as I sauntered
through the green aisles, the memory came naturally to mind
of the old Padre who, of aU San Femando's Brotherhood, was
most concerned m her temporal prosperity — Fray Francisco
Gonzales de Ybarra. Here he reigned from 1820 to 1835, a
tffickset, fiery, joUy man, who could drive a bargam m ffides
and taUow with the best trader m the land. People caUed ffim
"Padre Napole6n," from ffis autocratic way of deaUng, and
his msistence upon having San Femando acknowledged as
the finest of the Missions and its products the best. He was
often in hot water with the soldiers, whom he charged, doubt
less correctly enough, with debaucffing ffis Indians; and ffis
' The existence of gold in CaUfomia was not unknown to the missionaries,
before this. The Indians had more than once brought nuggets in from the hiUs,
as at Santa Clara and San Luis Obispo; but the Padres discouraged the quest,
knowing very weU that, once the "auri sacra fames" were awakened in the
land, the Missions would be demoralized. 118

(m'b t^^xx (Wli00ion0
defiance of Mexican authority m secffiarization days was
unmmced. Affred Robmson got at logger-heads with him m
a ffide trade and caUed him a ffiggardly friar whose character
was not beUed by the ffickname "El Cochino" by wffich the
countryside knew him — wffich, if true, was certaiffiy un
complimentary, for it means "the pig." Robmson's hard
names of him, however, are unquestionably unjust, A man of
Ibarra's positive ways would naturaUy make enemies; but
he was a good-hearted man, and provided weU for ffis dusky
family, and that m apostoUc doctrine counts for much. He
qffitted San Femando about the time of its secffiarization, and
Monsieur de Mofras found him some years later stationed at
San Luis Rey, where the Indians approved of him and gave
him a sobrenombre m their own dialect eqffivalent to "a good
feUow." But the Mission days were numbered then; the
Padre was no longer lord of cattle on a thousand ffiUs, but
offiy a poor parish cura; and it is a pitifffi picture the French
man gives of the old man "forced to sit at the administrador's
table and Usten to the ribaldry of mayordomos and vaqueros
who would have thought themselves lucky, a few years be
fore, to have been the Padre's servants."
The foundmg of San Femando Mission, wffich was m 1797,
was uffique m one respect — its site was not m a wUdemess,
but in a region more or less settled and within a few leagues
of the pueblo of Los Angeles. The spot fixed upon for the
buUdmgs was on a private rancho belongmg to one Fran
cisco Reyes, Don Francisco's views on the preemption of ffis
acres I do not find of record, but I think he must have been
a good son of the Church, for he peacefuUy yielded ffis house
to the friars to occupy wffile the Mission edffices were buUd
ing.

€^t CaCifomia i^(xbxt0
II
The BimrED Treasure of Simi
'Tf^HE idea of findmg buried treasure has always exercised
^^ what seems to me an unreasonable charm over people's
mmds: unreasonable, not, of course, that there would not be
charm m findmg it, but because of the disparity between the
amount of attention that has been spent on the quest and the
real prospect, usually, of success. Treasure islands, treasure
sffips, treasure graves, and many other such possibffities have
been many times exploited, both m fact and in story; so it is
not surprismg that the CaUfomia Missions should also have
had their vogue as a supposed Tom Tiddler's ground. And
as a matter of fact, a good many of the buUdmgs show plain
traces of the ravages of pick and shovel, sometimes wielded
boldly by parties of declared prospectors, but more often m
secret by knights of the dark lantem.
Why it should be supposed that riches were buried in these
places is not clear; but somehow the idea seems to arise auto
matically in connection with old or mined bffildmgs. A recent
writer remarks that "The fooUsh notion that the Fathers had
unUmited wealth, nay, gold or sUver mmes, wffich they con
cealed, was common among the Mexicans of that day, and it
exists among their descendants to the present time." So far
as can be known, the seekers have never found anythmg of
value. It seems, indeed, unUkely that the Fathers at any of
the Missions ever could have amassed any sum of money that
would be much worth secreting. Saving anythmg out of their
meager stipend of four hundred dollars per year would have
been out of the question, even if the sum had been paid m
money, m fuU, ahd regularly, none of which desirable condi-
I20

(m'b t^x (nii00ion0
tions seems to have been met; wffile as" to hoarding from
the proceeds of the industries carried on at the Missions, al
though the returns must have been large, the expense of car
ing for a family of a thousand or so Indians must have been
proportionately heavy. And m addition there are to be
reckoned the exactions of the provincial Government, wffich
seems to have looked upon the Missions generaUy as a sort of
providential and mexhaustible milch cow. So that the latest
defender of the Padres, the learned Father Zephyrm Engel
hardt, is probably justified m holding that their riches were
all of unworldly metal, and consisted only in "their con
scientiousness, mdustry, economy, and abstemiousness."
Such intangible valuables, it may be remarked, if they coffid
be recovered by delvmg, would certamly not have proved, in
the estimation of the delvers, a satisfactory reward.
The Mission of San Fernando, some twenty mUes north
west of Los Angeles, has more than once been the scene of
these unhopefffi quests. The visitor, who might be curious
concerffing sundry excavations noticed in the foundations
of the massive adobe waUs, would be told by the old Mexi
can who acted as custodian of the rffin — it is hardly more
than that — that they were made by "malos hombres, lad-
rones, que buscaban dinero"; and, with a shrug, "Tantos! no
cogieron no mas que polvo, mucho polvo, mucho trabajo" (bad
men, tffieves, who were looking for money. Fools ! they got
notffing but dust, plenty of dust and plenty of work) , And
with a chuckle; old Tomas would lead the way up the next
rickety stairway.
Yet, one cannot tell. There may have been mstances of
treasure bemg buried about the Missions, on some emergency
arising, smce, in the times we are thinking of, the only means
of safe-keeping sums of money that were too large to be car
ried on the person was the secreting of them in the walls of
121

Z^t CaCifomia ^({bxts
bffildmgs or m the ground. Be that as it may, perhaps the
reader will have a better explanation of the facts of the fol
lowing narrative than the one with wffich I conclude it.
On the af temoon of a warm day of June, some twenty sum
mers since, I was makmg my way from Los Angeles to the
coast by way of the San Femando VaUey and the road that
mns through the Simi Hills. It was yet the dawn of the auto
mobile era, and direction signs did not then, as now, give the
traveler on CaUfomia roads the certamty of ffis route that he
now enjoys; and I found myself, at late afternoon, m consid
erable doubt whether I had not mistaken my way, with the
probabiUty, if that were the case, of havmg to camp for the
ffight m the open. My horse woffid not suffer, for there was
forage m abundance, and water was not hard to find thus
early m the summer; but it was annoymg for myself, for I had
but a scrap of food and no blankets. The road, well traveled
at first, that I had been foUowing for two hours past, had for
some distance been showmg signs of degeneratmg into a traU
(in that mexplicable way that roads sometimes have), and
now it seemed about to "peter out" finaUy on a ffiUside of
yellowmg grass. Yet I knew I had been making m the right
direction, even if off my road, so I was loath to tum back.
The road, or trail, probably led somewhere, and I decided to
keep on as long as any track coffid be seen leading westerly.
Two miles or so farther brought me to the end of aU tokens
of travel. The track had dwindled to less and less, and now
had dropped to the bouldery bed of a canon stream, from
which no woodcraft of mme, nor of my good traU-wise horse,
could perceive that it made an exit. If the traU continued, it
must follow the bed of the stream. At any rate, here was
water, the first requisite for a camp; I decided to go on for
a whUe, but to stick to the creek, for safety. Dismounting, I
122

cm'b t^txx Q(yii00ion0
led Pancho forward by the bridle among the sUppery boffiders.
The sun was well out of sight, and the cffirrmg of crickets
among the herbage announced that soon the evenmg shades
would prevaU. Evidently, campmg was to be my portion, so I
kept my eyes open for a good spot for the purpose. The canon
appeared to widen out a little way'ahead : there I should prob
ably find good grazmg for the horse (though not, I ruefully
reflected, for myself). Arrivmg at the opeffing, I found, as I
expected, grassy slopes rismg from the creek, and resolved to
make here my bivouac.
Taking off saddle and bridle I tumed Pancho loose to graze,
wffile I gathered wood for a fire. The dusk was soon enUvened
by a crackUng blaze, beside wffich I sat to eat a sandwich and
a scrap of chocolate, reservmg an eqffivalent banquet for the
morffing. Pancho munched away cheerfully, the stream tin
kled and purred; the first star telegraphed its friendly signal
down through the ether: to be lost m the Simi was not half
bad. My supper (smce it must be so caUed) over, and Pancho
picketed for the ffight, I walked a short way up the canon m
the gloaming. Some two hundred yards from camp, at a pomt
where the stream made a tum, I stopped m sudden surprise
at the sight of a Ught sffiffing among a clump of small Uve-
oaks near by to my right. "Well," I said to myself, "so I am
on a trail, after aU. Can there be a house here, too? " A few
steps, and my question was answered, for I saw that the Ught
shone through the open wmdow of a Uttle house of adobe.
What should I do? My appearance at this lonely spot at
ffight would cause so much surprise that I hesitated. But I
was quite conscious that I had made an unduly light supper,
and, moreover, that I was m the way of making no better a
breakfast. Probably I coffid buy here a Uttle food, and at any
rate, I coffid get iffiormation as to my road: so I approached
123

Z^i^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^s
the house. There was an attempt at a garden, I saw, and
growing agamst the wmdow was a bush of the red-flowered
sage which I have noted as bemg a general favorite with
Mexicans, As I came up to the door I heard voices, and caught
a gUmpse through the wmdow of a woman sittmg at a rough
table, eating. At the same moment a dog within the room
started up and barked Idudly. It seemed to be my cue to
speak as well as knock, so, actmg on a vague assumption that
the people were Mexicans, I caUed, "Buenas noches!"
The talking ceased abruptly, and with it the music of knife
and fork on crockery. I knocked and called agam, "Buenas
noches!" A chair moved, and a man's voice said, "Abajo,
perro!" whereupon the bark was exchanged for an equally
uncomfortable growUng, Then the door was thrown open,
and a man, standing m the doorway, asked in Spaffish, "Who
is there?" In a few words I explained my presence, adding
that I was short of food and should be glad to purchase a
little, "Enter, seiior," he invited, and, as I did so, " Carlota,"
he said to one of two well-grown girls who sat by the woman,
"Carlota, give your seat to the caballero." The woman had
risen already, and in a matter-of-fact way was puttmg a plate
and cup, evidently for me. My first impulse was to explam
that I had had my supper; but I have always found frank
acceptance to be the best reply to the frank hospitality of
these courteous people, and with an expression of thanks I
took the offered place and was ready to share their meal.
I now had an opportunity to notice my entertamers. The
man was a strongly bffilt, good-looking, middle-aged Mexi
can; the wife (as I took her to be) placid- looking, kindly-
featured, and of the national middle-aged stoutness. The
two cffildren were slender, attractive girls, vergmg on the
early womanhood of their race. I think they were twins.
Tffis, I supposed, comprised the household, until, my glance
124

anb t^^x (TTli00ion0
foUowmg the wife as she went to the stove, I saw another
person. A man, apparently deformed, sat by the fire, bent
forward, ffis hands resting on a stick. But doubled over as he
was, ffis eyes, black and pierdng, foUowed every movement
made by any of us. My host, by whom I sat, said m a low
voice, "He is my brother, senor: he is very iU," I was on the
pomt of makmg some remark of condolence when he added,
"He cannot speak, senor: he is dumb." FeeUng that it would
be best not to refer to the matter, and to tum the conversa
tion, I inqffired as to the road I had missed, and whether
I could get through to the coast without retummg, Tffis I
learned I could do, my host promising to put me m the way
in the morffing.
Just as supper, wffich proved to be a cheerfffi meal, was
over, the mvaUd m the corner, rappmg with ffis cane on the
floor, gave notice that he needed attention, Carlota went
quickly to him and helped him to rise, and then led him,
slowly and with no Uttle trouble, mto an adjoimng room. As
he shuffled past where I sat, my eye caught the gUtter of some
object of metal that swung by a cord from ffis neck, m the
fasffion of a medal, Tffis I later decided it to be, when I
noticed what seemed to be an exactly similar object on a Uttie
shelf or bracket, fixed to the wall, on wffich stood a small
figure of the Virgin, The woman now rismg to clear the table,
I rose also, and, thankmg my kind entertamers for their hos
pitality, asked what I owed them, saymg also that I should be
glad to buy a Uttle food of them before leavmg m the morffing.
They woffid accept no money for the meal, however, and I
forbore to press them. As I took my hat to go, my host asked,
"Wffi you not sit a while by the fire? It is yet early, and it is
cold outside," I gladly assented, and, offering him my pouch,
a friendly smoke began.
The seats at the table were heavy benches, not easily
125

Z^i CaCifomia (pabt:60
moved, but in the corner by the stove, where the sick man had
sat, I saw a dark, box-Uke object which woffid serve for a
chair. I was about to seat myself on tffis when my host (whose
name, I learned, was Leandro Rojas) hastily mterfered. "Not
on that, senor," he said: "it woffid be bad fortune, very bad
fortune," at the same time puffing one of the benches forward.
On tffis we both sat, and chatted, somewhat haltingly on my
part, for my Spaffish was no more fluent than his EngUsh. I
was curious about that bad-omened seat m the comer, espe
ciaUy as I felt pretty] sure it was on that that the invaUd
had been sittmg: but, not wishmg to violate my friend's
superstitions, I reframed from aUudmg to the matter. My
gaze, however, often reverted to the puzzUng object, which in
the dim Ught appeared to be a smaU but soUd chest of some
dark wood, heavily clamped with iron bands, and, I thought,
havmg sometffing carved on the Ud. I suppose Senor Rojas
noticed me lookmg at the chest with mterest, and when, m
the course of conversation, I asked whether his brother had
long been ffi, he repUed, "Yes, senor, many years; but my
wife does not Uke it talked of: it is ill fortune to talk of bad
luck, she says. And the box is bad fortune, that is certam, I
wish it were not here. But I wffi teU you about it when we go
out of the house."
I spent with them a pleasant hour, finding topics of mutual
interest — among them the perenffial one of rattlesnakes, of
wffich I had found the region undffiy proUfic, and the need of
schooUng for the children, who, though attractive and well-
mannered, had never made the acquaintance of even slate and
pencil. On biddmg them good-mght, I asked whether I might
breakfast with them (on the strict understanding of payment
for the meal), and was glad when they wilUngly agreed.
When I left the house, Leandro said he woffid waUc with me
to my camp, and I took the opportuffity'of asking about the
126

(m'b t^^x (V)(li00ion0
chest. "I will teU you, senor," he said, "though it is bad for
tune, and I wish I had never seen it. See what it has done to
my brother!" "Was it the box that hurt your brother?" I
asked. "How? did it faU on him?" "Oh, no, senor, nothmg
Uke that," he repUed- " It was ffis horse that hurt him ; but all
the same itwas the box that did it. My wife says so, and I say
so, too. Pedro, I do not know what he thinks, but then, he is
as you see. This is how it happened, senor.
"It was many years ago, yes, nearly twenty years. We
were both young then, and we worked on the Escorpion, for
Don GffiUermo, My father used to work for him too: he was
a foreman on the ranch: and when Pedro and I were old
enough to ride after the cattle he made us vaqueros. Pedro
was strong m those days, yes, stronger than I am now, and
qffite tall. There was no one who could ride Uke Pedro on the
Escorpion, To see him now! ay de mi! Well, seiior, one day
some steers were missmg, twelve or fifteen or more, and my
father sent us, Pedro and me, to find them and brmg them m.
We hunted for them one day, two days, and could not find
them. The range was gettmg poor on the Escorpion, but it
was stiU good m the ffiUs, and my father said the cattle must
have gone up to the Simi. So the next morffing we started
toward the Simi, and it was not long before we found their
tracks, coming toward the ffiUs. We followed them all that
day, and nearly at ffight we found them. It was m a Uttle val
ley that is qffite near here: you wiU go through it to-morrow,
senor. "We had brought food with us, for we knew we might be
more than one day out, and when we had found the cattle we
looked for a place to camp. We headed the steers down the
creek, and came out into this canon. And here we saw the
house, the same house, seiior: so you see it is qffite old, but
it was old then, too. We were surprised, for we did not know
127

Z^^ CaCifomia ^abve0
there was a house there at aU, and we had been born at San
Fernando, and we thought we knew everybody that Uved tffis
way as far as Ventura. It was nearly dark, and there was no
Ught m the house nor anybody about, though the house did
not look qffite as if no one Uved there. We shoffid have liked
to use it to sleep in, but we thought some one must Uve there,
and might come in, so we made a camp on the creek. Just
about here, where your camp is, is where we slept.
"In the mornmg, after we had eaten, Pedro said he was
going to look mside the house. I was saddling the horses and
did not go with him. In a few minutes I heard ffim caU, so I
went to the house. Pedro was standmg at the door, and he
looked wffite and frightened, ' There are dead people here,' he
said : ' they are all dead,' He went m and I went m after ffim.
In the back room there was a bad sight, a very bad sight,
seiior: a lot of bones lying aU about the room, and there were
three skuUs among them. In the middle of the room was that;
box you saw, with the lid open. There was a big bone, Uke a
leg bone, lying right across it, I remember. Zape! a bad sight
that was.
"It must have been a long time smce they had died,
months, perhaps years, two or three, from the look of the
place and the bones. The coyotes had been in, and notffing
but the bones and some bits of clotffing was left. They had aU
been men, at least I think so, because there were no women's
clothes. In the box there were pieces of money, twenty or
thirty, or perhaps more. I did not like to touch it, with the
dead men aU about there: but Pedro, he was always one who
cared for notffing. He said it was lucky to find them: the
money was n't dead, he said, and he laughed at me. He
picked up one of the coins: it was a silver peso of Spam, very
old. Was it not strange, senor? AU the money was the same,
aU pesos and all old. I have never seen any more Uke them.
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(xn'b t^^x QTVi00ion0
"WeU, Pedro said we ought to take the money. The dead
men could not spend it, he said, so it was fooUsh to leave it.
But I woffid not touch it, not one piece. I wanted to bum the
bones, and at last Pedro helped me. We picked them all up,
the skffils and aU. Diantre! it -was had -woikl I wanted to put
them m the box, and burn aU together, and bury the money.
But Pedro would not: he wanted the money, and he said he
would have the box too. So mstead of burnmg them, we
buried them, that is, the bones. We found an old spade, and
dug a place beffind the house, among the sycamores on the
hffi — you wffi see to-morrow — and buried them.
"Then we had to go to take the cattle back to the ranch.
Pedro would take the money: he put it m his clothes. It was
quite heavy, and you could hear it, so he put some m ffis
shoes and m other places. I asked him what he would do with
the box, because he would not burn it. He said he wanted it
because it had been good luck to find it: he would get it
some day and keep it. Then we went away with the cattle.
Pedro said we should not teU anybody about what we had
found, nor about the dead people; and there was no one to
teU, I mean the officers, uffiess we went to Los Angeles. So
I did not say anythmg, and Pedro did not, because he had
taken the money.
"It was not long before he had used it up. I don't know
where he spent it, for there was no money Uke it, and people
woffid ask where he got it: but somehow he spent it, all but
two pesos. Then one day he asked me to come with him to
the place agam: he wanted to see if the box was there, and if
anybody Uved m the house. I did not want to see the box,.
but I wanted to know if any one Uved there, so I came with.
ffim. It was about a year after we had found the dead men
and the money. It was a Sunday, and we got to the place
about noon, for we started early. Everytffing was like we had
129

€^^ CaCifomia (pabv^0
left it, and it did not look as if any one had been to the house.
The box was there, and it was open; and then I noticed that
there was some writmg on a piece of paper mside the Ud. It
must have been there when we saw the box before, but we had
not noticed it. It was very old and yeUow, and torn, too, and
we could not read it. They did not seem Uke Spaffish words.
We stayed an hour, maybe, and then I said we should go, so
as to get back before ffight. Then Pedro said to me, why
should n't we come and Uve here m the house. We each had
a few head of cattle of our own by that time, nearly twenty
all together, and the range here was very good. He was tired
of workmg on the Escorpion, he said. The place did n't be
long to anybody, as far as we coffid teU, and we coffid make
a good home here and do weU with our cattle.
"I forgot to say that I had got married a little time before,
and I said my wife would not come so far away from her peo
ple. They Uved at Calabasas. I did n't like the idea of Uving
in that house, though I liked the land and wanted to have a
place of my own, now that I was married. So we were talking
about it when we got on our horses to ride back. We rode past
the sycamore trees, where we had buried the bones of the
dead men. Just when we passed the place, my brother's
horse jumped at something, and threw hun off. He f eU against
a sharp rock that hurt him in the back. He was qffite stffi,
and I thought he was dead. For a long time he did not move,
but I could see he was breathing. I got water and threw it on
him many times, and at last he opened ffis eyes. But he could
not move, senor, nor speak either: the rock had hurt his back
bone, and ffis legs were like dead. He was a paralitica, and he
has never been able to move, any more than you saw him
move, nor talk either.
"I did not know what to do. It was many miles to the
ranch, and there was no one that lived anywhere nearer. My
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Mxb t^^x (l[Hi00ion0
brother was m much pam, so I could not put ffim on his horse :
I was afraid of hurtmg him more. He could not taUc, but he
pomted at the house, for me to take him there. There was
notffing else to do, and at last I got him there. Then I said
I must go and get help to take ffim away, but he shook ffis
head and would not let me go. I think he thought he might
as weU die there as anywhere, and he was half dead anyway.
But I had to go to get food, and I thought I coffid brmg a
doctor also. I left him some water, and got on my horse and
rode — cielo, how I rode! — for I thought he might be dead
when I got back. It was dark most of the way, and it was mid
night when I got to the ranch. I got help, and sent for a doc
tor to come from Los Angeles. My wife — she is a good
woman, my wife, Elena, senor — she said she woffid come
with me to nurse Pedro if he could not be brought away.
We were back at the house the next day early, two cousins of
mine and my wife and myself. Pedro was lymg where I had
left him, but he was out of ffis head. Whenever he saw the
box he would try to get up and go to it, so I put it where he
coffid not see it. I had never told my wife about the box and
the money: I thought it would only do harm to taUc about it.
"The doctor came the next day. He said Pedro would
never be able to waU:; he might be able to speak after a wffile;
but he never has. The doctor told us he ought not to be
moved for a long wffile. And so we stayed, seiior, and we
have never gone away. Don GffiUermo was very good: I
think God makes people good to one when one is in trouble,
is it not so, senor? He gave me ten more cattle; two of them
were good mUch cows. That made thirty head we had aU to
gether. And he sent us a lot of flour, and coffee and frijoles;
and then he found who owned the land the house was on: it
was an American, who Uved m San Francisco and never
came here at all; and Don GffiUermo told him about my
131

Z^t CaCifomia ^(ibxts
brother getting hurt, and he promised that we could have the
house and the grazing for nothmg for three years, and then
pay a Uttle when we could. After about ten years I bought
the place, about fifty acres, and now it is my own.
" So it was bad fortune the box brought us, as I said, seiior,
but good fortune, too. Did you see what my brother has
round his neck, seiior? It is one of the pesos. He had two of
them left when he was hurt : he had always said he would keep
those two for more luck, as he called it. One day, after he
was hurt, I saw him making a hole m one of them, and he hung
it round his neck. He gave me the other. I did not want to
take it, so I put it on the sheff for Our Lady. You can see it in
the morffing, and you can see the box, too. My wife would
like to burn it, and so would I, but Pedro will not let us, and
he always sits on it. There is carving on it, an 'F' and a 'Y,'
I tffink, and there is the writing inside, though much of it is
gone now. Perhaps you can teU what the writmg says: I
should like to know, if. there is enough left to tell by.
"Well, it is late, and Elena will be going to bed, I am sorry
that we have no room for you to sleep in, senor, but the house
is smaU, and we are so many women and sick, Buenas noches,
senor." 1 was much interested m the strange story I had heard,
and lay for some time awake, tr5ang to fit a working theory
to the black chest and the Spaffish doUars, but with no suc
cess. It was a puzzle that was worth a good deal of trouble
to unlock if it could be done, and I was eager for dayUght, to
get a good view of the box. Probably the mvaUd would not
be up so early as the rest of the famUy, who had breakfast,
I had leamed, at six o'clock. I was prompt upon the hour,
and while waiting a few minutes before the meal was ready,
I exammed the silver piece and the chest. The com was a
large one, Spaffish, as my host had said, and bore the inscrip-
132

(m'b t^^xx (Wti00ion0
tion of Carlos III, with the date 1787, and the arms of CastUe
and Leon, The box I examined with special attention. It was
exceedffigly heavy for its size, wffich was about thirty mches
long by fourteen wide and ten deep, and was made of the dark,
hard wood of some tropical tree that had withstood decay
wonderfffily. On the upper side of the Ud were cut the letters
"F Y" m plam, deep carvmg, encircled with an elaborate
scroll, this somewhat defaced and broken m outlme. Three
heavy strips of iron were fastened round the shorter circum
ference, one near each end of the box and one at the middle.
At the ends were strong wrought-iron handles, and there was
a curious lock, also of wrought-iron. I opened the Ud, and
there, as Leandro had said, were the remams of a sheet of
parchment, veUum, or heavy hand-made paper, wffich had
been glued to the wood, but the greater part of wffich was tom
or worn away. It was evident that the writing was too much
defaced to aUow of more than a mere guess at its purport, but
by the not very good light I copied what I could decipher of
the inscription. Tffis is what I made out: —
hac ar osit unt num tria mi et qu enti qui
pert ane Mi Sane in cujus fini
utelam ob lat hoc Uto atis com
area absco a est. rra.
Oc 1824.
I had hardly fimshed my transcription when my hostess
entered saymg that breakfast was ready in the kitchen: so no
attempt at working out the puzzle could be made at the time.
Pedro's food was taken to him by Carlota, and he did not
appear before I left. Durmg the pleasant meal, I looked with
added respect at the woman whose goodness of heart had led
her wilUngly to undertake, and to carry day by day for many
years, the burden of a hopeless, and I fear an ungrateful, ffi-
133

€^^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^g
vaUd (though, mdeed, from my experience of the kmdUness,
and especiaUy the strength of the family bond among the
Mexican people, I might weU have been prepared for such
magnanimity). Soon after breakfast I bade them fareweU, Leandro ac
companymg me a short distance to show me my road. When
we came to part, no further word had been said regarding
Pedro or the mysterious chest. I said notffing, for I had no
theory to offer. When we shook hands, after thanking ffim
heartUy I remarked that I hoped we might meet again, add
ing, as an afterthought, "and m a luckier house." "Yes,
seiior," he said, "but it is not the house that is uffiucky: Our
Lady attends to that. It was the money, and, you see," —
with a smUe — "I gave her the half of what was left. Do you
know, seiior, sometimes I think the money was stolen from
the Church. That woffid account for all, is it not so? They
say the churches had much money once. Quien sabe ? Adios
seiior." As I tumed Pancho mto the trail that would bring me to
the Ventura road, my mmd was busy at a clue that Lean-
dro's partmg words had started. "F Y," the letters carved
on the chest — somehow they seemed to Unk up with some
tffing m my memory. Who was that Padre of whom Robin
son, in ffis "Life in CaUforffia," spoke with a good deal of dis
paragement? The surname iffitial was surely a "Y," and it
seemed to me that San Femando was the Mission where the
depreciated Father dwelt. Yorba, Ybarronda, Ybaiiez,
Ybarra — yes, that was it: Ybarra, sure enough, and the
first name was Francisco, it seemed to me; and I felt sure now
that it was at San Fernando that Robmson encountered ffim.
All circumstantial evidence, no doubt, but ffigffiy mteresting.
To try another link — did the scraps of writing give any sup
port to my idea? I took out my notebook: unmistakably
134

(m'b t^txx QUi00ion0
there were the letters "rra" remaiffing where naturally the
signature would be written. All the rest of the name was gone
except a fragment of rubric, but that embeUishment agam
made it plam that the letters were part of a name.
With that I had to be satisfied, both then and now. Matters
of more personal importance soon pushed the problem mto
the back of my mmd. Once, mdeed, chancing on a copy of
the torn mscription, I spent an idle hour m tr3dng to fasffion
the oddments mto a possible connected whole. In case the
reader shoffid be mterested m such exercises, I wUl give my
tentative solution,
I take the writmg, as far as the signature, to have been in
Latm, and this is my guesswork renderffig: the reader may
perhaps improve upon it: —
In hac area depositi sunt nummi tria miUia et quingenti qm
pertinent ad hanc Missionem de Sancto Femando, in cujus fimbus
ad cautelam ob latrocinia hoc Utore a piratis commissa haec
area absconffita est. Francisco Ybarra.
Oct. 1824.
My cham of guesses, then, is that the old chest that I saw
in that house in the Simi HUls may have once been the per
sonal property of Fray Francisco Ybarra, sometime priest m
charge of the Mission of San Femando. That he, on the ap
proach of some marauders, buried the chest, with the stated
sum of money in silver pesos of Carlos III, in some ffiding-
place about the Mission precincts. That for some unguess-
able reason the chest was never taken up by the priest or ffis
successors; but that long years afterwards, probably not less
than fifty, some party of treasure-seekers (of whom there are
evidences of there having been many at that Mission) came
upon the buried chest. That it was transported by them to
the lonely house m the mountams, some twenty mUes dis-
135

Z^i^ CaCifomia ^abt;e0
tant. That there, a quarrel occurred over the booty, and that
the survivor or survivors of the fatal affray, ff any there were,
did not, for some reason, carry off m their ffight aU the treas
ure. The rest of my theory is embodied m the foregomg nar
rative. But after aU, as to the whole matter, probably there is
little to be said that is more to the pomt than the all-embrac-
mg phrase of Leandro, and of Spam and Mexico ffi general
— Quien sabe? — Who knows?

SAN BUENAVENTURA

¦"^.i

Mission San Buenaventura: Its Gardens and
"Padre Calma"
^\AHEN those pioneers of Spain, under Portola, after de-
**^ scending the vaUey of the Santa Clara River, reached
the seacoast, they found there many Indians dwelUng in
bmsh houses shaped like haff an orange. They were folk of
a better grade of Ufe and mteffigence than those of the more
southem Missions; for the Spaffiards now had tapped the
territory of the Chumash, that fanuly wffich once mhabited
the islands of the Santa Barbara channel and the shores of
the adjacent mamland from San Buenaventura to San Luis
Obispo. Offiy graves now teU the tale of tffis race's acffieve-
ment, but out of them have been taken artifacts representmg
no mean order of culture, showing the people to have been
carvers of wood and stone, musicians on flutes deUcately
f asffioned from bones of sea-birds, fishermen with hooks (even
barbed) beautifuUy worked out of abalone sheU.' AU the
early explorers of the Califomia coast speak of the friendUness
and hospitaUty of these aborigmes. They were, m a way, the
vikings of CaUforffia: no other Indians between Cape San
Lucas and Cape Mendocino had advanced m naval arcffitec-
ture beyond the buncffing together of tule mto flimsy rafts
hardly safe even in stUl inland waters. The boat of the
Chumash, however, was really a boat, even a sea-goer, bffilt
' The ciuious in such matters wiU find on exhibit in the museum of the Los
Angeles Chamber of Commerce many of these reaUy remarkable remains of
Chumash workmanship. De Mofras says their basketry was of such extreme
fineness that it would hold water,
139

Z^t CaCifomia ypabt;e0
of planks lashed together and made watertight with an appU
cation of asphaltum wffich oozes out of the ground ffi many
parts of CaUforffia. Vancouver, coasting down from Monterey
in 1793, notes, with a sea-dog's appreciation, the adroit han
dUng of these canoes propeUed by long paddles, that put out
toward ffis sffips somewhere off San Lffis Obispo.
The day of Portola's arrival was August 14, 1769, the
vespers of the CathoUc Feast of the Assumption: and so, as
Padre Crespi tells us, the rancheria received from ffim the
name of La Asuncion de Nuestra Senora, — the Assumption
of Our Lady, — through whose mtercession he hoped that
fine locaUty, wffich seemed to lack notffing, might ffi time
become a good Mission.
It did — in 1782 the Mission of San Buenaventura. Dana,
visiting it in 1835 (a Uttie over haff a century after the found
ing), described it as " the finest mission in the whole country,
havmg very fertUe soU and rich vmeyards." Our gossip, Don
Alfredo Robinson, too, was m a good humor with it, havmg,
a few years before Dana, had a sumptuous dinner at the
Padres' table. Tffis Mission's gardens and orchards at that
time suppUed frffit and vegetables to the whaUng sffips that
were wont to call at Santa Barbara. The gardens were along
the banks of the Ventura River, wffich was also famous for
its trout. At the time of Robinson's visit. Padre Francisco
Uria, of whom we shall hear again, was one of the resident
priests, Don Alfredo says the Padre carried a long stick with
wffich to thump the duU heads of the Indian boys who waited
on him, and four great cats were ffis daily compaffions. I
think I can see those four pussies, clustered about the clerical
chair at meal-times, expectant of scraps and getting them;
and I forgive him for thwacking the Indian skulls, wffich
doubtless were less hurt than stimulated.
As horticffiturists the missionaries of San Buenaventura
140

anb t^^xx ()|Ui00ion0
were, indeed, preemment. Even as early as 1793, when the
Mission was not yet m its teens, Vancouver writes about their
gardeffing as enthusiasticaUy as any twentieth-century tour
ist. "The garden of Buena Ventura," he teUs us, "far ex
ceeded anythmg I had before met with m these regions, both
m respect of the quantity, quaUty, and variety of its exceUent
productions, not offiy mdigenous to the country, but apper-
taiffing to the temperate as weU as the torrid zone; not one
species havmg yet been sown or planted that had not flour
ished. These have prmcipally consisted of apples, pears,
plums, figs, oranges, grapes, peaches and pomegranates, to
gether with the plantain, banana, cocoanut, sugar cane,
mdigo, and a great variety of the necessary and usefffi kitchen
herbs, plants and roots. AU these were flourishing in the
greatest health and perfection, though separated from the
seaside offiy by two or three fields of com, that were cffiti-
vated witffin a few yards of the surf."
AU vestige of those gardens is long smce departed if we
except two ancient date pahns that Uft picturesque mops high
in air in one of the side streets of the Uttie Mission city; but
as I strolled about, after the tram from Los Angeles had left
me, it was like finding an old friend to see cornfields still as
in Vancouver's day, close to the surf, along the bluff by the
beach. It was Sunday morffing, and the sound of bells caffing
to mass turned me in quest of the old Mission, dedicated to
that Doctor Serapfficus of Tuscany whom, wffile stiU an m-
fant, St. Francis is said to have bent over and to have hailed
prophetically, "O buona ventura!" I beUeve that modern
scholars, m their skeptical fasffion, have thrown doubt on the
pretty tradition; but there is another story that I Uke as well,
which may rest on better authority. St. Thomas Aqffinas,
impressed with the marvelous variety and depth of the
Doctor's leaming, asked one day for the books whence he
141

Z^t CaCifomia (pabtw
got it, and Bonaventure, with the simple fervor of a tme
Franciscan, held up his crucifix. "From this wellspring of
Ught and love," said he, " I have received whatever I have put
into my lectures and writmgs."
Only the church part of the Mission San Buenaventura
now stands and it is engulfed in houses of the town. The eccle
siastical authorities in charge of its latter-day destiffies seem
to have had no desire to perpetuate the memory of the old
Franciscan days; for when, m 1893, the stmcture, was reno
vated, the work was done on modern Unes. I remember noth
mg withm, now, m the way of a Mission motif, or to encour
age visitors as visitors. In fact, during my stay in Ventura,
I always saw the front door shut tight when service was not
m progress, and mgress for worsffipers was offiy through the
adjoiffing grounds of the priest's house, as I learned from a
none too hospitable sign posted there. Fortunately the stone
waUs were too substantial to offer the renovators any excuse
for levelmg them, though they modernized the windows; and
the tourist may be thankfffi that there is not a wooden steeple
with gmgerbread friUs m place of the unmistakable Mission
beU tower wffich still sturdUy stands to tmge
" the sober twilight of the present
With color of romance."
The bulk of the present church bmlding dates from 1809; but
the earthquake of el a'no de los temblores, three years later, so
shattered the forward end that the fajade and campanario
were taken down and replaced by the front and beU tower
that we now see. These were completed m 1818. We may be
grateful, too, that the Mission's stately name has not suffered,
officiaUy at least, as the town's has, by bemg shaved down
to Ventura. The townspeople are proud of their Mission, and,
if you care to climb the ffiU at the back of it, you will find at
the summit a huge cross of hewn timber, the crosspiece lashed
142

(m'b t^dx (Uli00ion0
in place with rawhide, erected by a local club in 191 2 to take
the place of the cross said to have been planted on that emi
nence by the first Franciscans.
It was at tffis Mission, durmg its golden age from 1797 to
1823, that there Uved Padre Jose Francisco de Paffia Senan,
one of the wortffiest of the CaUforffia Franciscans. Even Ban
croft, chary as he is of unquaUfied praise for the fr ailes, finds
Padre Senan "a model missionary." A scholarly friar, tem
peramentally averse to official preferment and to the poUtical
wrangUng mto wffich the antagoffism of mffitary officialdom
woffid often force the missionaries, he stiU was no sffirker of
pubUc duty, and at different times filled the positions of Presi
dent of the Missions, Vice-Prefect and Vicario foraneo. In
his latter years, he was commissioned to write a ffistory of
CaUforffia and accepted the task, but the work seems never
to have taken shape. His brother friars m their perplexities
were prone to come to ffim for advice, wffich it was always
ffis deUght to give. He was a short, fat man, of qffiet manners,
and the Spaffish-Califormans, who had a geffius for packmg a
whole character-study into a ffickname, gave him the sobre
nombre of "Padre Cahna" — Father TranquUUty, as we
should say. He died one summer day of 1823, with ffis cruci
fix at ffis Ups, and was buried m the Mission church on the
epistle side of the altar. Across from ffim on the gospel side,
in a recess of the waU, are the ashes of San Buenaventura's
other famous Padre, Vicente de Santa Maria. He was one of
the Mission's ministros fwndadores, officiating when the cross
was first planted there; and here was ffis home until, in 1806,
he left it for a heaveffiy. One of the best-hearted of men, ffis
naive character is weU iUustrated ffi an account wffich Vancou
ver has left us, and wffich forms the basis of the following
story.

(^

^^e CaCifomia ^dbx^s
II
The Memorable Voyage of Padre Vicente
THING that often impresses one, m readmg the accounts
of old voyages and explorations, is the fine facffity
wffich, as a rule, the narrators have for telUng a story. Tffis
is especially the case with sailors, who, though not trained
to dabble with pens and ink, yet have a most telUng and
grapffic way of spinnmg a yarn, giving the reader a UfeUke
impression of seemg the whole thmg gomg on, as m our
modem cinematograph shows.
The log of the Discovery, m wffich Vancouver made ffis
eventful voyage, is a case m point. It makes fasdnating
readmg, and from the explorer's diary we get some valuable
glimpses of CaUforffia Ufe m the last years of the eighteenth
century. In recountmg one experience wffich he relates, I
find it natural to set it down as a kind of "movmg picture,"
since that is the impression I had in reading ffis nanative.
On the moming of the 17th of November, 1793, His Bri
tannic Majesty's Sffip Discovery, three years out from Fal
mouth, ffi ComwaU, England, Ues idle on the blue waters of
Santa Barbara Bay. She is takmg a Uttle rest, as well she
might; but it is only partial rest, for her boats are plying to
and from the shore on the necessary busmess of lajrmg m stores
of fresh water, wood, and provisions, before it shaU be again
Westward ho! for Owyhee, the CaroUnas, or some other Umbo
of the Little Known.
For the provisions, thanks are being paid with sailor hearti
ness by Captain George Vancouver, commander of the said
sffip, to Fray Vicente de Santa Maria, priest m charge of the
Mission of San Buenaventura, thirty miles down the coast.
144

cm'b t^exx Q[Ui00ion0
And the thanks are weU deserved, for the good friar has
marched up here from ffis post with a band of ffis f aithf ffi In
dians, convoymg a supply train of no less than twenty mules
loaded with frffits and vegetables, besides haff a score of fat
sheep. It is a notable example of Franciscan bounty to trav
elers, and those travelers, moreover, not even sons of Holy
Church, but heretic EngUsh. So m the name of His Majesty
George III, as weU as for himself, ffis officers, and men, the
gaUant captam handsomely acknowledges the valuable gift,
adding that he wishes he coffid be of some service to the
hospitable Padre m way of retum.
But Fray Vicente, son of courtly Spam, wiU hear of no re
turn. On the contrary, wffi not the Ilustre Capitan accom
pany him back to ffis Mission overland, in order better to
pomt out to him and ffis colleague. Fray Francisco Dumetz,
such other articles of provision as wffi be serviceable to the
voyagers? Tffis is cappmg the climax, and the captam retires
from the unequal contest, regrets ffis mabiUty to accede to
a request with wffich it would give him the greatest pleasure
to comply, and, by a happy thought, begs the friendly priest
instead to favor him with ffis company as a passenger on the
Discovery as far as San Buenaventura. To tffis the Father
wUlingly agrees, and further, accepts an mvitation to dme
on board that evenmg, together with the commandant of
the Presidio and a reverend brother. Fray Miguel, from the
adjacent Mission.
WhUe the dinner party on sffipboard progresses as cheer
fully as such functions shoffid, ashore consternation reigns m
the breasts of the Padre's Indian escort. The Padre has told
them of ffis intention of retummg to San Buenaventura m
the sffip of the wffite stranger. They have pleaded, urged,
prayed, but alas! the Father wiU not listen. He has made
light of their importuffities, laughed at their fears, and is
I4S

Z^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^^
even now at supper with the foreign captam. To-monow
the ship is to sail away, and that wffi certamly be the last
they shaU see of their beloved protector. The stranger is bad,
for aU strangers are bad. He means to carry the Padre off to
some terrible distant land, no doubt to put ffim to teachmg
the wffite-skinned people, for such wonderfffi men as the
Padre are rare. And that wffi be the end of the good way they
have leamed to love. No more, then, of the easy Ufe — three
times a day to go with their bowls to the pozolera and receive
as much pozole or atole as they can eat; shirts and pantaloons
when they need them, as if such tffings could be gathered
from bushes as the women pick tunas; good medicme when
they are sick; and as for work, notffing but to make a few
adobes, or plough a Uttle land for the gram, or learn from the
Padre how to smg the music m church. No wonder that they
gaze with mmgled fear and anger at the sffip out m the bay,
and determme to make one more attempt to persuade the
Father to abandon tffis mad, tffis fatal idea, when he comes
ashore at ffight — if, mdeed, he has not already been made
away with; — and who knows even that?
So they wait and watch, wffile the placid bay dims from
blue to gray, and then to mdistinguishable dusk ffi wffich the
sffip is lost to sight. At last their patience is cheered by the
sight of lights sffiffing across the water. At any rate, the sffip
is still there, and agam they crouch upon the beach, their eyes
fastened on the twinkUng beams, wffile they mutter to one
another their fears.
Now one of the Ughts is moving, and the excitement grows.
Is the sffip saiUng away, or is the Father really commg back
to them? Yes, praise to aU the saints! the Ught comes nearer;
and soon the boat comes swingmg m on a wave, and four men
jump out and hold her. The commandant and then Father
Miguel are helped ashore, and in another moment the be-
146

(m'b t^ixx (yUi00ion0
loved Father Vicente is enguffed m the affectionate demon-
stiations of ffis devoted bodyguard, to the huge deUght of the
joUy tars looking on.
But the joy of the simple natives is soon dashed. One would
think that, safe on land again, the Padre woffid abandon ffis
purpose, but it is not so. AU the way up to the Mission at the
back of the town, the anxious escort wrestles with their fated
Padre, but when he leaves them at the Mission door ffis deter
mmation is unchanged.
It is a gloomy group that sunounds the smilmg Father
Vicente as next morffing he goes down to the shore, ready for
the fatefffi voyage; and great is the emffiation for the sad
privUege of carrymg the personal effects he is taking with
him. Cffief among these are two huge books, ffis Bible and
Breviary, "spiritual comforts," as Captam Vancouver very
properly caUs them, without wffich the Father ventures no
where. They are ffis riches, ffis hourly dependence, to be ab
sent from wffich is instant anxiety and grief, though the good
priest is ordmarUy one of the blithest of men. These, then,
are entrusted to Ambrosio, the Father's personal servant and
the leader of the band, wffile others carry articles of less ex-
ceedmg value. As they approach the beach, their last hope,
that some good fate woffid yet mterf ere to prevent ffis gomg,
is crushed. Alas ! Fate, ffi the shape of dreaded boat and crew,
is aheady waiting on the shore, Notffing remams but to kiss
for the last time the Padre's hand, to receive for the last time
ffis blessing, and to proimse to obey ffis last command and
take their melancholy way back to San Buenaventura Mis
sion, there to await the misgffided Father who, they know
fuU weU, wffi never appear. Littie need is there, they tffink,
to hurry, as he has told them to do. Yes, the captam has
told the Father that with a good wind he may be at the
Mission before ffight. Not for a moment do they beUeve
147

Z^^ CaCifovnia ^(xbxt^
it, but the Padre has told them to hurry, and hurry they
will. So they see the Padre helped mto the boat with ffis belong
ings, Bible and Breviary most in evidence. The jaunty mid-
sffipman takes ffis seat at the tiller, the saUors shove off on a
propitious wave, there is a groan from the watcffing Inffians,
and the rash Father Vicente is rapidly wafted from them.
With "one longing, Ungermg look beffind" they turn away,
and trail off at a trot that wffi hardly be broken until they
reach the door of their Mission at San Buenaventura.
As it happens, the Indians are halfway to their destination
before the ship gets wind enough to fiU her sails. But the
time passes pleasantly on board, for Fray Vicente has been
a bit of a saUor himseff, as it turns out, and is deUghted with
ffis present sunoundmgs. Not offiy did he make the voyage
in his youth from Spam to Mexico, — a voyage of more weeks
then than it now is of days, — but later he was chaplam on
the frigate San Carlos when, m 1775, she sailed up tffis coast
from San Bias and gamed the distmction of bemg the first
vessel of size to enter the Bay of San Francisco. So m the
comfortable cabin, priest and sailor spm the time mto yarns
until a breeze comes up, and the sffip begms to ripple down
the qffiet channel. Then there is mterest enough in noting
the fine stretch of coast that sUdes past, with the islands hazy
in the offing; and the vivacious Padre has mcidents to relate
of this point, or that creek, or some other cove, aU of them
with mouth-filling, ecclesiastical names, "It seems to me,"
says Captam Vancouver, with a smile, " that you good friars
who have come to Uve m tffis outlandish place for the sake of
Holy Church might fairly give your own names to some of
these spots. What do you say — shaU I use my rights as an
explorer, and on the new chart that I am preparing put down
a Cape Vicente for you, my reverend friend? That is Uttle
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cm'b t^txx (](Ui00ion0
enough in return for the soUd benefits you have been shower-
mg upon us. Let me see — Pomt Vicente wiU do very weU
for that unnamed cape at the beginffing of the Bay of San
Pedro; and there is another point near there that I shaU name
m compliment to your confrere, too. . . . By-the-by, I fear
he must be deprived of your company for to-ffight, after all,
for it wiU be dark before we drop anchor, and you tell me the
surf is bad for landmg. You shaU try sleeping m a sailor's
berth once more to-ffight, and to-monow we wiU give you
back to Father Dumetz and your bereaved Indians. No
doubt they wUl be ffi ecstasies to find you safe and sound,
after aU their affectionate terrors."
Long before the early winter ffight settles down, Ambrosio
and his trusty men are posted on the ffiU behmd the Mission
at San Buenaventura, hopmg agamst hope for the appear
ance of the vessel. As time goes on, and no sffip comes m
sight, their fears are confirmed. Yes, the Padre is gone,
stolen from them by the treacherous strangers. Why did
they not keep him by force from gomg on the boat? And with
heavy looks and proportionate sighs they leave the place
when it is too dark to see, and retum to their huts at the
Mission. But the faithful heart of Ambrosio has not totally lost hope,
and at daybreak he climbs up the ffiU to scan the sea once
more. A wonder! a miracle! blessed be aU the saints, the ship
is there; and ffis qffick eyes seem to see a bustle on board as
if they were gettmg ready to launch a small boat to come
ashore. Down he runs with tffis most jojrful news, and soon
he and a score more natives are on the beach ready to launch
their canoes and make for the boat when it appears.
Snug as Father Vicente has been in ffis comfortable quarters,
he is eager to get ashore and hear how thmgs have been going
in ffis absence: so after an early breakfast the captam, anx-
149

Z^t CaCifomia {p(xbxt0
ious to gratify ffis reverend friend, orders out the boat, and
they start for the shore, the Padre, you may be sure, tightly
claspmg ffis "spiritual comforts," As they approach the
beach, the surf is seen to be dangerously ffigh, and with much
regret the captain informs the good priest that they caimot
make a landmg untU it subsides, Tffis is a disappomtment,
but the Padre, as we have seen, is a cheerful soul, and phUo
sophical withal, so as the men row to and fro outside the Une
of breakers, he chatters away as Uvely as ever.
But no such thmg as a Uttle surf can keep the Indians from
their Padre, now that he is so nearly restored to them. Three
or four canoes are launched, skiUfuUy shoot the surf, and
cluster about the sffip's boat. Our captam finds much that is
comic, no doubt, m the childlike deUght of the Indians, but
with aU ffis eye for a humorous episode, he finds the scene
reaUy toucffing, and gains added respect both for the pastor
who has so endeared himseU, and for the unhopeful-looking
but responsive flock. Now it appears that Fray Dumetz has
agam been busy in good works, for the Indians report that
there are on the beach several boat-loads of provisions wait
mg to be transported to the sffip. "Your port of San Buena
ventura is happily named, my dear Father," says the poUte
captam. "You and your coUeague have made it Saint Good
Fortune to us m good earnest."
Noon comes, and there is no sign of the surf abatmg. The
geffial Padre seems depressed, and no wonder, for whose
spirits are proof against persistent disappointment? He is
human, and moreover, he is hungry. He had hoped by this
time to be enjoying the Uttle feast that Fray Dumetz wffi no
doubt have prepared for him and the EngUsh captam. The
Indians have been busy bringmg off the provisions for the
ship, and when they soUcit ffim now to come ashore with
them in one of the canoes, he is half mcUned to risk it. Am-
150

cm'b t^^xx (l|Ui00ion0
brosio, alongside, is importunate: he can take the Padre safely
through the surf, he says ; there wUl be a Uttle wetting, but not
much. Ah, but there are the books: clothes can be dried and
be no worse, but the books are large, and as precious as large,
and once wetted they wffi be unsightly forever, and he is
afraid he cannot thoroughly shelter them from the spray that
drenches the smaU canoes as they pass the breakers. " Give
me the books. Padre," says Ambrosio; "I wiU take care and
not get them wet. See, I wffi put them so, and cover them
up, and they wffi be qffite safe. I wiU take them to the beach
and put them in a dry place, and come back for you," ShaU
he do it? He thinks of the books, and says No; but then he
thinks of the dinner, and feels horribly hungry, and says
Yes, With anxious brow and many solemn adjurations of
care, he passes the books mto the canoe, and, not without a
quahn, sees the treasured volumes pass beyond ffis reach.
The Indians had said that the surf would go down as the
day went on, but so far from calming, the wind suddenly
freshens, and the surf accordmgly mcreases. As they watch
for Ambrosio's return, they see two or three of the canoes
capsize in the breakers, though without the loss of any Uves,
thanks to the proficiency of the Indians ffi rightmg them and
clambering ffi. Under these circumstances, Ambrosio would
probably not retum, and moreover, the captain guesses, from
the mcreasmg seriousness of ffis compaffion, that the prospect
of capsizmg is a ffisagreeable one to him. In fact, when he
slyly asks whether the Father stiU thinks of gomg ashore in
a canoe, the shudder that repUes setties the matter. So the
idea of getting ashore that day is given up, and orders are.:
given to puU back to the vessel.
It is a glum Padre, indeed, whom the captam pUes with
cheerfffi conversation in the hope of lessening ffis disappomt
ment, and the worthy priest's spirits take a further drop when

€^t CaCifomia (pabt^0
he suddeffiy remembers ffis books! — those dear volumes, so
necessary to ffis peace of mmd, from wffich he ought never to
have parted. He is parted from them now, with a vengeance!
But even wffile he mourns over this last and worst depriva
tion, a more urgent catastrophe swoops down upon him: the
boat is found to be leakmg seriously, and they are m danger of
sinking, and it is a fuU half league to the sffip. At this, the
poor Father's cup of misery overflows. Cold, hungry, home
less, bereft of ffis darUng books, and now in momentary danger
of drowffing — maledicite! surely such a concourse of calami
ties never before f eU to the lot of mortal friar ! And though the
cause of the leak — a displaced plug — is soon found and tffis
particular trouble remedied, he remams sunk ffi a dejection
wffich is not lightened when he observes that ffis compaffions
in the boat are having difficulty m ffiding their mirth at ffis
rueful countenance.
In due course they arrive safely on board, but the Padre is
stiU submerged, and the captam cannot help suspecting that
he is repenting heartily that he did not Usten to ffis Indians
and accompany them home by land. Even dinner does not
Uft ffim out of the dumps, and the hospitable sailor finds the
contrast qffite pamful between the joffity of the good friar on
the Santa Barbara occasion and ffis present sighful silence.
The sorest point of his distress is ever, the books. Mariner
deprived of chart and compass would not be more helpless and
forlorn than is poor Fray Vicente without his "spiritual com
forts," and the captam devoutly hopes that the morning wiU
permit ffim to put his melancholy passenger ashore.
But, a knock at the cabm door, and enter a cabm-boy with
the word that an Indian is here who says that he must m-
stantly speak to the Padre: and over the grinffing youngster's
shoulder, behold! the solemn, dusky face of Ambrosio the
faithful. "I have brought them, Padre," he says, holdmg up
152

(m'b t^tix ^xmxom
a large bundle, "and they are not wet, no, not a drop, as I
said." Now, blessmgs on thee, Ambrosio, who knowest so
weU the Padre's Uttie weakness! Alcalde thou art, and, for
this, mayordomo thou shalt be! Findmg that the Padre could
not land, he has come out to the sffip, a full league from
shore, to bring back the treasures for wffich he knew the
Father would be piffing.
AU now is well, and smUes again blossom on the mgenuous
Padre's face. With eager fingers he unwraps the priceless
books: fair as ever they show to ffis deUghted eyes: not a spot
of water has reached them m their double journey through
the surf, thanks to the mvaluable Ambrosio. The Father
feels that he must give vent to ffis joy, and begs to be excused
if he retires for a few minutes to ffis cabin. For an hour he is
closeted alone with the recovered wanderers, and when he
reappears he is once more the geffial, even jocund. Father
Vicente that won the captam's heart at Santa Barbara.
Hardly is breakfast over next morffing before the Indians
are alongside, brmgmg word that the surf has gone down and
that aU is propitious for a landing. The boat is manned, and
they enter, the captain, the mercurial Padre, and, needless
to say, the Bible and the Breviary. " Give way smartly, my
lads," is the word, and with their escort of canoes they make
for land. A dash through the spray, and all are safe ashore.
Then what a shout goes up from the waitmg Indians! The
Padre is safe with them agam: pozole and atole, sffirts, skirts,
and pantaloons are safe too: alabanzas to aU the samts (it
is no wonder if, smce garbanzas — peas — and alabanzas —
praises — sound so much alike, the samts sometimes get one
and sometimes the other; but it is all the same, anyhow):
and from aU sides they come runnmg, seizmg and kissing
ffis hands, or, smce he has but two hands, ffis habit or ffis
hood, and asking a thousand cffildlike questions, to which
153

Z^t CaCifomia ^(xbx^0
the beaming Father repUes, to the captam's admiration, m
their own barbarous tongue. Ambrosio, once more entmsted
with the books now that the Padre can keep ffis eye on them,
does ffis best to curb the unmly demonstrations, but he is too
much m sympathy with them to be severe, and the riot goes
on. The captam is in fuU sympathy, too, and enjoys the Uvely
scene as much as any one. He wears fffil uniform, ffi honor of
the occasion and the dinner that is to come, and had thought
that, as the stranger captam, he should be a mark for curios
ity. But the Padre is all, and the captam's part is only to
share m the general ovation, and admire the benevolent char
acter of this worthy priest as the noisy procession makes its
way to the Mission.

C^(xpt^x &x^^t
SANTA BARBARA

Mission Santa Barbara, and of Padre Ripoll
Who Built It
YjiTROM San Buenaventura one may foUow the beach either
^ by private conveyance or raUway thirty-two miles to
Santa Barbara. For twenty, the way is a sandy strip between
precipitous mountams and the deep sea, and the Portola
expediti'on was two days emergmg from it mto the more Ub
eral landscape of what is now the eastem approach to Santa
Barbara. To the deUghted eyes of the travelers, sick of sea
and sand, tffis country seemed ideal for a Mission — populous
with Indians for six leagues around and possessed of a soU of
such fertiUty as to msure rich crops; and honest Costanso, the
engineer, who, as weU as Padre Crespi, made a written report
of the trip, was moved to state: "The same we wUl say in the
mystical sense; because the docffity of this people gave us
great hope that the word of God woffid be equaUy fruitful ffi
their hearts."
Nevertheless, many years came and went before the Mis
sion, which it was decided shoffid be dedicated to St. Barbara,
Virgin and Martyr, was estabUshed in this region. Not till
December 4, 1786, the feast-day of the girl-saint, andover
two years after the death of Serra, was the cross at last raised
and the ground blessed for it. The spot chosen was at a place
wffich the Spaniards caUed "El Pedregoso," "the stony,"
and the church first buUt was very different from the present
noble edffice. It was a Uttie adobe chapel, tffirty-eight feet by
fourteen, with waUs a yard tffick and a roof of beams on wffich
157

^§^ CaCifomia ^(xbxtif

reeds were tied, supportmg a layer of mud and a straw thatch.
Close to the church were the Padre's house, the kitchen, the
servants' quarters, a monjerio for the neophyte girls, and a
storeroom — aU of the same arcffitectural clay with the
church. As baptisms went on, larger accommodations had to be
provided, and one church bffildmg foUowed another until the
present, wffich is the fourth and was begun ffi 1815, the earth
quakes of 1812 havmg damaged its immediate predecessor
beyond repair. Five years were consumed in its constmction,
and, when completed m 1820, triple brass could hardly have
made it stronger. Its walls, nearly six feet through, are of
sandstone blocks and are supported, sides and angles, by huge
stone buttresses. Some of the timbers used, Bancroft states,
were brought from Santa Cruz Island m the Yankee schooner
Traveler, Captain James Smith WUcox.
That Captam WUcox was somewhat of a character in Mis
sion days. He was a quamt figure, apparently of the real
Uncle Sam type — long, lean, and lanky, and, on state occa
sions, sported a black swaUow-taU coat, a ffigh beaver hat
long of nap, and a red bandanna. The CaUfomians formed a
great Uking for ffim: caUed him Don Santiago and translated
his schooner's name mto El Caminante. For years he traded
up and down the coast from Sitka to San Bias, makmg himself
comfortably useful to Missions and Presidios alike, and even
takmg a hand in poUtics to an extent that more than once
brought him mto coUision with tffis faction or that. His chief
title to fame, however, Ues in ffis having nearly spoUed CaU-
forma's most cherished romance; for, falUng m love with
Dona Concepdon Arguello, he pressed ffis suit with such
ardor (in claw-hammer, ffis furry beaver stuffed with the red
bandanna beside him as he knelt, one wonders?) that he aU
but got her. The lady, however, managed to keep her heart,
158

(xn'b t^iix QTli00ion0
and beat a temporary retreat to Mexico. Just how Don
Santiago took ffis mitten I do not find recorded; but, as he
turned up again ffi politics, he probably bore ffis rebuff with
pffilosopffic resignation.
To Padre Antoffio RipoU the honor belongs — and it is no
mean one — of directmg the buUdmg of the reaUy fine piece
of arcffitecture wffich we now know as the Mission Santa
Barbara. Tffis friar was a MaUorcan, from Serra's own town
of Palma, and was a dommant figure at Santa Barbara from
1815 to 1828. He was that joyous sort of character that does
with its might whatever it begins. His especial interest seems
to have been to improve the Mission's temporalities, and it is
a matter of history that he left it more imposingly housed
than he found it, and the neophytes clad ffi better cloth than
had ever been spun there before. He was, moreover, exceed
ffigly tender-hearted, as I glean from the grudgmg Bancroft,
At the time of the Purisima uprising of 1824 (whereof more
later), in wffich the Santa Barbara neophytes jomed. Padre
Antoffio coffid not eat his midday broth for anxiety, lest some
of his dusky cffildren, who were busy letting fly their arrows
from the Mission corridors at the soldiers of the guard, should
be kffied by the latter's musketry. As for the soldiers, doubt
less he thought getting killed was their natural way of dying;
but shootmg neophytes was simple murder. A few were m
fact shot, and the rest took to the ffiUs, carrymg with them
such goods as they could lay their hands on, but refrainmg
from toucffing anythmg in the church. This evidence of re
spect for reUgion was worked to good purpose by the poUtic
Padre, and he succeeded m securing from the Govemor a
general pardon for the rebels who then retumed meekly
enough to resume their life as mansos, as though nothmg had
happened. At the time of the piratical Bouchard's descent upon the
159

ZSft CaCifomia ^(xbxts
CaUforffia coast in 1818, Padre RipoU rivaled Fray Luis of
San Lffis Obispo m mffitary ardor — organizmg at ffis Mission
a gallant band of one hundred and eighty picked neophytes
for service agamst the enemy. One hundred were armed with
bows, fifty with -machetes, and tffirty with lances, and were
enroUed under the splendid title La Compa-nia de Urbanos
Realistas de Santa Bdrbara. These urban RoyaUsts never got
into action, but their doting capitan frailero considered them
sin par for bravery and loyalty. StiU, he pmdently kept their
weapons under lock and key after drilUng hours. RipoU was
an ardent royaUst and not backward about saymg so. After
the attainment of Mexican independence, times became
harder and harder for ffim, as for aU those of the old order;
and finaUy ffi 1828 he sUpped away ffi tears on an American
brig that had touched at Santa Barbara. A few years later he
was heard of m ffis native MaUorca, where doubtless he ended
ffis days. It is worthy of note that a considerable proportion
of the Spaffish Franciscans in Caffiomia were Cataloffians
(Mallorcans being of the same stock) — a fact, I tffink, wffich
helps account for the wonderful acffievement of the move
ment. Europe holds no sturdier, honester people than the
Catalans, who, as a race, have long been noted for their mor
aUty, industry, resourcefulness, and qffickness of wit. Add to
these sterling qualities a sound eighteenth-century education
and an endowment of Christian grace, and you have the
measure of the men who made the Califomia Missions.
The Mission is to Santa Barbara what St. Peter's is to
Rome. In old times when travelers more often came by sea
than by land, the Mission's commandmg site above the rather
aristocratic Uttle pueblo whose life was closely bound with its,
made a notable landmark. Monsieur Duhaut-Cilly m 1827
compared it, mdeed, to a mediaeval castle m its stateUness.
To-day, when the city has grown around it, it stands out less
160

(xn'b t^dx Q(Ui00ion0
conspicuously; but it is just as dear to modern Santa Barbar-
eiios as it was to the old generation. Every tourist visits it,
and m consequence an accepted part of the day's work with
the good-natured Brotherhood who mhabit it is to show it off
to visitors.
You aUght from the Uttie trolley car at the foot of a gentle
knoU on which the gray old buUding stands, and shortly you
mount the steps mto the roomy corridor whence Padre
RipoU's neophytes m the shelter of the pUlars shot at the sol
diers. You touch the beU, and an alert Brother appears in the
brown gown and white cord of the modem Franciscan; and, if
there is but one of you, he finds himself apologetically busy for
a few moments, bemg sure of more arrivals by the next car, or
sooner. Then, when a suitable number has gathered, he takes
you the rounds, exudmg history as he goes. First, there is the
church mterior to see, with its Indian mural decorations,
highly approved by Padre Suiier on their completion m 1820
as "all agreeable, strong and neat," and of late retmted into
aboriginal floridness; and there is the fine altarpiece of carved
wood, done by one of the present-day Brothers. Then there is
the flowery, shady cemetery into which you go by a side door
from the church, and where I forget how many thousand
Indians are buried m unmarked graves, as well as numerous
of the gente de razon of former days. Their mossy tombs bear
many a name famous m CaUfomia history. Then up the wom
steps of one of the twm towers you are sent for a view of the
world, and a beautfful world you find it, from among the beUs;
and so down agam and across the corridor mto the museum
rooms where you may mspect all sorts of Mission curios, from
Indian mortars to rawhide beds and portraits of saints who,
you hope, were more beautiful within than the pictures would
have them seem without. Somewhere in this round you may
have had a gUmpse of the Padres' trim patio garden, where,
161

Z^t CaCifomia i^(ii'bxi0
"held ffi holy passion stiU," the Brothers doubtless resort to
meditate ffi the cool of the day; but admission to tffis is deffied
to visitors. In the reception room, where you are mvited to
register your name, you may buy, if you Uke, a rosary of
Job's- tear seeds, grown ffi the Mission garden, and drop a coin
(or not — it is as you please, but I am assummg you are not a
screw) mto the Brother's palm. Then, seemg the Ught good m
the corridor, you ask if photograpffing is permitted and learn
to your deUght that it is, and the Brother — fine feUow that
he is — has no eartffiy objection to standmg ffi the picture.
Like Santa Barbara Mission? Of course you do.
After the first formal visit to a place of tourist resort, I find,
it suits my vagabond spirit to go again and browse around
for unadvertised matters. So, wffile in Santa Barbara, I went
back one morffing to the Mission and spent an hour on a
shady bench near the fountain, watching people come and go.
Every car brmgs somebody, generaUy tourists, but here
are two nuns getting out to pass into the church to their de
votions. Sometimes the tourists are serious, gentlemanly
and ladylike folk whose red Baedekers show them to be con
scientiously doing Calffomia. At times they are under the
wing of a resident who sedulously sees that aU of interest is
noted — the great trough of solid masonry below the foun
tain, where the Indian Women did their' laundry work; and,
of course, the old fountain itself with its stone standard
adorned with deUghtful scroUs and flutmgs and convention
alized leaves, arising from an octagonal basm, wffich was
much more beautiful before some latter-day rage for neatness
inspired the appUcation of a sleek plaster of cement to it. The
stately towers, too, are to be admired, and the digrufied pU-
astered f ajade upon wffich the three Christian graces. Faith,
Hope, and Charity, perch in effigy. Quite often the visitors
162

^dK^

FRANCISCAN BROTHERS AT WORK, MISSION SANTA BARBARA

)

anb t^^v Q|Hi00ion0
are m a hurry to catch the next car back; and sometimes won
derfuUy ignorant. Here comes a young lady, for instance, chew
ing gum. I fancy she is on her weddmg tour with the strip-
Ung who has grabbed her arm and is pushmg her up the slope.
Gee, am t it an old place ! " she exclaims ffi open-eyed sur
prise. Two men, smokmg pipes, are the next to pass me, and I
catch the foUowing: —
ist Gent.: There am't any of the old Padres aUve now, are
there? 2'nd Gent.: Lord, no! why, man, ff they were, they'd be
three hundred years old.
ist Gent.: I mean, any of the last bunch — since the war,
you know. The country 's only been civUized since the war,
ain't it? FuU of bushwackers before, was n't it?
In the lull between tourists, the sound of cffildish merri
ment came intermittently, to my surprise, from an open win
dow in the Mission, and curiosity impeUed me to transfer my
seat to a bench in the corridor. In one of the rooms, it seems,
a catechetical school for boys is conducted on Saturdays by
one of the Brothers. There were twenty-five or tffirty of the
Uttie lads there that morffing, and the Brother in charge cer
taiffiy knew ffis busmess. Their bright faces were riveted on
his and he seemed completely to command their interest. I
do not now remember where the joke came in, but every now
and then a shout of laughter would go up from those jolly
young throats. It is a fine art to turn theology into a fiesta!
By and by, the assemblage broke up, and the boys clattered
down the corridor and across the plaza to the old fountam.
There they balanced themselves for a wffile on the edge at
the risk of falling in, and, chattering Uke magpies, finaUy raced
off homeward down the ffiU. 163

€^^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^s
It is a feature of the Santa Barbara Mission that it alone
of aU the California cham has never been without resident
Franciscans from Serra's day to tffis. In 1842 the buUdmgs
became the offidal residence of the first CathoUc Bishop of
CaUforffia — Francisco Garcia Diego y Moreno, who had
been a Franciscan friar. Smce 1856 a Franciscan coUege for
the propagation of the faith has been mamtained on the Mis
sion property, and the convento houses a considerable Fran
ciscan community. The Fathers are occupied ffi preparing
candidates for the priesthood, in preaching missions, and in
visiting a few outside stations. In a wmdowless upper room
shut out from the world's distractions, save as they may drop
through a skyUght, Father Zephyrin Engelhardt, the leamed
ffistorian of the Franciscans m CaUfornia, has his abode. I
caught sight of him one day on some errand bent, a qffiet,
scholarly figure in Franciscan habit and a black skuU-cap.
All the necessary labor of the community is done by Brothers
of the order, some of whom the visitor is pretty sure to see
working about the Mission grounds; and not iffirequently
has ffis sense of humor touched by the sight of them, their
clerical persons in brown gowns, pitchmg hay or shoveUng
dirt, their caputs topped the wffile with caps or straw hats.
One whom I noticed wore a blue apron over ffis gown. Why
not? Is not cleanliness akin to godUness?
Of course, the Mission rancho lands wffich extended once
from Carpinteria to Gaviota and across the sierra to the up
per waters of the Santa Ines River, were sequestrated long
ago,! Of the old vineyard and orchards, praised of old-time
travelers, notffing remains, except perhaps a few olive trees,
which as late as 1909, accordmg to Mr. Walter A. Hawley m
^ Before secidarization, the lands of one Mission were, in a general way
Umited only by those of adjoining Missions. Here and there a parcel of land
for a rancho was conveyed to some retired soldier or other servant of the king;
but, as a rule, the Padres were opposed to private holding of land outside the
164

(mb t^^x O(Hi00ion0
his mterestmg monograph, "Early Days of Santa Barbara,"
stffi Uved m the grounds of certain modern residences and
doubtless stUl do. The ancient reservoirs and aqueducts, by
wffich the Mission's water supply was brought from the moun
tains, displayed a thoroughness and taste m construction
worthy of the water-loving Moors of Spam. Part of the friars'
work has become mcorporated with the Santa Barbara muni
cipal system. One of the open aqueducts from the ffiUs used
to cross the road that now skirts the cemetery wall at the
east of the church, and here, as late as a generation ago, In
dian women, a remnant of the former Mission flock, would
come to wash clothes beside the waters runffing then abund
antly. You wiU know the spot by the presence to-day of two
great sycamores, standmg so close together that a board has
been fitted between them to serve as a bench for wa3rfarers.
The trees have a story to tell.
One midsummer day in 1866, Father Joseph O'Keefe, then
a young Frandscan Brother of the Mission commuffity, had
his kind heart touched by the sight of the patient women com
ing day after day to wash their Unen under the broiUng sun;
for in those days the place was without shade of any sort. His
sympathy being of the practical kind, he cut four large syca
more Umbs from a neighboring tree and set them deep in the
moist soil to furffish protection to those humble toUers ffi the
sun. Of the four, two took root, and have grown to trees of
generous spread — testimony-bearers to an act of simple
kindness to the lowly, not unworthy, I tffink, of the seraphic
Frauds ffimself,^
pueblos. They claimed no ownership themselves in the Mission lands, but
occupied them as trustees imder the crown, for the benefit of the Indians.
' Father O'Keefe has been for half a century a familiar figure in later Mis
sion history. Largely to his efiorts is due the rehabiUtation of Mission San
Luis Rey, as a Franciscan estabUshment. He is the author of a monograph on
the history of Santa Birbara Mission, to which I am indebted.

Z^^ CaCifomia ypabre0
II
Love in the Padres' Garden
3t was five years since I had seen my old chum, Dick Trev-
gern, back in Boston, wffile Mrs. Trevgern I had never
seen at aU. So when, last winter, I found myseff at Santa
Barbara, where they Uved, one of the first tffings I did was
to trace them ffi the telephone book and caU up Dick. The
result was an urgent mvitation to dinner that evenmg. I was
quite keen to meet my friend's wife, and aU the more so, since
Dick, who is one of the finest fellows m the world, is, or used
to be, also one of the oldest-fasffioned, and had seemed to be
destined for bachelor joys; so I wondered what coffid be the
special charms that had subjugated him.
I found them as cozy as a married couple of two years'
standing has a right to be, m a rose-embowered cottage on
one of the hill streets near the Mission. Mrs. Trevgem I
found to be a very pretty, vivacious, and in every way attrac
tive girl, — she was offiy twenty, — ¦ and as they were evi
dently very fond of each other I rejoiced at Dick's good sense
and good fortune. It was a very joUy Uttle dinner, and alto
gether as pleasant an evenmg as I have ever passed. At some
indirect reference to the topic (it is hard to find a name for
it that is agreeable to every one, but I wffi use a weU-wom
phrase) the emandpated woman, I had an opportuffity of
seemg that the lady clearly was of the affirmative party,
whereas I knew, from recollection of old times, and anyway
because Dick was Dick, that his view on the question was a
decided No. Tffis raised an interesting Uttle speculation in
my mind, and when, about eleven o'clock, Mrs. Trevgern de
clared that she was going to leave us two together for a good
i66

(m'b t^^x (](tVi00ion0
confabulation over old days, and retired for the ffight, I made
some half- joking reference to the matter, and asked Dick how
it happened that he, of aU men, had chosen a wife out of the
emancipation camp.
"Oh, well," he repUed, "she is a dear good girl" — I has
tened to say that I was sure of it — " and we have lots of fun
out of our different ideas on little tffings Uke that. The odd
thmg is, though, that it was Kitty's fad for woman's rights
and that sort of thmg that is responsible for her bemg Mrs.
Trevgem — I mean, that was what you might caU the excit-
mg cause. Pffil your chair up to the fire and I'll tell you aU
about it. It was really quite a joke.
" No doubt it wiU be news to you that I used to know Kitty
years ago, before either you or I came to CaUforffia. All the
time that you fellows were ragging me about being an old
bachelor, I knew my own mind and meant to marry Kitty
some day. I don't think you knew her people, the Draytons.
They Uved down at Qumcy, close to us, and our famiUes were
old friends. At the time that I got tffis appointment out here
she was offiy sixteen, but before I came away from Boston I
told her I loved her, and that when I had got on my feet I was
going to ask her to marry me. I did n't want her to promise
then, for it did n't seem square to ask her; but I had a pretty
good idea that she liked me, and I figured that in two or three
years I could be so placed that I might fairly ask her, and,
as young as she was, she would hardly have faUen m love
with any one else. After I came to CaUfornia I wrote to her
now and then, not often, and no spooffing, you know, but
just to keep myself in her mmd; and she answered with good,
sensible, newsy letters.
" She was always a particularly bright girl, with a good idea
of what was going on in the world and a mind of her own
about it. In one of her letters she said she had been gomg to
167

Z^t CaCifomia ^((bx^s
a set of lectures by some confounded EngUshwoman, on The
Woman of To-morrow, or the Day after To-morrow, or some
tffing, and asked me what I thought about what she caUed
Woman's Awakeffing. I dare say you remember how we used
to argue aU that stuff in our old Debating Club — did n't we
just! — and how I always got sat upon for bemg a back num
ber and not Uffing up with the hatchet brigade? WeU, I had
n't changed my mind — have n't yet, for that matter — but
I did n't suppose she cared two hairpins about it, and I re
pUed with some old joke or other, and let it go. From other
letters, though, I soon saw that Kitty had got reaUy keen on
the suffrage business, and that she knew I was a heretic: but
we both had sense enough not to let the subject get on the
argumentative line.
"It ran on that way until two years ago, and then her peo
ple came to spend the winter m CaUforffia. In the early spring
they came up to Santa Barbara, and I saw Kitty again. I
had n't weakened at aU in my loving her, and she was prettier
than ever — almost as pretty as she is now, bless her. — Yes,
I knew you'd think so, old man. — By that time I was doing
quite weU, and prospects were good enough so that I felt I
could ask her to marry me. One day, on a drive round by
Montecito, I asked her. She wouldn't promise: said she
liked me as much as ever, and did n't care about any one else,
but didn't think she ought to marry me, and so on. I coffidn't
get her to say why for a long time, but at last it came out.
Some one, that idiotic EngUshwoman, I suppose, had put it
mto the dear girl's head that it was her duty not to ally her
self with 'a reactionary' (I tffink that was the word) and in
tffis case that meant poor harmless me. I argued till I must
have been blue in the face, but I could n't get her to give m:
she says now that she thought she would make me give ffi.
And so it had to stay, but my consolation was that I knew she
i68

an'b i^txx QUi00ion0
really cared for me. It was just head against heart, and though
I knew, as I said, that Kitty's head was as good as anybody's,
I thought her heart was better yet. I told her, though, that I
should n't let it rest Uke that for long.
"A day or two later I had an engagement to go up with
them to look at the Mission. One of the Fathers showed us
through, a dozen or more people altogether, regular tourist
style, and we had seen about everytffing there was, when
some one asked if we coffid n't go into the sacred garden. You
know what I mean? There 's a private garden that most peo
ple don't get to see, and wffich, as the story goes, no woman
is allowed to enter. The priest said he was sorry, but it was
only by special permission that any visitor saw that garden
and that permission was never given for ladies to see it, Kitty
pricked up her ears at that,
" 'Do you mean to say,' she said to me, as we walked on,
' that there is a part of the Mission where men may go and
women must n't?' 'I don't mean to say so,' I told her, but
the Padre here does, and I'm afraid that settles it,' 'Indeed,
it does n't,' she said, 'What does he mean? Is there some
tffing horrid there that is not ffice for women to see?' 'No,'
I replied; 'it's ffice enough, just a garden. They caU it sacred,
but I don't know why,' 'Oh, I see,' remarked Kitty, 'sacred
from women, no doubt. That's just like these monks: they
tffink tffis is the Middle Ages still, I suppose you think so too.
You may go an3rwhere, because you are a man, but a woman
is to be shut out of tffis and that — they're sacred!' I could
see she was pretty much excited, and I tried to cahn her down.
'Now, Kitty,' I said, 'you know very weU that as far as I'm
concerned there's notffing on earth that I want so much as
for you and me to be together always and everywhere. Let
them keep their old garden: anyway, if it's too sacred for you
it would certainly kiU me on the spot.' 'It's aU very weU
169

Z^ CaCifomia (J)abt^0
to make fun,' she returned, 'but it's the principle that has to
be fought. It's absurd, it's — it's mediaeval! And you're
medieval too,' she wound up. 'WeU,' I said, 'I always knew
I was a bit old-f asffioned, but I was never called a regular an
tique before.' That made her laugh, and we forgot aU about
the old garden till we got back to the house.
"At least, I thought she had forgotten, but when I said
good-bye she came with me to the door, and said, 'Dick, I'm
going to see that garden at the Mission, It is n't that I care
about the garden, but I do care about the principle, I'm go
ing to get m somehow, and I want to know, wiU you help me? '
'My dear Kitty,' I answered, 'I'm your man: at least you
know I want to be. The only tffing is, how do you mean to do
it?' 'That 's for you to arrange,' she said. 'You men think
you can do tffings better than women, so here 's a chance to
show what you can do.' 'WeU,' I remarked, 'it looks like a
burglar's job, and I've not done much in that line: but you
know what I said, that I want to go everywrhere you go, and
if that means jail, I 'm game.' She looked a bit serious when
I talked about jail, for she thought I was ffi earnest: but she
did n't back down, and I said I would see what plan I coffid
think up.
"I easily found out whereabout the garden was, and the
offiy way I could see to get Kitty m there was by cUmbmg
over the wall some evenmg after dark. It was an adobe waU,
and not very high, I could easily get over it myself, but for
Kitty we ought to have a ladder. There was a bright Uttle
Mexican chap I knew, whom I had met one day up by the
Mission, He Uved near there, and one day I had seen him
haunting about and got ffim to pose in a picture. After that
we 'd had chats now and then. It occuned to me that JuUo
could find a short ladder and brmg it to the place : and I had
an idea — old-fasffioned, you see, as usual — that he would
170

(m'b t^^x QHi00ion0
make a kmd of chaperon, too, to save a Uttle bit of the respec-
tabiUties, I told Kitty my plan, and she thought it was aU
right, jumped at it, in fact; so we set the time for two days
after the next fuU moon. We figured that as it was sundown
soon after five o'clock, we could do our wall-cUmbing when
it got dark, say about half past six, before the moon came up.
It would rise about seven, and we should have plenty of Ught
to investigate the garden, Kitty did pretty much as she Uked
at home, as regards being ffi or out, so all she would need to
tell her people was that she was gomg to be with me that
evenmg. "WeU, I arranged it with JuUo. He was a miscffievous Uttle
rascal, and it looked like a good joke to him; and a couple of
dollars was good pay for a joke. When the evenmg came, I
called for Kitty about six o'clock, I had told her to dress in
some kmd of color that would not show too much by moon
light, so she had on a big gray doak of her mother's that cov
ered her aU up. It had a hood, too, so she did n't need a hat.
For fun I had drawn a large placard, with 'Votes for Women'
on it m big letters. I meant to tack it to a tree or somethmg
if I got a chance, but Kitty didn't know anythmg about
tffis. "When we got to the place, JuUo was there with ffis ladder.
It is very qffiet round there at night, and there was not much
danger of any one commg past, I got up first on the wall to
make sure the coast was clear. There were Ughts shining from
two or three windows, but no one was moving, so I beckoned
Kitty to come, and she climbed up and sat on the waU wffile
JuUo came up. Then I quietly pulled up the ladder and low
ered it on the garden side. I went down first, and then
Kitty, She was a bit excited, I could see, but as game as ever,
I had told JuUo to wait up on the waU by the ladder tiU we
came back, 171

Z^t CaCifomia ^(xbx^s
"It was about seven o'clock and nearly moonrise when we
started on our tour. I took Kitty's hand. She was rather
trembly, but she said she meant to see every tffing there was
in this precious garden. I did, too, now we were in. We went
along a path by the waU and found a seat. There was no rea
son for hurr3dng, so we sat down to wait tiU the moon was up.
Itwas certamly pretty — especiaUy with Kitty there; there
were taU black cypresses, and cUmbmg roses, and orange
trees just commg into bloom ; and when the moonUght touched
the old belfries, and there came the murmurmg sound of chant
ing from some place withm the Mission, Kitty wffispered to
me that the garden reaUy was ahnost sacred, and I qffite
agreed with her.
"After a few iffinutes we went on. The garden is laid out
in beds of shrubs and flowers, with wmdmg walks between.
We kept in the shade as much as we could, as there were sev
eral windows that look on the garden, and some one might
see us if we made ourselves conspicuous. But there were lots
of trees, and we skirmished about from one to another and
had no end of a good time. Kitty was enjoying it immensely,
and it did seem a pretty good joke to be dodgmg about ffi the
old garden right under their noses, for we could see them now
and then through the wmdows. We were standmg under a
big cypress that had been trimmed up to ten feet or so above
the ground, when I remembered my placard, I unfolded it
and showed it to Kitty, and then fixed it on the tree with
thumb-tacks, Kitty was dancing about with joy at the plac
ard, and almost clapping her hands, but I made her stop for
fear some one would hear her.
"We had nearly been aU round the garden, takmg it easily,
and sitting down now and then. We were laughing and jokmg
under our breath, and I was thinking that tffis woffid be a
good place to propose to her again; rather romantic, you
172

(m'b t^^xx (VUi00ion0
know, to pop the question under those circumstances. It was
gettmg time to clear out, but we sat down agam for a few
mmutes before we went. Kitty threw the cloak off, and m
her white dress and by the moonUght m that old garden, she
looked — weU, you can imagme — no, you can't, though, no
one could who did n't see her. So I up and told her aU I
wanted to say. The darUng took it like an angel, but just out
of miscffief — I know, for she has said so herself since then —
she hummed and hawed and began to talk about different
pomts of view and stuff like that. Well, at that very moment,
a door opened and a man, one of the priests, came out. We
were sittmg ffi the shadow, but the door was right opposite,
and I suppose the bright Ught coiffing through the doorway
shone on Kitty's wffite dress. Perhaps he heard us, too, for
I guess we had forgotten about talking under our breath: I
know I had. Anyhow, he spotted us. We saw him stop for a
second and heard him say sometffing to himself, and then he
came right toward us, I saw we were m for it, so I caught
Kitty by the hand and we ran, I heard the Father, or Brother
or whatever they call themselves, commg after us : we could
hear ffis skirts flappmg about and I think he must have been
a fat man from the way he puffed.
"We were right at the other end of the garden from where
the ladder was. Kitty is a good runner, and we had a good
lead and were nearly there when suddeffiy Kitty almost
stopped and exclaimed, in a horrffied voice, 'The cloak, Dick!
we 've left it beffind, and it has mother 's name on it ! ' Whew !
that's a bad mess, I thought. It must be got, that was cer
tain, 'You mn on,' I told her, 'and get up the ladder. Do
you see it? ' 'Yes,' she said, 'but what about you? ' 'I'm go
ing back for the cloak,' I answered, 'You get up the ladder
and wait for me, I '11 stop him foUowmg you, Qffick, Kitty,
hurry up ! ' I watched her get to the ladder and then started
173

t^t CaCifomia (pabtr^0

back. I ffid n't know just where the priest was, as we had lost
ffim somewhere among the trees, but I ran back, got the
cloak, and started agam cautiously for the ladder. When I
was halfway there I caught sight of ffim starmg at the placard.
I can't understand to tffis day why he had n't raised a racket.
I think that placard must have hypnotized him. WeU, he
saw me and caUed to me to stop. As he was between me and
the place where the ladder was, I saw I could n't get past him,
so I ran back to the other end of the garden again, and he
came runnmg after me. AVhen he came to the door I saw ffim
stop a moment and then go m, evidently to get help. That
was my time. I sprmted back as fast as I could, for it was
getting rather too mterestmg. Kitty was there aU right, sit
ting on the wall, but I coffid n't see Jffiio nor any ladder.
' Dick ! ' she caUed down to me, ' I 've let the ladder drop down
on the other side. Can you get up without it? ' ' How on
earth did you do that ? ' I asked. 'I was afraid that horrid
monk might come along and see me, and take the ladder
away to keep you from getting up,' Kitty said: 'so I puUed
it up after me, and then it sUpped and went down the other
side.' 'Never mind,' I repUed, 'I can climb up: but where is
JuUo?' 'I have n't seen him,' she said: 'but never mmd ffim,
come along up,'
"I threw the cloak up to her, and then jumped at the waU
to clamber up. I caught the top all right, but the rotten adobe
bricks came away, and I tumbled down with half a dozen of
them on top of me, and in faffing, by the worst kmd of luck,
I sprained my foot. I tried to get up, but found I coffid n't
stand on the hurt foot, 'What's the matter, Dick?' asked
Kitty. ' Sprained foot,' I said. ' I don't see how I 'm gomg to
cUmb up that waU now. I can't jump ffigh enough with one
foot, and the adobes woffid most likely come down agam, any
how. Confound that imp, JuUo! he woffid have saved aU tffis
174

(m'b t^iix (TUi00ion0
mess if he had done as I told ffim. I guess we're trapped, I
am, an3T\ray.'
"Every moment I expected to see the Mission people com
ing, and there was the chance of some one commg along the
road, too, and findmg Kitty plajdng Humpty-Dumpty. The
poor Uttle tffing was nearly crymg. ' Oh, Dick,' she said, ' does
it hurt much? Oh, I know it must, and it's aU my fault.
What wffi they do to us, Dick?' 'WeU,' I answered, 'they
can't skin us and eat us, you know, I should n't mind about
myseff, offiy that it makes a feUow look Uke a fool. You ought
to many me now, Kitty, for no one else will,' I added, severely,
'Don't you tffink so?' 'Oh, I suppose so, Dick,' she said, half
laugffing and half cr)dng, 'No one else will marry me, either,
for that matter, I wonder you want to, after my gettmg you
into tffis fix,' 'AU right, darUng,' I said: 'it's a bargam, mmd.
They have n't got us yet, anyhow,' I went on. 'Here they
come, though,' as haff a dozen petticoated figures issued
from the door. I saw them go toward the other end of the gar
den, where I had last been seen, and begm searcffing about.
'Now, Kitty,' I told her, 'when they come tffis way you just
let yourself down the other side as far as you can, and then
drop. You are Ughter than I, and I think the bricks wiU hold.
Then run home as qffickly as you can, and Ue low.' 'Dick,'
the little trump replied, indignantly, 'do you suppose I'm
going to run away and let you stand the blame? Do you think
I 'm one of those putty kmd of girls? ' I tried to argue with her
but — well, you know what suffragists are; she wouldn't
budge, 'Dick,' she exclaimed at last, 'what am I thinkmg of?
I can drop down, as you said, and get the ladder over to you,'
I 'd thought of that, of course, but I could n't stand the idea
of her falUng and perhaps getting hurt, 'You must n't do it,
Kitty,' I declared, 'If you get hurt as weU, we shaU be ffi a
worse hole than ever.' My mmd was workmg Uke Ughtffing,
17s

Z^t CaCifomia ^abt;^0
and suddenly I thought of the cloak, 'Kitty ' I said, 'throw
the cloak down to me,' It was a good old-fashioned cloak,
with yards and yards of stuff in it, I twisted it into a sort of
rope, and then stood up against the waU on my good foot and
threw the end over as far as I could, ' How far does it reach? '
I asked. ' Plenty far enough,' she answered, I did n't need to
say any more. She took hold of it and let herself down, and
I heard her drop to the ground. In another moment she was
up on the wall and puUing the ladder after her. It made an
awful row, and I saw some of the people stop and Usten. It
was touch and go then, I could see. Kitty lowered the ladder,
and in half a jiffy I was up. As we were pulUng the ladder up,
they saw us and began to come on the run, but they were just
about half a minute too late, I sent Kitty down and then
scrambled down myself. Just then, along came that young
scamp JuUo, as innocent as you please, 'Take the ladder and
run that way,' I ordered, ' and let it drag so as to make lots of
noise.' "Kitty was shaking aU over, what with excitement and
fright, and pity for my foot. We sat down against the wall and
listened to the chaps inside caUing us awful names in Spamsh,
Irish, German, and about everytffing else. My foot was pretty
pamful, and so swollen that I could hardly get my shoe off,
Kitty produced a bandage from somewhere and bound the
foot so as to keep it stiff, and then I got up and with the help
of the wall and Kitty's arm I hobbled off with her in the oppo
site direction from that in which JuUo had gone, wffile the
sounds in the garden got fainter and fainter, showmg that
he was drawmg the enemy's fire, as I expected,
"Of course the tffing got mto the papers somehow, but
luckily the names did n't, for JuUo did n't get caught. And
as you see, Kitty Uved up to her bargam."

C^apt^ (nine
SANTA INES

-.K

Mission Santa In^s, the Feast of all the Dead,
AND Other Pertinent Matters
ATNver La Cuesta de Santa Ines, as the old Spaffiards caUed
^^ the mountain range that looks down on martyred St.
Barbara's Mission and town, three roads go by as many
passes to the Santa Ines Valley. There, at the edge of a soU
tary region of vast cattie ranges, hay camps and primeval
oaks, remote from raUroads and the unrest of cities, stands the
Mission of a sister Virgin and Martyr, St. Agnes. AU three
ffighways are exceedmgly beautfful. Those by the passes of
San Marcos and Gaviota are frequented by automobUes; but
the third, wffich traverses the pass called Refugio, was for
bidden to motorists at the time of my pilgrimage, and I tmst
still is. In some respects it is the most picturesque of the
three, and, though rough enough in places, is a joyous road to
the pedestrian or the traveler with horses. Moreover, tradi
tion says it is the way the Padres foUowed, when they tripped
it the forty miles between Santa Ines and Santa Barbara —
a fact wffich decided me ffi its favor. Leaving the train at the
flag station Oraya, I set briskly out, for a wffile skirting a Uttle
creek that flowed through lands once part of the famous
Rancho de Nuestra Senora del Refugio, the scene of many an
old-time smuggUng adventure, and soon I was zigzaggffig up
the sierra's flank.''
' Travelers who would be carried the entire distance to Mission Santa Infis
leave the Southem Pacific train at Gaviota Station, whence a daily stage runs
to Santa In6s; or the Pacific Coast Railway wiU take them to Los OUvos, where
conveyance may be arranged for to the Mission, six miles.
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€^i: CaCifomia ^(xbxts
The sunwas setting when I reached the Santa Ines River at
the mountam's tffither base, and wadmg it, shoes and stock
ings m hand, I came by and by to a plam rimmed about with
treeless ffiUs, and ahead the wffite waUs of the Mission flashed
me a welcome. I knew it was a welcome; for it was my good
fortune to possess the friendsffip of the resident priest. He,
whom aU the countryside knows as Padre Alejandro, and ffis
good niece have Uved at Santa Ines for a dozen years. Loving
the place for its past as weU as for its opportuffities for present
service, they have restored the church and convento part,
largely with their own hands, from a rffin to what is now the
most homeUke of the Missions. Wffile it is nowadays essen
tially a parish church and rectory, miffistering to an extended
vicinage. Padre Alejandro with ffis warm heart has made it
far more than a buUding. He has imbued it with something
of the old Franciscan spirit and love of humaffity, though
ffimseff no Franciscan, but of the secular dergy; and the reg
ister of good deeds, kept ffi heaven, holds note, you may be
sure, of many a run-down wreck of a wanderer wound up and
set gomg agam by tffis kindly mmister of Christ.
The Mission buildings, in gUsteffing white with roofs of red
tile and a strip of flower garden before the corridored front,
face the beautiful vaUey of the Santa Ines River, across wffich
they look to the long reach of the oak-clad sierra. The sun
had now set, and the eastern heights that crisp autumnal
evening were pmk with a sort of alpme glow, beneath drift
ing masses of fog wrack blown in from the ocean. Some tffirty
acres of church lands surround the Mission, preservmg it in
digrdfied isolation both from the Uttle Protestant state of
Denmark, caUed Solvang (a settlement of Danes who have
lately taken up a tract of land across the way), and the dusty
highroad that wmds onward to Santa Ynez town, four mUes
beyond. i8o

(m'b t^txx Qtti00ion0
Historically, Santa Inez has cut no great figure that I can
find, ff we except its neophytes' participation m the redoubt
able Purisima rebeffion which is commg in another chapter,
Tffirty-two years covered its missionhood; for its foundmg
was not tiU 1804, and secffiarization overtook it in 1836. The
earthquakes of el ano de los temblores paid their devoirs to
Santa Ines and gave the church then standing so severe a
shakmg that it had to be rebffilt, and the present structure
with its wide, shallow bell tower, dates from 1817, Tffis
quaint campanario was partially destroyed by a winter
storm three years ago, wffich brought down the top and with
it the heavy beUs. The restoring hand of Padre Alejandro is
responsible for the addition of three windows that the old
lacked, and for the solemnizing warning, if you read Latin,
that now catches your eye on the east wall of the tower
beneath the beUs: Ex illis una tua erit.^
I passed through a wicket into the arcaded corridor, which
chairs, a bench or two, roses clambering about the piUars, and
a flowery array of potted plants had transformed into a de
Ughtful outdoor living-room. An open door led to a box-Uke
vestibule witffin, at the end of which was a closed door and
in it a little window such as ticket offices have. It, too, was
closed. Above, in neat lettering, was another mscription in
Latm wffich I managed to translate : —
Guest, as to thy knocking my door
opens to thee, so do thou open to
God, knocking at thy heart. ^
A sermon, that, so universal in its appeal that any one —
churchman or worldUng — must, I thought, have owned it;
and so I gently touched the beU, There was sound of foot-
1 "Of these one wUl be thine": an aUusion to the custom of tolling a church
beU when a parishioner dies.
^ Hospes, pulsanti tibi se mea janua pandet, tu tua pulsanti pectore pande
Deo. 181

Z^^ CaCifomia ^abt:e0
steps withm and presently the Uttle window sUd back and
the pleasant face of the Padre himself appeared m the open
ing. Then, ffinging wide the door, he drew me m with such
a welcome as one only gets at home.
To the sentimental traveler, Uke myself, there is a touch of
the poetic about sleeping in an old Mission. You feel your
self the guest of CUo — a Ungerer in the courts of ffistory and
old romance. As a prelude to the night, the Father did me,
after supper, a Liszt Rhapsodic and Lohengrm's "Lebewoffi"
on the pianola m his snug music-room, and then, lightmg a
candle, he conveyed me to the side of the convento facmg on
the inner court, where my chamber was — a room big enough
for a conclave of cardinals. The ffigh ceUmg was supported
by huge beams hewn by the Mission neophytes a century be
fore ; and the massive adobe walls were five feet tffick, ff I may
trust my notebook. They were pierced by a smaU door and
one large, deep-seated window, giving on the inner arcade.
As I lay in bed reviewing in dozy luxury the events of the day,
I heard the voice of my kind host directed without m great
earnestness to a dog, wffich had been barkmg intermittently
in the yard. The Padre had thought the noise was disturbmg
me and he was explainmg to the beast quite seriously the
impropriety of such conduct. The argument appeared to
reach the dog's sense of reason; for the barking was not re
sumed. I feU asleep, tffinking of St. Francis and the wolf of
Gubbio. I had come at an opportune time. The day after my arrival
was November 2, All Souls' Day, when the ceremony of pray-
mg at the graves in the old cemetery of the Mission would
take place. This — La Fiesta de todos los Difuntos — takes on
a special character at Santa Ines, because of the participa
tion of a sprinkUng of Indians from a near-by reservation.
There had been rain in the night and the mornmg broke
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an'b t^^x Qni00ion0
with lowering clouds, wffich brought despondency to the
Father. "If itrams," said he, "not a soul wiU come, — not a soul;"
and I knew he was right, for in CaUforffia it is unwritten law
that a ram cancels the solenmest engagement.
However, before ffine o'clock matters took a cheerfffi turn.
The heavens Ughtened and the sun began to shme out of a
sky that was aU the loveUer for drffting squadrons of cumulus.
There was to be ffigh mass, and then the prayers at the graves.
The campo santo, where the Mission Indians are buried five
deep, had been bumed over and raked the day before, to clear
it of a year's accumffiation of weeds and grasses; and now, as
the hour approached and people began arriving in wagons, on
horseback, or afoot, — none were m the automobUe class, —
their first business was to drift into the cemetery and seek
out their people's graves, unmarked often save in their own
faithful memories. Some brought flowers, and aU set Ughted
candles about the mounds. Then, gathering in knots in the
warm sunshme in front of the church, they rolled their iabacos
and gossiped tUl the beU should rmg for mass. Many came
through the wicket into the sunny corridor to pay their re
spects to Padre. He, in ffis canofficals, received aU with a
smilmg face, a cordial handshake, and a joke or a word of
kindly inquiry.
"Que hay, Roberto, you fat rascal," said he to a chubby
urchm whose cheek he pmched, " are mamma and Magdalena
commg? "
"No, Padre," repUed the boy.
"Not coming!" echoed the Padre. "I'm afraid they are
malas cristianas, Roberto."
"No malas cristianas, Vadre," cried Roberto, stung into
uncivU contradiction, "no bad Christians. They have n't any
hats." 183

Z^ CaCifomia (pabte0

The Padre, in the lulls of his receiving, would drop ffi my
ear bits of ffis parisffioners' personal ffistory. They were plain
folk, Spanish-speaking mostly, from the neighboring ranches,
vaqueros, teamsters, and laborers, with their black-shawled
wives and solemn-eyed babies, and a few Indians.
"That Uttle man over there with the pigeon toes," he wffis
pered, "is one of our local characters. You would n't tffink
from his Ught skin that he is an Indian, but he is — India
legitimo — and proud of it, but a Peruvian. His name is
Fernando, but we call him Fernandito, Uttle Fernando, to dis
tinguish him from another Fernando who is a big feUow. He
turned up here half a century ago. He only works when it
suits ffim, but he is a decent fellow and welcome anywhere to
a meal. As for sleepmg, he camps under a tree ff need be, d
la belle etoile, and snores obUviously through a degree of cold
and fog that would put you or me on crutches for the rest of
time. ' The world is my home,' he says, ' and where I hang my
sombrero is my house,' I once offered him permanent em
ployment here at the Mission, includmg a room to himself and
board and lodging in return for Ught chores; but what do you
think the rascal said? 'Padre,' drawmg himself up to ffis fuU
four foot eleven, 'I am an Indian, and I must be free!' He
really knows a great deal about Mission days — and he has
had a good voice in ffis day, I have ffim smg the mass when
he is here.
"Now, there's a different sort — that Indian talking to
Fernandito," the Father went on. " He is a Yaqffi, and, be
tween you and me, a hard citizen. I've done my best to get
him to come to church, but he won't. 'Francisco,' I said to
him one day on the road, 'why don't you come to church?'
'Padre,' he replied, 'if I come to church I must do what you
say, and Padre, I don't want to do that. My mamma, she says
same as you, "Frandsco, why don't you go to church?" and
184

anb t^^x (mi00ion0

I say to her, "Mamma, if I go to church, I must do what Padre
tells me to do, and I 'm too young," Poco poco, cuando viejo
— by and by when I'm old — but now, no, no. Padre,' So
there the matter stands; but somehow I like the rogue, he's
so honest about it, I offiy hope his poco poco won't prove to
he j amis — never,"
The interior of the Santa In6s church has all the ancient
flavor that we expect of a Mission, and many of the old-time
furffishings are stffi used in the services. Among ^these I
noticed a confessional box with Indian ornamentation of
carved wood fastened upon the sides with wooden pegs; and
an odd little image of the Virgin m a sort of Watteau shep
herdess hat, much dUapidated, and a full-bottomed skirt.
There were candlesticks and other vessels m beaten sUver
and copper, particffiarly an exqffisitely wrought silver dipper
in the form of a half bivalvffiar sheU. Metal-work, it seems,
was a specialty of the Santa Ines neophytes, and utensils
made there were often suppUed to other Missions.
I took my seat on a bench in the dim Ught near the door,
the kneeUng assemblage in front of me; and, brought up
though I had been in another house of faith, I felt no hin
drance in joiffing these simple folk in their devotions. Through
the smaU wmdows placed ffigh in the waUs the sunUght
streamed in meUow shafts of blessing out of the common
heaven of us all; and by and by from the old choir loft above
me the beautiful notes of a Gregorian chant floated out. It
was old Femandito smging the music of the mass, and smg
ing it with digffity and feeUng. He stood alone, tffis day,
where m other days a choir of many with viol and flute had
been wont to stand and raise praises to the same Uvmg Lord,
His voice, stffi strong and melodious for aU his age, — he
must have been nearly eighty, — bridged for me the gulf of the
years. I seemed to see at the altar not Padre Alejandro, but
i8s

Z^t CaCifomia gjabtrw
another, — m gray gown and cord of the Brothers Mmor, —
perhaps that Fray Francisco Uria, who for half of Santa
Ines's Ufe as a Mission, was the strong arm of her outward
estate — stout, joUy, warm-hearted, quick-tempered old
Padre Uria. Or was it Father Arroyo de la Cuesta, he of the
many tongues of whom we shaU hear at San Juan Bautista?
It was at Santa Ines that he entered into rest. His dust is
stUl here buried before the altar, with that of six others of
ffis order, as Padre Alejandro has found out and lovingly put
a mark where none was before. One of these is Padre Ramon
AbeUa. Poor Padre Ramon! He dwelt forty-four years in
CaUforffia, outUving the Missions' golden age and partici
pating in their desolation. His last years were clouded with
iU-health and loneUness, ffis harp turned to mourning. De
Mofras, in 1841, found him at San Luis Obispo, sleeping on
an ox ffide, drinking from a horn, and diffing on jerked meat.
Whatever the charitable might send him, — Uttle enough,
you may be sure, — he shared with a few Indian cffildren
whose parents inhabited some of that Mission's decaying
hovels. Amid the ruins of ffis Carthage he still talked of " go
ing to the conquest" (ir dia conquista), and bore uncomplain
ingly, as a true Franciscan, the humiUations and privations
of his poverty.
Mass concluded, the congregation formed in procession.
They were headed by the Father ffi ffis robes and the altar
boys m their scarlet and wffite, bearing ffigh a silver cross and
tall standards with flaring candles, and carrymg censer and
aspergill; and all marched chanting from the church around
the corner to the cemetery. Here for an hour or more prayers
were chanted at each Ughted grave, the Father assisted by
Fernandito, The latter, clad for the occasion in a new blouse
of blue jeans and armed with a reading-glass to magffify the
notes of ffis music-book, sang the responses and received, in a
186

(m'b t^^x (yUi00ion0
basket hangmg at ffis elbow, the fees for tffis rite. SUently the
crowd foUowed the Padre, the men with bowed, impassive
heads, the women sometimes sobbing. When the prayer at
one grave was ended with the beseecffing Kyrie Eleison,
Christe Eleison, the mcense scattered and the water sprinkled,
the crowd moved to another. So the round was made, till,
last of all, Femandito, brusffing the charred grass off two
unmarked mounds where neither marker nor flowers nor
candles were, said simply: — •
"Padre, these are friends of mine; tffis is Barbara, and this,
Jose," And Barbara and Jose had their prayers, too, and doubtless
wiU have every 2d of November while Femandito Uves,
The Mission reUcs at Santa Ines are many and mterestmg.
Besides those used in the present-day church services, and the
beautifffi old vestments that are in the sacristy, there is a
considerable coUection arranged for interested visitors in an
interior room of the convento — a room formerly used as the
loquorium, where daily, after dinner and after supper, the
friars were at liberty to come to rest for an hour from their
laboring and pra)dng, and relax in human chat.
The Father left me here one morffing to browse and mmm-
ate. The reUcs have been patiently got together from aU sorts
of places — from the cluttered corners of the Mission's nuns,
from crumbUng outhouses, from the earth of the surroundmg
fields as the plough tums it up, from the garrets of the coun
tryside, from dty junk shops. There were beautiful old basins
and cups and kettles of hammered copper; cmcifixes of wood
wonderfuUy and reaUsticaUy carved, some with a cord, mean
mg the carver was a Franciscan; and there was a quamt
wooden matraca, Uke a watchman's rattle, for use at the altar
in Holy Week when bells are stiUed. There were wooden
187

€^t CaCifomia (J}ab¥e0
candlesticks with carved and painted ornamentations; and
the famous ancient yeUow umbreUa of tattered silk wffich
only Santa Ines has. There were great parchment books with
manuscript church music, written by monkish hands now
turned to dust; and there was a desk fuU of manuscript Mis
sion records bound ffi skin, the covers fastened with buckskin
ties. On openmg one of these, I was fascmated to find its
title-page — done in the careful script of a day when leisure
was no disgrace — read thus : —

t

Viva Jesus.
Libro 1° de Bautismos de la Mis" de La
Purisima Concepcion de la SSma Virgen Maria,
Madre de Dios y Senora Nuestra, fundada en la
Vega del Rio Santa Rosa.
It was the first book of baptisms of La Purisima Mission,
saved from the wreck of that estabUshment. Each entry
closed with the ministro's neat signature and rubrica — page
after page testifjdng to Gentile Indians with names of incon
ceivable unpronounceability, made into good Christian Ro-
bustianos, Saturffinos, Apoloffias, Zeferinas, and Odoxicos,
to say notffing of the more commonplace Juans and Marias
and Pablos, Turning these yellow parchments, I thought
that the mere selection of baptismal names for a dusky family
of a thousand or so, to whom the Padres stood in loco parentis,
must in itself have been no smaU labor. The difficulty was
met, however, by a custom of givmg the name of the samt of
the day, or sometimes of one of the godparents.
After all, I beUeve I found Fernandito the most interesting
reUc at Santa In^s. The Father introduced us one day, and m
i88

(xn'b t^xx QTVi00ion0
the sensible Spaffish-American fasffion, the old Indian re
peated ffis own name, Fernando Cardenas, as we shook hands.
He deUghted to talk of old times, and we sat together on a
sunny bench m the corridor for an hour or two, he prattUng
of ffis own Ufe, the hopes of ffis old age, and the days of the
old Padres. His quick mteffigence, the cultured method of
expressing ffis ideas, ffis good EngUsh, the gentleness — al
most courtliness — of ffis manner, aU betokened in tffis Pem-
vian aborigine a development far m advance of the ordmary
run of Indians as I had known them in CaUfornia, or, mdeed,
anywhere. As a matter of fact, I soon saw that he felt him
seff superior to the Calif ornios, though he was not above asso-
ciatmg with them. Nevertheless, as he confided to me, he
did not want to be buried with them ffi the cemetery at Santa
Ines, but at the parish church in Sahta Barbara. There were
places there m the wall where one could be shelved to one's
self, and sealed up. It seems he had Uved with priests aU ffis
Ufe, and had received ffis education from them. From Peru
he had gone to Mexico, and thence to Caffiorffia, making
sojourns at several of the southem Missions before casting
anchor at Santa Ines m the fifties. That was, of course, after
secularization, and the Franciscans had departed; but there
were stffi Uvmg ffi the viciffity many hijos de la Mision —
cffildren of the Mission — from whom he had first-hand m-
formation of the old ways.
"Tffis Feast of the Dead," said he, "used to be always at
ffight. The candles were Ughted m the cemetery at sundown
and bumed till morffing. The church was kept open and the
Indians crowded it all ffight, praying. All the Indians, even
the Gentiles, beUeved the soul lives after a man dies — the
Fathers did not have to teach them that — ^but they had some
ideas about it the Fathers thought wrong. For one thmg the
Indians beUeved their souls emigrated and needed to be
189

Z^^ CaCifomia ^dbx^B
helped on their journey; so, many thmgs of value were buried
in the graves — mortars, cooking utensils, beads, money, and
so on. It was one of the Padre's hardest tasks to stop that.
"But m time the Indians got to like the ways of the gente
de razon best. Once I was at San Bernardino and some Gen
tile Indians — mountam CoahffiUas — came to the priest
there and said, 'We want to be Christians,' 'Why?' asked
the priest, 'Because,' one old man answered who was spokes
man for them, 'we want to be buried up there' — pomtmg
to where the Christian Indians had been buried m holy
ground. Then he went on to teU how he had been taught at
some Mission by the Padres, and he had taught those Coahu-
illas what he could remember of Christian doctrine, partic
ularly the mystery of the Holy Triffity, 'That I taught in
tffis way,' he explamed, 'I take my blanket and fold it over
in three folds. Now one fold is the Father, and one is the Son,
and one is the Holy Spirit — three persons, see, but aU one
substance.'" Fernandito smiled at the memory, and started a fresh
cigarette. "It was a good Ufe m old CaUfornia," he went on, "very
different from the American way. It was a commuffism: not
the French kind, but a tme commuffism, where every man's
house was open to every traveler, and he could stay as long
as he liked, and an offer to pay would have been an msult.
As for the Missions, of course, they were always free-handed.
When visitors were seen approacffing, an Indian was sent to
ring the church bell in a particular way that was a signal —
one way if it was a Padre commg, another way if it was wffite
travelers, another if it was Indians — and the neophytes aU
came from their work and showed themselves in front of the
Mission. It would have been disrespectful to pass a Mission
without stoppmg and partaking of the Padres' hospitaUty.
190

(m'b t^^x (ttti00ion0
The neophytes, of course, had all they could eat. Every Fri
day there was a great killmg of cattle and sheep, and the
rations for the commg week were distributed to the heads of
famiUes. Besides meat, there were beans and wheat and other
tffings given out, too. Nobody went hungry then."
I^think that ffi tffis respect Fernandito regarded the present
time as out of jomt. Nevertheless, as he accepted the Padre's
mvitation to jom us at dinner, he was evidently disposed to
do what he coffid to revive the good old ways — was wilUng
at least to play the guest's part.

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^B
II
Pasquala of Santa In^s
•J?Hhe Mission of Santa Ines is fortunate m havmg as its
^^ present mcumbent a man of taste and energy, by whom
the old building and its past ffistory, as weU as its present
affairs, are regarded as a sacred tmst. The place m the church
where the Indian girl, whom I have named Pasquala (her
true name is not recorded), is buried was made known to the
Father by old Fernandito, who speaks from the first-hand
resources of an Indian's wonderful memory.
It was by chance that Pasquala's lot m cffildhood feU at
Santa Ines, Her people were not of the Indians who Uved m
the region, but belonged to one of the several tribes of the
interior valley who were classed together as Tularenos, — In
dians of the Tulare country. These tribes were — stffi are,
in fact, to some extent — m the habit of commg annuaUy to
the coast to gather shell-fish, and on one of these visits, the
cffild becoming ill, her parents did not return with their peo
ple. They had heard of the cures performed by the priests at
the Missions, and came to Santa Ines asking aid for the cffild,
then about five years of age. The Father wilUngly gave help
and medicine. He was a kindly man, who deUghted in re
Ueving distress, and in this case he was the more glad to be
of service inasmuch as he hoped it might lead to a better feel
ing on the part of the Tularenos (for Kinyala, Pasquala's
father, had told his tribe, and the Tularenos had long been
known as the determined enemies of the Missions) .
The girl recovered quickly under the priest's care from the
192

(m'b t^x (yi(li00ion0
cffildish malady that, left to the "practice" of the tribal
medicme-man, might weU have ended the Uttle Ufe. In grati
tude, Kinyala resolved to cast m ffis lot with the Indians of
the Mission, and rejoiced the heart of the Father by volun
tarily accepting baptism, with ffis wife and cffild. So they
were christened, Kmyala in the name of Gregorio, and ffis
wife in that of Marta, wffile the cffild took the name of Pas
quala in place of the one she had borne. The Father had be
come fond of the girl, who was more teachable and responsive
than the chUdren of the coast Indians. "Pasquala," he said
one day, putting ffis hand on her head, "do you know what
your name means?" "No, Padre," murmured the cffild.
"It means one who helps other people," he said (speakmg
m these simple terms ffi order to reach her chUdish under-
standmg); "and I gave it you because perhaps one of these
days you may help your people to be good, like the others at
the Mission," And though she understood Uttle of ffis mean
ing she knew that somehow the Father expected more of her
than of the other chUdren, and ffi many Uttle ways she tried to
please him; and indeed succeeded well.
When a year had passed Gregorio received a message. It
was brought by his brother, and was from the cffief and the
head men of ffis tribe. They were on their way agam to the
coast, and were encamped a few miles from the Mission. The
message was that Kmyala and ffis wife and the girl must re-
jom the tribe. They had leamed that he had joined the In
dians of the Mission. That was not weU. The priests were
enemies of the Indians. They were like women, and had made
the other Indians Uke women, workmg mstead of hunting and
fightmg. Kmyala would become like a woman, too. Let him
retum to ffis own people, or suffer the consequences.
The message disturbed Gregorio, and he spoke of it to the
Father. To the latter, however, it meant Uttle — a mere
193

t^^ CaCifomia ^(ibxt^
vague threat, not worth a serious thought. The consequences?
WeU, the consequences woffid be that Gregorio, by a few
years' training at the Mission, woffid be fitted to lead ffis
troublesome people into the better ways. Gregorio had been
a man of influence m ffis tribe, the Father knew. It was, m-
deed, providential that he had come under the Mission teach
ing, and it was not to be thought of that he shoffid retum,
at least for the present, to ffis beffighted people. So Gregorio
remamed at the Mission, and ffis people retumed to their
home without him.
Another year passed, and the warning was renewed: tffis
time not by word of mouth, but by a sign wffich Gregorio
found one day placed on the floor of ffis house: a token com
posed of feathers, bones, and pamted sticks, wffich he easUy
translated into a threat of death ff he did not return to ffis
people. The next year the token appeared agam, and year
after year it was placed there by some always unseen hand.
But Gregorio had come to tffink little of it, telUng himseff that
it was offiy the work of old Nau-kloo, the medicme-man, who
had always been his enemy. He was angry because the cffild
had been cured at the Mission, that was aU.
Meanwhile, Pasquala was growing into a slender, beautiful
girl. She had always, by some mnate force of disposition,
taken a cffief place among the children of her own age. It
was always Pasquala who must say whose arrow had flown
farthest, and Pasquala who must give the bright pebble, or
the plume of blue-jay feathers, to the winner in every game.
As she began to grow out of childhood she leamed the simple
arts taught to the girls at the Mission — to weave, to sew,
and to perform the elementary household duties. Moreover,
she had a quick ear, a good voice, and a natural love for
music, so that she leamed to sing the chants and other offices
as she heard them m the church; and the Father, chancing to
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anb t^x Cttli00ion0
overhear her one day as she sang to herseff, often wished that
she were a boy, that she might be a chorister, or perhaps
leam to play one of the mstruments that led the music from
the gaUery at the rear of the church.
Five years had passed smce Gregorio with ffis wife and cffild
had come to the Mission. Then one day the blow, that had
been threatened so often that the threat had come to be de
spised, feU. It was the season for the yearly visit of the Tul
arenos to the coast. Gregorio, at work m the vmeyard at the
foot of the ffiU below the Mission, was stealthily approached
by an Indian boy m the dress of the Tffiarenos, who said that
Gregorio's brother was waitmg among the oaks beyond the
creek to teU ffim sometffing of importance. Gregorio, afraid to
disregard tffis message as he had ignored the tokens sent, he
beUeved, by old Nau-kloo, foUowed the boy. When ffidden
from the view of ffis compaffions in the vmeyard, three arrows
had been fired from ambush, and he feU dead. The body was
found at noon, when the Indian workmen, notmg ffis ab
sence, foUowed ffis tracks mto the timber. The Tulareno
arrows told the tale.
When they brought the body of Gregorio into his little
adobe hut, another arrow was found stuck mto the wall.
Neither the wife nor Pasquala was to be found. There was no
sign of struggle, but from that day they vaffished from the
Mission as though the very ground had swallowed them. The
Tffiarenos had not left their vengeance mcomplete.
Sorely now the Father repented the bUndness that had led
him to beUeve that an Indian warning might be ignored; and
sorely he lamented for ffis Uttle favorite. Sorely, too, he felt
the failure of ffis plans for the bringing of the Tularenos into
the fold of the Church, His dream had but ended in the death
or loss of those whom he had hoped to use as mstruments.
His one consolation was that they had been baptized, and he
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€^t CaCifomia ^abi;e0
believed that Pasquala, if Uvmg, woffid never forget the Mis
sion teacffing.
Far to the eastward from Santa In6s, m the hot, dry valley
of the Lake of the Tules, Pasquala was Uving the bitter Ufe
of a captive. Her mother was dead, as the result of the iU-
treatment meted out to her by the vengefffi Tularenos, and
Pasquala now Uved with her uncle, the brother of Gregorio,
who had first brought him the warffing to retum to ffis peo
ple, and then had betrayed him to ffis death. A hard lot,
indeed, it was that had faUen to her. The only motive for
the kilUng of her father and the abduction of her mother and
herself had been that of revenge, since no benefit accrued to
the tribe; and revenge now took its hateful pleasure in render
ing the child's Ufe a daily martyrdom. The return for the
hardest of work and the meekest obedience was constant
abuse, and she was no stranger to blows. Her unde, a mean-
spirited man who himself would have stopped at no act of
treachery, affected to feel himself degraded by his brother's
action in forsakmg his tribe, and visited upon poor Pasquala
the pretended outrage upon ffis virtue. And if he had needed
an abettor, old Nau-kloo, her father's enemy and now her own,
was ever at hand to stimulate ffis persecutions and to sup
plement them with taunts of ffis own.
So four miserable years passed over Pasquala's head. Then,
one day, stung by some scornful remark directed at the Mis
sion, wffich it was known she still loved, she answered that
the Indians there were happy, and better off than the Tulare
iios, and that some day the wffite people would come and drive
the Tulareiios over the mountams, and their enemies the
Inyos would kffi them aU. Then the Indians of the coast
would take their land, because they had leamed at the Mis
sion, and the Tffiareiios were stupid. The retort so enraged
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(m'b t^^x Q|Ui00ion0
her uncle that with the shower of blows that feU on her he let
fall a ffint that Pasquala's qffick mind seized upon. "You wiU
soon see who it is that will be killed," he said. "It is a pity
we did not leave you at the Mission, smce you think so much
of those women-men there. Then there woffid be an end to the
lot of you, once for aU."
As she turned the words over and over that ffight m her
mind, there seemed but one tffing that they coffid mean: that
there was to be an attack on the Mission, and that, not for
robbery offiy, but for massacre. She knew the Indian method.
The attack would be sudden and secret, probably at ffight.
The people at the Mission would have no chance; aU would
be killed, as her uncle had said. If only she could wam them,
she thought; and as she recaUed the kind words of the Father
to her many a time, and contrasted them with the misery of
her Ufe among her own people, she determined to make the
attempt. At the worst she woffid die with those who had
been kmd to her, or in trjnng to take them warffing : but death
was better than such a Ufe as she was Uving. She would escape
from her people. She could find the way over the mountams,
for she had been over it several times m her earUest years
(though she had always been left beffind with the old men
and women when the tribe had made their yearly expeditions
to the coast smce her recapture) ; and later she had traveled
it agam, with how much sorrow!
As to when the attack was intended she knew nothmg. But
it was useless to wait in hope of leaming that, for it would be
only when the figffing men were about to start that she would
find out, and that would be too late. She might, indeed, be
too late ffi any case, for she knew that her uncle would guess
wffither she had gone, and, remembering the words he had
let fall, woffid know that she would wam the people at the
Mission. Then the war party would start at once, and if they
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t^t CaCifomia g)abt;e0
overtook her she would be killed and they would go on and
destroy the Mission. Yes, she must go the very next ffight, as
soon as it was dark. She could waUi and mn aU ffight, and
perhaps they would not be able to overtake her.
During the day she took a little dried veffison and some
acorn meal from the big store-basket wffich stood in the cor
ner of the hut, and at ffight, when her uncle and ffis wife were
sleepmg, she rose from her bed of straw, and with Indian
stealth, step by step, edged her way toward the door. She
Ufted the skm that hung over the entrance, passed out, and
stood for a moment listeffing, ready with an excuse in case
she had been observed. But aU was quiet, and sUpping like
a shadow past the two or three huts that she had to pass, she
was out m the cold, quiet ffight, alone.
There was a haff moon, and the ffight was clear. She ran
qffickly but steadUy, husbandmg her strength with Indian
instinct. She had tied her Uttle bundle of food m a piece of
deerskm and fastened it to her waist, so that it should not
impede her movements. When she had mn for nearly an
hour she began to stumble; so she stopped for a few moments
to rest, then went on, waUdng now, but as fast as she coffid.
When she felt able, she ran again; and so, altemately running
and waUdng, she made her way along the rough and narrow
traU until, after several hours, she sat down, exhausted, at
the foot of a friendly oak, and mstantly f eU asleep. She awoke
with a start and a cry. There was a movement in the bmsh
close beside her, and her first thought was that she had been
overtaken. It was only some ffight-wandering beast that had
startled her, but it taught her caution. She must not stop on
the trail, where she would easily be caught ff she feU asleep:
and after that, whenever she sat down to rest, she tumed aside
mto some hidden place, not meaning to sleep, but fearing lest
she might. 198

(m'b t^^ix (VUi00ion0
So the ffight passed, and when the day broke (early, for it
was summer) she was far on her way. So far the traU had
been plam, but now she came to a place where another track
led away. She could not teU wffich was the right one, and she
felt lost and frightened: a mistake would rum aU, and how
could she teU? Then she thought she would pray, as the
Father had taught her at the Mission, and perhaps the Blessed
Virgin would show her the way. So she prayed, kneeling at the
parting of the trail; and when she stood up she saw, as ff they
had just been put there (for she had not seen them before)
three smooth wffite pebbles. They were set ffi the ground m
a line, at the foot of a smaU oak, and were half ffidden ffi the
dead leaves; but she knew it was an Indian sign, and marked
the way her people took to the coast. So she went a Uttle far
ther, and then, commg to a smaU stream that ran m a hoUow,
she found a sheltered place and sat down to eat.
Soon the sun came up and warmed her, and she felt glad,
and remembered that there, ffi front of her, was the Mission,
and soon, ff the Blessed Virgin would help her, she might be
there, once more happy as she used to be. And again she
prayed, and as she rose and went on, she had a feeling of assur
ance that she should fulfiU her purpose.
All that day she hurried on, with bmised and aching feet,
but with the patient fortitude of the Indian. When she found
wUd frffit, gooseberries, or tunas, she ate of them, to save her
smaU stock of provisions; and now and then she rested, but
always with caution, and taking only fitful snatches of sleep.
Night came, tffis time cffiU and foggy, and when she coffid
no longer see the traU she prayed agam to the Virgm. Sleep
overtook her as she prayed, and when she awoke, refreshed,
the sky was clear and she had Ught for her joumey. Soon
after dawn the trail became more downward and easy, and
she knew she had come to the top of the mountains. Once,
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^^t CaCifomia g)abt:e0
too, she thought she saw, far away, the gray Une of the
sea. When the sun was ffigh overhead she stopped to rest, for
her feet refused to carry her farther. Every muscle ached
with the long stram, and her head swam with the premoffitory
symptoms of fever. For a long time she lay and gazed up
at the sky, and at last sank mto a haff dream m wffich she
thought she was agam ffi the clean wffite bed at the Mission,
and the Father was by the bedside to cure her. From the
dream she feU mto a sleep, from wffich she awoke refreshed,
and took up her joumey with a happier heart though with
stiff and faffing limbs.
That evenmg, as she was eating the last of her food, she
clearly saw the gleam of the sun on the distant ocean, and
the sight brought a new fear. The trail she was on woffid
take her to the sea, where her people went, but the Mission
was not there, but by a clear, wmdmg river. How was she to
find it? She did not even know whether it lay to the right or
the left of her path. The torture of the doubt added to her
fever. Yet for hours she went wearily on by the clear Ught of
the moon, until, about midffight, coming to a caiion in wffich
a stream ran, she halted from mmgled fatigue and perplexity.
Once more the thought came to her to pray to the Virgin,
and even as she knelt at the foot of a tree she fell asleep.
When she awoke from an uneasy slumber she seemed to hear
the weU-remembered sound of the bells of the Mission. It
was offiy a delirium of her fevered ears, but as she Ustened
she thought she still heard the sound, wffich seemed to come
from the south, to her left hand: and she knew that again the
Blessed Virgm had helped her. After bathmg her face and
feet m the cool brook she forced herself to take up her jour
ney once more; but she left the trail, and began to descend the
caiion, and the thought that she was now almost secure from
200

(m'b t^x (Vl(li00ion0

capture gave her courage, though, mdeed, she was almost at
the Umit of her strength, and every step was torture. The
canon was rough, with tffick brush and many boulders, but
there was water, and sometimes she found cactus with ripe
frffit that refreshed her.
And then, to her great joy, at a bend of the caiion she saw,
not far away, the wmdmg river, and she knew it was the one
that ran by the Mission. Eagerly now she pressed on, and
before long, when the caiion tumed again, lo! there lay the
beautiful Mission sffining m the mornmg sun. She gave a cry
of joy, and stopped for a moment to feast her eyes on the
sight, wffile a flood of recoUections overcame her and long
unwept tears had their way.
AU was easy now. The caiion widened and led gently down,
and soon she could see the people moving about at their mom-
mg tasks. It was almost too much of joy, commg upon the
long mental and physical stram; and it was in a state of utter
exhaustion that she came at last to the Mission. The few
Indians whom she met looked curiously at her, but did not
recognize her, for she had changed much during the past
miserable four years, and now was haggard with fever and
weariness. She knew where the Father woffid be at tffis time
of day, in his little private garden adjoinmg the cemetery,
and tffither with faffing steps she made her way.
For a long time the good Father had held to the hope that
Pasquala and her mother, whom he guessed to have been
abducted, might somehow return, by escapmg from their
people on one of their visits to the coast: but as time went on
he had given up the thought. Often, still, the recoUection of
Pasquala would come back to him, and he would grieve over
the fate of the cffild, who had been so quick and teachable, so
different from the dull Indians of ffis charge. To-day, as he
walked to and fro m the shade of the big pear trees, he was
201

Z^ CaCifomia ^(xbxts
planning the detaUs of the anffiversary service he meant to
hold soon, when the Mission woffid have its twentieth birth
day. He would have the Fathers from Santa Barbara, San
Buenaventura, and La Purisima to help m the service, and
they would sing ffigh mass. He had already begun to train
the men who were to smg m the service. His mmd reverted
to the cffild Pasquala, who used so to love the music, and
whose voice was sweet and clear, so unlike the harsh voices
he was trainmg with so much trouble and such poor results.
As he turned in ffis waUs he saw a figure approaching, a
slight girl's figure, movmg with slow, unsteady steps. As she
came near he saw that it was Pasquala herseff, but spent and
haggard, a sight to brmg the tears. "Pasquala!" he cried,
"my poor cffild! How do you come here, and what has
brought you to tffis sad plight?" But the girl was past re
plying. She had faUen at ffis feet m a burst of sobbmg; and
tenderly Ufting her m ffis arms he carried her to a bench
near by.
When she had a Uttle recovered she told her story, pam-
fffily and slowly, for her mind was far from clear. But the
Father qffickly gained the knowledge that she had brought
at such cost, and ffis heart was fuU of pity and love for the
cffild, Summom'ng the mayordomo, he committed Pasquala
to the best care the Mission coffid afford, and then took steps
to provide agamst the expected attack. All that night, wffile
Pasquala tossed m fever on a clean wffite bed, ffi the very
room where she had lam when a cffild, m her early Uffiess, the
Father was up and about. He had sent a mnner over the moun
tains to Santa Bdrbara for aid, had posted some of his most
trusted men far out on the trails to bring warning of the
enemy's approach, had armed the others so far as he coffid,
and had raised barricades at the pomts most open to assaffit.
He guessed that the attack would come at night, and he was
202

(m'b t^x Q(Tli00ion0
not mistaken. An hour before midffight one of the scouts
returned, bringmg word that a war party of Tffiareiios was
approacffing. Soon after, another came m, reporting that
Indians had been seen, m the moonUght, movmg about
among the timber almost witffin bowshot of the Mission.
Pasquala's warffing had been only just m time.
Shortly before dawn came the sffiiU war whoop, and then
the rush of the attackmg Indians. The first assaffit was also
the last, for the Tffiareiios, disheartened at findmg the Mis
sion prepared for attack, drew off after offiy one attempt. The
noise of the brief fight hardly reached Pasquala where she lay
m a restless haff dream, and she was only famtly aware of
the Father commg in, laymg his hand on her hot forehead,
and blessmg her as the savior of the Mission. To the terrible
exhaustion of the joumey there had succeeded a fever that
could not be controUed by the simple means at the Father's
command, and he saw with sorrow the young Ufe of Pasquala
ebbmg qffickly away.'
Once, near the end, she regamed for a short space her clear
ness of mmd. The Father, who had already given her the
Sacraments, was standmg by her, watcffing the restless
fingers as they played with the coverings of the bed. Un-
consdously voidng ffis sorrowful thoughts, he murmured,
haff aloud, "Alas! it was then a tme name that I gave you,
for you have, mdeed, laid down your Ufe for ours, my poor
Pasquala!" The wandering mind of the Indian cffild caught
the name, and she opened her eyes, and knew him. "Yes,
Padre," she said, tffinkmg he had spoken to rouse her. "Pas-
quaUta," said the priest, taking the Uttle hand m ffis, "you
are tmly our savior. But for your commg to wam us, the
Mission would have been burned and many of us kiUed. The
Blessed Virgm has favored you greatly. I shaU put it all
down in the book, so that always people wiU know that it was
203

t^t CaCifomia ^(Cbx^s
Pasquala who saved the Mission." "Oh, Padre," she wffisp
ered, a glow of her old cffildlike happmess Ughting up her
face: "that wUl be fine!" Then, after a pause, she added,
"Padre, wUl you teU me how you wffi put it m the book?"
" Yes, my daughter," the priest answered; " I shaU write down
that Pasquala came a long joumey over the mountams to
warn me, and that so the Mission was preserved. Is not that
right?" "Oh, yes. Padre," she repUed painfully: "but wiU
you say that it was Pasquala the Indian girl that you cured? "
"Surely I wiU say so," said the priest. Agam there was a
silence, and then she wffispered once more, "Padre, wiU you
say how the Blessed Virgm came and helped Pasquala, too? "
" Be sure I wiU say so, my daughter," said the Father. Seeing
how rapidly the remainmg sands were runffing out, the Father
agam gave her absolution and pronounced over her the last
blessmg; and a few hours later Pasquala's short and troubled
Ufe was ended.
The burial was a solemn one. There was no precedent for
the burjdng of an Indian witffin the actual predncts of one of
the Missions: but as the Father stood by the dead chUd's
body the thought came to ffim that the Mission wffich owed
to her its preservation might well afford her a burying-place.
He knew what happiness she would have had at the thought;
and when he asked himself whether the Church woffid ap
prove, the words came to ffis mind, "Greater love hath no
man than tffis," and they seemed a suffident answer to the
sorrowing priest. And so it comes that Pasquala, the Indian
cffild, rests from her long journey witffin the Mission that
she died to save.

C^cipt^ ten
LA PURISIMA

i^s^"^^-

'T:.%.y^-

La Purisima: Its Mission Am) Its Rebellion
ty OMPOC is a place of modest size and hid so snugly away
^^ m its secluded valley that I doubt if many readers of the
present chromcle have even so much as heard of it: or, if they
have, know how to pronounce its aborigmal-lookmg name.
I may, therefore, be excused for stating that its last syUable
rhymes with "joke." In the world of commerce, however,
Lompoc is a place to be seriously reckoned with. It Ues ffi the
heart of as fertile a Uttle vaUey as the sun often sffines upon;
and impartiaUy, like the same sun, wffich sffines for all sorts
of busmesses, it caters to man's sesthetic aspirations by rais
mg sweet-pea seeds and to ffis fleshly tastes by turffing out
offions and potatoes by the carload. It is also strong on beans.
But the chief gem of Lompoc's agricultural crown is mustard
seed. Lompoqffians wiU tell you they raise aU the mustard
seed for the whole Umted States, and I believe statistics go
a considerable way toward supportmg the Uttle town's claim
to this hot preemmence.
More to our purpose is the fact that Lompoc is a Mission
town. It stands on land that once belonged to La Mision de
la Purisima Concepci6n de la Santisima Virgen Maria, Madre
de Dios y Nuestra Seiiora — that is, the Mission of the Most
Pure Conception of the Most Holy Virgm Mary, Mother of
God and Our Lady. That, it seems, was the official name,
but usage has cut it down to as much of a wreck as time has
wrought of its buildmgs, and no one any longer speaks of it
except as Purisima.* Nevertheless, Lompoc cherishes the
* From Mission Santa "Infis, Lompoc is but twenty- two miles or so, due west
207

€^e CaCifomia ^(ibxts
memory of its ecclesiastic past. StrolUng from my hotel down
its main street, I came shortly in sight of a ffiU at the town's
southem outskirts, upon whose flank a colossal cross, out
lined with electric Ughts, overlooked town and vaUey. It
marks, beside an ancient reservoir, the approximate site of
the first cross erected by the Franciscan missionaries who
here founded, on December 8, 1787, the first mission dedicated
to "the singular, most pure mystery of the Empress of the
Heavens, Mary Most Holy; that is, of her Immaculate Con
ception." The commemorative cross was unveiled December
8, 1912, and blessed and venerated m the presence of a large
assemblage, mcluding a handful of Indians brought from the
reservation near Santa Ines to chant the hymns of the Church
around the foot of the cross. The scene brought vividly to mind
the event of one hundred and twenty-five years before, and
all Lompoc, Protestant as well as CathoUc, Jew and twentieth-
century Gentile, joined heartily in the occasion as of one blood ;
and the mufficipaUty of Lompoc, I was told, freely contri
butes the electricity to Ught the cross when at night it sheds
its radiance over the valley, like an up-to-date version of
Portia's candle.
But alas, for the ancient Mission! A stone's throw distant
from tffis fine cross and on the same decUvity, a few roofless
walls of cmmbUng adobe, inside a crazy barbed wire fence,
are all that is left to bear witness to the origmal estabUsh
ment. In tffis case, not human neglect, but Nature, is respon
sible for the rum — Nature, in the shape of earthquake. The
year 18 12 is known in the old annals of CaUforffia as el a'no
de los temblores — the year of the earthquakes — because of
by a road (el Camino Real) that foUows in a general way the Santa Infe River.
The traveler by pubUc conveyance, however, must go sixty-three miles to
reach it; that is, by stage to Gaviota, rail to Surf, and raU again from Surf to
Lompoc, Altogether, counting waits en route, this wiU consume most of a
day. 208

cm'b t^exx (ttti00ion0
the numerous severe shocks wffich the coast suffered. On
December 8 of that year, the day that brought havoc to Mis
sion San Juan Capistrano, only sUght tremors were felt at
La Purisima; but, on December 21, came what must have
seemed both to Padres and neophytes the beginnmg of the
world's end. About haff past ten in the mornmg a severe
shakmg set in and contmued for four mmutes; then followed
a succession of sUght vibrations, cuhffinatmg about eleven
o'clock in a furious quakmg lastmg more than five minutes.
Tffis brought the church tumbUng down m a shapeless heap
of ruins and completed the destruction of about a hundred
adobe huts wffich the neophytes had occupied. The ffiUside,
back of the Mission, cracked wide m several places and belched
water and black sand. One of these great gaps is seen to this
day. Hard upon tffis, the heavens opened and precipitated
such torrents of rain as aU but swept the devoted settlement
into the rampant Santa Ines River — m those days, by the
way, called the Rio de Santa Rosa. With it aU there was no
loss of life, though several sustained mjuries.
After such a terrible dressing-down, the Padres took the
ffint and looked around for a likeUer situation to rebuUd.
Tffis was found across the river in the VaUey of the Water
Cresses (La CaOada de los Berros), distant from old Purisima
about four miles, "and the same distance back again," as the
record carefuUy spedfies — meanmg, perhaps, that the way
between is level, wffich it is. Tffither m 18 13 the missionaries
moved with their dusky family and such salvage as they had
managed to rescue from the wreck of the first Mission; and
there ffi succeeding years a'^fme new estabUshment grew under
their hands. Even this is aU a sad wreck now; but it makes an
object for a pleasant walk from Lompoc, over a good road
that skirts prosperous-looking ranch lands and bean fields
beside the Santa Ines River — the mUdest of shallow streams
209

€^ CaCifomia g)abt^0
m the dry season, but, m the wet, capable of becoming over-
ffight an unbridled torrent.
Roofless, breached of waU, and haff ffidden m a tangle of
wild mustard and rank weeds, Purisima is desolate as Tad-
mor m its wUderness, and seemmgly as thoroughly beyond
hope of repair. Its most strikmg feature is a Une of square
wffite pillars wffich stand like forgotten sentmels, soUdified
at their posts. Of a black ffight their wan lengths amid the
rffins might be disturbmg to the nerves, I fancy. They once
supported the tile roof of the corridor front, and, bemg of
brick, bid fair to outlast the wasting adobe waUs beffind them.
The pity of it is that offiy a few years smce the building's utter
mm could have been arrested. The owners of the land wffich
it occupies, the Uffion Oil Company of CaUforffia, offered to
deed it to trustees as an ffistoric monument, provided ffiteen
hundred dollars should be promptly spent on repairs to stop
the mroads of the elements; but the beggarly sum was not
forthcoming, and the work of disintegration has gone re
morselessly on until now fifteen thousand dollars would prob
ably not do what fifteen hundred dollars woffid have done
when the offer was made. As I strolled about, I came here
and there upon reservoirs and other remams of the fine irriga
tion system. One strongly built basin had steps of square red
tiles descending mto it, as though for the conveffience of In
dians going down to wash their clotffing in the water there,
or perhaps for Purisima Rebeccas to fiU their jars the more
easily. Though Purisima was rather a frosty, grasshoppery place
in its day, and overmn unduly with ground squirrels,^ rattle
snakes and bears, the records say, it attained an enviable
' A curious by-product of the Mission system in CaUfomia is said to have
been the marked increase of gophers and ground squirrels coincident with the
civiUzing of the natives. In their GentUe days the Indians had regularly fed
on these rodents. 2IO

(m'b t^^x (yTli00ion0
measure of temporal prosperity, particularly ffi the matter
of cattie, the Purisima herds bemg widely famous. Padre
Mariano Payeras, who served here from 1804 to 1823 (during
five years of wffich ffineteen he was President of the Missions) ,
has left m one of ffis reports an idyffic picture of Ufe at La
Purisima. The neophytes, accordmg to this document, were
famously docile, industrious, and dismclmed to run off to the
monte. It was the Padre's joy to watch them at their work,
their songs and their prayers, and especiaUy to see how pa
tiently they bore their suffermgs, begged for confession, and
died as good Christians should die.
Yet it was these same Indians who, witffin a year after
Padre Payeras' death, engmeered the most serious revolt of
Mission history agamst wffite dommation, Tffis, though,
seems to have been due not so much, if at all, to the mission
ary system as to other causes. With the progress of' Mexico's
revolution agamst Spain there was a spread of lax notions
respectmg aU authority, both civil and ecclesiastic, and the
attitude of the wffite CaUforffians toward the priests grew
increasmgly mdifferent, wffile the temporal wealth of the Mis
sions became correspondingly the object of their covetous
ness. One form wffich tffis took was for the mffitary authori
ties to require of the Missions that the neophytes should do
manual labor for the soldiers. For such work the Indians got
more kicks than haffpence; in fact, it is unUkely that they re
ceived any pay at all; for, wffile the Spaffish Govermnent had
been a notoriously poor pa5Tnaster, the Mexican was prob
ably worse. The result was what might have been expected.
From sullen discontent, the Indians were at last goaded mto
an active rebeffion, wffich broke out simultaneously at Santa
Ines, Purisima, and Santa Barbara on Febmary 21, 1824, the
immeffiate cause bemg the floggmg of a Purisima neophyte
by the corporal of the guard of Santa Ines.
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It seems to have been a pathetic little rebelUon, whose
timid, fluttermg day lasted offiy tiU a company of one hun
dred soldiers could be had down from Monterey. At Puris
ima four hundred Indians with Falstaffian courage managed
to overcome the half-dozen soldiers of the guard, after the
latter's pciwder gave out (!), and deported them to Santa
Ines, Then the Indians set about fortifymg the Mission, first
keepmg the resident Padre under guard agamst emergendes
— fat Fray Rodriguez, famed for ffis pop-eyes, heavy jowls,
and kindly heart. They cut loopholes m the Mission waUs to
fire from, and mounted two old pedreros, or swivel guns, wffich
until then had been used for no more bloody work than terri
fying ungodly spirits on feast days. For three weeks there
reigned at Purisima such eqffivocal joy as comes to cffildren
plajdng truant, with the sure knowledge of a sound thrashing
bemg on the way. On March i6, the thrasffing arrived with
the troops from Monterey — horse, foot, and artUlery, the
latter consistmg of one four-pound cannon. The neophytes,
in spite of their numbers, their two swivels, and a dozen or so
of muskets, besides native bows and anows unnumbered,
were impotent against the soldiers, and, after suffering two
hours' bombardment, they begged Padre Rodriguez to help
them out of their scrape. He, good man, saffied forth under a
white flag, and succeeded so well for ffis luckless chUdren that
the siege was raised upon deUvery to the miUtary of several
ring-leaders who were variously sentenced to death, imprison
ment, and baffishment. The Mission bffildmgs had been much
damaged by the attack upon them, and the church had to be
rebffilt. As for poor Padre Rodriguez, who had been sick be
fore, he never got over the adventure. Immediately after the
fight, he departed for San Lffis Obispo, where the same year
he laid down the burden of his flesh to receive, I trust, the
Uvery of the Children of Light.

cm'b t^ixx (JTVi00ion0
II
A Little Mystery of La Purisima
A^NE hardly expects to meet ghosts in CaUforffia, We are
^''^ too new, and also, I think, there is too much sun. But
if ghosts there be m tffis hustUng century and tffis most mod
ern of States, then certamly the Missions are the places where
one might expect to see or to hear of them: and of aU the Mis
sions, commend me to La Purisima for such a quest. With
all my mterest m and sympathy for these reUcs of " the glory,
that was Spam's," I must allow that the sensation in my mmd
when I recaU my visit to tffis particular Mission is not a pleas
ant one. There seemed sometffing siffister in the phenomenal
weedmess, a slimy dankness about the debris of broken adobe,
a gloom about the whole place that the glare of sun somehow
accentuated, as if it were the gleam of a detective's lantem
turned on some ominous, secret spot.
But, then, I knew that such impressions are apt to arise
simply from one's mood at the time, wffile that may come
from notffing more mysterious than one's Uver. Still, I was
not a Uttle mterested m an experience of my friend R, L, D,
recently at La Purisima, I venture to pass it on to the reader,
just as he told it to me, merely prefacing it by remarking that
my friend is not any more prone to psychologic excitements
than the average person. For conveffience' sake I write the
account m the first person, but without unnecessary com
plication in the matter of inverted commas. Tffis is ffis story:
You remember that three years ago this summer I was
making a sight-seemg trip through southern CaUforffia, I
stayed for a few hours at the little town of Lompoc, where
Uves your friend Seiior Andres Leyva, to whom, you wiU
213

Z^e CaCifomia ^Cibx^B
recaU, you had given me a note of mtroduction. I caUed on
him m the afternoon and spent a very pleasant and profitable
hour, I meant to camp that ffight at the rums of the second
Mission, wffich are three or four miles out of the town. I
made a point of seeing all the Missions that were near my Une
of travel, and when possible I camped for a ffight with them,
havmg rather a fancy, as you know, for poking about tffis
kind of place ffi the dim, owl-haunted hours when the tourist
ceases from troubUng and the motor-car is at rest m the gar
age. So as I was leaving I mentioned my plan of campmg
to Senor Leyva. "You had better change your mmd," he
said, shakmg ffis head: "it is not a good place at ffight, I have
heard," "Why not?" I asked; "I suppose you mean that it
is unhealthfffi over there, damp, perhaps?" "No, it is not
that," he repUed, "but you wiU not sleep," "Why not?" I
asked agam, "I'm used to campmg out, and always sleep
particularly well out of doors," "WeU," he answered, "you
must go if you must. You EngUsh like to do such tffings, I
have heard. For me, no: I enjoy more a qffiet sleep without
disturbances and unpleasant company." "But please teU
me what you mean," I said, becommg mterested at what
seemed a ffint of mystery. "I will teU you," our friend said,
"though you will only laugh, I suppose. You are a Protes
tant, and beUeve notffing." At tffis I protested, indeed. He
laughed, and rejomed, "So the priests teU us, senor, but then,
I know it is not so. We all beUeve in the good God, is it not
so? But tffis is why you should not try to sleep at the Mission.
It is a story that I shall teU you, but I know it is true, for it
happened m my own family, and I shall teU it just as my
father told it to me. That was many years ago, but I heard
it from him more than once, and I remember it very well.
"Many years ago my mother's uncle, Don Felipe, used to
have the San Tomis Ranch, not very far from the Mission;
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cm'b t^^x (jyti00ion0
and when my father and mother came to CaUfomia from Mex
ico, about 1830 or 1831, they Uved with Don FeUpe wffile
their own house was bemg bffilt. It was a large hacienda that
Don FeUpe had, and though ffis wife was dead he liked to
have much company, so there were always many guests, with
meriendas ffi the daytime and dancmg almost every ffight.
Don FeUpe had one son, whose name was Jorge. He was offiy
about twenty years old, but he was not Uke a young man,
but like a monk. He did not care to be with the other people,
and often when there was a merienda he woffid go away and
ride aU day over the ranch. So it was not strange that no one
liked him. But just the opposite of Jorge was my mother's
young brother, Vicente. He had come from Mexico when my
father and mother came, and was a handsome galanteador,
who coffid dance finely, and play the gffitar, and make him
self agreeable to the ladies.
"WeU, seiior, it came that there was some trouble about
the land that my father expected to get for ffis ranch. The
Govemor woffid not let him have the place he wanted. I
need not teU you aU about it, but everybody thought that
Don Jorge, who was a friend of the Governor, wanted that
piece of land for himself, and had made the Govemor act the
way he did. At any rate, Don Vicente said right out that Don
Jorge had made the trouble. There was a bad quarrel be
tween the two young men, and after that there was trouble
almost every day.
"It was fifteen miles from Don FeUpe's house to the Mis
sion, and whenever there was a feast day, like Easter or Cor
pus Christi, they used to go to mass at the Mission. Don
FeUpe was a good man, and he would have every one go, even
if it stopped all the work on the ranch. It came to be one of
the Holy Days, and aU went to mass. Those who could ride
went on horseback, and those who were too old went in the
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Z^i CaCifomia ^abr^0
ox carts. It was a very slow way to travel, and took nearly
aU day; so they had to go the day before, and sleep at the Mis
sion, and generally they slept there the next ffight, too, and
came back the day after. Of course Don Jorge and Don Vi
cente went, for everybody went on those days, and it was like
a fiesta after the service: they had games, and dancmg, and
sometimes there was a bffil-fight. People had come from the
other ranches about there, and among them, tffis time that
I am teffing about, there were Don Esteban from the Los
AUsos, and his daughter Doiia Affita, who people thought
would marry Don Jorge, She was very rich, and Don Jorge
used to go often to the Los AUsos, though he never went to
other places.
"Well, ffi the af temoon, after mass was over, they had
games and horse-radng. Don Jorge was a very good rider,
the best ffi aU the country, some people said. He had often
won the races and horseback games at the fiestas, and he was
proud of ffis riding; all the more, I suppose, because it was the
only tffing that he did weU. They had a game that day that
was called juego de gallo. It was burymg a chicken m the
ground, all but the head, and then the caballeros would ride
at full speed and stoop over and catch the chicken. It was a
good game, and you had to ride well and have a good horse
too. When some one asked Don Vicente to play the game he
said No, it was a new game to him, and he would not play.
Don Jorge heard him say it, and he said, so that others
could hear, 'Don Vicente es buen ginefe en la sala,' that is,
Don Vicente is a good horseman in the drawing-room, mean
ing that he spent all his time with the ladies and could not do
anythmg else. Don Vicente heard it, but he laughed and
said, ' It is not everybody that can ride m the drawmg-room.
It seems as ff some people could not walk there, even.' That
made Don Jorge very angry, but before he could say anythmg
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(m'b t^ixx Q[l[Vi00ion0
Don Vicente said it would not do any harm to practice and
become a good caballero m the field, too, so he would play at
the game ff Don Jorge would show ffim how to ride. Don
Jorge did not want to have anythmg more to do with him, but
he thought it would show how much better he could ride than
Vicente; so he said he would ride at the chicken three times,
and then Don Vicente could show if he could play at any
thmg except the gffitar.
" So he rode, and twice he caught the cfficken out of tffiee
times. Then Don Vicente rode. The horse he had was a good
one, but had not been ridden many times, and every one
thought he would not do anythmg. One must know one's
horse to play at juego de gallo; I used to play it myself, and I
know, WeU, Don Vicente caught the cfficken once, and every
body said it was good, but it must be luck. Then he caught
it again, and they began to think he must know the game,
after all. The tffird time he caught it also, and everybody
shouted Bueno! and Excelente! for that was very fine playing,
to get the cfficken three times together. But he said that it
must be luck, because they did not play games Uke that m
drawing-rooms: but it was a good game, and he would Uke
to play it with sometffing smaUer to ride for, if Don Jorge
would try agam with him. Don Jorge could see that when Vi
cente said he did not know the game he was only settmg a trap
to make ffim look fooUsh : but he could not very well refuse to
play, for everybody, and Dona Affita, too, would say he was
afraid of bemg beaten. So he said he would ride agam. Don
Vicente said they would have a com to ride for: that would
not be so easy. Doiia Affita, who was close to him, pointed
to the buttons on her bodice, and asked if they would do.
They were silver buttons, not much bigger than a real. He
said Yes, and she took the kffife and cut one off and gave it
to ffim. Then what must Vicente do but put it to ffis mouth
217

Z^t CaCifomia g)abt;^0
and kiss it. We have a saying for one who is reckless, that
'el busca cinco pies al gato teniendo cuatro: ' that is, he looks for
a cat to have five feet, when they only have four. WeU, Don
Vicente was one Uke that: he was — how do you say it? —
lookmg for trouble that day. Next he looked in a bold way
at Don Jorge, and then bowed to Dona Affita, and said, 'It is
a don de amor, bellisima: I shall take care not to lose it.' Then
he said to Don Jorge, 'We have a fine prize to try for now,
caballero. You must ride better than you did the last time,
or you may lose it.'
" By that time Don Jorge was angry enough to kiU. Don
Vicente was domg it aU to make him angry, especially what
he said to Dona Anita. He did not care about her: she was
older than he, and not very pretty; but the devil was in him,
and he did not care. They got on their horses, and Vicente
rode first. No one thought he could pick up the button, but
he did it the three times without missing. Then Don Jorge
tried, but he did not do it the first time, and he woffid not try
again. My father said to Don Vicente that he had better
take care, or Jorge would do him some harm; but he laughed
and said he only needed to take care of his back, for that was
where Don Jorge tried to hurt people, as he had done to my
father about the land.
"As I said, the people who came from the ranches far away
stayed at the Mission the two ffights. The priest — his name
was Fray Antoffio Rodriguez, I remember — had long tables
set in the corridor for meals, and there were plenty of rooms
for sleeping. There was much fun and joking at Supper.
Jorge sat next to Dona Affita, and Vicente, who was not far
away, seemed to try to keep up the quarrel by the things he
said to her. It was as if the devU was in ffim, and they say
jealousy is the worst devil of aU. After supper they aU sat m
the dusk and talked and smoked cigarritos. Some one had a
218

(xn'b t^txx (nii00ion0
guitar, so there was music, and after a wffile they caUed for
Don Vicente to smg. He had been there at first, laugffing and
joking, but now he was missmg. It was dark by that time.
Then some one said, for fun, that they had better see if Doiia
Affita was there. She did not speak, and they soon found she
was not there, nor Don Jorge either. That was bad, for Don
Esteban, her father, was a strict man, a Spaffiard, and the
Spaffiards are very particular about the unmarried girls, for
fear they should get taUied about. Everybody was uncom
fortable, but they thought she would come back before the
time came to have candles and retire to bed.
"My mother was tired, and was the first to go. In a mo
ment, she came runffing back and said to my father that Doiia
Anita was outside by one of the pffiars. She had fallen down,
and must have hurt herself. My father told Don Esteban, and
they went and found that she had famted, and might have
been there a long time. When they got her out of the faint she
said she had been to her room to get a handkerchief. Wffile
she was m the room she heard people talking, as if they were
quarreling, and then she heard one of them caU out, and after
that there was sUence. She was afraid there was trouble, and
came back to teU her father; but she felt faint, and sat down
by the post, and that was all she remembered.
"What Doiia Affita had said made my father uneasy about
Vicente, so before gomg to bed he went to see if he was in ffis
room, but he was not there. Then he went to Don Jorge's
room, and saw that he seemed to be asleep. So he thought it
must be all right, and that Vicente had offiy gone for a ride,
as he did sometunes at ffight. The first tffing ffi the mornmg
he went to Don Vicente's room again, but he was not there
and the bed had not been touched. Then he was sure some
tffing was wrong. He told Don FeUpe and the priest, and
they went and searched. They went to the place where the
219

ZSf^ CaCifomia ^(CbxtB
horses were kept, and Vicente's horse was there. The Indian
who kept the horses told Don FeUpe that Jorge had come at
daybreak and taken ffis horse, and had left a message for Don
FeUpe that he had to attend to some work that woffid take
aU day, so he would not be home at the ranch tiU ffight.
"Many of the people were leavmg early m the mommg,
but Don Felipe and my father and mother would not go with
out knowmg about Don Vicente. They knew he had not
gone home, because of ffis horse. My mother was almost wUd,
for Don Vicente was her favorite brother, and to think he
might be dead, and not to know anything, was terrible grief.
"Just before the time for service in the evening, an In
dian named Bemardmo, who was the mayordomo, caUed the
Padre to come with him. They had found Don Vicente. You
wffi see, if you go to the Mission, that there is one Uttle room
by itself, Uke a separate house. The waUs are very thick. I
have been told that it was a jaU in the early days. It was
partly broken down, although it was so tffick. I suppose the
bricks were of bad adobe, or else they were not dried properly.
That is where Bernardino took the Padre, and he pointed to
one comer where there was a heap of the bricks that had
fallen down. Bernardino said, 'He is there. Padre,' and the
priest went closer, and then he saw sometffing among the
bricks, and that it looked as if they had been moved. He sent
for a lantern and some Indians to move the bricks away, and
then he saw that Don Vicente was there and that he was dead.
There was no blood and the Indians said that the waU had
fallen on him: but Bernardino wffispered to the Padre, No, he
had been put there: and the Padre knew it was so, and that
some one had kffied ffim.
" Everybody must have known m ffis mind that Don Jorge
had done it, but because Don Felipe was his father no one
said what he thought: it was bad enough to have Vicente
220

(m'b t^ixx (TUi00ion0
dead without makmg more trouble. They thought it would
be best to have the funeral quickly; so they took the body
into the church and put it in front of the altar, and some of
them stayed with it aU that ffight. The next morffing they
had the burial.
" The next day, Don FeUpe went home to ffis ranch. Then
in the evening there came bad news from the priest at San
Buenaventura. Some Indians from there were coming from
San Femando with oUves. Wffile they were crossmg over the
Santa Clara River at the fordmg-place, they saw the hoof of
a horse sticking up out of the wet sand a Uttle way off. Do
you know the Santa Clara River, seiior? It is a bad river:
there is not much water, but it has much qfficksand, and it is
dangerous to cross it imless you know the safe places. The
Indians thought a man had sunk ffi the sand, because they
could see part of a sombrero ffi the sand close to the horse.
They had two horses with them, and they took the pack-
ropes and made a noose and threw it over the hoof like a
reata, and made the horses puU, They got it out far enough
to see that there was a saddle, and that there was sUver on the
leg-guards, but they could not get it farther out. When they
got back to the Mission they told the Father, and he thought
it must be Don Jorge because the horse was black, Uke the
one Don Jorge had been riding,
"WeU, senor, that was what had happened, Don Jorge had
gone home early m the morffing after he had kffied Vicente,
and taken a new horse and some money, and had started to
go somewhere and get away. I suppose he was gomg to
Mexico, but no one ever knew. My father and Don FeUpe
went to the place m the river with horses and ropes, but by
that time the horse was gone out of sight and there was noth
mg but the sand. So Don Vicente and Don Jorge were both
dead. Don Jorge must have tried to cross the river in the
221

Z^t CaCifotnia (pabt^0
dark. It would be just about the time that they found
Vicente's body when Jorge was caught m the quicksand.
They say that God wffi not owe a debt to any one very long.
Truly, it was not long before Don Jorge was paid.
"So that is why La Purisima is a bad place to stop, senor.
I would not go there ff I were you; not at ffight, anyhow."
"WeU," I said, "it is certamly a terrible story, and I am
sorry it should have happened ffi your famUy. But it was
long ago, and I did not kill poor Don Vicente, so why should
I not sleep there, if I wish to?"
"It must be as you wUl, seiior," he repUed; "offiy I have
heard that people who die Uke Don Vicente,without a chance
of confessmg to the priest, do not stay in their graves, but
they come out at mght and try to make a confession, so that
they can stay quiet. Vicente was only a boy, but he was a
spirited lad, and it is Ukely he had much to coffiess, I do jiot
know about aU that, but I know many people have heard bad
thmgs there at ffight, and they say it is because of Don
Vicente's spirit,"
"It seems to me that Don Jorge should be the one to con
fess," said I, "We have many stories like that in England,
but I have always thought that the people who see the spirits
are the restless ones — I mean that people who are nervous
and cannot sleep weU get these ideas out of their own brams.
WeU, I am a good sleeper, and do not hear or see many tffings
at ffight ; but I wffi write and teU you what happens, or does n't
happen, to me at La Purisima,"
And now (continued my friend) for my own share m the
busmess. It was late aftemoon when I arrived at the remams
of the Mission. After eating supper I spread my blankets on
a level spot at the west end and just at the rear of the build
ing. Then I used up the remaining dayUght m exploring the
mm. You have not been there at night-time, I believe? Well,
222

(m'b i^xx Q(ni00ion0
I can assure you that it is the owUest and battiest, froggiest
and rattiest of rums, and I thought to myself that if our good
friend had told me the foregoing story here in its proper set
ting, I might have been more impressed. By the time the
Ught was gone a cold wmd had begun to blow, so instead of
picketing my horse in the open I took him to a little adobe hut
sort of place, that might have been an outhouse. It was roof
less, and the greater part of the waUs had faUen, but there was
a comer that if it were a Uttie higher would give a good shelter
from the wind. I gathered some of the best of the adobe
bricks that lay about, and put them carefuUy in place, so as
to raise the height, and found the place then made a pretty
snug makesffift stable. So I brought the horse in and tied
him to a heavy timber, and left him happy with ffis grain,
wffile I myself turned in at my camp, some twenty paces or
so away. I slept well, only that twice I was awakened by the
horse plunging and snorting. The second time I got up and
went over to quiet him. He was trembUng and wet with
sweat, and I had some trouble to calm him. To avoid a tffird
disturbance I took ffim outside and blanketed him as best I
could, and left ffim tied to a bush, after wffich I slept undis
turbed untu daylight.
When I went to give the horse ffis morffing grain I noticed,
on glancmg into the house, that the adobes I had placed in
position on the wall were thrown down — not merely one or
two that might have sUpped and fallen, but every single brick,
many of wffich could by no possibiUty have fallen by chance,
for they were heavy and had been squarely placed. The
horse could not have puUed them down: even by kicking he
could not have reached the wall, and had he done so the wall
itself must have f aUen before the bricks, each weigffing several
poimds, would have been dislodged. I studied the problem
whUe I ate my breakfast, but coffid anive at no possible
223

Z^ CaCifomia ^cibxe^
solution; and on starting on my road to the north I left the
puzzle unsolved.
At Santa Maria, a few days later, I thought of my promise
to let our friend know how I had fared at La Purisima. In
writing I said that I had seen and heard nothmg of any
spirits, but I mentioned, as a matter not of any particular
significance, the riddle about the bricks. At San Lffis I re
ceived his reply, of which the part that concerns this matter
runs as follows: — ¦
"... I think it is fortunate, amigo mio, that your horse and
not yourself was in the old adobe. If the place you speak of
is the little building near the west end of the Mission, that is
the house in which they found the body of Don Vicente. I do
not think I said, when I was teffing you the story, that my
father used to say that many times the Padre had had the
wall put up after Don Vicente was found there, but always
it was pulled down the next night. He had it properly buUt,
and the bricks laid in mortar, but they were puUed down every
time, and at last the Indians said they would not put them
up again. They said it was Don Vicente's spirit that puUed
them down, because they had fallen on ffim and kiUed him.
Then the house got a bad name, and it was never used for
anything aU the time till the Padres left the Mission.
"It is strange that after all tffis time the bricks should fall
again. I do not know what you say about the spirit now. For
me, I think it was Don Vicente's spirit that broke down the
wall and frightened the horse; and when you come agam to
Lompoc I recommend you to choose a bed in the house of a
good Catholic, who is also
"Your friend and faithful servant,
"Andres Munoz Leyva."

C^apt^ 0C^i?m
SAN LUIS OBISPO

Mission San Luis Obispo de Tolosa: Its Bears and
Its Bells
Ht would seem almost as if the Lady Poverty herself had
*^ taken a personal mterest at the place we now caU San Luis
Obispo, m preparing the way for the Lesser Brothers of her
lover Francis ffi CaUforffia. The first few years of the Mis
sion period, wffile the orchards were not yet of bearing age
and the tricks of an untried cUmate and soil were being
learned, were times of a lean larder; and dependence for every
sort of suppUes, even food, had to be on sffipments from
Mexico. Such suppUes came by occasional crazy Uttle saUmg
craft wffich consumed anywhere from two months upward,
m the twelve-hundred-mUe voyage from San Bias to San
Diego, or five hundred more to Monterey. In the sprmg of
1772, owmg to the non-appearance of the expected supply
sffips, the four Missions then existent were reduced to a state
almost of famme, and the Padres jomed with the birds and
the Indians ffi pickmg up a scant Uvmg from the wilderness.
At San Carlos, the comandante, to reUeve the situation, set
out with a few soldiers on a hunt wffich carried the party from
Monterey southward more than a himdred miles, where was a
valley opeffing to the sea, named by Portola's expedition of
1769 La Canada de los Osos,^ or, as we should say. Bear
VaUey, It was a great, open swale, with a marshy lagoon ffi
the midst of it, and was a favorite stampmg ground for bears,
' This was the soldiers' name for it. Fr. Crespi, as customary with him, had
given the vaUey a more dignified, reUgious appeUation, "La Natividad de
Nuestra Senora," (the Nativity of Our Lady).
227

Z§e CaCifomia ^Cibxes
wffich fed on the tule roots and other damties to their taste,
there aboundmg. Incidentally the beasts wrought more or
less havoc among the rancherias of the Indians thereabout,
for it was a populous region, "to the four wmds settled with
much GentiUsm," remarks Palou (por los cuatro vientos estd
poblada de mucha gentilidad) . Accordmgly the advent of the
Spaniards with horse, lance, and carbine, baggmg the bears
as they would rabbits, seemed to the red men like the gods to
the rescue. Thus it came about, when a few months later
Padres Serra and CavaUer, arrived from Monterey, planted a
cross at a spot a mUe or so from La Caiiada de los Osos, and
there dedicated, on September i, 1772, a Mission to St, Louis,
Bishop of Toulouse, the Gentiles of the region were glad of
their new neighbors; for the memory of those doughty deeds
of valor among their enemies, the bears, was still fresh. And,
when it came to Ustenmg to the message of these gray-gowns
with a plan for beatmg the devil ffimself, why might there not
be sometffing ffi it, when their comrades of the same wffite
skm were such redoubtable kiUers of bears? So, ffi the main,
the Gentiles at San Luis Obispo were from the first favorably
disposed toward the Mission.
Tffis was particularly providential, because at the time
Serra was bound to San Diego, and, pendmg the arrival of a
fresh supply of missionaries, there was no friar available to
compaffion CavaUer. The latter, accordmgly, had to be left
alone to handle the case with two Christianized Indians from
Lower CaUforffia, a corporal's guard of five soldiers, and last
but by no means least a box of brown sugar (un cajon de
panochas), very efficadous bait for attracting the sweet-
toothed Gentile into the apostoUc net. As a consequence the
spiritual fmit of the soUtary Padre's first twelvemonth of
labor was not bad — well on to three dozen of baptisms.
This, too, notwithstanding what Serra called "the lashing of
228

cin'b t^txx QUi00ion0
the Enemy's taU," as maffifested by the misdeeds of the evilly
disposed soldiers, whose idleness always bred more or less of
deviltry about the Missions.
In Palou's "Noticias" I find a Uttle description of San Luis
Obispo ffi 1773, wffich enables us to picture that church m the
wilderness in its first estate — practicaUy a dupUcate of every
other Mission at that time. "Witffin the paUsade," he notes,
" they have their Uttle church of stakes and tule, and some
Uving-rooms for the Fathers with the corresponding work
shops, storeroom, and Uvmg-apartment for the soldiers of the
guard, aU of stakes and tule," Now, those tules of San Luis
Obispo are worth notmg, for they gave rise to ffistory. They
formed the thatch for roofing, as was the case at all the Mis
sions at first, and ffi the dry season they became so much tm-
der. At San Luis, because of this, the Mission was thrice
badly damaged by fire — once from a spiteful Indian's blazing
arrow lodgmg in the thatch. As the experience was tending to
become a habit, the Padres set their wits to work to supply a
better sort of roof, Adobe, tffick about them, suggested tiles,
and though neither of the resident friars knew anythmg of the
art of makmg them, they decided to try. The experiment
proved successful, and San Lffis's tile roofs set the fasffion
throughout CaUforffia, The exact date of tffis first tile-making
I do not find recorded, but it was before 1784.
It was dark ffight when the tram deposited me at San Luis
Obispo town; and I went promptly to bed and to sleep m a
very comfortable hotel to wffich a vUlainous Uttle omffibus
had rattled and jolted me from the station. Fatigue made a
short ffight of it, and it seemed but a few mmutes before I was
startled wide awake by such an outlandish clamor of ffiscord-
ant beUs as made me tffink for a moment that fire agam was
arousmg the town. It proved, however, to be only the bell of
the Mission calUng to early mass — tffis edffice of my quest
229

Z^e CaCifomia ^a'bxtB
bemg just around the comer. Mission beUs, I seem to remem
ber, are a rather promment feature among the properties of
Califomia poets. There is a very exquisite bit by Bret Harte,
suggested by the Angelus sounding at the Mission Dolores —
doubtless you know it, beginffing
"Bells of the past, whose long-forgotten music
Still fiUs the wide expanse,
Tingeing the sober twilight of the present
With color of romance."
It would be a robust poet, however, who could hold ffis own
against San Lffis's bells of the present, and I should judge the
San Lffisenos are indifferent, as a commuffity, to concord of
sweet sounds, or they woffid not stand for tffis demoniac
chime. After breakfast, I walked around to the Mission, prepared
by a post-card prmt in a shop wmdow, to behold a bffilding
badly spoiled, to be sure, by a modem steeple, but still retain-
mg some semblance to a Mission because of a corridor in front.
In reaUty it proved to be a pretty fair facsimile of a New
England frame meetmg-house, pamted wffite. Even the tile
roof, which of all the Missions shoffid be San Lffis Obispo's
badge of arcffitectural glory, had given place to prosaic
sffingles; and there was no corridored front. The latter, wffich
formerly ran the length of the convento wmg, and gave distinc
tion to the ffistoric structure, was tom down a few years ago,
because it played Alexander to the resident secffiar clergy and
stood between them and their sunshme. The sheathmg of the
origmal adobe waUs with boards is perhaps more excusable;
for ugly as it is, it at least has stopped the inroads of the
weather, and the old walls remain, though unseen.
It was very discouraging; but being there I resolved to see
the adventure through, and as it was Sunday, I jomed the
string of worsffipers who were straggUng up the steps mto the
230

(m'b t^txx (YTti00ion0
church and through an open doorway, wffich bore over it the
figures 1772. I do not remember that the mterior possessed
anythmg of noteworthy mterest for me, except an elderly
priest of fine, dignified presence, who preached the sermon.
His EngUsh betrayed ffis Spaffish nativity, and ffis exhorta
tion was deUvered with vigor. "You are responsible, you
parents," he charged, "for your cWldren's being and for their
souls, and what do I hear you are domg? Instead of sending
them to CathoUc schools, where they wiU be taught proper
manners and respect for church and authority, you are lettmg
them go, many of you, to secular schools. That is the same for
their morals as bemg brought up ffi the street, or miming wild
m the ffiUs. Do you realize that as parents you must answer
to God in the last day for your children's everlastmg condi
tion? " He was a grandfatherly sort of man with convictions,
and I felt m listeffing to him that pecuUar refreshment of
spirit wffich comes over most of us on hearing our neighbor
hauled over the coals.
After the service I stroUed along the tenace m front of the
livmg-quarters, and came by and by to a door on wffich was
tacked a card of invitation to visitors to rmg the bell for
admittance. The housekeeper admitted me mto the cool
twiUght of a hallway whose adobe walls were of the famiUar
Mission tffickness, and left me standing wffile she went for the
sacristan. Since Sunday is a busy day at a parish church, I
suppose I had no busmess to mtrude myself as a sight-seer,
and a priest who passed through the hall as I waited probably
thought so too, if I am to judge from a sourishness that
seemed to flavor ffis salutation to me. The sacristan, however,
when he appeared, set me at ease with the most cordial of
greetmgs. He was a young man, — a French Canaffian, it
transpired, — and he went joyously to work with me as
though I were the very first he had ever had the privilege of
231

Z^t CaCifomia ^Cibxes
convoymg over the place. What I was expected to see, it
seems, were certam reUcs m the sacristy and in an adjoiffing
room at the rear of the church. To reach these he led me a
rapid march through the garden, really a chamung nook, of
wffich I should have liked to see more, with a modem pahn
tree or two, an arbored walk where vmes of Mission grapes
cast a meditative shaide, and the perfume of roses sweetened
the air. Beyond I caught sight of a kitchen garden, and the
whole was shut out from the world by ffigh adobe waUs and
the Mission itself.
In the reUc rooms the guide went at ffis busmess hammer
and tongs. For professional enthusiasm I have never seen ffis
equal. His utterance was exceedmgly rapid, and he seemed
possessed with a sort of apostoUc fervor as though he saw in
ffis job a chance to sa!ve my soffi. He qffickly smoked me out
as a heretic of some mild type and set to to leave me, if possi
ble, better mstructed than he found me. There was indeed a
rather rich collection of reUcs, though ill ananged, I remem
ber, for instance, a wooden box with front doors, like a cup
board, crudely carved and gaudily colored by Indians, Tffis,
my young friend told me once occupied a space on the old
altar, and served as a tabernacle, "That," said he, "is the
center of the CathoUc reUgion " ; and then gave me a ffisser ta
tion on the mystery of the mass, with Scripture to estabUsh ffis
points. Then there was an ancient wooden cross said to have
been used when the first mass was said at San Lffis, " for you
can't say mass without a cross," I was assured; and there was
a quamt Uttle wooden cradle with a canopy, wherem lay a
wooden image of the infant Saviour. It was placed m the
church on Christmas Eve, and before it many an adoring
Indian had knelt in days gone by. Then, too, there were nu
merous silver chaUces and candlesticks, and other altar uten
sils; altar cloths of Unen, and silken canopies; priests' vest-
232

cm'b t^txx (Uli00ion0
ments magffificently embroidered m rich designs of flowers
and butterffies m gold and silver on colored silks by Sisters
in the convents of Spain : their contributions to the propa
gation of the faith m the Indies, These and many another
tffing were reverently shown me, and their uses and symbol
isms explained in great detail, but at such a verbal hand-gallop
as mademybram spm, I shoffid have Uked to remember more,
for the lecture was reaUy mterestmg; but somewhere ffi the
midst of it I became rather hypnotized from watching tffis
intense young man with a serapffic face and "can't bust-em"
overaUs drawn temporarily over ffis Sunday sffit. As he
talked, ffis head was bent ffi reverence, ffis eyes fixed on space
as though seeing sometffing beyond tffis world of sense, ffis
face now and then irradiated with a smile. His Ups, the wffile,
moved Uke the paddles of a miU-wheel under the pressure of
ffis torrential speech, and occasionaUy they spat droplets of
moisture. He wound up by presentmg me with a squat Uttle
volume m yellow paper covers entitled "Catholic BeUef";
and I am free to say, if I die outside the bosom of the Holy
CathoUc Church, it wffi not be the fault of that deUghtful
sacristan of San Luis Obispo.
As I emerged from the cloistral shades of the sacristy mto
the Uttle garden's heaveffiy sunshme and the compaffionsffip
of its miffistrant Iffies, it felt good to be free agam. Yet he was
a kmdly young man, profusely thankful on the Church's
behalf for the smaU fee I left in his hand, and I am sure the
love of God and of man was supreme m ffis heart. A good
Catholic hmted to me afterward that ffis heart was thought
to be sounder than ffis head; but is not that the world's usual
estimate of enthusiasts?
I was gratffied to find m San Lffis Obispo a street caUed
Osos, showmg that that famous Caiiada of the Bears is held
worthy of memory stUl. I learned, moreover, that the vaUey
233

Z^e CaCifomia ^cibx^B
itseff is of easy access; so I set out for it afoot by a street that
leads northward from the Mission through land once the
Padres' gardens, but now cut mto town lots, where rose-
embowered cottages are sprinkled about, children play tag,
and the domestic virtues flourish. In a pasture I had sight of a
hoary oUve tree wffich a San LuisefLo told me had been set out
by the Fathers, the only remnant, I beUeve, of their once
extensive oUve yard wffich De Mofras states rivaled ffi size
the best in Andalusia. So, to the outskirts of the town and
the foot of a steep cone-shaped hUl, wffich rose like a watch-
tower from the midst of the plam, Tffis I had learned would
be a proper vantage-pomt from which to view the Canada.
On the map the ffiU is caUed Cerro San Luis Obispo, but
coUoquiaUy it is San Lffis Mountain, and a popular resort on
Sundays and hoUdays for such as are sound m wmd and Umb
and have a taste for aerial adventure. I found it, mdeed, a
stiff cUmb by a dusty, stony, zigzag traU, at times as steep as
a high-pitched roof; but nec palrna sine pulvere, and the
crown was worth the dusty stmggle.
Below me lay the Uttle town nestUng amid trees and
flowers and oU tanks, and at the heart of it the Mission quad
rangle, out of wffich the strident voice of those terrible beUs
broke ffi brief outcry — made tolerable by distance, though
stffi hardly musical. To the west lay La Caiiada de los Osos,
dreamy that day under a tffin veil of ocean mist, and stretch-
mg to the beach six or eight miles away where a deliberate
surf came and went in intermittent gleams of wffite. Where
the bears were hunted and the Indian rancherias stood, is now
a sunlit, wmd-swept countryside with here and there a ranch-
house in its Uttle bower of trees. Seaward rises the hump of
Pomt Buchon, linked with the Mission past. Crespi teUs us
that when the PortolS, expedition of 1769 camped in the
neighborhood of the present San Luis Obispo, they found
234

(m'b t^^x (yUi00ion0

there a rancheria of Indians whose cffief was afflicted with
a huge tumor or goitre. The soldiers, m characteristic fash
ion, at once dubbed ffim "El Buchon," wffich is Spaffish for
such a swelUng, and appUed the same name to the native
vffiage. The latter has long smce gone, but the hffi near
wffich it stood f eU heir to the title and bids fair to hold it
so long as the good Caffiorffia custom persists of respectmg
the old ffistoric names. Kind Padre Crespi, who had more
interest in the poor feUow's soul than m his physical abnor-
maUties, piously christened the place San Ladislao, in
order that this saint "shoffid be his patron and protector for
his conversion."

Z^t CaCifomia i^(xbxe0
II
Fray Luis the Light-Hearted
^f^HE story of the Missions does not, m its nature, show us
^^ much of the Ughter side of Ufe, It is true that the gen
eral impression that ffistory gives of the Ufe led by the Span-
ish-CaUf orffians m the later part of the Mission period is one
of almost idylUc ease m a lotus-land of vast, sun-swept ran
chos: but the lot of the Padres, struggUng day by day with the
burden of their ignorant and often troublesome charges, was
weU-ffigh as duU and unattractive as any field of labor can
show. To the necessary cares of the missionaries were added
others born of the friction that usually existed between them
and the poUtical and military heads of the province: so that
the story m detail makes somewhat melancholy reading. It
comes, then, as a real boon when the student gets a gUmpse,
here and there, of some rattUng Father 0'Fl3Tm whose heart,
banded with triple brass, refuses to down, and thumps merrUy
under his garb of solemn gray, let happen what wiU.
Welcome, then, Fray Luis Antoffio Martinez, of San Lffis
Obispo, Fray Lffis of that ilk, as one may call thee. I tffink
the good St, Francis, bUthest, humanest of samts, would have
been glad to know thee and to number thee among his band,
and would have had but gentle words of rebuke, if any, for
thy exuberances. After aU, the sky is as blue over San Lffis
as above Assisi, where the Apostle of God's Open Air caroled
his cheerful lay to Brother Sun,
It is not much that history tells of Fray Luis, but aU we
know runs to the same effect as showing ffis unconventional
character. It was in 1818 that the pirate Bouchard made a
descent, with two sffips, upon the almost defenseless coast of
236

cm'b t^^x Qni00ion0
CaUforffia. After a more or less successfffi attack on Monte
rey, the capital, he sailed southward and'sacked the rancho of
Nuestra Seiiora del Refugio, near Santa Barbara, Fray Lffis
rose to the occasion. From ffis Mission, some hundred mUes
from the scene of piUage, he wrote to ffis friend Jose de la
Guerra y Noriega, comandante at Santa Barbara, to this
brave effect: —
" If I had but two cannon I should have the sffips; but there
is notffing, so I shaU content myself with doing what I can
and as long as I can. There are horses enough for ffight, even
as far as New Mexico, when I leave the Mission burned to
the foundations. Live, Fernando, wffile we are aUve! Live,
Holy Church and our native coimtry, even if we aU die!"
He had at the first alarm sent a detachment of ffis Indians
to the help of Governor Sold at Monterey, Now, leaving a
sick-bed, he hurried with thirty-five volunteers to jom De la
Guerra at Santa Bdrbara, and thence marched with the de
fending force as far as San Juan Capistrano, some three hun
dred miles from ffis starting-pomt, where (ffi the words of
Sola's report to the Viceroy of Mexico) "he animated all to
defend the rights of the sovereign and their own homes."
It may be a surprise to logical mmds to encounter Fray
Lffis next in the r61e of friend and patron of smugglers. Under
the narrow poUcy of the Spaffish Govemment, trade between
CaUforffia ports and foreign vessels was strictly proffibited.
At the same time the province itseff produced hardly any
tffing beyond ffides, taUow, and gram, so that for almost every
manufactured article its dviUzed people were dependent upon
the occasional visit of a supply sffip from San Bias. Here was
a state of things that plaiffiy invited, mdeed necessitated,
smuggUng, and Mr. George Washmgton Ea3T:s, m the sffip
Mercury, of Boston, dffiy appeared to fiU the need. The
islands off the southem CaUforffia coast made most conven-
.237

Z^t CaCifomia (pabt^0

lent pomts for ilUcit trade, and we may guess that the lovely
bay of Avalon, in Santa CataUna Island, now prime haunt of
tourist and angler, was, a century ago, a favorite rendezvous
for the exchange of hides and taUow for the more refined ar
ticles of trade craved by senora, cabaUero, and even Padre un
der vow to Lady Poverty: Letters are extant that make it
plam that certam of the Fathers at the Missions succumbed
to temptation; and Uttle blame, indeed, is it that they did so.
One does not look m vam for the name of Fray Lffis among
the candidates for Mr. Eajnrs's commodities. Here is a letter,
wffich bears evidence, moreover, that it was not the first com-
muffication to pass between them: —
Friend Don Jorge, Greetmg. I expect you to dme with
me at the ranch-house. Come with tffis vaquero, and we wiU
talk of what is mteresting m the news from Europe and the
whole world. We wiU also trade, unless you bring things as
dear as usual. The boy says that you asked him why I was
out of humor with you, and I say I am out of humor with no
body. Adios. Smce I do not know what you bring, I ask
notffing; and smce you say nothmg, I get nothmg.
Your friend, Q. B, T. M.,
Fr. Luis.
Let us hope that the dinner and the trading were satisfac
tory on both sides. As for the talk, Uttle doubt that it was
interesting enough. How one would lUie to have been posted
behmd the door of the dining-room that eveffing!
Sometffing of a figure, too. Fray Lffis would cut when he
had occasion to take the road, as when he convoyed Ms mule-
trams of Mission produce to Monterey. The story goes that
he took good care that on such occasions the digffity of ffis
"San Luisito" (Uttle San Lffis), as he endearingly caUed ffis
238

(m'b t^^x (nti00ion0
Mission by the VaUey of the Bears, took no damage m the
eyes of the world. His pack-mules were ever of the sleekest;
ffis Indian arrieros and servants, m their uffiforms of blue
Mission cotton, better dressed than the average Spamsh-
CaUforffian of the day; and the portly Padre himself (dis
tinguished, we learn, by a big nose bent to one side of ffis
good-natured face) headed the caravan m some sort of prim
itive gig or calesa, with beribboned Indians for postiUons and
outriders. Let it not be supposed, however, that stout Fray Lffis was
simply and solely a man of the type of the Friar of Orders
Gray of the old ballad. From other letters and from ffistory
we get a view of our Padre wffich calls for the respect due to
a man of ffigh prmciple. We find him writing with passionate
earnestness agamst the laxity of reUgious beUef wffich was a
feature of the period, and wffich had then lately been exem-
pMed in so extreme a form ffi France, during the Revolution.
And to tffis side of ffis character was affied, not unnaturally,
a consistency m poUtics wffich was quite unbendmg, and
wffich brought him mto a long course of trouble with the au
thorities, endmg ffi ffis fordble deportation from the Mission
he had served for tffirty years, and from CaUforffia. Upon
the revolt of Mexico from Spam, wffich cuhnmated ffi 182 1,
the Provmdal Government m CaUforffia naturaUy accepted
the new order, and the Spaffiards, military, civil, and ecclesi
astical, m the provmce were required to take oath of allegiance
to the Mexican State, at first nommally an Empire, then a
RepubUc. There was Uttle or no objection among the two
first-named classes of the population, but many of the priests
refused to abjure their loyalty to the King of Spam. There
is notffing to show that they, or any of them, made, or m-
tended to make, difficulties for the new regime, but naturaUy
they feU under suspidon. Among these loyaUsts we find,
239

Z^t CaCifomia ^Cibxes
without surprise, the sturdy figure of Fray Lffis, and upon
him it was that the brunt of the trouble feU. Probably he was
indiscreet, and did not take special pams to keep ffis senti
ments to himself. We may guess him to be the kind of man
who would drink to "The King over the Water," whoever
might be the company at table; though, after aU,the worst we
hear from him is, " Go to, with your RepubUc! " But m 1829
there occurred a miffiature rebelUon headed by one Juan
SoUs, and Fray Luis was accused of compUcity m tffis opera-
bouffe affair. It gave the authorities the handle they wanted,
and Governor Echeandia straightway had him arrested and
taken to Santa Bdrbara,
A forcible though dignified remonstrance agamst bemg sent
to Mexico for trial resulted ffi ffis being permitted to leave the
country on ffis word of honor to retire direct to Spam. He
was placed on board an EngUsh ship, and there we take fare
well of good Fray Luis but for a letter, written by ffim to a
friend in Lima, soon after ffis arrival m Spam. In it he says
that he sadly misses ffis old Califomia friends; and he mourn
fully remarks that everytffing at home is strange and ffiffer-
ent from the former days, so that now he cannot feel at ease
in Madrid, And he adds a reflection that, no doubt, has found
a counterpart in the experience of many another home-return
ing wanderer — that one who has spent thirty years in the
New World can never again settle down in the Old, Poor
Fray Luis! But we may hope that m ffis old age he had the
happiness to meet again some of his CaUfornia brother-mis
sionaries, several of whom were driven, like himself, to seek
a refuge from poUtical molestation ffi their native land. So
let us picture ffim finally as agam Fray Lffis the Ught-hearted,
flourishing for many a year in his native Asturias, and racily
recountmg to loyal Spanish ears the story of ffis wrongs and
his exploits in far-off, barbarous CaUforffia,
240

(m'b t^iix (mi00ion0
Wffile on the topic of the unconventional spirits who ap
pear ffi the annals of the Padres, we must aUow ourselves a
reference to those two roysterers. Padres Mariano Rubl and
Bartolome GiU, who ran a brief but meteoric career at —
most mappropriately — the Mission of Nuestra Senora Dolo-
roslsima de la Soledad, These blackest of black sheep came
like most of the other early CaUforffia Padres, to tffis dis
tant provmce from the Franciscan Missionary CoUege of San
Femando, at Mexico City, evidently with a hearty "good
riddance" for fareweU. We quote from a letter of complamt
agamst them, written by the Guardian of the CoUege to the
Viceroy: —
"Avery short time after their arrival from Spam, Fathers
Rubl and Gffi manffested disgust for the regular Ufe, repug
nance for the laudable customs of tffis ApostoUc College, and
regret for havmg come. Fmdmg no other excuse for with-
drawmg from the religious exercises, they took advantage of
the charity with wffich our infirmary treats the sick and in
firm, as far as its poverty permits. Pretendmg to be suffermg
from iUs wffich in reaUty they had not, they retired to this
asylum, where they passed the days in sleep and idleness and
the ffights disturbmg the rest of those who, havmg labored
during the day, needed rest and sleep during the night. The
reports are ffiled with the excesses wffich these two, like sons
of darkness, committed. Among them the worst are that
they loosened the bolts to rob the storerooms; broke, not only
once, the jars contaiffing the chocolate of the commuffity;
stole from said room the small kettles to beat them for drums;
took away the baUs which the commuffity used for pastime
on recreation days, and rolled them through the dormitories
at unseemly hours of the ffight, on various occasions, causmg
terror and confusion to the religious, Fmally, they scaled the
waUs of the College, and went out, scarcely for the sake of
241

Z^t CaCifomia ^(xbxt^
performing some act of virtue. They make no meditation
and do not appear m choir," And so on.
There is somethmg uncommoffiy refresffing m the thought
of that row of reverend shaven pates, startmg from their snug
pffiows with looks of "terror and confusion" at the racket of
those unseasonable games of bowls. Really, some one ought
to pamt that scene. And it would be a pleasure to forgive the
jokers, if only there were notffing more shamefffi ffi evidence.
Unfortunately there is, though it is not necessary to record
it here.
An mgeffious demon he must have been who was respon
sible for tffis unconscionable pair ever entering the priesthood.
Probably it was the same imp who put it into their heads
that the Missions of Caffiorffia woffid be a promismg field for
their special gifts. (By the way, Rubl appears to have been
a musician, for we find ffim referred to as " the orgamst."
CaUforffia at that time boasted no organs, except a barrel-
organ contributed in 1793 by Vancouver to the Mission of
Carmel ; so that here the soothing charms of music were deffied
the prankish priest, though, mdeed, they seem to have had
Uttle efficacy at the CoUege.) Anyhow, the two rascals appear
on our scene about the year 1790, and after a short stay at
Mission San Antoffio were transferred to Soledad. How happy
they made the life of Padre Garcia, the missionary m charge,
can be as easUy imagmed as described. We read of GUI hav
ing four quarrels ffi pubUc with him, and leam without sur
prise that the twin disturbers of the general peace were soon
at odds between themselves. "Always grumbUng, always
restless; agreeing with no one and not even with each other!"
— so writes Father Lasuen. However, their course was soon
mn. Before the end of 1793 we find Rubi — clerical titles
seem qffite too incongmous with these scapegraces — back
Uke a bad penny at ffis College in the City of Mexico, and
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cm'b t^^x (Tni00ion0
requesting to be sent to Tampico. Of GUI we take leave m
the foUowmg year in the capadty of chaplain on a vessel that
is bearing ffim, against ffis wffi, to the PffiUppmes.
In conclusion, another mcident, but in qffieter vein, of the
humors of the Padres. To a proclamation of Govemor Borica,
m 1794, reqffirmg the priests to refrain from deaUngs with
foreign vessels. Padre Diego Garcia repUes from ffis Mission
of Soledad, some forty mUes away from tide-water, that "It
will give ffim pleasure to comply with the order if Divme
Providence should ever favor this inland Mission with a
harbor." So it is good to note that the Padre, whom we
just now saw quarreUng with his two unruly brethren, has
recovered ffis good humor and is ready for a little joke.

C^ApUx Zmt)}^
SAN MIGUEL ARCANGEL

Mission San Miguel Arcangel and the Case of
THE Gentile Guchapa
3T is quite conceivable that if I had no other home under
heaven than a darklmg adobe room in the mouldering
convento of a lonely Mission, and between my parocffial calls
Uved there by myseff among my books and the ghosts of the
past, with an old housekeeper across the haU to cook my meals
and dam my stockmgs and show the church to the curious
comers and goers and keep them from picffickmg in the corri
dors and from scattering discarded lunch-boxes and chew-
mg-gum wrappers about — under such circumstances, I say,
it is entirely likely that I, too, would be crusty; that I, too,
would put up such a sign at my wicket as the resident priest
has displayed at the wicket to the Mission of that Most Glori
ous Prince of the Heavenly MiUtia, St. Michael, Archangel.
The notice is in plam EngUsh, for the Spaffish-speakmg visi
tors at San Miguel are doubtless good CathoUcs, who do not
need tffis special sort of instruction. It reads: —
Mission San Miguel.
Founded July 25, 1797.
Parish Church of St. Michael, Archangel,
and
Residence of Pastor.
Strictly Private
As home of Any Other Person.
Not a Public Park.
Visitors and Callers Welcome. Visitors and Callers
Should Announce themselves. Please enter and Strike the
Old Mission BeU.
247

Z^t CaCifomia ^Cibxes
It was not altogether cordial, but, on the other hand, it was
a sort of mvitation. Moreover, it improved on re-readmg;
for reaUy it was reasonable, and imparted a good deal of in
formation m smaU compass. So I passed through the gate
with meekness and stmck the old Mission beU, wffich I found
hanging in a wooden frame near a comer of the church waU.
Another beU, wffich swmgs in the upper air at the top of a taU,
mconceivably ugly, spider-legged tower, planted impudently
before the church entrance, you are not to molest. I suppose
there was a reason for puttmg up that discordant sort of cam
panario, aU iron legs and ribs like a Uttle Eiffel Tower; but it
certainly was not for art's sake. Save for tffis awkward blot
upon its entrance, the Mission woffid be genumely attractive,
with its roofs of old red tUe and its picturesque wffite corri
dors with their arches of assorted shapes and sizes, and a
quaint old-timey tile chimney. The situation on the outskirts
of the Uttle town of San Miguel, wffich is also a raUway sta
tion, makes the Mission of easiest accessibffity.
WhUe waiting for some response to my summons, I was
edified by readmg another notice posted at a side entrance
to the church. Evidently the poor rector of San Miguel has
had his troubles with the unregenerate who come a-calUng
at his Mission out of curiosity; and he is not the man to sffi-
fer in silence. Tffis notice proved to be a rather comprehen
sive essay on conduct ffi church; and comprised injunctions
against men appearing therein in their sffirt sleeves or hats,
and agamst women entering with uncovered heads. Smoking,
I beUeve, was also interdicted, and loud taUdng; and certain
other details of behavior (which I have now forgotten, but
wffich at the time I thought none but savages would have
needed lecturing about) were explained as becommg or un
becoming, as the case might be.
I had about digested tffis sermon, when a cheerfffi, Uttle old
248

(m'b t^^x Q[ni00ion0
woman, of housekeeperly aspect, came from one of the con
vento rooms, her keys jingUng as she walked, and, biddmg
me a pleasant good-morffing, ushered me mto the cool twi
Ught of the church. The interior proved very attractive. The
old square-brick tiUng of the floor was worn mto hoUows and
humps by the tread of generations, and the waUs were elabor
ately decorated in the primitive style and gaudy tones that
bore evidence of Indian artists havmg contributed largely
to the adornment.^ There was a charming old waU pffipit
with a sounding-board suspended above it like a candle ex-
tingffisher about to drop; a ceU-like coffiessional buUt in the
tffick adobe waU; and an ancient wood ceiUng, supported
by hewn timber beams, the ends resting on carved brackets
embedded ffi adobe. The altar was adomed with a pamted
wooden statue of the Archangel, and over ffim a huge sim-Uke
carvmg of gUded wood, radiatmg gUt spokes, symboUzed, I be
lieve, the omffividency of God. AU tffis, ffi the haff Ught from
an occasional Uttle wmdow weU up under the roof, was as an
old Mission should be, and I was touched into forgetfuffiess,
ff not of forgiveness, of that unspeakable skeleton of a beU
tower without. There seemed a dearth of reUcs for display.
At least, my ama de Haves vouchsafed me notffing that I re
member, except a baptismal font of no great mterest to me
and some worm-eaten coffiessional chairs of stiU less. She had
real joy, though, in calUng my attention to the prmt of a
dog's foot impressed on a floor-tile by the door.
"An Indian dog stepped there while the mud was soft, do
you see?" she explamed. "A many years ago — an Indian
dog, mind you, was n't it funny? "
1 Mr. G. W. James, in an interesting chapter on "Interior Decoration"
in his In and Out of the Old Franciscan Missions of California, states that the
decorations of San Miguel church were done by a Spaniard named Murros,
under the oversight of the Fathers and with the assistance of neoph)^es. .-
249

Z^ CaCifomia g)abtr^0
The sight of it seemed to give her as fresh an enjojTnent as
though she had just observed it.
A glance at the map shows that San Miguel Ues almost due
west from the upper end of the San Joaquin VaUey, a region
once noted for boglands aboundmg in tules or bulmshes to
such an extent that it was caUed by the Spaffiards the " Tu-
lares," or Place of the Rushes. It was a famous stronghold of
unreconstructed Indians, who found good Uving on the water
fowl that infested the lagoons and on the tule poUen wffich was
a dainty item in the aborigmal dietary. Later these Inffians
Uved still better on horseflesh, for wffich they mercilessly
raided the centraUy situated Missions, such as San Miguel
and San Lffis Obispo. The Tffiares were just far enough
away to be comfortably safe from the Mission soldiers and
yet near enough to make the raids not too fatigffing to
the Tulareiios, Furthermore, when Mission Ufe became too
irksome to the more restless neophytes, and the caU of the
wild became irresistible, such backsUders had a way of tak
mg French leave and makmg for the Tulares, The region
naturaUy had a bad name at the Missions, one old Padre
pleasantly stigmatizmg it as " a repubUc of heU and a diaboU
cal uffion of apostates," It seemed, therefore, to the doughty
soldiers of the Cross, a suitable place for systematic campaign-
mg and the possible estabUshment of a new Mission. With
tffis in view, two or three expeditions were made by the Padres
into that kingdom of the devU, the leadership in such entradas
being San Miguel's, as the nearest Mission. Notffing further
came of them, however, than drummmg up recruits for the
existing estabUshment. One of these reconnoissances was
in 1804, in charge of Padre Juan Martm; and I take it, it was
on that outmg he had the famous adventure with Guchapa.
Guchapa was a hard-shell Gentile of much influence inhis
neighborhood; and Padre Juan, who was the sort of diplomat
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(xn'b t^^x (Wti00ion0
that beUeves in going straight to headquarters and the point
mgenuously reqffisitioned the old cffief for a supply of young
Indians to make Christians of. Guchapa refused, usmg what
appears to have been very intemperate language; expressed
ffis contempt for friars and soldiers, who, he argued with some
show of logic, were nobody to be afraid of, for did they not
die the same as Indians? And he wound up by ordering
Padre Juan and his Uttle ragged escort out of the country.
The Padre, on retummg to San Miguel, reported the mat
ters to the military comandante of the district, who thought
the digffity of CathoUc Spam required that tffis red Douglas
should be brought to knee. Accordmgly a sergeant with tffir-
teen leather jackets and gunpowder enough for a demonstra
tion, was dispatched to humble ffis pride. There was a Uvely
fight, wffich resulted in the capture of Guchapa, who was
brought into the Mission. Here his views about the gentS de
razon became a good deal modffied; and upon promising to
send some young Inffians down he was permitted to return to
ffis rancheria, with a pocketful of glass beads. Bancroft, from
whom I take the story, says that his promise was "to send
back all Christian fugitives witffin his jurisdiction" — wffich,
if aU that was got from him, would indicate that the old hea
then had held his own pretty well m the camp of his enemies.
On the whole, Guchapa's case stands out quite refresffingly,
m the general record of weak-kneed apathy that ffistorians
attribute to most of the Califomia GentUes.
Padre Martffi was San Miguel's most noted missionary, ff
we except poor Fray Concepci6n, who went crazy and m-
sisted on the soldiers shootmg off their guns and the neophytes
their arrows at a rate that woffid soon have turned missionary
Ufe mto one grand Donnybrook fair, had he not been taken m
hand rather promptly and transported, Martin's term lasted
from the day of the founding in 1797 untU 1824, when ffis
251

Z^t CaCifomia ^abt:^0
mortal frame was laid to rest in the Mission whose destiffies he
had gffided, under Providence,'^for twenty-seven years. Much
of that time he was the offiy friar in residence; but between
1807 and 1817, he had the cheery compaffionsffip of Padre
Juan Cabot, brother to that Padre Pedro, "El CabaUero,"
whom we buried at San Femando. Fray Juan was fficknamed
"El Marinero," (The Sailor), because of ffis bluff, frank man
ners. He had a big heart, and ffis hospitaUty and jovial
demeanor made ffim uffiversally Uked. After Padre Martin
was caUed to ffis long home, it was Padre Cabot who was
assigned to continue ffis work at San Miguel, and there he
stayed until secffiarization.
TemporaUy Mission San Miguel never ranked with the
best. The land, though lymg, much of it, in the fertUe bottom
of the upper SaUnas VaUey, yielded but stubborffiy to mis
sionary treatment. There were hard frosts ffi winter and in
summer a scorcffing heat, Robmson speaks of it m 1830 as
"a poor estabUshment," the heat felt even by the fleas, wffich
gasped for breath on the brick pavements! Secffiarization
made qffick work of what there was, if we are to beUeve Mrs.
Ord's remiffiscences; for she says that in 1835 she coffid not
find even a tumbler on the premises to drink from. The
present structure dates from about 1820.
To make up to some extent for the agricffitural deficiendes
of the land immediate to the Missions, the San Miguel Padres
availed themselves (after the fasffion at other Missions) of
sundry little fertile vales m the surroundmg ffiUs. There
temporary coloffies of neophytes, under the care of experi
enced Indians as mayordomos, were estabUshed. Frffit trees
were set out, beans and gram sown, and herds and flocks
tended. One of these outposts, Santa Margarita, was midway
on the road to San Lffis Obispo, UntU recentiy there coffid be
seen — and possibly stiU may be — some remnants of the
252

(m'b t^x (Wli00ion0
adobe storehouse, 'mayordomo's quarters and Uttle chapel that
once stood there. There, it is said, the priests from San
Miguel and San Luis Obispo, during such periods as reduced
those Missions temporarily to one missionary apiece, would
sometimes arrange to meet, to make coffiession to each other.

Z^i^ CaCifomia ^(xbx^B
II
The Tragedy of San Miguel
Mn the criminal annals of CaUforffia durmg the troubled
early years of American rule, no page is darker than that
wffich teUs the tale of the "great murder case," or, as it might
well be called, the massacre, of San Miguel Mission. After
sixty years the story is stiU current in the locaUty, and on a
recent journey through central CaUfomia I heard at least
tffiee qffite different accounts of it. I am not keen on horrors,
nor do I suppose my readers to be so, nor, certaiffiy, is the
charming and accompUshed lady who related the facts to me:
but the incident bemg a part of the actual history of the Mis
sion, I tffink it worth wffile to set down the plam and imem-
broidered statement as I received it from the Ups of the
granddaughter of one of the persons cffiefly concerned.
We were sittmg in the warm dusk of an^August eveffing m
the veranda of the hospitable home of Senor Leon Gil, in the
oak-shaded f ootffiUs of the Santa Lucia Siena. The taUi had
wandered from sport to local poUtics, from local poUtics to
local ffistory, and then to old CaUforffia topics, a field m
wffich my host and hostess, both descendants of old Spaffish
CaUfornia famiUes, were full of mterestmg matter, A chance
reference to San Miguel Mission, wffich was not very far ffis-
tant, brought out the tragic ffistory. Said the seiiora: —
"Itwas m 1849, that eventful year for our dear CaUforffia,
that my grandfather, Don Petronelo Rios, was Uving close to
the Mission of San Miguel, You wiU see the place, the old
Rios ranch-house, when you visit the Mission, The priests
had gone, for it was long after the secularization, and my
grandfather, in partnersffip with an EngUshman, Mr. Gffil-
254

(m'b i^txx (nti00ion0
lermo Reed, — he was called by the people "El Piloto," be
cause he had formerly been a pilot, — grazed large numbers
of sheep and cattle on the Mission lands, Mr, Reed Uved with
ffis family ffi the Mission itself, and inddentaUy the partners
canied on a general merchandise business there, using some
of the old rooms, and were domg a good trade with the mmers
who came m the great msh of that year to the placer diggings
of the San Joaquin,
"Mr, Reed, however, was not satisfied to be makmg money
slowly m the course of busmess, wffile others on aU hands
were gettmg wealthy qffickly at the mines. One day he said
to my grandfather, 'Why should not we go to the mmes, and
get our share of what is gomg? AU our acquamtances are
gettmg rich wffile we are muddUng along here. I propose that
we close up the merchandise busmess for a time, and go
miffing too,' My grandfather was an older man than Mr,
Reed, and more cautious, so he was not very eager to go; but
ffis partner persuaded him, and they wound up their affairs
for the time, and went to the mmes,
"At the placers they did moderately well, but not by any
means so well as Mr. Reed had hoped. He, however, partly
for bluff and partly for a joke, used to pretend that they had
stmck it very rich — that is the funny American speech, is n't
it? — and the story got about that the two had made lots of
money, and had sacks and sacks of dust and nuggets ffidden
away. My grandfather often objected to Mr. Reed givmg
out tffis impression. 'Here we are,' he would say, ' among all
kmds of wild feUows, and it is not wise to make all tffis talk
of the money we are supposed to have. We are m danger of
losing the Uttle we have made.' But Mr. Reed only laughed,
and always kept up the same kind of talk.
"Before very long they got tired of the mmes, and retumed
to the Mission with what gold they had. There they took up
255

Z^ CaCifomia ^abt;^0
again their former busmess. Soon afterward, my grandfather
left there and moved over to Templeton. The Indians who
Uved about San Miguel were much attached to him, and they
moved away with him, so the country was left very quiet and
lonely. His partner was left m charge of their jomt affairs.
"One evening a party of men came to the Mission. There
were three Americans, an Irishman, and an Indian who acted
as guide. It turned out that the wffite men had known Mr.
Reed and my grandfather at the mmes, and Mr. Reed made
them welcome accordmgly. In the course of their conversa
tion he stUl kept up the pretense of their having made lots of
money at the mines, and when the men asked how much they
had, he replied, 'Oh, bags and bags of it! Why, that boy' —
ffis wife's Uttle brother, eight years old — ' can hardly Uft the
smallest sack!'
"The mmers were m no hurry to go. Mr. Reed made them
very welcome, and they stayed some days about the place.
At last they left, but the next day they returned, to buy some
suppUes, as they said. When they put down their money,
wffich was in twenty-doUar pieces, Mr. Reed called to the
boy to bring one of the Uttle sacks of dust (stffi keepmg up the
pretense of havmg a great deal, you see), from wffich — the
only one they had, as a matter of fact — he weighed out their
change. He was a very sociable man, and again he kept them
talking until it became so late that he suggested that they
stay at the Mission for the ffight.
"During the eveffing they aU sat about the fire in the big
room. The Indian was not there, for the other men treated
him roughly and would not assodate with him. The ffight
was cold, and when the fire got low, one of the men said to
another, 'You had better go and get some wood to make up
the fire.' The man went out, and retumed in a few moments
with an armful of wood, ffidden m which there was an axe.
256

(xn'b t^iix (nXi00ion0
He came beffind Mr, Reed, who was laugffing and joking with
the others, and with one blow of the axe struck him dead.
He did not utter a sound.
"In the next room, wffich was a bedroom, were Mrs, Reed,
her cffild, three years old, an old woman who was a sort of
nurse m the family, the nurse's daughter, and the daughter's
young cffild. They were gettmg ready for bed. The men
broke into the room and with the same axe kiUed Mrs. Reed
and the young woman. Meanwffile, the old nurse had caught
up a heavy stick, and snatcffing the reboso from her head she
wound it round her arm and bravely defended herself and her
grandcffild. Of course she had no chance against the four men,
and she and the child were soon dead on the floor. The other
cffild, who was sleeping on the bed, was awakened by the
noise. One of the murderers caught sight of it, and made a
blow at it with the axe through the bedclothes, wffich killed it
and left a gash m the waU wffich I have been told can stUl be
seen, "They went next to the kitchen, where the cook, who was
a negro, was asleep. He had not been awakened, as the walls
were so tffick that they shut out all sound. They murdered
him as he slept, and then went on to another room, where the
sheep-herder and ffis grandson were sleeping. They killed
them both m their beds. Then, after ransacking the buildmg
for the supposed gold wffich had been the motive for the
terrible crime, and finding only a small quantity of dust, they
dragged the bodies of the nme people they had murdered to
the farthest room of the Mission, and threw them mto a heap
with the mtention of burnmg them there, Wffile they were
carrjdng the bodies there they discovered Mrs, Reed's Uttle
brother, who had ffidden himself among some boxes on the
corridor. The boy had become friendly with the men during
the days they had stayed there, and he clung to them and
257

Z^e CaCifomia g)abi;e0
begged them not to hurt ffim. One of them, takmg pity on
ffim, tried to hide him beffind himseff, but the leader saw the
action, and exclaimed, 'What is that you are ffidmg there?
Do you want that brat to betray us? ' and he seized the boy
and kUled him by dasffing ffis head agamst one of the pffiars
of the corridor.
"By tffis time it was nearly daybreak, and it was necessary
for the murderers to escape. So they took the great double
doors of the church off their ffinges and placed them as a
barrier to prevent any one openmg the door of the room
where they had put the bodies. Then they took their horses
from the corral and rode away to the south. At that time aU
the country about San Miguel was very thmly settled, and the
murderers had left no one aUve about the Mission. It was
two days before the massacre was discovered. Then Mr.
Branch, of Arroyo Grande, and Captam Pryce, of the Los
Osos, who were both friends of Mr, Reed, happened to be on
their way down from San Francisco, They noticed, as they
rode past the Mission m the mornmg, that there was nobody
about, and that the church doors were not m their place.
Seeing that the cattle were still ffi the corrals. Captain Pryce
went round to Mr. Reed's room and tapped at the wmdow,
calUng out, 'Get up, you lazy fellow! Do you know what
time it is? ' As he heard no reply, he pushed the shutter open,
and then saw that the trunks were overturned and everytffing
was m disorder. They knew that sometffing was wrong, and
rode on qffickly to Templeton, wffich was five leagues away,
where they told my grandfather what they had seen. He sent
them on to San Lffis Obispo for the officers, and when they
came they all went on together to the Mission. There the
awful crime was brought to Ught.
"The ffight after the murders, the men had camped at my
grandfather's place at Templeton, with the intention of kffi-
258

(m'b t^txx (yTti00ion0
ing him also, ff necessary, in order to secure the gold which
they had expected to get at Mr. Reed's. But on account of
there being so many Indians about they were afraid to at
tempt it. One of the Indians went over, as Indians are apt to
do, to the men's camp after they had left, and there picked up
an earring, wffich he brought to Don Petronelo. He recog
nized it as one that he had often seen Mrs. Reed wearmg, and
was suspicious that there had been bad work at the Mission,
even before Captain Pryce arrived with his news.
"The officers from San Lffis had been instructed not to
attempt to take the men prisoners, but to shoot them imme
diately when found, as it was clear they were desperate, and
would not hesitate to take more Uves. The Indian gffide had
left them and ffidden himself after the murders, as he had
heard them speak of kilUng him too, wffich no doubt they
would have done when they no longer needed him. He was to
have taken them by back trails to San Diego, and from there
they meant to escape into Mexico. Through the gffide's
desertion they were obUged to travel by the roads. They were
overtaken at the coast, near Gaviota, and two of them were
kiUed on the spot. The leader ran out into the water, throw-
mg from his pockets the gold they had taken at Mr, Reed's,
and was drowned wffile the officers fired at ffim. The last
man, who was the Irishman, surrendered and begged to be
allowed to confess. It is from ffis statement that we have the
particffiars I have given you. When he had made ffis confes
sion he was shot.
"It happened, many years after the murders," added the
senora, "that Don Mariano Soberanes, of the Los Ojitos
Ranch, was visiting us at our old home, the Rios ranch-house.
Don Mariano chanced to see there an old Indian who was
working for my grandfather. 'That is the Indian who was
with those men who killed aU the people at the Mission,' he
259

Z^t CaCifomia ^Cibxts

said to my grandfather. It was tme. It appeared that the
men, wffile on their way to the Mission, had stopped at the
Los Ojitos, and Don Mariano's notice had been attracted to
them by the brutal manner in wffich they treated the Indian,
whom they made kneel down to eat, mstead of sittmg with
them at the table. Thus he recognized him so many years
after, Don Petronelo told me, I remember, that he questioned
the Indian about the matter, but that he always acted as if
'loco,' and could never be mduced to say anything about it.
At every mention of the murders he always became wildly
excited, and seemed to be under the influence of the greatest
terror." Such is the story of the tragedy of San Miguel Mission, a
notable warning agamst that Golden Tempter from whose
wiles the good St, Francis wisely tried to sffield ffis followers
and companions m the Way of Poverty, " Verdaderamente,
Don Dinero es gran criminoso " (Truly, Don Dinero [money]
is a great criminal), murmured Don Leon, as we rose to go
to bed.

C^dpUx Z^xxU^
SAN ANTONIO DE PADUA

^.1 '*<iil^

Mission San Antonio of the Oaks and the
Tradition of the Friar Who flew thither
¦y^o reach San Antoffio from San Miguel, one goes first to
^^ Jolon, a mountam hamlet six miles from the Mission;
and to attain Jolon, an automobile stage may be taken at
Kmg City, after a comfortable country dinner at the hotel
across from the railway station. It was late afternoon when
the stage deUvered me, so I reserved until the morrow the
adventure of tffis Mission of a wilderness still almost as
primitive as when the estabUshment was founded.
It is a deUghtful walk tffither from Jolon. For a mUe or
two the road passes an occasional ranch-house, and then
enters by a gate the lands of the great Milpitas cattle ranch.
Stately native oak trees stand everywhere about, set at Ub
eral distances from one another, and formmg a sparse sort
of forest ffi whose grassy glades the cattle of MUpitas graze
and miffinate while the pasture lasts. Because of the preva
lence of these trees, the Padres caUed the region " La Caiiada
de los Robles," (the VaUey of the Deciduous Oaks) ; and in
time the Mission came to be tagged m famiUar speech with
the same "de los Robles" as a locative — that is, San An
toffio de Padua of the Oaks.
After four miles, my road emerged from the oaks into a
broad sequestered amphitheater, at the westem side of wffich,
outUned agamst the blue of the sierra, the fagade of the Mis
sion reflected the morffing sun. It is a lonely situation, but
an altogether lovely one. The first Spaffiards caUed it before
263

Z^6^ CaCifomia (pabt;e0
there was a Mission here, "La Joya de la Sierra de Santa
Luda " ; and its utter seclusion from the world of man puts San
Antoffio in a class by itself among the Missions — islanded
in one of those huge, privately owned cattle estates, of wffich
many stiff remam in Califomia to furffish texts to our social
istic phUosophers. With the exception of one of the MUpitas
ranch buildmgs, half ffidden in trees on a near-by ffiUtop, there
is notffing to suggest the present repubUc of the Gringo. It
might stUl be 1771, and gray-gowned,^ limping Padre Juffi-
pero with his compaffions. Fray Pieras and Fray Sitjar, ffis
file of soldados de cuera, and ffis pack-train of mules loaded
with provision, church bells, and ecclesiastical furniture,
might be descendmg that hffi before us, just arriving from
Monterey. San Diego is two years old; San Carlos has lately
been founded; and here is to be established the tffird of these
recruitmg stations for Heaven, on the devil's frontier.
It was midsummer when Serra's Uttle company arrived
here, and the charming mountain valley had not altogether
lost the freshness of the early year ; the Uttle river was runffing
plentifuUy enough to give assurance of an uffiaffing flow for
irrigating the fertile bottom lands; and we can imagme the
sunny air, sweet then, as on July days now, with the breath
of mint and sage cmshed by the passmg foot, and musical
with the caU of mournmg doves and the hum of the wUd bees.
A frenzy of enthusiasm seized Serra. Ordermg the mffies
unloaded and a bell swung from the branch of a tree, he
caught the rope, and ringmg furiously, cried m ecstasy: —
' The Franciscans as we see them now in CaUfomia are always robed in
brown. This was not formerly so, the brown uniform dating from an edict of
Pope Leo XIII, issued a generation or so ago. St. Francis prescribed only a
"poor color." In Spain this was always gray, and such, of course, was the color
the order brought to Mexico. Later, when the Fathers did their own weaving
in the wilderness, they had to cut their coats according to their cloth, and their
coarse gowns were of such wool as their sheep produced, — gray, brown, and
even black, 264

(m'b t^ixx (Vni00ion0
"O Gentiles, come, come, to Holy Church! Come, come,
receive the faith of Jesus Christ!"
There were no Indians in sight, and as yet no church, and
the Father's prosier compaffions, apparently as nonplussed
as Don Quixote's sqffire when that doughty knight persis
tently mistook the nose on the face of Ufe, remonstrated with
him for ffis outburst; but he offiy said: —
"Let me give expansion to my heart. Would to God the
voice of tffis beU might resound through the whole world . . .
could be heard at least by all the Indians m these moun
tains." Then they set about foundmg the Mission. The proceed
ings were much the same on aU such occasions. That the loca
tion might be purged of any Ungering little devUs of darkness
there was sprinkUng with holy water, a large wooden cross
was made, blessed, venerated, and erected; and a bower of
leafy boughs cut from trees at hand was bffilt for a chapel,
in wffich a plam table was set to serve for an altar. Here mass
was said and a sermon preached in honor of the Mission's
patron samt. The audience as a rule on such occasions was
limited to the soldiers of the guard, the mffieteers, and such
christianized Indian servants as had been brought along
with the expedition. The savages at the foundmg, particu
larly of the earUer Missions, were generaUy too much per
turbed at the advent of the strangers and their outlandish
doings to venture near for some time. Here at the foundmg
of San Antoffio, however, when Serra tumed from the altar
to preach to ffis little assembly, his deUghted eyes were
greeted with the sight of one astomshed Gentile lookmg on.
This "first offermg of GentiUsm" he took for a good omen, and
so it proved; for the San Antonenos were very hospitable to
the faith. Perhaps a certam tradition prevalent among them
helped in the matter. One day an old GentUe woman came
26s

Z^e CaCifomia ^abt;e0
to the Mission cravmg baptism; and upon being asked why
she would become a Christian, her answer was: "When I
was a cffild, my father used to teU that there came a man to
our Country, wearing a dress such as you Padres wear; but
traveUng neither afoot nor a-horseback, but over the ffiUs
flying. And he taught our people the same sayings you teach
now. And in my old age I have remembered, and I too would
be a Christian."
The missionaries took the tale with a grain of salt at first,
but finding on mquiry that the neophytes confirmed the
tradition, they concluded their present labors might, mdeed,
be in the nature of watering seed sown a couple of centuries
before by some missionary from New Mexico.
San Antoffio Mission to-day, while sadly mined, is by no
means hopelessly so. There is a substantial and picturesque
fagade of red Mission brick showing through a scaUng coat
of plaster, dating from about 1810 — for the present edifice
is the tffird. The origmal site was a mile or two farther to
the east on the Rio San Antoffio. The thick adobe waUs of
the church are held together by iron braces, and a sffingle
roof, put on some years ago by the Landmarks Club, has
considerably arrested the mroads of the weather. Outside
of the church matters are gomg to the bad more rapidly.
Still one can trace in the broken waUs and crumbling mounds
much of the ancient plan; and there is a remnant of the
Padres' old garden still, where a ragged corporal's guard of
ancient pear trees, rosebushes, pomegranates, and what-not,
suggest what has been. De Mofras says that travelers from
the North got at San Antoffio their first taste of the South —
orange trees, pahns, and cotton growmg on its lands. The
old irrigation system, too, is much undisturbed, and not offiy
is it interestmg to the archseological mmd, but two unffis-
turbed reservoirs, with their brick retaiffing waUs bffilt mto
266

OLD ADOBE OUTBUILDING, SAID TO HAVE BEEN USED AS A JAIL,
AT MISSION SAN ANTONIO DE PADUA

(m'b t^exx (Wli00ion0
the hffisides, are stiU sound enough for the Milpitas ranch
people to put to use.
The interior of the church is entirely dismantled. A rough
table of planks blocked with drippmgs of candles was evidence,
however, at the time of my visit, that some reUgious service
had been held there not long before. It seems that every 13 th
of June, St, Anthony's Day, it is customary to have a fiesta
at the Mission, Then the priest from Kmg City comes up,
mass is said, and the paisanos, from the surrounding country
for miles, make hoUday, For the rest of the year, the church is
given over to the bats, the owls, and the swallows (who have a
fancy for its protecting eaves to build their mud nests under),
and such occasional visitors as myseff.
Coming from the rums I was startled to see an automobile
stopped before the church, and in it a sweet-faced old lady
who smiled a greeting to me. She mtroduced herself, and I
recognized the name of one of whom somebody at Jolon had
spoken, as knowmg more about San Antoffio Mission than
any one else in the neighborhood.
" Yes," she said, "when I came mto this country — you
passed our ranch just outside of Jolon — there was not an
other white woman nearer than Monterey. We had mail
only once or twice a month, and it was very duU, sometimes;
so I would come to the Mission for society. There was a resi
dent priest then, Father Ambrls, a very ffice man. The coun
try was such a wUdemess the Mission seemed Uke civiUzation
to me; and though I was an EpiscopaUan, I got very friendly
with the priest and we arranged to rent some of the rooms,
and I Uved here for two years. That was about 1859 or i860,
and tffings were ffi good order then. One of my granddaughters
was bom here — she has just gone mto the church. Yes, she
is a real daughter of the Mission.
" Father Ambris loved the Mission and he loved flowers
267

Z^ CaCifomia (pabt;^0
and trees and Uked to work among them. Those oUves there "
— pointing to two thrifty trees wffich stood one on each side
of the church entrance — "were put there by him, trans
planted from the old orchard over yonder. He died about
1880, and is buried ffi the church. He had been here tffirty
years, and came of his own free wffi, for the Mission had been
secularized before that. Everythmg was gomg to wrack, and
he beUeved it a good work to come and be curate. He made
it very ffice here, but it is aU desolate agam these many years,
and so neglected. Of aU the Mission lands wffich extended
once for miles aU around, offiy tffirty-three acres are owned
now by the Church. They are rented, aU but a couple of acres
or so right at the Mission, to the Milpitas people, who have
them planted to crops for feed for their stock. And the In
dians, of course, are gone long, long ago; aU except three or
four famffies Uving ffi the ffiUs on Mission Creek and on the
San Antone. Of course, they own no land, but the MUpitas
people don't disturb them. They are good workers and ffire
out on the ranch; though the foreman tells me the old folks
are better than the young people. Once in a wffile one dies,
and is buried in the old Mission cemetery here."
The extinction of the Indian Ufe around the CaUforffia
Missions is no smaU part of the pathos of them. It was quick
busmess. Here at San Antoffio, for instance, the register of
1805 showed tffirteen hundred neophytes. In 1832, on the
eve of secularization, the number was down to six hundred
and sixty, and every Indian witffin reach appeared to have
been converted. Then came secffiarization, after ten years
of wffich the census-takers could find only a beggarly fifteen,
ten of them men, five women. "Drink and the devil had done
for the rest." The Fathers kffied by kmdness; Mexican Ub
erty by starvation, mistreatment, and aguardiente in pay
ment of labor. It was a few years after that census of fifteen
268

(m'b t^^ (nti00ion0
that Father Doroteo Ambris took charge. His busmess was
simply that of a secular curate; but ffis admimstration, under
taken as a labor of love, was worthy of the fine old Franciscans
who had preceded him at San Antoffio — of Padre Buenaven
tura Sitjar, who came with Serra to the founding in 177 1 and
was stffi there thirty-seven years later when Brother Death
called to reUeve ffim; of Padre Pedro Cabot, "El CabaUero,"
so called because of ffis poUshed manners, which Robinson
thought worthy a brmgmg-up at some European Court rather
than m a cloister; and of good old Padre Juan Bautista
Sancho. It was Cabot and Sancho, compa-neros for a quarter
of a century at San Antoffio, who guided its course ffi the
golden noon of its prosperity and stayed with it tiU the eve
ning of its decUne — Sancho tiU ffis death ffi 1830, Cabot till
secularization m 1834, when he left to lay down ffis weary
body at San Femando, as we have seen.
Padre Sancho brought the temporalities of the Mission to a
pitch of excellence that made its name recognized throughout
CaUforffia for certain good tffings — as capital flour, and
horses renowned for speed and hardness of hoof. Sorrowmg
Padre Pedro, who buried him, has left a tribute to ffis good
qualities, from wffich we leam somewhat of his mettle. A
foe to idleness in himself, he would have none of it in ffis
nedfitos. "Who would eat, must work," was his motto. He
had an iron constitution and every moment of the day found
ffim busy — working m the field, visiting the sick, or min
istering to the spiritual needs of ffis flock. On ramy days he
turned scholar and scribe, composmg catecffisms for the
Indians, whose language ^ he had leamed, and writing music-
' This at most Missions meant not simply learmng one language, but a num
ber. Padre Arroyo, for instance, preached in thirteen at San Juan Bautista.
It was characteristic of the CaUfomia Indians that they were spUt up into a
great number of smaU linguistic groups; and naturaUy any given Mission,
269

Z^e CaCifomia ^abt^0

books for them. Whatever was to be done, he did with his
might, and again and agam he became so absorbed in the
task of the moment that he forgot to eat. In what remams of
Mission San Antoffio to-day, we see more of his sturdy strokes,
I fancy, than another's; and if ever the old church is restored,
as it deserves to be, it wffi be because of Padre Sancho's
foundation of honest workmansffip. Tireless old toiler in the
vineyard of God! The buildmgs at which he wrought are
now a sorry wreck; the fields of his sowmg, waste; the people
of his spiritual care, obliterated from the land. Was it aU
worth while — those twenty-six years of unceasmg labor m
the wUdemess? I believe it was. It was more than a pair of
hands that worked: it was an eager, loving spirit, sowing to
the Spirit; and the harvest of such sowing is life everlasting
— and not, I think, for the sower alone.
reaching out for converts over a radius of ten or fifteen miles, got into its fold
speakers of very diverse idioms.

cm'b t^dx (Tl[li00ion0
n
A Christmas Pastoral
H HAD camped, the day before, on the Nacimiento. I wonder
^ who named that stream, the "Rio del Nacimiento," River
of the Nativity? Whoever it was — some friar of the early
days, no doubt — "I thank thee. Fray, for teacffing me that
word." (And, mdeed, CaUforffia owes no smaU thanks to
those priests, Serra and ffis compamons and followers, who
fixed the names upon so many of our geograpffical features.
Contrast "Bloody Gffich" with "Arroyo de las Llagas" and
"Horse-thief Bluff" with "Lomas de la Purfficaci6n.") So
probably it was the fact that my mmd had been dwelUng upon
the attractive name of the attractive Uttle stream, together
with my havmg lately been readmg somethmg about Christ
mas celebrations in old times at the Missions, that brought be
fore my mind's eye a picture of one of those simple MoraUty
plays (or Pastorelas, as they were caUed) when I sat by my
camp-fire the next ffight, beside the San Antoffio River and
witffin stone's throw of the ruffied Mission.
The VaUey of the Oaks, as regards that part of it that is
contiguous to the Mission, seems to be ffi unaccountable dis
turbance. UsuaUy, for aU that can be seen or heard, soon
after ffightfall the owls and coyotes hold undisturbed pos
session, uffiess, perhaps, for a bar of Ught that shines from
the room where the Padre's candle bums. But to-ffight (ff I
may borrow from the great MUton)
" The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fixed in steadfast gaze,"
as on that first Nativity: for it is again Christmas Eve, La
271

Z^t CaCifomia i^c^bxts
Noche Buena, the Good Night, as the Spaffiards name it; and
twinkUng Ughts move here and there all about the Mission,
wffich itself sends out a steady beam from open door and ffigh-
placed window.
A deep beU tone sounds, once; then trembles out, solemn
but sweet, upon the cold, still air. Another — and another
— and at each, the Indians, wending toward the church,
torch in hand, stop and reverently bend the knee; for it is the
token of the Most Holy Triffity. Then, merry as you Uke,
Pio, Camilo, Florencio, whoever you are, merry and fast, for
an example — though there is no need — to the people, who
now come hurrying, running, old and young, men and women,
boys, girls, and babies, and press through the open doorway.
But they check as they enter, agam bendmg the knee and
crossing themselves before the Mystery typified to their un-
questioffing, humble minds by blazmg altar, star-crowned
Madonna, awful crucifix.
Within the crowded church all is sUence but for the beUs
that continue their clamor above. Suddenly they cease, and
again three slow and solemn notes are sounded. The priests
enter. The people drop to their knees, and every head is
humbly bowed. (Good reader, Protestant Uke myself, let us,
too, kneel and bow the head, in company with ignorant,
superstitious Indian, and — if it be so, I do not know —
haughty, bigoted Spaffish priest. It may weU be, mdeed, it
surely is, that in His eyes to whom they kneel we are as
ignorant, superstitious, haughty, and bigoted as they. Let
us thankfully share our brothers' humility, as weU.)
A deep, strong voice from the gallery at the rear breaks the
hush. It is the Kyrie Eleison. Dommgo, the old cantor, is
singing the first Une. Then mstruments jom in, violins, flutes,
bass-viols, and many voices, all of men: a strange, resonant
smgmg, that somehow is like the Indian himself, somber,
272

cm'b t^cxx (I(ni00ion0
dark, joyless. Now the priest's voice rises m the Gloria in
Excelsis; and so the solemn service of the midffight mass pro
ceeds, and with Ite, missa est, doses.
Again the beUs ring, merry and fast; but the people, in
stead of leavmg the bffilding, stand lookmg toward the door.
The priest, who had gone to the sacristy, now returns, carry
mg in ffis arms a smaU figure of the infant Saviour. He stands
before the altar raU, and invites aU who wffi to approach and
kiss the Holy Cffild. Immediately the women press forward
and, one by one, awkwardly, reverently, touch their Ups to
the wondrous Babe, their duU eyes and stoUd features Ught
ened to a strange thrffi in the caress of the beautfful Ni'fk),
dimpled, smiUng, fair of skin and hair, — aU that is ideal,
adorable, to the dusky, heavy-witted Indian. To sympathize,
we need not caU it reUgion: we can reverence at least the
Eternal Womanly.
But now the beU ceases, and then comes on the great, the
long-looked-for, long-prepared-for event of the ffight, the
wonderful Pastorela, arranged by the Padre, and rehearsed
at frequent intervals for two months past by the Indians who
are to participate, at huge expenditure of the Padre's pa
tience. The moment has arrived, and a flourish of music from
the gaUery, a Uvely, rattlmg tune, announces the openmg of
the sacred drama. Then through the door come the actors,
to the long-drawn breaths of admiration of the adults and the
shrill exclamations of round-eyed children. First enters a
handsome, smooth-faced young Indian in a tuffic of blue,
bespangled with gilt stars, and with a similar larger star fas
tened with wire above ffis forehead. It is Gabriel, the Arch
angel of the Nativity. Exdtement is unbounded, and must
be expressed in clasped hands and murmurs of "Ah! the
blessed angel! how beautiful!" Next comes an older Indian
dressed m sheepskms with the wool tumed outward, and
273

Z^e CaCifomia ^abt:^0
carrying a crook-headed staff. The word goes round, "It is
the shepherd of Belen, the one who talks to the blessed angel."
Then appears a figure at sight of wffich the women press
back and hold the cffildren agamst their knees: a taU, cadav
erous personage, face grotesquely pamted ffi blue, white, and
yeUow, with two smaU goat's homs projecting from ffis fore
head, and wearing a sleeveless coat wffich, like his bare arms
and legs, is emblazoned with red flames. He roUs ffis eyes as
he walks, and terrifies the chUdren by pokmg at them with
a rod pamted red to imitate heated iron. No need for mutual
explanations at tffis. "El Diablo! Satands!" is wffispered
shuddermgly. FoUowmg him comes a clown-Uke feUow m
fantastic garb, mopping and mowmg and pomting as ff crazy.
He is known as Bartolo, and ffis function seems to be that of
fun-maker, with no bearing upon the serious action of the
play. Last enter six young girls ffi wffite robes reacffing to the
knee, carr}dng Ughted candles and wearmg wffite, veU-Uke
head-coverings, each with a smaU gilt star. They are plaiffiy
angels, and excite great admiration as they walk to their
places; but mstead of remaiffing with the other characters
in the midst of the church, these go on to where a low plat
form has been buUt, just outside the altar rail, on wffich is an
object that is covered with a large wffite doth. The angels
take their stand, three and three, on each side of the platform.
After a moment's pause, Domingo's voice is heard from
the gaUery. It is the cue, and at once the girls take up the
hymn, Adeste Fideles, the actors, even mcludmg El Diablo
and the dubious Bartolo, joming m it. When it is ended,
Gabriel advances and announces the birth of the Saviour.
His words are largely taken from the BibUcal account, and
he ends by declaring that God (El Padre Celestial) has
sent a marvelous star to lead aU men to the holy Birthplace,
there to adore the Divme Infant and to venerate his Virgm
274

cm'b t^^x (mi00ion0
mother. As he fiffishes ffis speech he pomts upward. All eyes
tum tffither, and — a miracle! — a large star appears above
the altar, and is seen slowly to descend. Hands are clasped,
and a sigh of wonder and awe goes through the church. Many
cross themselves and bend the knee. The star draws nearer,
nearer, and at last comes to rest above the veUed object.
There is a revulsion as Satan now steps forward and, ad
dressmg the shepherd, combats the Archangel's words. He
declares that by Adam's faU mankmd has passed forever un
der his domiffion, and that hope of redemption is vam. His
speech is a long one, but is Ustened to with deep attention by
the people, m spite of the comicaUties of Bartolo, who, aU the
time it is m progress, is employed ffi gestures and antics wffich
appear to have Satan himseff as their prmcipal object. AU
seem to feel that solemn events hang upon the argument, and
there is a hush of anxiety when he ceases. Gabriel again takes
the word, and relates how the Father has mercifuUy ordained
that for aU who humbly repent of their evU lives and dffigently
pray to Him there is a way of escape from the destruction due
to Adam's transgression. He directs the shepherd's attention
to a cross, wffich he holds before him, and the shepherd, sink-
mg upon ffis knees, adores the symbol of Redemption. But
the DevU, at ffis other side, attempts to distract ffim from
ffis devotion with wffispers and demonstrations with ffis red-
hot weapon, mimicked ffi every action by the irrepressible
Bartolo, whose mtention is to throw ridicule upon the EvU
One. Gabriel mtervenes by advancmg between Satan and
the shepherd, and, presentmg the cross toward the former,
caUs upon him to forbear ffis temptations and threats directed
to the shepherd, and to acknowledge himseU vanqffished and
adore the Eternal Majesty. The DevU, cowed by the vurtue
of the cross, unwiUmgly kneels, while the angels, at a signal
from Dommgo, break mto a song of victory.
275

Z^e CaCifomia ^(xbxes
Gabriel, cross m hand, now leads the shepherd toward the
star, Bartolo and the DevU foUowmg, and as they reach the
platform, the Archangel draws the veU aside and reveals a
rude, straw-fiUed manger, ffi which is seen the image of the
Holy ChUd, wffile at the head is a smaU statue of the Virgin.
Then comes a closmg tableau, the Archangel, the angels with
lighted candles, the shepherd, and Bartolo grouped about
the manger, F^ Diablo in the background, and the star sffin
ing over all.
The Padre comes forward and mvites aU to approach in
order, and view the manger and El NiOo Salvador. There is
a long sigh from the watchers, who seem loath to break the
spell that has held them absorbed, hardly breatffing. It is
broken for them by the beUs, wffich agam rmg out ffi Uvely
din. Men, women, and chUdren press forward, bowmg and
crossing themselves as ffi tum they pass the central figures;
and then cluster about the platiorm, chattermg gayly — a
rare outbreakmg for the grave, sUent Indians, almost as if
they felt that, with the happy denouement, their own dark
shadow had truly been Ufted. (Perhaps they did feel so: for
they were simple as chUdren, and it is, after all, as by Uttle
children that the Kmgdom of Heaven must be received.)
Bartolo and El Diablo, the play being done, hovered on the
outskirts of the crowd, indulging ffi all manner of uncouth
antics, to the delight of the men and boys and the hopeless
bewilderment of many very sleepy babies.
Wffile stUl the beUs rmg lustUy, the concourse graduaUy
disperses, and the Pastorela, crude, indeed, but smcere, and
therefore, no doubt, effective for its purpose, is over: —
barely in time for Padre and people to snatch a Uttle sleep
before the bells will ring once more, to summon them to the
solemn early service (the Misa del Gallo, or cock-crow mass),
of Christmas Day,

C^apt^ Jouttem
SOLEDAD

IlJ"-'"^^ ..<S^ _ . ^5

- •*i; • * '.:

! — \

!L  .  7 _  ."- . ¦ . ..¦- j*i;;.ar , .v,,-.

•.WX..,KU. ,¦

Mission Soledad, and how Papa Arrillaga's Soul
LACKS A Mass
A^NE Saturday night the train dropped me at the station
^^ of Soledad, a dreary Uttle town in the midst of the flat,
wide vaUey of the SaUnas River, twenty miles north of Kmg
City. The region roundabout is a sort of Uttle Switzerland,
not because of any snowy peaks there or chalets with rocks
to hold the roofs down, but because it is largely settled with
ItaUan Swiss, whose ranch-lands, planted to alf affa and beets
and stocked with dairy cattle, are flowing with cream, cheese,
and butter. Somewhere near here the expedition of Portola,
one September day of 1769, emerged exhausted from their
cmel passage of the Santa Lucia Sierra, and rested their tired
eyes on a leafy fertile vega, fragant with rosemary, salvia, and
"roses of Castile." To those haggard, footsore explorers it
was a heavenly place, and I tffink there must have been a
temperate celebration that ffight around their camp-fires;
for though Padre Crespi, in ffis priestly way, was for dedi
cating to St. Eleazer this first camp by the river we now
caU SaUnas, the soldiers named it "El Real del Chocolate"
(the Camp of the Chocolate), that delectable confection
being the especial luxury of the pioneers.
The ruins of the old Mission of Nuestra Senora Dolorosi-
sima de la Soledad, to wffich Soledad owes its abbreviated!
name, are across the SaUnas River, and I set out for them
afoot early the next mommg. The distance is four miles by
road; but an obligmg Soledadan of whom I asked directions
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Z^e CaCifomia ^^'btes
put me on a short cut through the fields that would halve
the distance. I knew the proverbial uncertamties of any short
cut and was soon astray on tffis one, but fortunately among
the wiUows at the river bank I came upon the camp of a cheer
ful hobo. He was devotmg ffis Sabbath mornmg to the exer
cise of that virtue which, bemg next to godUness, may, at a
pmch, be aUowed to Sunday, and was wasffing ffis scraps of
linen. He let me into a traU that led eventuaUy to the flimsy
Uttle foot-bridge by wffich the river — at that dry season
reduced to a mere ribbon — is here crossed. Once over, I
entered a zone of Swiss farms, and, traversing tffis, I came to
the ffighroad after its roundabout trip from Soledad town.
A dusty half mile of road and I passed into a field in whose
midst was a pitiful barbed wire fence inclosing an acre or
two of weedy ground and the wreck of the Mission of Our
Most Sorrowful Lady of SoUtude — a century and a quarter
ago hopefuUy dedicated to the conquest of Satan m those
parts; now all desolate and Satan stiU unconquered.
As none of the bffildmgs of tffis Mission ever got beyond
the adobe stage, what remains is a rambUng rffin of roofless,
mudbrick walls, broken and breached by the elements, strol
Ung cattle, and graceless humaffity; and every year puts
them but the farther on their Averffian road. No vestige of
the former occupation is evident, not a frffit tree, not a rose
bush, or a burial cross. The only break in a brown monotone
of adobe when I was there was an aforetime squatter's frame
shack under the shade of a wild waffiut tree that lent a little
touch of homelikeness to the habitation, I hope the vagrant
occupant acqffired grace in ffis ecclesiastic surroundings. It
woffid be interesting to know whether he left because an
awakened consdence made the soUtude unbearable, or
whether he was evicted with the trespassing cattle when the
fencing was done. At any rate, he is gone now, and even the
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(in'b t^^x (Uli00ion0
bats and the monkey-faced owls, a dependable population at
other mined Missions, have deserted Soledad.
The Mexican Governor, Alvarado, I read, had the distinc
tion in 1841 of putting the final touch to Soledad's confisca
tion, takmg the last of its cattle, iron-work, and tiles for one
of ffis own misgotten ranches, and conveymg its lands to ffis
crony Soberanes for a Uttle property nearer the gayeties of
Monterey. Of the church part offiy a smgle right angle now
stands, formed by the toppUng facade and some twenty feet
of one side waU that joms the front, and so, perhaps, keeps
it from faffing, I passed witffin and, picking my way over
rubbish heaps of broken tUes and collapsed waUs, sat down on
a mound of melted mudbricks to think it over, A rabbit,
startled at the unwonted noise of footsteps, leaped from its
home amid the dusty debris where I fancied the ancient altar
had been, and scuttled away. A ground owl cffittered in the
neighbormg fields, and I coffid see ffim atop of ffis sticks of
legs, ridiculously bowmg at notffing. By and by a quaU out
there called. Then, unbroken stiUness, The church stands
with its back to the river, or rather did when it had a back;
its face, like the Psalmist's who looked to the ffiUs for ffis
strength, is toward the rugged mountams to the westward —
that Sierra de Santa Lucia whose northern spurs drop to the
sea at San Carlos, The range may be five miles from Soledad,
and from my dust-heap I saw a misty blue section of it, like
a picture framed ffi the square of the old doorway, the foot-
ffiUs in the foreground dotted with an occasional ranch-house
and bunch of grazmg cattle, and its crest veUed with cUngmg
remnants of the fog of the ffight before. It was a peaceful
scene, and all around was a sense of peace after struggle; and
there was the blessed sunshme still, and suddenly the song of
a lark; so somehow I was not so sorry as I expected to be for
the old Spaffish gobernador, Don Jos6 Joaqum de ArriUaga,
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Z^t CaCifomia ^Cibxts
who just a century ago was buried m the church, and I sup
pose Ues there yet. Wffile the sun sffines, and the birds come
and go and the stars look ffightly down, that unmarked grave
under the sky cannot be all cheerless, I tffink.
ArriUaga was a kindly govemor, with a passion for siUs
handkercffief s and silk stockmgs. He was Papa AniUaga to
ffis soldiers to whose babies he liked to stand godfather, and a
fast friend of Padre Florencio Ybanez of Soledad. So, when
he found himself sickenmg, he posted to the Mission to be
near ffis famiUar comrade and spiritual counselor; and there
he died. At ffis own request he was, after death, " clothed in
a habit wffich the reUgious of our Father St. Francis wear,"
and interred in the church where the friend of his heart min
istered. Like a provident good CathoUc, ArriUaga ordered
m ffis will one hundred masses to be said for the repose of ffis
soul. The commission was executed partly at San Antoffio
and partly at San Miguel, I read, and in due time an account
was rendered to the Govemor's executor, one Alferez Estrada,
at a peso per mass, Tffis Estrada seems to have been a very
businessUke person and felt the responsibility of ffis tmst;
for, according to Bancroft, who never misses an opportuffity
for a sly dig at the ways of thef railes, the said executor could
figure out only ffinety-ffine masses said, and very thrfftily
discounted the Church's bill one peso, before paying!
Padre Ybanez was a man of strong personaUty, With ffis
confrere, Fray Antoffio Jaime, a snuff-takmg, easy-gomg
Padre with the kindest of hearts, to whom ffis nedfitos were
wilUng slaves, he conducted the affairs of Mission Soledad
durmg its best days, from 1803 to 1818, He was a strappmg,
broad-shouldered, jovial Catalan, famous for a way he had
of being markedly kind to aU common folk and rubbing up
the fur of his visitor dons and bigwigs by treatmg them as if
they were just vin ordinaire. To the soldiers of the guard he
282

(xn'b t^ixx Q(Ui00ion0
was always considerate, and would teach them to read and
write, to improve their condition. As for ffis neophytes, he
took espedal pleasure in showmg them the best ways to
handle their work, and went to great pams with their musi
cal traiffing; for he was himself more than ordmarily proficient
in music, and was a bit of a rhjnnester, too. He ended ffis days
at ffis weU-beloved Mission, and ffis remains doubtless mmgle
with its dust,
Soledad seems always to have been noted among the CaU
fomia Missions for its absence of outward charm, though its
hospitaUty was on a par with the best. The name of the Mis
sion is, mdeed, aU m favor of cheerlessness and predisposes the
visitor to find only that about the place; yet, as a matter of
fact, the SoUtude of the dolorous title has reference not to
any outward condition, but to a spiritual. In honor of Our
Lady of Solitude — Nuestra Senora de la Soledad — there is a
special form of devotion practiced ffi Spaffish-speakmg coun
tries on Holy Saturday of Passion Week, to commemorate
the unspeakable soUtude of Mary in the time between the
crucifixion and the resurrection of her Son. A Mission dedi
cated to tffis experience of the Sorrowmg Mother was de
cided upon some years before the actual founffing, it bemg
the custom m the case of aU the CaUfomia Missions to settle
ffi Mexico upon their heaveffiy patrons and their titles. It
so happens, ffi the case of tffis estabUshment, that the region
had been known as the Valley of Soledad long before it had
been pitched upon for a Mission. Probably ffi some expedi
tion of the early explorers, camp had been made here, and the
priests, as was their custom, had given it a religious name
which persisted.

Z^6^ CaCifomia (pab¥60
II
Faithful unto Death
'T^SE sites of all the Missions were chosen, naturally, with
^^ great care, and even at tffis distance of time the visitor
to them to-day can usually discern the reason for their loca
tion, and admire the good judgment displayed by the foun
ders. But in the case of the Mission of Nuestra Senora Dolor-
oslsima de la Soledad it is hard to see any reason of beauty,
fertUity, strategic importance, or anytffing else, for the selec
tion of tffis cheerless site : though, when it was defiffitely wished
to dedicate a Mission to Our Lady of SoUtude, no better choice
could have been made throughout the whole long coast of
Caffiorffia than tffis wide, sun-bleached vaUey of the SaUnas.
It is, even now, a sparsely settled region: a land of sun and
dust, of scanty, ill-clad trees, of vast roaming winds; where
month on month one sees only an eternal color monotony of
drab of barren earth, pale gold of parcffing grass, and hard
cobalt of sky; and for sound accompaffiments hears only day
long chipping of ground squirrels and ffightly clamor of
coyotes. But absolutely without attractiveness as the region is, and
complete as is the destruction of the old church, now an in
coherent and unsightly ruin of adobe fragments, I have always
felt a beauty m the perfect sjnmpathy that exists between the
place and the name. Our Lady of SoUtude — how deeply
suited to this scene of lonely desolation! To De Quincey's
great trUogy of "Our Ladies of Sorrow," I tffink the name of
tffis forsaken spot might weU be added. Mater Solitudinum.
Like those other dark-robed three. Mater Tenebrarum, Mater
Lachrymarum, and Mater Suspiriorum, she, too, ministers at
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anb t^^x Q1(Vi00ion0

the birth of many of the sons of men, and, however unwel
come, gffides their fated way through Ufe.
It seems appropriate that Nuestra Senora Doloroslsima de
la Soledad should have been the scene of one of the saddest
incidents in the ffistory of the CaUforffia Missions. Their
decline from prosperity was as rapid as the rise had been, and
began even before the ffi-omened poUcy of secularization,
wffich had long been threatened by the Government of Mex
ico, went into effect. The edict, wffich formally went mto
force in 1834, inaugurated an era of open spoUation. Father
Sarria was the priest in charge at the Mission of Soledad at
the time, and, with a devotion wffich, judged by either Pro
testant or CathoUc standards, can only be called heroic, he
remamed at ffis post whUe even the means of barest Uving
dwindled away to the point of absolute hunger. On a Sunday
of 1838, wffile saymg mass m the church ffi presence of the
remnant of his Indians, he fell at the altar, famting from
weakness, and died the same afternoon apparently of Uteral
starvation. The figure of Father Sarria is one of the most attractive in
the whole number of CaUfomia's early missionaries. In a
special degree ffis works exempUfied and ffis words enforced
the beautiful Franciscan mles of simpUcity and poverty. Yet,
like the founder of ffis order, he was a man of fine taste and
ffigh acquirements. Even in translation, one cannot but
admire the elegance both of thought and language of ffis
letters, the letters of a sweet spirit and a poUshed gentleman.
On the subject of church arcffitecture and decoration he
writes, in a pastoral foUowmg upon a visitation wffich, as
Comisario Prefecto, he had made to all the Missions: "It is
right for each Father to give full rem to ffis ideas of beauty m
arcffitecture, art, etc., but always witffin the bounds of lovely,
evangeUcal simpUcity wffich our worthy predecessors have
28s

Z^e CaCifomia ^(xbxte

taught us." "Lovely, evangeUcal simpUcity" — that is a
charmmg phrase for the best of virtues; and it is to such a
spirit in the leaders among the early Padres, indeed, that is
due the digffity and perfect taste wffich make the Mission
buUdings, even ffi rum, so pleasmg. Would that it were more
m favor in many phases of our modern Ufe!
Constantly in Father Sarrla's letters we find thesame
thought uppermost. ContinuaUy he exhorts to the fulfiUment
of the Franciscan Rule, and that, one may be sure, not from
bigotry or a wooden asceticism, but from a smcere under
standing of its value. Hearmg that certain carriages had
arrived by one of the supply sffips, he woffid forestaU thdr
possible harm by a few qffiet words to the effect that a mis
sionary should exffibit the purest simpUcity, so that the carp-
mg world might see the disinterestedness of ffis service of the
poor Indian, " even like that of Our Saviour Jesus Christ."
He prefers that the Fathers go afoot, or use, when needful,
the primitive ox-cart of the country (a mode of travel, it may
be said ffi passing, to which waUiing would seem to be on aU
points preferable). He would even have the priests wear the
time-honored sandal, rather than the more modern shoe,
which would seem luxurious to the bare-footed neophyte;
and similarly he discountenances other non-necessities. He is
always keeffiy soUcitous for the welfare of the natives, in
temporal as weU as spiritual matters; yet, wffile criticizing
tffis or that item of Mission management, he is ever ready
with cheerful praise in general of the work of the missionaries.
One notes, often, an almost PauUne deUcacy of thought and
phrase. " Though I cannot say," he writes, " that everythmg
has been remedied accordmg to my wishes, through the
mercy of God there is notffing of moment to prosecute, nor
anytffing that might seem unedifying, considering the circum
stances under wffich we labor. Indeed, there are those, and
286

anb t^iix QUi00ion0
not a few, who observe the Rule most strictly, so that they
can be the consolation of a Superior, ffis luster, his crown, ffis
true and desired joy."
Gentie as was ffis nature, however. Father Sarria could
show a front of iron when occasion" of prmciple arose. At the
time of the change in Mexico from Spaffish rule to inde
pendence, he held the responsible post of Comisario Prefecto
of the Missions of Caffiorffia. He was thus the head of the
Fathers in aU affairs of busmess and poUtics, and it was a
matter of importance what position he would take toward
the new Government. He made no difficulty of recognizing
the Government first estabUshed, wffich was mtended to be
an empire, with the Spaffish king or one of ffis brothers at its
head. But when, after a year or two of chaos, the Mexican
RepubUc emerged (in 1824) Father Sarria, with a few others
of the priests, refused to take oath of aUegiance. Whatever
view one may take of ffis course on the broad question of
monarchy versus repubUc, one must honor the spirit wffich
sffines out in the words of ffis letter of refusal to Govemor
ArgiieUo. " Having reflected," he says, on the " oath wffich
is demanded of us, I have concluded that I cannot take it
without violating prior obUgations of justice and fideUty, I
therefore iffiorm you accordmgly, albeit with much and ear
nest regret, inasmuch as ffi aU thmgs possible I should wish
to give an example of submission, as I have done heretofore;
yet I am now unable, because my conscience forbids me. For
the same reason, I wffi not influence the other Fathers to take
said oath, or to sanction it by celebratmg holy mass and
singing the Te Deum, as is ordered ffi your commuffication of
the tffird mstant. I am weU aware that we are threatened
with exUe, but I wffi undergo aU, along with the cmsffing
sorrow and many tears wffich the abandonment of the much-
beloved flock entrusted to my care wffi cause me, and wiU
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Z^6: CaCifomia (J)abtr^0
bear it for God's sake. I wiU leave whenever it must be for
the sake of the same God, whom I have more than once
implored to make me suffer whatever is useful for His Holy
and Adorable Name."
In another letter, explaiffing ffi detaU his motives, he offers
to take oath not to do anytffing agamst the new Government,
and says that he is leavmg the Fathers who are under ffis
direction entirely free to do as they think proper ffi the
matter; endmg with the words, "I bewaU aU tffis at the Mis
sion of my heart, and commend it to God."
Such was the man who, at the age of sixty-eight, feU a vic
tim — ff one cares to use that word ffi a case, lUie that of the
Happy Warrior, almost enviable — to ffis ffigh ideal of duty.
In the roU of the Padres of Calffomia the name of Vicente
Francisco de Sarria is worthy to stand linked ffi equal honor
with that of Junipero Sena himseff. One woffid think that
the great and wealthy Church to wffich he belonged coffid
afford to place, even at tffis lonely ruin, some monument to
the memory of the martyr of Our Most Sorrowful Lady of
SoUtude. On such a memorial might weU be mscribed for.
epitaph — Fidelis usque ad Mortem.

C^aptix ^xik^

san CARLOS DE MONTEREY ON THE
CARMEL

San Carlos de Monterey on the Carmel, and how
Padre Junipero entered into Rest
r^Iy Monterey there is somewhat of an embanassment of
V-' Missions. In the town itseff is the church of San Carlos
Borromeo, wffich the misguided wffi teU you is the origmal
Mission church; and when you see its Old Worldly stone
fafade with elaborate carvings and flutmgs, the yeUowish
color beautffuUy meUowed with years, and a quamt pathway
of whale's round vertebrae leadmg to the door, you are prob
ably not disposed to question the statement. Moreover, m
the church are many reUcs of Mission days — old candle
sticks of sUver and brass, priestiy vestments, chaUces, and
what-not, used m bygone times. VeUum-bound books of
baptisms, marriages and deaths, with page after page m
Junipero Sena's autograph and signed by him, used to be
shown to visitors; but smce one evU day when an unscrupu
lous souveffir coUector slyly cut out a leaf with ffis penknffe
wffile the gffide's back was tumed, such matters are kept from
the pubUc eye and hand, and the innocent now have to do
penance for that sm of another.
Nevertheless, tffis church, with aU its antique look and at
mosphere, is not a Mission nor ever was. It is merely the
successor of the Uttle chapel early bffilt to serve the spiritual
needs of the garrison of the old Spaffish presidio. Nowadays
it is Monterey's parish church, to wffich have been entmsted
for safe-keepmg and for display to the curious many of the
reUcs of the real Mission, wffich stands five rffiles away in the
lovely vaUey of the Carmel. 291

Z^ CaCifomia ^dbxts
Of course, you can be wffisked from Monterey m an auto
mobUe to San Carlos on the Carmel, or you can have for " two
bits " a seat in the Carmel stage which wffi deUver you witffin
haff a mUe of the old church; but why not go afoot and enjoy
one of the most romantic walks in all CaUforffia?
That was Sena's own particular Mission until the time of
his death ffi 1784. Though the second to be founded — San
Diego preceded it by a year — it was long the first m import
ance of aU the chain, both by reason of bemg the residence of
the first Fathers President and because of its proximity to
Monterey, the capital of Alta CaUforffia. The five nffies of
road between Monterey and Carmel were, for a generation or
more, perhaps the best traveled m the province. Back and
forth upon it went an mtermittent procession of Spaffish
governors and comandantes m slashes and furbelows and jin
gUng armor; gray-gowned, sandaled friars with beads and cru
cifix; and leather-jacketed soldiers of the King with lance and
buU-ffide shield; hard-riding vaqueros in gaudy sashes and
ffigh-peaked sombreros; arrieros with their trains of pack-
mules; and dumpy Indian neophytes cracking their snaky
whips around the ears of oxen that puUed cumbersome car
retas whose ungreased axles shrieked to heaven. Many a
book-writing traveler, too, passed the same way — that
French Comte de la Perouse, for instance, with ffis philosophe
ideas about the rights of man, even Indians, but practical
enough withal to introduce Cffilean potatoes into Calffomia;
and Captam George Vancouver, to whom we owe a sketch of
Carmel Mission as it looked m 1792; and young Mr. Richard
Henry Dana, Jr., "before-the-mast" man from Boston, who
arrived a year or two after secularization, and had some pert
remarks to make about " sometffing in the way of a dinner
— beef, eggs, frijoles, tortillas, and some middUng wine" —
wffich the 'mayordomo's hospitaUty provided.
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cm'b t^^x ^x0Bxon8
With such memories possessmg my romantic head, I
qffitted Monterey hotel one foggy morffing, and, after a
swashbuckler sort of breakfast of ham and eggs, hot cakes,
and coffee at an "owl" restaurant, with a couple of hairy-
chested workmg-men for messmates, I struck out on the Car
mel road. I found it a broad ffighway of the old-fashioned
country sort and pleasantly flowery with Indian pamtbrush,
asters, and monkey flowers. A grass-embroidered footpath
edged the road, wmdmg in and out under pines and gnarled
old Uve-oaks hung with strmgy Uchens, or Spaniard's-beard,
as Stevenson caUs it. So early was I astir that I was granted
the seffish luxury of the road to myseff, save for the passing
of Wmg, the Cffinese huckster "boy," mward-bound to Mon
terey from ffis Carmel ranch with a load of cabbages and
squashes. For a mUe or more the road was upffiU busmess. At the top
of the grade, I stopped for breath, and, turnmg about, looked
down on Del Monte in its sylvan seclusion; on Monterey
town and its fishhook bay, wffite-rimmed with surf and
dotted with fisffing craft. The fog now was broken by the
rismg sun and retreating gloomUy — like a sulky loser — out
to sea. Here at the hffitop, there branches dimly from the
highroad a footpath wffich you may foUow the rest of the
distance to Carmel, through idyffic ways, now beneath the
pines and now across grassy glades where wUd flowers twinkle.
Through a rift ffi the woods you see now and again the blue of
the sea, and the breeze brings to you the complaint of the
distant surf. I should have Uked mightily to think that this
traU I trod was the very path of the Padres, worn by their
faithful feet as they traveled to and from Monterey — of
Junipero and Lasuen and Crespi the Blessed, and the rest
who made Carmel for a brief wffile as a good deed in a naughty
world. It is questionable, however, if the most expert anti-
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Z^ CaCifomia ^cxbxts
quary can pick out for us to-day the exact Une of their ancient
camino. Doubtiess, though, the present ffighroad foUows it m
a general way; and certainly this charming woodland traU
through scenes largely unspoUed as yet, holds the very spirit
of the old time.
The vale of Carmel, with its Uttle river emptymg mto a
quiet bay of its own, owes its name to Viscamo, who, wffile
the seventeenth century was stiU in long clothes, — in 1602,
to be exact, — discovered it. Havmg as ffis ecclesiastical con
tingent three barefoot Carmelite friars, he bestowed upon
the region the name wffich should commemorate their order
of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Like so many of the names
given m CaUforffia by Spaffish explorers, tffis has persisted,
helping to preserve in the land that flavor of romance wffich
goes with the tffings of Spam. As I emerged from the woods,
the vaUey opened out before me with much the same cheer
ful aspect that it presented to the early Spaffiards who found
it "an extensive plam very apropos [d proposita] for com-
fields . . . brushy with willows and other trees, with brambles
and infiffitude of roses of Castile." Itwas a fertUe vega swept
pure and clean by the besom of the ocean wind, the Uttle
river of Carmel wmdmg through its midst. On the farther
side rose the wUd Sierra de Santa Lucia, and at its foot to the
westward Point Lobos thrust a long, woffish nose into the
spoutmg surf, whose long-drawn thunder came famtly to
my ears. On a slight knoll at the ffither edge of the vaUey
stood the old Mission, with its quaintly starred front and
egg-shaped dome, made familiar m many a picture. Captain
Beechey, of His Britanffic Majesty's sloop Blossom, who
visited San Carlos m 1826, mentions as standing on the road
from Monterey, just before the Carmel VaUey appears, "three
large crosses erected upon Mount Calvary," and farther on
a number of smaUer ones at the roadside, apprising the trav-
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cm'b t^x (JUi00ion0
eler of ffis approach to the Mission. No traveler sees them
to-day — they were swept long ago into the general limbo
of lost tffings.
I suppose the first impffise with every visitor at Carmel,
who beUeves ffimseff possessed of some artistic taste, is very
heartily to damn the arcffitect responsible for the distressmgly
incongruous, ffigh-pitched sffingle roof that humffiates tffis
Mission of San Carlos — one of the most mterestmg survi
vals ffi the Uffited States of an ideaUstic past. Yet, but for
that sffingle covering, Uttle of San Carlos would remain to us
to-day, and its bffilder put it there merely as a stop-gap until
funds should be available to lay a tUe roof of ancient pat
tern harmomous with the rest of the structure; for tUes cost
money. ^ It is to one Father Angelo Casanova, parish priest at
Monterey from 1868 to 1893, who found the Mission a wreck
dishonorable alike to Church and Commonwealth, that we
owe the maUgned roof, the eviction of the squatter owls and
bats, and such restoration and protection from the maraud
ing human pubUc as make the place now visitable. At a Uttle
ranch-house under the ffiU where the Mission gardens used
to be, and where still one may gather pears from the reUcs
of the origmal orchard, I found a bright Uttle girl with the
church key, and by her, for a trffiing fee, was ushered into
this "Santa Croce of the West," as a modem ffistorian has
dubbed it.
The fumished sanctuary and a number of benches placed
weU forward toward the altar showed the place to be used
for present-day reUgious services, wffich are, mdeed, held
here one Sunday of every month. The bffildmg is a very sub
stantial one with waUs four feet through at the base, of a soft,
1 A fund has been started for this work, and any traveler, sufficientiy im
pressed with the need of a tile roof to put his hand in his pocket, may have his
contribution gratefuUy cared for by the present parish priest, Father R. M.
Mestres, at Monterey, 295

Z^i^ CaCifomia ^Cibx^B
blffish stone quarried in the viciffity. Owmg to the long, nar
row shape and a queer leanmg mward of the side waUs and
stone pilasters, together with the flat arcffing of the ceiUng,
the effect of the church as a whole is curiously like a sffip's
hold, bottom upward. The architecture is aU very mteresting
and marvelous, when one remembers the work was done m a
remote wilderness under the direction of a couple of friars
by Indian workmen who shortly before were as wild and
untrained as plover. I was particffiarly charmed with the
carvmgs of columns, capitals, and archways, done with the
captivatmg naivete that so often distmguishes primitive han
dicraft. My Uttle cicerone had not much to say about it aU,
possibly (I hope I do her no mjustice) because there was a
small gffidebook on the subject for sale m the church. I found
the slight cost wisely mvested; for tffis book proved to be
exceptionaUy well compUed, the work of a young photog
rapher of the neighbormg seaside resort and center of aesthet-
icism, Carmel-by-the-Sea. The waU of a smaU side chapel,
midway of the church, possesses a uffique mterest from a bit
of ancient lettermg in colors almost obUterated by time and
the desecration of unregenerate scribblers; but enough re
mains to show it to be a simple prayer in Spaffish, addressed
to the Heart of the Lord — doubtless a part of the old-time
neophyte devotions. "0 Corazon de Jesus, siempre ardes y
resplandeces. Encienda t ilumina el mio de tu Amor Divino."
(O Heart of Jesus, always art thou burnmg and outsffiffing.
Kmdle and enUghten mine with thy Divine Love.) There
had been more, but the broken surface leaves it now only to
be guessed at.
I had heard that, pursuant to the old custom of burying
la gente de razon within the Missions, the Mission of San
Carlos kept watch and ward over the mortal remams of ffi
teen CaUfomia govemors mtened therem. Wffile I am old
296

(m'b t^^x (nii00ion0
enough m the State to make aUowance for the customary
exuberance of CaUforma statistics, I must confess to some
surprise at finding not a marker of any sort to give evidence
of even a smgle gubernatorial presence. I suppose the rec
ords of Carmel wiU testffy to som^ govemors Ijdng witffin its
waUs, for it is a poor Mission that does not claim a tradition
ary Spaffish ffigh offidal or two m its keeping agamst the Last
Day; but for the present the visitor must be content with the
tradition, and with other tombs.
For, whatever the case of the governors, Carmel possesses
an especial glory m the mortal reUcs whose mterment near
the altar is mdicated by a tablet on the waU, reading m Latin :
"Here Ue the remains of the Reverend Father Admiffistrator
Junipero Sena, of the Order of St. Francis, founder and presi
dent of the Missions of CaUforffia, laid down m peace the
28th day of the month of August, a,d, 1784, and of his asso
ciates the Reverend Fathers Juan Crespi, JuUan Lopez, and
Frandsco Lasu6n. May they rest in peace," Also to the in
defatigable Father Casanova are to be credited the locatmg
and marking of these long-neglected graves. Of the three as
sociates of Sena mentioned, Lasu6n was an able, courtly friar
m ffis day, of great mfluence ffi the province, and succeeded
Serra in the presidency of the Missions. His name on the
tablet is not given m fffil: it shoffid be Fermm Francisco
Lasuen. He was resident at San Carlos at the time of Van
couver's visit, and so favorably impressed the EngUsh navi
gator that the latter, coastmg southward and mappmg the
land, named for him the promontory — Pomt Fermm —
wffich forms the northem barrier to the present harbor of
Los Angeles. Then, to make a perfect job of it, he named
another, a few nffies farther south, Pomt Lasu6n, thus com-
pletmg tffis very worthy Padre's geograpffical commemora
tion. Padre Lopez seems to have left no mark on ffis time,
297

Z^t CaCifomia ^(ibx^s
and I trust he may m ffis Ufe have been as happy as the pro
verbial people without annals; but Crespi, of whom we heard
first at San Diego, was one of the best known of the first
Franciscans. He was Sena's beloved disciple, ffis feUow-
worker at San Carlos from 1770 to 1782. His death in the
latter year brought an espedal sadness to Sena, and one of
the latter's last requests was that, when death claimed him,
ffis mortaUty should be laid beside Father Juan's. Crespi
was of an alert, joyous nature, and was nicknamed "El
Beato," (The Blessed). He was, as we have seen, one of Por
tola's compaffions on the famous march of 1769, and took
part in other explormg expeditions of the early CaUfomia day.
His journals make good readmg even yet, cheery with the joy
of adventure and a warm-hearted mterest m plants, Indians,
soldiers, antelopes, and many tffings besides masses and mat
ters ecclesiastical.
But, of course, it is the tomb of Junipero Sena that gives
to San Carlos its pecuUar preeminence — tffis and the fact
that, for tffirteen years, from 1771 to 1784, here on the Carmel
was Serra's offidal residence. The original plan was to estab
Ush the Mission at Monterey, and the foundation was, ffi fact,
laid there in 1770, It soon became evident, however, that an
insufficiency of tillable land at that place made a doubtfffi
outlook for the temporal welfare of the Indian converts, wffile
their morals were sure to be jeopardized by the nearness of
the presidio and the commg and gomg of sffips in the port.
After a year, therefore, the Mission was moved to the se
cluded vaUey where we now find what vandals and the ele
ments have left of it. Serra ffimself was the director of the
bffilding operations' on the Carmel, and at times worked
' It should be tmderstood that the present stone church is not of Serra's
biulding. Though proposed during his lifetime, it was not actuaUy started
untu eight years after his death, in 1792, and was completed in 1797. The site
of the original adobe church, the one which Serra's Indians erected, is not surely
298

(m'b i^dx (nii00ion0
among ffis Indians as a common laborer. Palou, m ffis "Lffe "
of Serra, gives a grapffic picture of that first Christian sum
mer in the vaUey of Carmel. Near the plam hermit's hut,
open to the cffiU ocean wmd, wffich el Siervo de Dios (the
Servant of God)," as Palou deUghts to caU him had estab
lished for ffis temporary shelter, a great wooden cross had
been planted. "His compaffionsffip and aU ffis deUght," says
Palou, "were m that sacred symbol." He venerated it with
the commg of the dawn, and many times a day. Here, under
the sky, he had the soldiers of the guard gather daily to smg
the sunrise hymn of praise and the eveffing Rosary; here every
mornmg mass was celebrated, the groimd all about darkened
with kneeUng Indian laborers. When the Gentile Indians,
lured by the bustle of the bffildmg, came visitmg from their
rancherias in the hills, Serra would greet them with affection,
make the sign of the cross upon their swarthy foreheads, and,
leadmg them to this symbol of the Holy Faith, would teach
them to bow before it. With gifts of glass beads — precious
in aboriginal eyes as diamonds — and repasts of the boiled
grams wffich were a staple m the Mission menu, he laid baits
to entice them into what he caUed "the apostoUc net," and
caught 1014 m ffis tffirteen years. At the same time he in
terested himself ffi acqffiring their language. I think the hea-
theffish idiom came hard; for he says in one of ffis letters, "the
learnmg of a new language is notffing novel to me, but I fear
I have Uttle grace for it, on account of my sms."
Better than speakmg that tongue of darkness, however,
he taught the converted Indians a certam phrase of loving
greeting in Spaffish, one to another, that the traveler up and
down this tough world could wish still to hear from those he
meets, if wholeheartedly spoken — the phrase amdr a Dios,
known. Possibly the ejdsting stone church was buUt around it, and it, then,
removed. 299

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(Cbx^B
(love God). "And [tffis custom] spread," says Palou, "so
that even the GentUes used tffis salutation, not offiy to the
Fathers but to any Spaffiard; and it continues so over aU this
vast land, softeffing the hardest heart to hear the GentUes,
the same whether meeting their comrades or the Spaniards
on the roads, repeat these words, amdr d Dios."
But one looks in vam about Carmel now for an Indian face.
If one sees at aU the flat, heavy features and dumpy figure of
the aborigmal California, it is m wffite mixture — here where
in the Padres' days a thousand Uved m the Mission's Indian
viUage, workmg seven or eight hours a day and pra3dng two,
with free barley mush for every one, and the cakings of the
kettle bottom for the cffildren who best said their catechism.
Outside the Mission are stiU some mounds of melted adobes
and a few roofless sheUs of mud houses — aU that remains,
besides the church, of an estabUshment that formerly oc
cupied several acres. In the midst of the wreck before the
church stands a smaU wooden cross marking the spot where,
with as much sureness as human knowledge can now deter
mme, once was the ceU in which Serra rendered up his spirit,
and somewhere near must have been the Mission cross first
erected by him. It is hard to forgive Time the leveUng of this
humble adobe hut where that cffild of St. Francis abode with
out other housekeeper than his Lady Poverty. It would be
to-day a shrine worth a pilgrimage to — to-day when Mam
mon has so many. His biographer has left us a picture of it:
four bare walls, a table, a rush-bottomed stool, and a bed of
boards with one poor blanket. Here Serra's last hours were
spent in bodUy anguish and spiritual exercise; and here one
August day of 1784, wffile ffis compaffions were gone to the
refectory for their diimer, he entered into the rest that re
mams to the people of God. Palou, uneasy to be absent from
him, returned to find him lying quiet and with closed eyes as
300

anb t^^x (Wti00ion0
if asleep, stretched on ffis boards, his arms effiolding ffis cruci
fix as a lover folds ffis beloved. Under him was haff ffis
blanket. The other haff he had given away.
Once a year, on November 4 (wffich is San Carlos Day),
or it may be on the first Sunday foUowmg, there is a fiesta at
the old Mission. The church is decorated with greenery and
flowers, and ffigh mass is celebrated. If the weather be fine,
there is a large outpouring of people from aU the countryside
around, as weU as from Monterey and Carmel-by-the-Sea,
on horseback and m wagons, on bicycles and afoot, and in
automobUes. There is more or less of a sprinkUng of curious
sight-seers, but most who attend are residents of the neigh
borhood who know one another, and are come for a pleasant
day of social enjoyment and the ease of their conscience by
hearmg mass. There is much tipping of hats and shaking of
hands, and roffing of cigarettes, and on aU sides it is Como
'sta, Padre, and Que hay, Juan, or Maria or Tiburcio, as the
case may be ; and a spUttmg-up into gossiping knots about the
sunny plaza. There are leather-skinned old men with grizzled
beards and tight new shoes, and ancient little senoras in black
mantiUas and that general withered look which Tithonus
doubtless acqffired in his old age before he dried up into a
grasshopper — a look which I seem to have heard is helped
along by a Ufetime's indulgence m dried chilis. Then there
are bevies of those plump girls with saucy eyes and deUghtful
brown complexions underlaid with red that CaUfomia owes
to Mexico; and young bloods of paisanos, somewhat shy in
company, with dimpled, pinched-m sombreros smartened up
with natty hat-bands of black and wffite horsehair or Mexican
stamped leather; and there is no end of fat, bored-looking
babies with brown skins and beady black eyes in the arms of
doting parents. A scattering of vaqueros ffi sheepskm chapar-
301

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(xbxi0
reros and spurs, their lariats coUed at their saddle homs, is
contributed by the cattle ranches of the region, and some
times a brace or two of Uncle Sam's troopers from the Mon
terey presidio ride over to grace the occasion with their ath
letic frames snugly encased in khaki.
After considerable bell-rmgmg, all, who wiU, gather m the
church for mass and the preacffing — the latter m Spamsh
and in EngUsh. Then aU form in procession, headed by the
officiating priests, and the acolytes in scarlet and wffite, bear
mg a cross, a reUc of San Carlos, and a Utter of pme boughs on
wffich the image of the saint is placed in a flowery bower. The
church doors are flung wide and, startmg a hjrmn m San
Carlos's honor, aU march chanting out of the church, around
it, and back again. At the conclusion of the services, ff times
are prosperous enough to warrant it and the tide of hospitaUty
is at flood, there is a barbecue luncheon to wffich aU, friend
and stranger alike, are welcome; after which, with many an
adios and hasta luego, the crowd separates to meet agam when
God wffis.

(m'b t^dx (V1(Vi00ion0
II
Gabriel the Old, of Mission Carmel
(\)(\ issions and fisffing go very weU together, I find. That
\J,' *' is offiy natural, smce many of them are by, or near,
fishable rivers. Likely enough, too, the fact may have been
taken advantage of by some of the Padres for purposes of
recreation. One can very weU imagme some poor pestered
Father, weary of the ever-present problems of ffis f amUy of a
thousand or so almost helpless Indians, passmg ffis hand over
ffis distracted brow with a "Peste! I can stand no more of
tffis to-day. I 'm gomg fisffing." And for circumstantial evi
dence, or at least suspicion, there is the fact that when we
look over the Ust of the odds and ends that were smuggled
into the country by the CaUforffians in those early days, when
life m Califomia meant about the same as exile, we find fish
hooks figuring among the contraband of trade.
However that may be, the lovely Uttle Rio Carmelo, that
flows by Serra's Mission of San Carlos, is a joy to the tme —
that is, the contemplative — angler of to-day. Swfft in its
upper course among the ffiUs, it changes its humor, Uke most
of humankmd, when it reaches the vaUey levels, and flows
calm, bright, but (to sadden the fisherman) shallow, tffi it
sweeps by the peacefffi Mission, and widens to a reedy lagoon,
where it Ustens, hesitating at the solemn, age-long roar of
breakers on the bar that must be passed before it comes at
last Home to the peace of the infiffite Sea.
I had been wandermg along a mUe or two of the river bank
above the lagoon, dropping my ffies here and there ffi a casual,
indifferent fasffion that, though it did not eam many fish,
accorded with my laggard mood and the dreamy charm of
303

Z^ CaCifomia ^a'bxts
time and place. The sun was hot, for it was an August sun,
and when I became aware that my last haff-hour's castmg had
not so much as touched the curiosity of a single Ustiess fish,
I became Ustiess too, found a grassy spot beneath a tree,
and sat down. Out in the meadow beyond the tfficket of
smaU-growth timber that frmged the stream, cattle strayed
about, or, too lazy to stray, stood crowded ffi the shade wffile
they drowsUy ruminated the mystery of ffies. Across a field
or two there showed the buUdmgs of a ranch, to wffich, I
guessed, the cattle appertained.
Presently there was a sound behmd me, as if some one was
movmg among the wffiows, but I was too lazy and comfort
able to turn my head. The sound came nearer, and then an
old man, whom, by ffis dark skm and shock of tffick wffite
hair, I took to be a Mexican, appeared, and stood gazmg down
at me with a smile of approbation, as if I was doing the right
tffing. "Pretty hot," he remarked, after a moment, not
troubUng to remove the straw he was chewmg. "Pretty hot,"
I responded, too feeble to mvent a different phrase. "Yes,
sir, pretty hot," my friend repeated; then, looking at my rod,
"Were you fishing?" "Yes," I said; "sit down, won't you?"
He compUed; and m the conversation that followed I leamed
that his name was Tiburcio Flores, and that he lived with his
son, who was employed at the dairy ranch across the meadow;
and, among other small particulars, that he had been bom in
Monterey, the son of a Mexican soldier, and had Uved about
this locality all ffis life. After discussing the fishmg, the Mexi
can outlook (as to which we agreed that the trouble lay just
there — too much outlook, each of the leaders wholly lookmg
out for himself), and sundry other topics, I spoke of the Mis
sion, and asked if there was any one Uving in the neighbor
hood who remembered it in its former days, before the tooth
of untimely decay had left its mark.
304

cm'b t^txx (yUi00ion0
"Yes, sir," he answered. "I remember how it used to be
when I was a boy. It was a large place then, with many In
dians, and herds of sheep and cattle, and storehouses fuU of
grain. But it did not stay Uke that for very long. There came
trouble between the Padres and the Government — that was
the Mexican Govemment, not the Americans — and before
very long the Padres went away and the buUdings began to
get broken down very much, even the church, worse than it is
now. But I was very young, and I do not remember weU. Old
Gabriel is the one you ought to have seen. He could teU you
about everythmg, even about the bffilding of the Mission it
seff." "You don't mean," I said, " that he remembered the bffild
ing of the Mission, himself?"
"Oh, yes," my friend responded, "and he was not young
then, either. I often heard him talk about those tffings, and
I am sure he said what was true. But he is dead now a long
time; I tffink it must be twenty years. He was a himdred and
fifty years old. I remember the number weU, because it was at
SaUnas that he died, and I lived there then. My wife died
there, when she was seventy-four years old, and Gabriel died
the day before her; and I remember that the priest who buried
her said to me that if my wife had Uved one more year she
would only have been half as much as the old Indian Gabriel,
who was the last one he had buried before."
"That is wonderful," I said, "but it seems almost impos
sible that any one could live to be such an age. Don't you
think that he forgot how old he really was? Bemg an Indian,
he would only be able to go by memory."
"No," repUed Tiburcio, "it was reaUy tme that he was a
hundred and fifty. He could teU about many tffings that
happened when the Padres and the Spaniards came first to
CaUfomia, and he was not a boy but a man, even then, and
305

Z^t CaCifomia ^cCbxt^
had been the head man of ffis tribe, somewhere down in the
Tulare country. It was a tribe of not many people, and when
they got to be only a very few he came away to tffis coun
try and Uved here. He was married, and even ffis chil
dren were married and had cffildren too, when the Spamards
came to Monterey. That seems strange, but then, I know
that the Indians used to be married when they were very
young. "You have heard of Padre Serra, who was the cffief one of
the Padres who came at first? WeU, it was Padre Serra who
gave ffim the name of Gabriel when he was baptized to be a
Christian. Gabriel said that he was the first one of all the
Indians that the Padre baptized, and he was very proud of
that, but he used to cry when he talked about it. He could
tell, too, about helping to build the Mission, as I said. He
leamed to be an albanil — what you caU mason, is it not? one
who buUds? — and when the Padres began to buUd the Mis
sions he was one of the best to help at the work. Not only
here and at Monterey, but at the other Missions, Uke San
Antoffio and Soledad, he helped the Padres with the buUding.
I often heard ffim teU about how they went to begin the Mis
sions, the priests and the soldiers and the Indians who were
to build, aU together. The first tffing always was to build an
enramada out of brush, and the Padres would say mass in
that untU a church was built out of adobes.
"But Padre Serra was the one of the Padres that Gabriel
liked best to tell about. He must have been a very good man,
that Padre. He used to work with the Indians as if he was a
peon himself, Gabriel said, Ufting the heavy pieces of wood,
and makmg adobes; and he was always kmd to every one.
Very holy he was, too. He would pray often all ffight, and
when he preached he would bum ffimself with a candle on the
breast, so that the people might think how bad heU would be.
306

(m'b t^xx (^X08xon0
The Indians used to cry, and beg him not to bum himself
Uke that, but he did it to teach them to be good Christians.
I remember, too, that Gabriel said that often in the first
years there was hardly anything to eat, and the old Padre
(that was what they caUed Padre Serra, because he was older
than the other priests there) would have just the same as the
Indians : if they were hungry he would be hungry, too ; and he
used to talk to them and try to make them feel better by say
ing always kind words, and telling them that God would
help them; and I think He always did help them, too, be
cause the Padre was so good. Padre Serra used to make
clothes for the Indians as weU, and sewed them himself, like
a woman: so it is no wonder that the Indians loved him, and
wanted to stay at the Mission where he was.
"Another thmg that used to make Gabriel cry to tell about
was how the old Padre died. He died at the Mission, over
there, and Gabriel was one who was there. The Padre was
sick for a long time and had very bad pam ffi ffis chest, so that
many nights he did not Ue down at all on the bed, but sat
on the floor, and one of the Indians held him up. Sometimes
it was Gabriel who did that. After the Padre was dead, there
was a mass the next day when he was to be buried, and all the
Indians came with flowers out of the fields, so that the coffin ¦
was covered over with them; and Gabriel said that the In
dians who sang (he was one of them) were crying so that they
could not smg the music properly.
" AU those tffings Gabriel used to talk about, and there are
many that I have forgotten. Until he got too old, when he
was more than a hundred, he used to make reatas and riendas
out of rawffide, and scrapes of wool. I remember how funny
he used to look, for he liked to sew Uttle pieces of the wool,
that were bright, on to his coat, so that it was of aU colors,
like the coat of the eara sucia at a circus. He always had a red
307

Z^^ CaCifomia ^c^bxts

handkercffief round ffis head under ffis hat, and sometimes
he woffid forget and put another hat on the top as weU.
"When he was very old he went to SaUnas to Uve. I have
heard that after he went there he forgot how to speak the
Spaffish and EngUsh, and used to talk the language that ffis
tribe talked when he Uved in the Tffiare country; but there
was no one who could understand, so he was lUce a mudo, and
did not talk at aU for a long time before he died. That must
have been very hard for him, almost like being dead, for he
was very fond of talking about the old times, I should not
like to Uve so long as to be Uke that, but it is as the good God
wiUs for all, I have heard that the priest at SaUnas took ffis
picture and sent it to the Pope, in Italy, because he was the
oldest one of aU the CathoUcs who was aUve, To think of
that! Old Gabriel, who used to sit on the ground over there
and make reatas for the vaqueros, to have ffis picture sent to
the Pope, as if he was a santo, — a holy man!
"Well, sir, there is a good wmd coiffing up, and the fish
wUl bite better from now tUl evenmg. It is in the laguna that
you will catch most, I could show you the place where there
are the biggest ones, but I have to go to help at the milking."
And with a courteous adios my friend left me.
Eveffing was coming on as I took my leisurely way home
ward, picking up a trout here and there out of dusky pool or
flasffing rapid. From time to time I caught gUmpses of the
Mission, rismg ffi thoughtful calm agamst a sky of wistful
eveffing gold. The cattle were troopmg home. Swallows,
most dear, most enrapturmg of birds, dipped and ffickered
above the peaceful meadows, the multitudmous Uttle voices,
shrilly sweet, filUng the air with a cffildUke, innocent joy that
seems always, to me, Uke what must be the joy of the angels.
Through it all, the sffiffing river swept along, drawmg on
ever toward the ceaseless calUng of the sea.
308

(m'b t^ixx (Wi00ion0
I stopped at twiUght for an hour about the Mission, In the
warm dusk I climbed the worn steps to the beffry, where
sleepy linnets cffid me for the mtmsion, as, no doubt, their
progeffitors cffid Gabriel the Old m ffis day, and as their suc
cessors wiU cffide others when I have jomed him — where?
I sprang my finger agamst the beU, A solemn tone, Uke a
shadow embodied ffi sound, responded, Ungermg, cUngmg
to coign and comer, as if afraid, before it floated out upon the
darkeffing air, A cffiU came in the breeze, or m my rffind, I
know not wffich; but as I turned to go, there, stUl, was the
sunset m the west, warm, golden, cheermg, prophetic of resur
rection, of love, of God.i
1 There have been many well-authenticated cases of extraordinary age hav
ing been attained by our Califorma Indians; and though this of old Gabriel
exceeds aU others, there were many ciramistances, known to Father Sorrentini,
the priest who ministered at Salinas, in i8g6 (the place and year of Gabriel's
death), which seemed to warrant the beUef that the tndy astonishing age of
one hundred and fifty-one years, credited to him, was a fact. Father Sorrentini
himself was fuUy convinced of the reliabiUty of the figures.

C^Aptix #ixt^m
SAN JUAN BAUTISTA

^^J'^S^&^'k- • -i* ¦

Mission San Juan Bautista and Padre Arroyo of
THE Many Tongues
3 MAY already have mtimated that I object to visitmg anti-
qffities by automobile. It was a genume pleasure, there
fore, on aniving by the tram at Sargent to find drawn up at
the platform an old-time two-horse stage with "U. S. MaU"
painted ffi yellow letters on the dmgy red body, prepared
to transport me the six miles up the San Juan VaUey to that
Mission which the Spaffish Franciscans on St, John's Day,
1797, dedicated to "The Glorious Precursor of Jesus Christ,
our Lord, Samt John Baptist," In charge was an old-time
stage-driver, who had Uved in the neighborhood haff a Ufe
time and was never happier than when chattmg about it, as
he fficked his whip innocuously over the backs of his roly-
poly horses, and thmst the mommg papers mto the various
ranch maU-boxes along the way. It was a bright sunny day,
with a fresh cool wmd drawmg up the wide valley, and the
meadowlarks made melody m aU the fields, wffich were fenced
in with the redwood pickets of the region. "Not so pretty as
some fences," the driver remarked, "but the best lasting on
earth." San Juan Bautista is a cozy, shady, polyglot country town,
where, if you can speak Spaffish, Portuguese, ItaUan, Cffin
ese, or Japanese, you will do ahnost as weU as with EngUsh.
Moreover, it has the complacent pretensions to antiquity
wffich attach to aU CaUforffia commuffities that antedate
1849. ^^ really has a look of some age, however, and its
313

Z^t CaCifomia g)abt;e0
old hotel, with its rambUng rooms and second-story bal
cony, has staged "considerable Mexican-American ffistory of
a certam kmd of the date of the Gringo conquest. It faces on
a generous locust-bordered plaza, and diagonaUy across from
it stands the old Mission, wffich would be one of the most
deUghtful of all the Brotherhood but for an mept, modem
tower, cut off square at the shoulders, wffich surmounts the
church entrance. The cool corridor, with its wom, echoing
pavement of ladrillos; the square brick piUars stamed and
broken by Time mto a greater beauty, I suspect, than they
possessed ffi their spick-and-span youth; and the outlook
through the arches and the fringe of locust trees to the peace
ful plaza and beyond — these were altogether lovely. At
the corridor's far end a wicket opened to an fficlosure before
the church entrance — a quamt Uttle garden, the most strik
ing feature of wffich was a variety of cUpped and topped
Monterey C5^resses, one of them claspmg m an umbrageous
embrace the tall cross near wffich it was planted. Over the
doorway to the chilrch was an mscription m Latin: "Tffis
is the house of God and portal of Heaven." It was humffiat-
ing to one's Americanism to observe that it had become need
ful to post near by, tffis other advertisement: "Notice is
hereby given to persons luncffing on the grounds hereof, that
we are pleased to have them do so, but eamestly request them
to clean up all papers and rubbish before leavmg."
A Uttle Mexican girl, whom my rmg brought with a big
key, admitted me to the church mterior. It was largely dis
mantled, but picturesque stiU, with its wom floor of square
tiles and its simple but digffified closed arcades in reUef upon
the waUs, from wffich the plaster was breakmg away. Though
bare, it was not gloomily bare, for a great gap m the waU near
the altar let a blessmg of sunUght mto the darklmg mterior.
The earthquakes of 1906, which had desolated San Frandsco,
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cm'b t^dx (Y)li00ion0
had shaken and cracked San Juan Bautista, too; and m fear
of a possible further falUng-m of the bffildmg, the altar f ur-
ffisffings and other ecclesiastical matter had been removed to
the convento part, where a room was converted mto a chapel.
A few days before my visit another tremor had put a crack
or two more m the waUs, the Uttle guide mformed me, "And
I'm afraid to go far mside," she added mgenuously, "but if
you want to walk down the church to the altar and look
around, you go. I 'U wait for you here by the big door."
I undertook the perUous pUgrimage, particularly as I
wished to mspect two fixtures of the church, the altar and the
pffipit, wffich have an almost uffique mterest. The work of
decorating the altar, wffich was not fmished until 1818, was
offered, it appears, to an artist of the time, one Chaves, by
name; but tffis graspmg geffius, perhaps beUevmg that he
had a monopoly m ffigh art, asked compensation at the rate
per diem of six r eales, — that is, seventy-five cents. That the
missionaries deemed beyond the estabUshment's means, and
casting about for a cheaper bidder, they chanced upon FeUpe
Santiago Doc. This pamter of the abbreviated surname should
be of more than passing mterest to CaUforffians; for, if the
researches of Mr. H. H. Bancroft are to be credited, he was the
first American to settle officiaUy m Caffiorffia — ffis origmal
name being Thomas Doak and himseff a Yankee tar, haiUng
from Boston. He deserted from some vessel that touched on
the coast, and became a good CathoUc and a naturaUzed
Californio. What he charged the Padres for ffis labors I do
not find set down, but naturaUy it could have been Uttle more
than board and lodgmg. Perhaps to that waif of the sea,
with the memory of existence m a wmdjammer's forecastle
stffi fresh upon him, Ufe m a Mission may have been ffi itseff
retum enough. At any rate, it is of record that tffis same
FeUpe Santiago, "by the help of God and some muchachos,"
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Z^^ CaCifomia (pabt^0
acffieved the altar decorations of San Juan Bautista; and I
find pleasure m knowmg that the faded pamting about the
empty mches and panels of the abandoned sanctuary upon
wffich I looked was laid on by the hands of that American-
CaUforffian, and his Uttle redskm boys. It was a better busi
ness than shootmg Indians and sharpmg m real estate, as
was fasffionable with his countrymen in CaUforffia a genera
tion later.
Then there was the quaint old box of a pulpit fixed to one
side waU, weU up above the latter-day pews that stiU occu
pied the nave. A smaU placard on the front declared that from
tffis pulpit Father Arroyo preached to the Indians m tffirteen
native dialects. A famous Padre was this Arroyo, or, to give
him his full name, Felipe del Anoyo de la Cuesta, (PffiUp
of the Hill-brook). For a quarter of a century, from 1808
to 1833, he served at San Juan Bautista. He was a skffied
Unguist, and much of his leisure was employed m committing
to writmg vocabularies of the various Indian dialects of the
region. These have been preserved and form an important
contribution to our first-hand knowledge of native Unguistics,
Our gossip Don Affredo gives a pleasant picture of the kmd-
hearted old man, who was a sufferer from rheumatism, and
durmg the tedious hours of his confinement to ffis chambers,
liked to have the Indian children sent in to play about him
as he lay. It gave him a wffimsical sort of pleasure to apply
to these dusky whelplings of the wild the names of famous
characters of antiquity, such as Plato, Alexander, and
Cicero; though it is hardly to be supposed that he baptized
them so.
Captain Beechey, too (who, with a party bound to Mon
terey, stopped overffight at this Mission in 1826), bears wit
ness to Padre Arroyo's cheerful hospitaUty. There were no
hotels in CaUforffia in those days, you must remember, and
316

(m'b t^^xx (nii00ion0
outside of the mfrequent towns almost no private houses,
so the Missions kept open house for aU travelers. The Padre
set before the Beechey party the best the Mission larder
afforded, and urged them on to the consumption of it with
many a qffip and proverb.
"Un dia alegre vale cien anos de pesadumbre," he quoted:
"one happy day is worth a century of sadness."
After supper he entertamed them with stories of bears
and Indians, and sang them Spaffish patriotic songs; for he,
like most of the first Frandscans, was a royaUst and looked
askance at Mexican repubUcaffism. At bedtime m came a
luncheon of cold frijoles, bread and eggs — the vidtico for the
ffight, the Padre called it; and then he escorted them to their
sleepmg-rooms. I beUeve there were fleas — or it may have
been Robmson who was nearly devoured by tffis national
insect of CaUforffia; but m either case, it does not matter,
that old-fashioned, generous hospitaUty without thought of
money retum, is what we want to remember, sometffing that
outlasts aU concomitant discomforts, even flea bites. In the
morffing, the travelers were for starting off early for their
thirty-five-mile ride to Monterey, but the Padre woffid on
no account permit it until he had had them m to mass.
"No, no," he said, with authority that they could not es
cape, Protestants though they were, and drove the matter
home with another dicho: —
" Oir misa y dar cebada
No i'mpede Jornada."
(To hear mass and give alms delays no journey.)
It helps us, I tffink, to reaUze the Missions as the humaniz
ing agencies they were, to recaU these old stories vemed as
they are with the quaUty of comradery with aU men; and I
wish I might have had them in mmd as I loitered by Padre
Arroyo's pffipit that day; but I may as weU coffiess that it was
317

Z^^ CaCifotnia (pabifw
not untU some months afterward that I picked up these ffis-
torical tidbits m some odds and ends of old books.
When I rejoined our Uttle Barbarita, waiting in the safe
sunUght of the doorway, there was the choir loft to be cUmbed
mto for a bird's-eye view of the church, and a side room in
wffich I now remember only a queer old dovecote from wffich,
on Pentecost Sunday, it was customary to release a dove to
flutter down the church crowded with kneeUng Indians.
" It represented Our Lord," said Barbarita, turning grave
eyes upon me.
Then I had to be shown mto a ceU-like baptistery with
Ught falUng from a ffigh wmdow upon the stone font where
the Indians were baptized; and from that across the church
through an outer doorway mto the mouldering old cemetery
where in the arms of Holy Church these dusky heaven-
bound pilgrims — 8900 of them, according to the testimony
of a board on the wall — await the Last Day. Here olive
trees cast a meditative shade and the ground sloped gently
down to a flat where was an ancient pear orchard of the
Padres' planting, and still bearing, Barbarita averred. San
Juan was famous in its day for the exceUence of its European
fruits, and De Mofras writes rapturously of the pears he had
there in 1841, d'un gout exquis.
This exhausted the church sights, but our Uttle damsel
had others in store; and locking up the church with her big
key, she pattered on ahead and ushered me mto the main
haU of the convento. There she took me mto a regffiar grand
mother's attic of a room, fiUed with many a relic of the Mis
sion's past — vellum-bound books, manuscript music with
the usual square notation in colors on parchment, battered
Uttle cowhide trunks, a queer old barrel-organ, and what-not.
An old cabmet contained picture post-cards and some sawn
blocks of the Mission pearwood, wffich Barbarita gave me to
318

(m'b t^xx (mi00ion0
understand might be purchased for the benefit of a fund to
repair the bffilding — a work which Father Valentin Closa,
the resident priest for now forty years, was very anxious to
have furthered.
I responded somewhat prodigaUy to tffis opportunity in the
mercenary hope that I might be aUowed entrance mto the
interior garden, an enchanting gUmpse of wffich I had caught
from the church. Barbarita, clutcffing her doUar, flew excit
edly with my request to some inner sanctum, and presently
returned with jubUation to pilot me mto the corridor that
skirted the garden. Here the housekeeper welcomed me, a
stout, good-humored paisana, who told me to make myseff at
home. It was a simple old-fashioned hodge-podge of a coun
try garden with Iffies and roses, marigolds and hoUyhocks,
and sprawUng shrubs of one kmd and another, dwelUng lov
ingly together in Christian enjoyment of a Ufe aU shut away
from the fretful world, and quite innocent of the man-made
conventions of landscape gardeffing. There were grapevmes,
too, and some fruit trees beyond, I believe; and, even as I
write, in far other surroundings, there abides with me a sense
of mmgled sunlight and shadow, of bird song, the hum of bees
and the sweet fragrance of flowers in a general atmosphere of
restfulness. It would have accorded with my sentiment could
I have believed that some of these garden plants had actually
been set out by Padre Arroyo. It is doubtful, though, if any
of ffis day survived the years of spoliation and neglect foUow
ing secularization; but a sundial, which I found standing in
the garden's midst, was, I was told, of the Indians' makmg
under the missionaries' direction.
When I had no longer an excuse for sta5ring, the buxom
housekeeper showed me out, and, as I parted, I referred jocu
larly to the Uttle girl's fear of the church faffing on her. The
woman tumed away her eyes. 319

Z^i^ CaCifomia ^cxbx^B
"She just said that," she hesitated; "we have to teU her
not to go with strangers mto the dark parts of the church.
It is a wicked world, seiior."
As I passed on down the corridor a candle that was kept
burffing before the altar ffi the little chapel room cast a gleam
through the wmdow, and a hope that might have been a
prayer was awakened in me, that the old Mission's Ught
might increasingly sffine to the lighteffing of the darkness of
sin about it.

(m'b t^x (VHi00ion0
II
"He Hath Made of One Flesh ..."
OJTbout the most pathetic things to be seen in CaUforffia
VST are the cemeteries of the Indians. Near every Mis
sion and rancheria you wiU find one of them, a Uttle fficlosure
withm saggmg wooden raffings, fiUed with those low mound
shapes wffich proclaim so eloquently the work of the Great
Leveler. Many of the graves are almost obUterated, many
more, of course, entirely so; whUe here and there wffi be seen
one more recently, or perhaps qffite newly, formed. Few of
the graves are separately railed, and of such mclosures as
there may once have been, there are usually only a few loose
pickets remaiffing. But nearly every mound has its cross.
Many of them have faUen, or are leanmg to fall, but it seems
as if, even on the oldest of the graves, care has been taken by
some one that the Sign of our Redemption should not be
wantmg. On most or many of the graves — always on those that are
not evidently old — there are simple embeffishments, in
which, more than in anytffing else, Ues the pathos that I feel
in these humble places (and which, I wffi confess, I somehow
miss — though I would gladly find it — m the elegant wreaths
and evidences of tasteful care that mark our modem ceme
teries). Broken articles of cheap chma or glassware, shells,
faded scraps of decorated calico, stones of spedal smoothness
or color — anytffing that is of attraction to the cffildUke
mind of the Indian, is used to enrich or beautify the restmg-
place of the dead. A handleless cup, a rusty fruit-can, or a
tamished lamp-bowl, may hold a bunch of long-withered
flowers. I have seen a broken alarm-clock, valued as a rarity
321

Z^6: CaCifomia ^(ibxtB

or for its poUshed metal, hung from one of these humble
crosses (odd, that there should have come to be such a dis
parity in our conceptions that what one man caUs rubbish is
a curious treasure to his brother).
The inscriptions, when readable at aU, are usuaUy confined
to a record of the name, with the age and the date of death.
Often one, or even both, of the last two items is omitted, and
the simple name, perhaps with 22. /. P., or the resistless ap
peal, Ruega por mi, is aU that the shapeless lettering reveals
of the sleeper who Ues beneath. I often think that there
could weU be another Gray who might write a sister elegy to
the immortal poem, with one of these uiikempt, Indian, but
most human, graveyards for ffis theme.
I was sittmg, a year or two ago, in the corridor of San Juan
Bautista, taUring with the priest in charge of the quamt and
beautfful old church. We were speaking of the fate that has
fallen on the Missions, of the phenomenon — it is reaUy such
— of their quick declension to almost complete abandonment
and rum, and of those characteristics of thdr former Indian
charges which had enabled Serra and his helpers and foUow
ers to achieve their remarkable success. " I will give you an
instance of their gentle natures," said the Father, " that came
under my notice only yesterday. You saw that the grass had
been burned over part of the cemetery? It happened two days
ago. I set one of the men to burffing off weeds along the front
of the Mission, and he carelessly let the fire get away, so that
it crossed the fence and ran mto the dry grass and leaves in
the cemetery. It bumed down part of the fence, and some
of the raiUngs and crosses of the graves: they were old, and as
dry as tinder. WeU, yesterday as I was crossing the grave
yard I noticed old Pablo, one of my oldest Indians, down on
his knees among the debris. I went over to see what he was
doing there, and found him crying, yes, crying like a Uttle
322

in the INDIAN CEMETERY, MISSION SAN JUAN BAUTISTA

(mb t^ixx (\Tli00ion0
cffild, old Pablo, who must be nearly eighty. 'What is the
matter, Pablo?' I asked. 'Oh, Padre,' he said, 'mi mamd! mi
mamd!' It was the grave of his mother: it had been bumed
over and the cross destroyed. She must have died thirty
years ago, at the very least, but the spot was sacred to old
Pablo StiU. That seems to bear out the argument of his name
sake the holy apostle, in preaching to the wise pagans of
Athens, that God has made us all of one blood, does it not?
... I wonder who wiU care where my old bones lie, after
tffirty years? . . . In manus tuas, Domine. . . . WeU, Pablo
shall have a new cross for ffis mother's grave to-morrow."

C^(xpkt ^t'o^tttn
SANTA CRUZ

^-J4^^iM

56^^^^.:  .j^K.

t^-:.*V?.,^..^^^

Looking in at Santa Cruz, and the Story of
Padre Gil's Adventure in English
¦Jthere is stffi the lovely outlook from Mission Hffi upon
^^ the sparkling waters of Monterey Bay, as in the Padre's
time; but there is no Mission, and there are few memories.
Little seems ever to have happened at Santa Cruz that
is of interest to twentieth centurists, except, perhaps, the
atrocious murder of Padre Qumtana by some of his rascaUy
neophytes in a manner too unspeakably horrible to go mto.
Situated off the main tmnk of the Camino Real, wffich be
tween Santa Clara and Monterey ran by way of San Juan
Bautista tffirty nffies to the eastward, the Mission Santa
Cruz was sidetracked from the first and Uved an isolated ex
istence. As for the buildings, church and convento are gone as
thoroughly as if they had never been. If it be Mission interest,
then, that takes you to Santa Cruz, it is a case of short horse
soon curried.
Nevertheless, the memory of my mornmg on Mission Hill,
to wffich I climbed, foUowmg the car track as gffide, is a
pleasant one. It is never wise, I think, for one with anytffing
of the antiquary ffi ffis make-up to stay away from a spot
with a past, just because everybody teUs him there is noth
mg left to see. Often there is an impalpable atmosphere Un
germg about such places, uffielt by the mdifferent, but appre
hensible by the mmd of love; and it pays to get mto it. What
reaUy happens to one under such circumstances is a state of
mind; and for that reason I find it foUy to make the visit in
327

Zifi^ CaCifomia ^(xbxts
an impatient automobile and with a time-table in my hand.
On foot, and with the placidity of spirit that succeeds a com
fortable breakfast, is better. That was my method; and ex
pecting nothing, I was in the humor to accept gratefully the
few crumbs that fell to me.
Though the gray brethren have vanished from Mission HUl
and their Indians with them, I found the few acres of church
land where the old estabUshment stood, a-bustle with good
works. There was, for mstance, the Convent and School of
the Holy Cross — and Holy Cross, it there first stmck me, is
good EngUsh for Santa Cruz; and there were merry cffildren
at excited play m the yard under the circumspect eyes of
Sisters in flarmg wffite headdresses. Beyond the playground
was the charming old garden of the convent, with Monterey
cypresses trimmed in the shape of huge tmncated cones, and
shady walks where fmit trees 3delded their beneficences in
season. Then there was the Priory of the Christian Brothers,
with another noisy school attached; and next to that, I found
an astoffisffingly taU brick church with an aspiring steeple.
A board on the outer waU labeled the edffice "The Church
of the Holy Cross " ; but another under the vestibule to the
effect that "Ladies and Gentlemen wUl not and Others Must
not Leave the Church untU Services are Over," acted upon
me as a chilly deterrent to further investigation. A sort of
granite triptych, frankly un-Mission m its arcffitecture,
served as a triple gateway to the church grounds, and an
inscription commemorating the Mission estabUshed on the
spot in 1 791, was the only hint of former Franciscan occu
pation. At the rear the hiUs fall abmptly away to the bottom lands
of the San Lorenzo River, which runs singing to the sea through
thickets of buckeye and azalea out of the Santa Cruz Moun
tains. The shaggy wooded slope rismg beyond the Uttie
328

cm'b t§^x (ttli00ion0
stream made an inviting view, and strolUng across to the
edge of the church grounds, I sat down on the turf for a bit
of leisurely contemplation. At my feet a deep-worn traU
plunged through some bushes down the ffiUside toward the
cottages and tmck gardens visible ffi the lowlands. In a few
moments the bushes parted, and out of them by the traU
climbed the taU figure of an elderly gentleman, ffis coat upon
ffis arm and on ffis head a hat of the "wide-awake" pattern
that old-time Westerners are apt to affect. He had a good-
humored type of face to wffich a pair of steel-rimmed spec
tacles contributed a poor-scholar kmd of cast, and as he
paused for breath, he gave me a pleasant good-morffing.
Finding me mterested m the Mission, he dropped on his
haunches for a chat.
"Old times mterest me, too," he said. "I used to be a
lawyer, but am on the retired Ust now, and I like to post my
self on what our predecessors in the land did for us; so I enjoy
mousing about Ubraries and old garrets. Yes, scenes have
certamly changed on tffis hffi smce 1791. There's a pamting
m the rectory here of the Mission as it looked ffi its heyday
and it shows as fine an old Franciscan front as you woffid want
to see — square-towered church, with tiled roof and but
tressed waUs, convento wmg with piUared arcade and raiUng,
and all that. But it 's gone tffis many a day, root and branch,
except that bit of old adobe waU there," — pomtmg toward
the back of the church where, half choked in a hedge, a crum
bUng Une of adobe could be seen — " they say that is left from
the Padres' days, and maybe it is, but that's all.
"Seems a pity, does n't it? There was n't a better site m
the entire CaUfomian cham than tffis, with aU kinds of water,
timber and buildmg stone, and shells to your hand for Ume,
and as fertile soil as can be found anywhere on earth, since the
garden of Eden went off the map. Every faU, for years, the
329

Z^ii CaCifomia (^cCbx^^
EngUsh and American whalers that ran into Monterey used
to get their fresh vegetables and fruits from this Mission's
gardens and fields. But one trouble they had here that no
other Mission had was civilization — so called. I mean it was
too near white people. The Mission had hardly got gomg be
fore a white colony was started, just across the river there —
you could almost have thrown a stone mto it from where we
are sitting. It was iUegally founded there, because the Span
ish law forbade a wffite pueblo's bemg started witffin a league
of a Mission or an Indian town. Nevertheless, it was done
just as a lot of iUegaUties have always been done m tffis sffifty
old world; for it was a long way to court ffi Mexico City,
where the Padres had to apply for redress,
"Well, sir, the Government gave that colony a fine send-
off with tools and stuff enough to have started a dozen Mis
sions on the Franciscan plan, and christened it with a sweU
name in the ffigh-flown Spaffish style. La ViUa de Branciforte.
But the coloffists! O Lord! They were the limit — just so
many jailbirds, ragged vagabonds, and cutthroats from Old
Mexico — the real thing in the dime-novel Greaser type. And
they called themselves gente de razon, people of intelUgence,
the term by which wffite folks in those days distinguished
themselves from Indians. But the Padres sized up that
gente de razon business, I remember reading of one who said
in a sermon: 'There are two races in tffis country very dis
tinct — the barbarous and the semi-barbarous. The semi-
barbarous are the poor Indians; the barbarous are the people
who call themselves intelUgent, but have no mteffigence. We
find among the Indians at least dociUty and love of work, but
with the wffites it is continual gambUng, idleness, and dmnk-
enness.' Well, with such a bunch, of course, the colony was
a failure from the start, and after a generation or so it winked
out utterly; but wffile it was there, it gave the missionaries no
330

(xn'b t^txx (yTli00ion0
end of trouble, continuaUy debaucffing the Indians and
creatmg scandals enough to have made the fortune of a
modern newspaper. The Mission outUved it, but not with
out wounds that never healed.
"Wonderful old feUows, those Padres, weren't they? I
teU you, it took executive abiUty and knowledge of a ffigh
order to come mto a wilderness country the way they did,
induce a lot of savages to become decent, and bffild up, with
almost no help from home, commuffities rich in material
wealth. It took faith, too. Christian faith, or they would not
have put it through. Don't teU me they were a seff-mdulgent,
trencher-lovmg lot. Of course, they were human and had
their foibles, and without women to keep them straight, men
are bound to get cranky at times; but I know men and I know
the world, and I know they coffid n't have done what they
did, surmounting the difficulties they had to, except by the
road of self-discipUne and self-sacrifice. I want to tell you one
funny story, though — "
And the old gentleman laughed softly as he sffifted ffis
weight on his legs: —
"About one friar, who was here at Santa Cmz between
1820 and '30 — his name Luis Gil y Taboada — a kindly old
soul, but he got awfuUy tired of CaUforffia; so that, as he said,
every year got to seem Uke a century: but for some reason or
another, he never could secure permission to go back to
Mexico, They just kept pushing him on from one Mission to
another till the old fellow had served at half the estabUsh
ments in the provmce, WeU, here at Santa Cruz, he stuck ten
years, and, wffile he was still here and alone much of the time
(for in the decUning days of the Missions there were n't al
ways enough friars to go around double), along came an
Irishman named John Miffigan or MulUgan, who had got
stranded in CaUforffia from some sffip and could n't get away.
331

ZS}^ CaCifomia ^(xbxte
He was a roistermg blade with an unquenchable tffirst for
aguardiente, and was a good deal of a nuisance; but he was a
practical weaver, and the Padres used to have him at the
different Missions to teach ffis trade to the neophytes. So
at Santa Cruz he and Padre Lffis struck up a friendsffip; and
the Padre, to drive away ffis ennui, 1 suppose, and also be
cause he had a philological turn and had already picked up a
couple of Indian languages, conceived the notion of getting
Muffigan to teach him EngUsh, Now there were n't any Eng
Ush prmted books ffi CaUforffia m those days, and, of course,
the poor Padre had to take as gospel anythmg that devU of
an Irishman told him. The result of his teachmg came out
when GU was transferred to San Lffis Obispo, as he was
finally, and there he was met by Alfred Robmson, a Massa
chusetts trader who came to CaUfomia m those days and
wrote a book about Ufe in CaUfornia under the Mexican re
gime. You ought to read it, though it's out of prmt now and
scarce. Well, when Robmson, fresh from the States, came
cantermg up to San Luis Obispo Mission, out came Padre
Luis m the hospitable Mission way to bid him welcome; and,
knowing his guest to be a Yankee, poUtely addressed him with
a stock of MulUgan EngUsh, and tffis is what itwas: 'How do
you do, sir? Very good oysters, Mr. Fish. Come m! May the
devil skm you to make your grandmother a mghtcap ! ' — and
foUowed it with a string of the most outrageous oaths; after
which he dropped affably mto Spaffish. That, it seems, had
been taught the innocent friar as the most approved form of
EngUsh salutation to one whom it was desired to honor.
Robmson says Muffigan was a Scotchman; but the mtemal
evidence of the story disproves that. Was n't it a shame? "

(m'b t^txx (mi00ion0
II
The Children of Holy Cross
fitiTTiNG one summer mommg on the beach at Santa Cruz,
^^ I watched the chUdren at play. Cffildren, I suppose,
except for a Paul Dombey here and there, one m a hundred
thousand, see m the ocean, if it be summer, only its joyous
ness of motion and brilUance of color and Ught — the thmgs
congenial to cffildhood. Unsuspecting and without experi
ence, they do not feel the shallowness of the gUtter, the fickle
ness ffi the smile, the wammg in that restless beauty. For ffie
has not chUled them with hinted analogies, and the age of
poetry, when doubts begin to rise, is still before them.
To me, the bright and sffiffing sea brings most often a mood
of reverie; and as I sat and watched the play of the damtily
clad cffildren and the blaze of surf and laugh of wavelet on the
sunny sands of Monterey Bay, I found myself foUowmg a far-
drawn thread of fancy.
I had been readmg, that mornmg, somethmg of the ffistory
of the Missions, one of wffich, now entirely vaffished, had
been estabUshed here at Santa Cruz. It is not possible to read
the story, or to visit the Missions that remam or the rffins or
sites of those that have fallen, without bemg shocked again
and again at the tragedy of the Indian. In a statement of the
results of the work of the Missions down to the year 1820, pre
pared by Father Jose Senan, the president of the missionaries
at that date, it is shown that ffi what may be considered a
generation's length of time there had been baptized a total
of over seventy thousand Indians, wffile at the date of the
report there were over twenty thousand baptized Indians
Uvmg under the care of the Padres. And the Missions, be it
333

Z^t CaCifomia ^(Cbx^0
remembered, drew mainly upon the coast tribes for their con
verts; the native populations of the great mterior vaUeys and
of the mountams, though it was hoped they would be eventu
ally reached, were scarcely touched, or only as troublesome
and hostile neighbors. To-day one finds here and there a
dwindUng viUage, usuaUy in some dry and worthless spot,
where Uve all that remams of the flourishmg population of a
century ago. Often, m visiting the mmed Missions, I have
asked of some one Uvmg near whether any of the Indians
who formerly lived there could be found, from whom I might
learn items of interest. In one or two cases I have heard
of some old Dommgo or Encarnacion who dwelt, hermitUke,
far up some secluded canon; but usuaUy not even a legend
remamed. And these Indians, too, are naturaUy a very long-
Uved people.
What, then, has become of them? Or rather, it is not the
where or the how, but the why of their almost total disap
pearance that one asks one's self. For ages the Indian Uves
undisturbed. He does not Uve well, nor usefully, nor does he
rise in the human scale, or only to an mfiffitesimal degree;
but, he Uves, Then comes the herald of Christianity: the
feet that bring good tidmgs cross the mountams. The won-
dermg Indian hears and sees the better way, and hesitatingly
adopts it. No longer a mere item in the animal Ufe of the land,
he is baptized to the new religion: he is taught, clothed; ffis
name is entered on books of record. Did he but know it, that
writmg is his death-warrant.
And everywhere it is the same. From time to time we meet
references to the subject in magazmes and Govemment
papers, but the solutions proposed have somehow the air of
experiments, and not very hopeful ones. It is a compUcated
subject, and, when all is said, the summing-up in the stu
dent's mind can offiy be, that the Indian should flee the white
334

(m'b t^ixx Q(ni00ion0
man as a plague; and even that wiU not avaU, for the plague
wffi foUow ffim.
But that morffing, as I watched the play, my mmd tumed
especiaUy upon the bygone cffildren of the Missions. I seemed
to see the troops of merry Indian youngsters who once played
about the sands of Santa Cruz, saiUng their mimic cayucos
on the quiet pools, or racmg with the laugffing ripples up the
beach, or shooting their arrows in the sun, (For cffildhood, at
least, is happy, even with the grave and silent Indian,) Then,
up on the cliff, a beU chimes. There is a shout and a scamper,
and soon, under the cool, deep arches of the Mission, they
assemble about the gray-robed Padre who patiently teaches
them to pronounce the sacred words (and, indeed, it is a task
of patience); or perhaps they learn their parts ffi a simple
reUgious play for Easter or Christmas, Soon agam I see them
gather with fathers and mothers m their humble huts to the
eveffing meal of atole; then for an hour their voices agam ring
in play about the great courtyard; and when dayUght ends,
they Ue down to sleep on their pallets of straw tiU morffing
shaU bring another day of harmless joy.
There is a well-known picture, I forget by whom, the title
of wffich might be, the Holy Innocents, One sees a host of
cffildren, mfants, aU happy, laughing, romping, as they pass
in joyous procession through a cffild's fairyland of flowers and
birds and sffiffing streams. At the head of the band is the
Sign of their triumph, the Holy Cross. They are the children
who died for Christ, those whom Herod kiUed in Bethlehem,
the saviors, one might ahnost say, of Our Lord, As I watched
the happy children of Holy Cross that morffing at their play,
my mind, preoccupied with the thought of the cffildren of the
Missions, brought up tffis picture before me, and I seemed to
see another appUcation of the pamter's fancy. Those cffildren
of the Missions, doomed to pass away at the coming of the
335

Z^ CaCifomia ^(Cbxt0
new reUgion that seemed to promise them better Ufe — were
not they, m their way, iimocent victims for Christ? And do
not they, too, somewhere triumph, happy tiiat they shoffid
have provided the needful sacrffice?
A far-fetched notion, I suppose; yet there seemed a reaUty
in it that mornmg, as I watched the damty play by the sea,
and my thoughts went back to the long-dead chUdren of Holy
Cross.

C^apttx (&x^^tt6n
SANTA CLARA DE ASIS

The Mission of Madre Santa Clara de Asis and
HER "Padre Santo"
Cjf\ov may, if you choose, have the railway put you off at
Aj Santa Clara Station witffin sight of the Mission, or, if
you are m San Jose, you may ride to the Mission gates by
electric car on tracks that follow, for part of the way, the
beautiful old Alameda, for wffich every traveler, for nearly a
century, has had words of praise. In either case, however,
you wffi find at Santa Clara very Uttle to suggest that famous
edffice at wffich Padre Joseph Murguia, its arcffitect and
bffilder, labored with his own hands and ffis neophytes' : laymg
adobes, hewmg timbers, and what-not, till the fiffished result,
in 1784, was declared by Father Junipero the finest of aU the
Mission churches up to that time. Fated Padre Joseph!
Though he Uved to complete his dear church, it was only to
be buried ffi it. Four days before its dedication, he died.
For the casual visitor to-day, only a memorial cross, boxing
withm it the origmal, remams to witness to that former
Franciscan estabUshment dedicated January 12, 1777, to
Mother St, Clare, of Assisi, Spiritual Sister of St, Francis and
Holy Matriarch of his order. In its stead stands a Jesffit col
lege with huge buUdings of unrelentmg moderffity, haff sur
roundmg a timber church that gives upon a barren campus
— all so hopelessly unpicturesque that I was for turnmg away
at once, and strolUng off mto the peaceful ruraUties of offion
fields, lettuce gardens, pmne orchards, and alfalfa patches,
that stretch away from the Uttle Mission town toward the
bay, visible a few miles off. On second thought, I accepted
the unvoiced mvitation of the open church door; and, enter-
339

Z^^ CaCifomia (pabv^0
mg, my ruffled spirits were quieted immediately by the sweet
peacefuffiess of that living silence wffich never fails to unpress
me in the taper-Ut twiUght of CathoUc churches ffi the hours
for private devotion.
For half an hour I sat m perfect peace ffi the stilffiess —
a stilffiess so deep that the wffispered comments of two visitors
making the round of the church seemed to wake echoes.
Departing, they left me alone save for one worsffiper, a
crippled man upon ffis knees near the door, his careworn face
earnestly directed toward the far-off gUttermg altar. In a dim
corner hard by stood ffis crutch and cane, and in ffis hands
was that which I tmst he found to be as a crutch to ffis halt
spirit, a rosary from wffich now and then in the progress of ffis
silent prayer he let fall a bead.
A beautiful paneled pulpit of the pattem frequently seen
in the old Mission churches, and a startUng band of decora
tion upon the walls in festoons of red, green, and blue, after
the Indian mode, were aU that I noted as giving any Mission
flavor to the interior; though a great crucifix, Ufe-size, sus
pended above a side altar, may also be included ffi the men
tion, as it was a famous factor in the missionaries' miffister-
mgs, I looked in vain for the roof of beams "labradas y curi-
osas lo posible" (graven and curious asmuch as possible),
wffich an old record says Padre Murguia put on, but there
was only an unemotional, flat board ceiUng, It would have
been soladng to me then to know, what I was afterwards told,
that those ancient rafters of redwood still Uve m the railmg
before the altar, I think that knowledge would have tempered
the shock wffich my artistic sensibffities received at the sight
of an ice-cooler in the church, labeled "Holy Water," and
bearing a cross on its Ud, The reredos behind in the main
altar is quite old, too, having been brought from Mexico in
1802, 340

(m'b t^txx (Tni00ion0
Of the tens of thousands of visitors who annuaUy "do" the
old Franciscan Missions of CaUforffia, I wonder how many
give a thought to the personaUty of those self-sacrffidng friars
who laid the foundations of these churches in the wilderness,
and gathered about them busy Uttle towns, each with its
thousand or so of christianized Inffian inhabitants, ffi the
midst of orchards, vineyards, and grain lands aU of their
plantmg — acffieving, with practically no assistance from
their Govemment except an outfittmg of seeds and church
utensils, an unsubsidized triumph of poverty. As the first
Seventy of the Lord were sent out two by two, so these mis
sionaries were assigned two to a Mission, One, Uke Martha
m the Scriptures, supermtended the temporal interests of the
estabUshment; the other, like Mary who sat at the Lord's feet,
had a particular concern ffi the Mission's spirituaUties, AU
came as volunteers; but having volunteered, they were ex
pected to remain in the service for at least ten years, health
permittmg. As a matter of fact, some broke down in body in
a few years; occasionally one went crazy under the harass-
ments and the monotony of the endless grind. Yet many
remamed at mdividual Missions for thrice ten years, or even
more; for, even though they wished to leave, to do so seems
not always to have been possible, if we are to beUeve the
quatrain by one of the weary Brotherhood:' —
"Si fueres &, Califomia,
Encomienda i Dios la vida;
En tu mano esti la entrada.
Y en la de Dios la saKda."
Or, as we may EngUsh it: —
"If thou 'rt for Califomia,
Thy Ufe to God commend:
In thy hand is the starting.
In that of God the end."
1 Fr, Arroyo de la Cuesta; see Bancroft's California, in, 362,
341

Z^t CaCifomia ^(Cbx^^

At this Mission of Santa Clara, two Catalan friars, Magin
Catali and Jose Viader worked contmuously for tffirty-seven
years, the former's service termmatmg with ffis death in 1830,
Viader's with the enforcement of secularization ffi 1833. Do
you realize what that means? More than half a Ufetime spent
in a lonely land, for months at a time without sight of other
white face than that of a fellow missionary, and of the half-
dozen soldiers who formed the Mission guard, and who, be
cause of carnal procUvities, sharpened m the idleness wffich
the devU loves, were oftener a care than a solace. For occu
pation, day after day, week after week, year after year, there
was the traiffing of Indians of races notorious for slovenUness
and stupidity, in some knowledge of the possibffities of Ufe
here and hereafter; patiently guidmg their clumsy hands and
feet to be serviceable m a score of civilized arts, and labori
ously strivmg to put through their tffick skffils some notion
of the Divme Love and Sacrifice; and there were their con-
tmual backslidings to be dealt with, their endless cffildish
troubles to be heard and helped. No wonder Serra, with a
grim sort of humor, wrote to Palou, warnmg against any pos
sible thought of a bed of roses ffi CaUfomia, " See to it," he
said, "that [the friars] who are to come are weU provided
with patience and charity, and in that case they will have a
joyous time and will here become very rich^ — in hardsffips."
In that Padre Catala Santa Clara possessed one of the
most remarkable of the California Franciscans — a man of
samtly timber, according to the most approved mediseval pat
tern. Indeed, a movement, not yet dropped, I think, was be
gun some years ago looking to his beatification. He deUghted
in austerities to a degree that must have made him a favorite
child of his seraphic Father Francis. His little windowless,
fireless cell, where he slept on the floor with an adobe brick
for a piUow, is stiU preserved, I beUeve, inclosed in a wing of
342

anb t^^xx (Wti00ion0
the Jesffit coUege, though I did not see it. He was of the type
that found luxury m seff-flageUations with a knotted scourge,
and ffi long vigils before the great crudfix m the church,
where he was commonly beUeved to have "taUts with God,"
and on occasions to be caught up ffi the Divme embrace.
There, asleep from exhaustion at the altar's foot, he would
often be found of a mornmg, when the mayordomo came to
open the church. He was never seen to smile, and he had the
monkish fear of the wiles of women, from whom he habitu
ally averted ffis face, even shadmg it with ffis cowl when
necessity caUed for speech with them. There is a tradition that
ffi one respect only he yielded to the weaknesses of the flesh,
and that was m the wearmg of an old straw hat when sum
mer suns blazed hottest; but the faithful have cast doubt
upon the story,
Durmg most of his incumbency, Catala suffered the tor
tures of rheumatism; and unable or unwilUng to mount an
animal, he made ffis pamful journeys about the country hob-
bUng on foot and leanmg on the arm of an attendant. As a
preacher he was credited with a prophetic power so marked as
to gam for ffim the sobriquet of " El Profeta " (The Prophet) ,
as weU as "El Santo" (The Samt). He is said to have foretold
the discovery of gold, the commg of the Americans, the loss of
CaUforffia to the Spanish people, the future greatness of San
Francisco and its destruction by fire and earthquake. His
biographer, Father Engelhardt, whose little book, "The Holy
Man of Santa Clara," is rich in mcident of tffis remarkable
Friar Minor, states that his memory is revered to tffis day ffi
central CaUforffia, where the devout in time of trouble stiU
caU for help on "Jesus, Mary, and the soul of Padre Magin";
and claim they get it. Equally current is ffis fame throughout
southem CaUforffia, as I am told by Father O'Suffivan of
San Juan Capistrano. 343

Z^i CaCifomia ^cibxtB
With aU ffis personal asceticisms, Catala did not forget to
miffister to the bodily needs of ffis spiritual cffildren. He had
a kindly love for the Uttle folk and saw that they had their
Christmas plays with a f uU caste of shepherds and angels and
a proper devU; and ffis benefactions to the needy were abound
mg. There was a touch of poetry about ffis death that is
worth recording. During ffis last iUness there came an eve
nmg, when he caUed to him two faitMul Indians, and telUng
them that he should die at dawn, asked them to remam near
him through the ffight. "Watch the sky," he bade them,
"and when the morffing star appears, teU me." They did as
directed, and when they beheld what they watched for, they
went with the news to ffis bedside. "Padre, the mornmg star
is arisen." "Then, my cffildren," he said, "please caU Padre
Jose to come and pray over me." Fray Viader hastened in,
and as he redted the prayers for the dymg. El Santo's spirit
passed witffin the veil.
At his funeral in the church, the Indians (who, crazed with
grief, thronged the buildmg) cried out agauist ffis burial; and
pressing about the plain redwood box in which the form of
El Padre Santo lay, they cut ffis homespun robe to pieces for
reUcs. Another habit which was brought to cover him shared
a Uke fate. Even his crucifix and sandals were stripped off in
the frenzied strife for holy memorials, and the miUtary guard
at last had to be caUed upon before it was possible to proceed
with the burial. The visitor interested in tombstones may
see Fray Magffi's m the Santa Clara church.
As Padre Catala was the Mary of the Santa Clara house
hold, so Padre Jos6 Viader was the Martha. He was a man
huge of body and large of heart, renowned for the enormous
crucifix wffich always hung from the rosary at ffis girdle, the
sword of his spiritual warfare. He was a thorough type of
muscular Christian, as strong as an ox; and the story goes
344

(xnb t^iix (Wli00ion0
that once when set upon by three perfidious Indians, he
thrashed the whole trio, then forgave them, and so turned
them mto ffis friends for Ufe. He was immensely mterested
in the aU-round prosperity of ffis Mission, wffich became
agriculturaUy one of the richest m CaUforffia. Padre Jose,
I fancy, was one of those who, ffi the Missions' pahny days,
made some mUd scandal by aUeged departures from the
severities of Frandscan simpUcity, falUng, for mstance, into
the luxury of traveUng ffi carriages. Our old friend, Don
Alfredo Robmson, throws some Ught on the quaUty of this
offense ffi his grapffic picture of the Padre's ride to San Jose
Mission at the time of the author's visit at Santa Clara about
183 1. The carriage, mvented by Viader after a plan of ffis
own (bemg a narrow body hung on a pair of low wheels Uke
a cart), was "drawn by a fine black mule, astride of which sat
a Uttle Indian boy who assisted m guidmg the animal m con
nection with a more experienced Indian, who, mounted on a
fiery steed, led the mule with a reata fastened about ffis neck.
On each side were two vaqueros with lassos fixed to the axle-
tree, by which they fadUtated the movement of the carriage
on the road," As the vefficle was springless, one can easily
imagme that what with lassos, the Indian postiUon, and the
throttled mule, the Padre's ride was more of a penance than
a pleasure, I am not sure whether it was Padre Jose, or a later, who
was responsible for Santa Clara's famous Indian orchestra,
resplendent ffi French uffiforms, wffich had somehow been
got from some whaler at Monterey or Yerba Buena, De
Mofras, good CathoUc, attended mass during ffis visit at tffis
Mission, and was astounded, at the moment of the elevation
of the Host, to hear the orchestra ffi the coro break out with
the martial strams of La Marseillaise, and later accompany
the procession with the old French air, Vive Henri Quatre!
345

Z^t CaCifomia ^(n'bx^s
After the service the Padre told him that one of ffis prede
cessors had bought for the Mission a Uttle organ that had
come from France, and the neophyte musicians, likmg the
airs, had of their own accord arranged them for their band.
The location of Santa Clara on the Camino Real between
San Francisco and Monterey, combined with the fmitfulness
of its gardens and herds, caused it to be one of the most fre
quently visited of aU the Missions, Every traveler who has
left a record, from Vancouver to the American Lieutenant
Wilkes, has a good word to say of its hospitaUties. The latter
stopped there in 1841, long after the secularization, and
though he was far from being an enthusiast as to what he saw
in CaUfomia, he makes a note of the deUciousness of the pears
that were served him from the Mission gardens. In retum for
favors received, it may be noted, he was ungenerous enough
to beat the resident Padre Mercado three successive games of
chess, a pastime of which (Wilkes sourly observes) , the lonely
old man "had more love than knowledge." It was at Santa
Clara in May, 1784, just after the completion of the great
church, that Serra, Umpmg his lame way from San Francisco
to Carmel, spent a few days in spiritual retirement, and made
a general confession of his devoted Ufe to Palou; then passed
on to die at San Carlos as he foresaw he would.
To Padre Magm we owe the famous Alameda that con
nects the Mission of Santa Clara with the city of San Jose.
His kmd heart was grieved at the discomforts endured by
the white mhabitants of that Uttle pueblo colony m their
travels to and from the Mission; since, before they had a
chapel of their own in the town, these colonists were obUged to
travel the three miles to Santa Clara to hear mass and then
back again. Tffis in the heat and dust of a summer day en
tailed a serious hardship, particularly on women and chil
dren; so the Padre had the Indians set out on each side of the
346

(xn'b t^^xx (yUi00ion0
roadway a line of trees. These before long attained great
size, and their branches, muting overhead, formed an arch
way to the avenue, which, as La Alameda de Santa Clara,
became widely famous. The trees seem to have been planted
about the year 1800, and Father Engeffiardt states they were
poplars, which accords with the name Alameda, tffis word
meaning, in strictness, a grove of alamos (poplar trees or
cottonwoods), or a walk shaded by them. Whatever they
were, so beautiful and pleasant a thoroughfare turned Mis
sion-going into somethmg of a fiesta for the San Josenos, and
as time went on the Alameda became on Sundays and feast
days a popular promenade where the townsfolk displayed
themselves m their silk-and-satmy best and no doubt m-
dulged in the scandal-mongering and heartburnmgs that go
with fine clothes the world over, even on the way to church.
Now, whether it was because such frivolous worldUness
made a natural breedmg-ground for spirits of evU; or whether,
as some mamtamed, the prmce of the devUs, findmg the peo
ple eager for mass-gomg now that there was a shady way to
foUow, had plotted to hmder them all he could from gettmg
withm reach of Padre Magin's sermons and holy water, the
fact remains that the Alameda came to be notorious as a
haunt of demonios — a regular devil's walk. So msolent did
the diaboUcal crew become that they even planned the de
struction of San Jose, root and branch, and doubtless would
have accompUshed it had not El Padre Santo got wmd of the
plot by revelation. There are those still Uvmg whose grand
mothers used to tell of seemg Padre Magin one hot summer
day doughtily limp down the Alameda m surpUce and stole
and recite the exorcisms against evil spirits. There was an
agonized howUng from an invisible legion, a clatter as of
horns and a blindmg cloud of dust; and the Padre hobbled
triumphantly back to the Mission. That the deviUdns were
347

Z^i: CaCifomia (J}abt;e0
routed, horse, foot, and dragoons, none but a heretic coffid
doubt; for is it not ffistory that San Jose was not destroyed?
I sauntered back to San Jose by the Alameda, wffich is
StiU a deUghtful suburban avenue, though few, if any, of the
origmal alamos are now standmg; nor any at aU of those
famous Stations of the Cross wffich Padre Magffi had erected
for a mile along the Alameda that he and his Indians might
together perform in the open the devotion called the Way of
the Cross, Tffis they did every Friday and on holy days,
bearmg among them the great crudfix from the church.
Eucalyptus, box-elders, locusts, and willows have been
planted to fiU the gaps made by irreverent woodchoppers of
secularization times, and these trees have grown to a size to
suggest greater age than is reaUy theirs. Beneath their pleas
ant shadows, I ploughed through rustUng leaves past ffigh
hedges that half hid old-fasffioned estates of pioneer Ameri
cans, and felt thankful that the latter-day vandaUsm, that
has made wreck forever of so much of old CaUforffia, has
spared what has been spared of tffis historic paseo. The
march of improvement has, mdeed, obUterated some of it
at the San Jose end, for it origmaUy extended to the Uttle
river of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the former boundary be
tween the pueblo and the Mission lands. I Ungered on the
bridge, and leanmg over the raff looked sentimentaUy mto
the waters for the sake of a certam four-pound trout, "very
savory," which Padre Palou lunched upon and made record
of, in the days when the Santa Clara Valley was the plam of
San Bernardino, populous with Gentile vUlages and abound
mg m sprmgs of water and groves of giant oaks.

(mb t^dx O[Tli00ion0
II
A Miracle of the Mail
^^-^E often hear it said that the age of miracles is past.
**^ Perhaps it is; but I fancy that many of those who say
so would be surprised to find how recently they ceased, even
here ffi CaUforffia. As to beUef in miracles (modem miracles,
I mean), that certamly has not ceased, or at least it had not
as lately as last sprmg, when I was talkmg with Leandro
Duarte. Springtime in the vale of Santa Clara is an experience to
remember when succeeding springs come round and find you
in other surroundmgs, I think some enterprising air-sffip
tourist concern of the future wiU make a huge ffit by conduct
mg parties on aero trips over those seas of blossom. White
Sea of apricot and prtoie. Pink Sea of peach and almond,
Qffite Inexpressible Sea of apple and quince, fanned with
gales compared with wffich those of the Spice Islands are
gross and undesirable. Almost as good as the aero, perhaps,
is a sunny comer of an orchard wall, adobe by preference,
such as that where Leandro found me one morffing with a
book upside down and my eyes half shut, wondering whether
I was not in an Arabian Nights garden, a CaUph mstead of a
CaUforffian. Sunny comers of adobe waUs are a weakness of Leandro,
too, so he promptly came and sat by me. When the preUm-
mary cigarette was rolled and Ughted he waved ffis hand.
"Mira, senor," he said, "que vista tan hermosa!" (Look,
what a beautiful sight!)
"Mira, mdeed," I repUed, my mmd pla)dng with the ety
mology of the word, "for it is truly a miracle,"
349

Z^t CaCifomia ^abt;e0
Leandro nodded, "A miracle, yes, that is it; and do you
know, seiior, there have been many miracles here, different
from tffis?"
"I don't understand," I said, "What kmd of miracles,
and where? "
"Here, senor," he repUed, "There used to be an orchard
here m the old days, that belonged to the Mission at Santa
Clara, and tffis is a bit of the waU where we are sittmg,"
"That is very mterestmg," I rejomed, "but what miracles
did you mean? "
"Oh, there were many," he said, "Have you ever heard
of Padre Magin, senor, who was priest here for so many
years? "
"Yes, I have read of him," I retumed. "What do you
know about him? "
"He was a wonderful man, senor, muy santo, and could
make miracles. I have heard my father teU them, but I have
forgotten." "Can't you remember any of them?" I asked. "I should
like exceedmgly to hear about a miracle."
"There is one, seiior," he answered, "and I know it is true,
for my father and many people knew of it. It was not here,
this miracle, though, but farther south, where it happened,
I wiU teU you.
"In the old times, seiior, when the Mexicans had the coun
try, they did many tffings differently from how it is now. One
thing was that the soldiers carried the mail, on horseback.
There was not much to carry, and they sent it once m every
two weeks. A soldier would ride from San Lffis Obispo to
Soledad, and one from Monterey to Soledad, and they would
exchange the packages of mail and ride back. It was Uke that
all the way from San Diego to San Francisco, I have heard,
"There was a soldier at the Soledad Mission, Silvestre
350

(mb t^^xx (TTli00ion0
Barron was ffis name, and one day it was ffis tum to take the
maU to Monterey. It was a long ride, and he had to start at
four o'clock ffi the mornmg, before it was Ught. The mail was
done up ffi a Uttle packet, ready to be fastened to ffis waist
with a leather strap. That was how they always carried it, for
safety. When SUvestre was ready to start, he had to go again
mto the house, to get money to buy shoes for his wife at Mon
terey ; so he put the package down on the saddle and dropped
the rems on the horse's neck, aU loose, wffile he went m. When
he came out — it was only a mmute, not more, that he was
in the house — he could not see the horse. He Ustened, but
could not hear anytffing, either, and it was dark. Then he
got a lantern and caUed ffis wife, and they searched aU about,
but the horse was gone. Then they looked for the packet of
mail, on the ground, where it would faU, but they coffid not
see it anywhere. That was worse than losmg the horse, be
cause the rule was that ff any one lost the mail he had to be
shot. It was a hard mle, but I have heard that the mail is as
if the letters belonged to the Govemment, whoever had sent
them, like when I write to my brother at San Jose. I do not
understand why it should be like that, but they say it is so.
"SUvestre's wife was terribly frightened, because she knew
about the mle. She was a good woman, and went always to
church at the Mission, They did not know what to do, so
they waited tiU it was Ught and then searched agam, but they
could not find the mail or the horse. Silvestre thought some
one had stolen them, because the package would have faUen
down before the horse got far away, unless some one had
taken it. Then SUvestre's wife said he must run away, or
they would surely shoot him, so she gave ffim some food and
he went away to the mountams to ffide. There was no other
horse that he could have, so he went on foot. He told another
soldier, who was a good friend, about losmg the mail, and
351

Z^t CaCifomia ^(Cbxt0
asked ffim to look out for the horse if it came back; and he
told ffim he was runffing away, but not to teU any one.
"He went as fast as he could aU day, tffi he got to the moun
tams. There are ffigh mountams there at the west of the val
ley, but it is many miles, and it was nearly ffight when he got
there. In those times there were many bears and other wUd
thmgs in the mountams, and Silvestre heard them ffi the dark,
and was frightened; but he thought it would be better to die
that way than to be shot. So he went on, though it was dark
and very rough, for he wanted to get as far as he could that
day. When he had gone a long way, and was gettmg near the
top of the mountains, he felt too tired to cUmb any more, and
he sat down. It was m a very rough place, aU big rocks and
bmsh and some trees. There was one ffigh rock that was very
big, Uke a house, and kept the wmd off, so he sat down with
his back agamst the rock and went to sleep.
"He had only slept a Uttle when he woke up and heard a
noise that came from the other side of the big rock. At ffist
he thought it was a bear coming, and tried to think how he
could get away; but when he heard the noise agam it sounded
different, Uke a rattle, or Uke the noise a horse makes when he
chews at ffis bit. He crept round to where he could see, and,
seiior, it was ffis horse. Was it not wonderful for it to be
there? But wait, seiior; there was a more wonderful thmg
than that. He went to the horse, and then he saw the packet
of letters, yes, on the saddle just where he had put it. And
not tied, seiior, that is the great wonder that no one can
understand. That is why it is a miracle, because the bundle
was not fastened at aU, and it had stayed there aU that time,
in the rough mountams, and with brush to push it off. It
coffid not be anythmg except a fine miracle that would do
anytffing like that, could it, seiior?
"WeU, that was what SUvestre thought, too. My father
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(m'b t^^xx Q(Tli00ion0
said that he was once in those mountains, and they are Uke
I teU you, very steep and rough. It was hard for Silvestre
even to get the horse down agam to the valley. When he got
down, he kept out of sight till it was ffight again, for fear some
one woffid see him there when he ought to be at Monterey
with the mail. When it was nearly dark he got on the horse
and went home.
" His wife was fuU of joy. She Ustened to what he had done,
and then she said that after he had gone away she had felt
very bad, because she thought he could never come back.
There were cffildren, as well, so it would be much sorrow for
them, too. So she went to the Mission to pray to the samts
to help her to find the maU. WhUe she was prajong m the
church she thought of Padre Magin, the one I talked about
just now. He had not been dead many years then, and every
body knew about him, that he was a samt. People used to
say, wffile he was aUve, that he prayed aU ffight and ffid not
sleep at aU; and that he could be ffi two places, and see what
one did if it was wrong; and often when people lost tffings he
told them where they could find them. There were many
people who had had miracles after he was dead, too, by pray-
mg to ffim to help them. So when SUvestre's wffe remem
bered that, she prayed to him, and promised to have a holy
mass said if he would help them to find the mail.
"And you see, he did it, seiior, so that shows it was tme,
what people said about his bemg a samt. My father said that
once he was very sick, nearly dead, and my mother sent to a
neighbor who had a piece of the robe that Padre Magm was
wearmg when he died. She got it and put it on the place where
the sickness was, and prayed to Padre Magffi, and my father
got weU. It must be fine to be a samt and help people Uke
that. I suppose," said Leandro, lookmg thoughtfuUy at me
as he roUed ffis fourth cigarette, "that he must have asked
353

Z^t CaCifomia g)ab¥e0
the good God to let him come and show SUvestre the way to
where the horse was. Do you tffink, seiior, the packet stayed
on the saddle all the time the horse was gomg up the moun
tam, or do you tffink the samt just put it there when Silvestre
found it? I should Uke to know about that."

C^(xptix (ttxnHtm
SAN JOSfi

Mission San Jos£; the Padre's Little Game at
Tortillas, and Some Remarks about Flogging
jHhe first wffite man's town to be formally laid out in CaU-
^^ fomia was San Jose, and it is a pretty Uttle city, quite
worth a visit; but do not go there with the expectation of see
ing the Mission San Jose, for it is not there and never was. It
is a good enough place to start from, however, for the Mis
sion, embarkmg upon a local tram that wiU deposit you four
teen miles distant at Irvmgton, a pleasant country town in
the rich fmit-growmg region of the eastem shore of San
Francisco Bay. There you may take a stage for the two or
three miles to the village of Mission San Jos6. Better, though,
if you are one who has joy of his trotters, to walk those few
short mUes through a billowy land of vmeyards and orchards
of peaches, pears, and oUves,
The Mission I found frankly decadent, there being left of
it only the wreck of one adobe building, with a sffingle roof
and a crumbUng conidor upheld by posts of wood. In the
presence of such desolation, there was a pathos in the thought
of that June day in 1797, when m all hopefuffiess of a glorious
future the Mission was solemnly dedicated in a rustic chapel
pUed ffigh with wild flowers as "La Mision del Gloriosisimo
Patriarca Senor San Jose" — and confided to the especial
care of that most glorious Patriarch who was the patron of all
the Franciscan missionary work ffi CaUfomia, But though
the Franciscans and their works at Mission San Jose are now
mostly dust, the activities of the church are by no means
suspended there. Close to the stieet, on the Mission land,
357

Z^t CaCifomia (pabt^0
are a modem, steepled church and a priest's house, wffile m
the rear, across the garden close, stands a convent of Domiffi-
can Sisters, who conduct there a school. The latter buUdmg
is as ugly a three-story affair of brick as one often sees, with
a mansard roof, and made me wonder afresh what misjoiffing
demon of bad taste it is that has mspired the architectural
monstrosities of almost aU the latter-day additions to the
fine old Franciscan Mission bffildmgs. That older arcffitec
ture was distinctive, in keepmg with the natural environment,
and beautiful ffi itseff. It seems as though its perpetuation
would be more worth wffile as an expression of praise to God
than the discordant sort of tffing that has so often been
erected for the carrymg-on of the gospel work begun by the
Franciscans, A cross-surmounted gateway mto the grounds stood in
vitingly open, but a sign on the post uneqffivocaUy declared
"No Admittance Except on Busmess." Wffile I stood de-
batmg whether to obey the inhospitable sign — for I had no
color of business — or the hospitable open gate, a priest with
an honest Irish face beneath a flappmg hat came by and
wished me good-mommg. To ffim I confided my dilemma.
" Why, sure, man, go ffi," he said heartily; " and if you want
inside the old bffilding, the Sisters beyond wiU give you the
key." And now occurred a noteworthy happenmg of my Mission
pilgrimmg. No one had told me of tffis Mission's lovely gar
dens, which the Sisters of St. Domiffick have restored to
doubtless all their old-time fertiUty, if not their old-time ex
tent. As I sauntered up the roadway leading to the ffideous
convent building wffich glowered Uke an ogre from a bower of
foliage, I was suddenly aware of bemg ffi the midst of a sweet
stiUness and a unique beauty. All about were old-fasffioned
flowers blowmg perfume across my path and duckmg their
358

anb t^^x (VUi00ion0
pretty heads at me as the breeze passed over them — roses,
petuffias, stockgiffies, chrysanthemums, and red, red gera-
ffiums. Frffit trees, too, were there — oranges, lemons, figs,
apricots, almonds; dotted about here and there were pahns;
but most enchanting of aU the trees were the oUves, of wffich
there was a double row lining a long walk, extendmg to a
smaU shaded chapel that closed the vista; wffile on each side
of the shadow-dappled walk, and set at regular mtervals in
the shade of the oUves, were Uttle wooden shrmes, each lov
mgly clasped by a twiffing rose. Farther on I could see there
were vegetable patches, and Sisters ffi rustic attire were bent
double at work, hoemg and weedmg, and one I saw picking
lemons. The old adobe Mission buildmg and the new church,
with its outbuildmgs embowered m trees, ffid tffis pleasant
garden from the street; at the back the ffiUs rose abruptly
m primitive wildness; so, front and rear, was the world shut
completely out, and had it not been for that unspeakable
mansard roof and the feminine presences, I might have fan-
ded myself set back a century, and stout old Padre Narciso
Duran commg down the oUve walk to greet me, and mviting
me to Usten to ffis Indians at their music.
As it was, no one met me and I rang the doorbeU at the
convent. A placid-faced old Sister, to whom I expressed my
desire to see mside the Mission, mvited me mto the parlor —
just the cheerless, ffigh-vaulted sort of room that goes with
a mansard roof — wffile she went for the key. Presently
another Sister appeared and, explaiffing apologeticaUy that
the key was at a neighboring house and must be sent for, she
sat down and hospitably entertamed me,
"You Uke the garden?" she smiled. "Yes, it is beautfful;
but more so m the spring than now.'^The oUves, many of them,
are old, old trees planted by the Fathers, and they stiU bear.
Every year we make oU from them. The avenue of oUve trees
359

Z^^ CaCifomia ^abtw

you came along, where the rose-entwined sffimes are, is dedi
cated to the Blessed Virgin, Queen of the Most Holy Rosary.
The shrmes correspond m number to the mysteries of the
rosary, and contam pictures of these mysteries. The Sisters
waUi there at their devotions. At the end of the walk, that
little chapel you saw contams a picture of 'Our Lady of
PompeU,' a famous representation of the Blessed Virgm as
Queen of the Most Holy Rosary."
Some society, she told me, — the Native Sons and Daugh
ters of the Golden West, perhaps, — had raised funds to re
pair soon and make presentable that part of the old Mission
wffich still remams; and when I expressed my pleasure as a
Protestant ffi seemg such ffistoric bffildmgs preserved, she
acqffiesced, addmg with a gentle loyalty to her own creed
that I liked, "Yet not as dead monuments, but as Uvmg m-
struments for the extension of the Faith." Which, mdeed,
seems to be the design of the Church respecting them.
When the key came, it was by the hands of a boy to whom
I was tumed over for guidance through the Mission, He per
formed his duties m normal boy fasffion with noticeably less
interest in expounding the ffistory of what he showed (of
which, mdeed, he was very ignorant) than in the chances of
flusffing a bat or an owl in the cobwebby twiUght of the musty
old rooms. The edffice that stands is of the convento part of
the Mission, At the time of my visit, it was aU rumous and
as barren of notewortffiness as might be expected of a buUd
ing wffich, after the secularization, had done duty as a wme
cellar and been roundly shaken by earthquakes. Neverthe
less, I got a certam dreamy interest out of it m recaUing that
it was probably ffi one of the very rooms we passed through
that an mcident occurred wffich so entertamed Captam
Beechey on the occasion of visitmg the Mission in 1826, that
he made note of it m ffis diary, among graver matters.
360

(xnb t^iix (TUi00ion0
Every day at dinner, it seems, after the olla was removed,
one of the Padres (and it sounds like Padre Narciso) had a
pile of Indian pancakes brought m. Then, fixmg his eyes on
one of the Uttle Indian boys, of whom several stood about the
table, the muchacho immediately opened wide ffis mouth;
whereupon the Padre would roU up a cake and with some
jocffiar remark about the urcffin's appetite or the size of ffis
mouth, woffid toss the tortilla at him. Tffis the boy would
catch m ffis teeth, and devour hastily to be the sooner ready
for another, as weU as to please the Padre; for the latter en
joyed the sport ffi proportion to the rapid transit of the cake.
Tffis smgular game at tortillas, Beechey states, was the Father's
only relaxation from the daily routme of duty.
Not the least enjoyable part of a visit of Mission San Jos6
is a stroU about the qffiet, flowery Uttle vffiage with its marked
foreign flavor, wffich I was given to imderstand is largely
Portuguese. Indeed, the young gffide at the Mission had re
marked ingenuously, "Once a Portuguee owned all one side
of the town, but a bank got it somehow," And by aU means,
top off with a walk to Mission Peak, the ffiU wffich rises im
mediately back of the Dominican convent. There is a lovely
sylvan trail that starts m close to the Mission where a smaU
stream issues cress-covered from the wffiows; and by easy
stages you rise out of a skirtmg of oaks and laurels until you
stand upon the bald summit of the Peak. It is no great alti
tude, but enough m that flattish region to enable you to get
a deUghtful outlook over wide areas of cultivation and the
great Bay of San Francisco, with its sloughs and tree-fringed
tributaries, and smoke-stacks of mdustry puffing up here and
there along the marge of it, from dty San Jos6 to the Golden
Gate. In Mission days cattle by the tens of thousands fed
upon the bordering plains. These belonged to the Missions
of San Jose and Santa Clara, and were slaughtered mamly
361

Z^^ CaCifomia ^cibx^s
for their hides and taUow. The shippmg of these ffides was a
picturesque sight. The Indians ffi long files, each carrymg a
folded skm on ffis head, wound through the wild mustard to
the embarcadero, where the ffides were dumped mto Ughters
for the port of San Francisco, there to be transferred to such
hide droghers as Dana's famous PUgrim.
That Captam Beechey aforesaid seems to have enjoyed his
visit at our Mission San Jose, and the picture he has left of
the estabUshment in its heyday is valuable as a first-hand
account, by a fair-mmded observer of a regime that is gone
forever. Two mcidents that he records are particularly ffiu-
mmatmg. One was the retum of a mffitary expedition sent
to chastise certain Gentiles m the ffiUs. These had murdered
a number of Christian Indians who had been on a proselytiz
ing tour for Mission recruits. The soldiers sent to avenge
their death had done their task well, from the miUtary stand-
pomt — burffing and desolatmg the vffiage of the pagans and
brmgmg into the Mission forty captives, women and cffildren.
The prisoners were at once taken ffi hand for conversion.
Beechey was an eyewitness one moming when tffis class was
up for tffition. Clothed in blankets, the Indians were ar
ranged ffi a row before a bUnd Indian who understood their
dialect, and who was assisted by an alcalde to keep order.
Their tutor began by desiring them to kneel, iffiormmg them
that he was gomg to teach them the names of the persons
composing the Triffity, and that they were to repeat in Span
ish what he dictated. Then he began — "Santisima Trimdad :
Dios, Jesu Cristo, Espiritu Santo" — pausmg between each
name to Usten if the Indians, who had never spoken Spaffish
before, pronounced the words anywhere near the mark. After
they had repeated these names satisfactorily, their bUnd
tutor aimounced, "Santos," and recapitulated the names of
a number of saints. These similarly repeated, the morffing's
362

cm'b t^^x (mi00ion0
lesson was fiffished. The EngUshman could not see that the
dusky scholars were particularly mterested m what was gomg
forward with them, and he observed to the Padre that he
thought the teachers had an arduous task; but the Father
said, "Oh, no, there is no difficffity. The Indians are ac
customed to change their gods and their conversion is in a
great measure habitual to them." But then Padre Duran was
rather notorious for hurrjdng a change of heart.
The captam's account of the celebration of ffigh mass m
the Mission church a few days later, on a samt's day, is also
mterestmg, I tffink. There was a pretty procession of young
Indian girls m scarlet petticoats and wffite bodies, and when
the bells ceased tolUng, the huts of the neophyte vffiage were
searched for possible tmants by alguazils armed with long-
lashed whips wffich they used "with tolerable freedom" when
any sffirkers were found. The church was crowded. The
alguazils with wffips and goads stood in the aisle that sepa
rated the congregation mto two parts, and kept aU m a kneel-
mg position and otherwise orderly, the goads bemg partic
ularly handy for tffis, "as they would reach a long way and
inffict a sharp puncture without making any noise,"
Apropos of the discipUne by wffippmg, of wffich much has
been made by the antagonists of the Padres, it should be
bome ffi mmd that a century ago Solomon's precept about the
rod was stiU a generaUy accepted tenet of right education,
and ffi Spaffish CaUfomia it was no very unusual thmg for
grown wffite men to be spanked by their offended fathers.
Doubtless, now and then, some zealous Padre (beUevmg that,
if a Uttle is good, more is better) overdid the matter; but m a
general way one should not think hardly of the missionaries
for resortmg to the practice with their misbehavmg red cffil
dren (who, mdeed, never grew up), for it was meant as a cor
rective. "But, Padre, it hurts," complamed one Nazario,
363

Z^^ CaCifomia ^cCbxts
when Fray Magin, samt though he was, prescribed a whip
ping for some moral infirmity. "Of course it does, mijo, but
the pams of heU hurt worse," retumed the Padre, havmg an
eye to Nazario's future. *
The Indians usuaUy took their bircffing pffilosopfficaUy,
doubtless bemg quite aware of their shortcommgs, and would
then go off pleasantly enough about their busmess. Old Jo
safat, Uvmg as late as 1847, and who had been cook at San
Antonio, used to teU that, when Padre Sancho had an mdi-
gestion, Josafat would be made to pay for it with six or eight
lashes; which may or may not have been evenhanded justice;
but Josafat seems to have appredated the grim logic of it
and not to have protested. There was a different case at San
Jos6, when a certam Cosumne Indian, who had been recently
baptized and had received the sffirt and blanket of neophy-
tism, committed some breach of good order that entailed
a wffippmg, Tffis angered the man and he threw the blanket
and shirt back at the Father, crying, ffi tme Fenimore Cooper
style, "Padre, take back your Christianity. I want none of
it, I go back a pagan to my people! "
For over sixty years the missionaries "for the conquest"
ffi CaUforffia had been recmited from the Franciscan CoUege
of San Fernando m the City of Mexico. These Brothers were
called, on tffis account, Femandmos, and were almost with
out exception Spaniards by birth. As time went on, that
estabUshment became unable to supply friars to replace the
vacancies occunmg m the provmce by death and departure;
and, ffi 1833, ten missionaries of a new sort were sent up from
' "We have begotten the neophytes for Christianity," writes one of the
Fathers, "by means of our labor for them. . , . We therefore use the authority
which Almighty God concedes to parents for the education of their chUdren,
now exhorting, now rebuking, now also chastising when necessity demands."
The Spamsh law took the same view of the matter and prescribed a maximum
of lashes, and other details. 364

an'b t^^x (yUi00ion0
Mexico — Frandscans stffi, but of another coUege — that
of Our Lady of Guadalupe at Zacatecas, These Zacatecans
were not Spaffiards but Mexicans; most of them were iffierior
both in inteUect and character to the Femandmos; and their
habits were rather free compared with those of the more
austere old Spaffiards. As the two sorts did not fraternize
weU, they decided to keep apart, the newcomers takmg the
northem Missions and the Femandmos the southem. The
successor of Padre Duran at San Jose was one of these Zacate
cans — the flower of them aU — Padre Josd Maria de Jesus
Gonzalez Rubio. His term there was from 1833 to 1842, and
that he was able to save somethmg for his Mission from the
wreck of secularization is testified by De Mofras. The latter,
m 1841, found tffis active young Mexican still with a flock of
four hundred weU-conditioned neophytes about him — the
alcaldes cutting qffite a dash in blue cloak, jacket, and panta
loons, red waistcoat and sash, black silk cravat, and great
felt sombrero. Gonzalez, mdeed, seems to have been the equal
of an old Femandino in abffity, zeal, and right Uvmg, and ffis
neophytes caUed ffim "El Santo." Later he became presi
dent of the CoUege of Frandscans at Santa Barbara, where he
died in 1875, the last of the old Une of Frandscan missionaries
m CaUforffia. His successor at San Jose — Padre Jose Maria
Real — was of qffite another kidney. He was hail-feUow-
weU-met with everybody, and liked notffing better than to
join a moonUght party of roistering blades to lasso bears or
hunt deer. He had a pretty taste m horseflesh and rode
superbly, a scarlet /o/o about ffis waist beneath ffis gray gown.
When more sedate priests woffid rebuke him for ffis loose ways,
he would laugh and say debonairly, "I am only a Mexican
Frandscan, you know, and I was brought up ffi the saddle."
So Guadalupe VaUejo teUs us. 365

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(Kbx^^
II
The Music of the Missions
3N notffing were the early Padres of CaUforffia more re
markable, and more admirable, than ffi the many-sided
ness of their efforts for their Indian charges. No doubt the
friars were chosen partly with tffis "handy man" quaUfica
tion m view, and it is certamly to tffis that is due very greatly
the astoffisffing and qffick success that the Missions attamed.
The Franciscan missionary must be priest, agricffiturist, ex
plorer, engmeer, artist, physician, arcffitect, artisan, and
trader, aU ffi one. The modem "Institutional Church" idea
is not exactly modem, after aU.
It was certam that among the agendes for dvilizmg the
CaUforffia natives, music should take a foremost place. The
Fathers were, almost without exception, men of fine cffiture,
and music havmg been a main feature m their previous mon
astic Ufe, many of them, no doubt, looked to the same re
fresffing source for solace and recreation m their soUtary field
of labor, finding m it a charm to soothe not offiy the savage
breast, but that of the savage's hard-worked and oft-discour
aged Mentor as well.
We can hardly suppose, considering the circumstances, that
the results were of a ffigh order artisticaUy. The CaUforffia
Indian stood very low m the aborigmal scale, far lower, m
fact, than the Indians of the eastem part of the continent at
the commg of the wffites. But — though tffis may seem a
f ancfful idea — perhaps the characteristics of the Caffiomia
native, ffis sadness, ffis haff-consdous abasement, even his
lethargy, are the very tiaits that would make him susceptible
to music of the solemn Gregorian mode; just as, to carry it
366

cm'b t^^x (WVi00ion0
further, the same tiaits may weU have prepared him to Usten
with sympathy and comprehension to the story of a Cruci
fixion, a Way of Tears and Blood, of HumiUty and Betrayal,
with Hope aU set upon another Ufe than tffis. The reader who
has once heard the^smgmg of our Indians wiU know what I
mean. To me there is notffing more moving, more deeply
pathetic, m the range of sound, than that sonorous, moumful
Indian voice, whether heard m some majestic choral of the
Church, or as, broodmg over gffitar or mandoUn, the dusky
smger murmurs some soft Spaffish love-song: a strange, high
tenor that is like — I know not what; yes, Uke love itself,
but a joyless, Indian love. Poor Reynaldo! after twenty
years I can see and hear you yet, smgmg to your mandoUn
in the dim comer of the old adobe cottage ffi Sonora town.
But tffis is by the way. In spite of many drawbacks the
Fathers succeeded, at nearly all if not all the Missions, m
trainmg acceptable choirs, both vocal and instrumental. A
mam difficulty, at tffis distance from civUization (wffich to
them meant Mexico City), was that of providmg mstru
ments. Such as they had were mostly, no doubt, of native
manufacture; but what a triumph of patience and mgenffity
does the fact represent, when one tffinks of what CaUfomia
was a himdred years ago: Farthest Africa to-day is hardly an
unfair comparison. Yet, cultivated travelers have spoken with
admiration of the music they heard proceed from those mde
Inffian mstruments and mstrumentaUsts; and it may, mdeed,
be taken as a fair mdex of the success of the Mission plan m
general that tffis best, gentiest of the Muses shoffid have thus
early found a home among the unhopefffi race who had come
under the Fathers' mfluence. We may even take it as a token
(if that pleases our local patriotism) of the future leadersffip
of CaUforffia m musical affaurs. But however the future may
be, I think that St. Frauds himseff, "jongleur of the Lord,"
367

Z^i CaCifomia ^cxbxts

and lover of music as of all sweet and gmleless tffings, must
have had much joy of those somewhat crude flutings and
fiddUngs and horffings, where he (as we may hope) had
spiritual cognizance of them.
The one of the Missions that seems to have been preemment
m tffings musical was San Jose. Here ruled, as has been said.
Fray Narciso Duran, a most harmoffious friar, whose joy and
pride was an orchestra of no less than thirty performers, with
vioUns, flutes, trumpets, and drums; a veritable triumph,
Padre Nardso. One may judge of ffis musical caUber by the
fact recorded of him that he woffid even stop the service of the
church rather than suffer to pass without correction some dis
cord that offended ffis soffi. He was composer, moreover, as
well as conductor. A Catalan by birth, to him is credited the
music of a mass known as La Misa Catalana. Tffis com
position, once much sung at the Missions, had faded almost
mto a tradition when, a month or two ago. Father O'Suffivan,
the resident priest of San Juan Capistrano, had the good for
tune to unearth two complete scores of the music, wffich had
lain, unsuspected, for many a year m the possession of one
of his parisffioners.
It is a pleasant picture that Robmson gives of Padre Duran ;
"A venerable old man . . . generous, benevolent. . . . The
Indians not offiy revered him as their spiritual father and
friend, but seemed almost to adore him. ... So acute was
the ear of the priest that he would detect a wrong note m-
stantly, and cffide the erring performer. I have often seen the
old gentleman, bareheaded, m the large square of the Mission,
beatmg time agamst one of the pillars of the corridor, wffilst
ffis music was in rehearsal." Here is another subject for some
CaUforffia artist — the quamt, shock-headed crew, as far from
uffiform, I suspect, in time and tone as m coats and breeches,
aU eyes mtent on the batdn of the perspirmg conductor as he
368

cm'b t^^x (jni00ion0
hopefuUy thumps away, cheermg on the dusky sons of Or
pheus, Such was the germ, mdeed, such was, CaUforffia's
first S)Tnphony Orchestia. And talk about local color!
Another of the Padres who was musicaUy (as weU as other
wise) notable was Fray Esteban Tdpis, whom we trace at
sundry of the Missions, and finaUy occupymg the position of
president of the missionaries, from 1803 to 1812. It is to ffis
pamstakmg hand that the Missions owed many of their finely
written scores of the Alabado, the Antiphonale, and the other
musical offices of the Church. Quamt-lookmg scores they are,
to our eyes, the notes written as squares or diamonds, and on
a stave sometimes of four or five and sometimes of six Unes.
The music being m general Gregorian, it was of course sung
in uffison; but there was not a Uttle also of four-part choral
smgmg. It is mterestmg to see that m such cases, m order to
guide the Indian choristers through the dangerous maze, the
notes of each part were written m a different color, the air
perhaps m yeUow, and the other parts m red, wffite, and black,
respectively. At such accompUshments as tffis, of wffich a
Uttle example is shown below, it seems that Fray Esteban was
specially proficient.

:t

:t=

^

Wm

^

g=y

v-1

San - to Dios San - to Fuer - te San - to In - mor - tal
r-l .g* m  ^  ca  .  a  1- -H '

=1=

=^=r

=^3

QP

i^s:

^

Ll - bra - nos Se - fior

de

to

do mal.

It is quite natural that such a good democrat as Fray
Florencio Ibanez, of Soledad, should be found to shme m the-
most sociable of the arts. A man of temper as weU as of tem
perament. Fray Florencio was a real acquisition to Caffiorffia,
369

Z^ CaCifomia ^abt;^
notwithstanding the Uttle cloud under wffich he came from
Mexico, where ffis muscular arm had floored some miUtary
jackanapes who had exceeded the limits of ffis forbearance.
In CaUfomia also, to the ffigh and haughty Fray Florencio
was always a humbUng experience, but the lowly Indian
found him ever the best of protectors and friends. It was he
who composed for the deUght and mstmction of ffis people
what was the most popular of those pastorelas, or simple reU
gious plays, of wffich an account has been given ffi a previous
chapter; and I wffi warrant that in Mission musical drcles,
Soledad stood ffigh m the reign of Padre Florencio; for what
Indian would not smg and play ffis best to please a priest who
openly preached that m natural rights the Indian was the
equal of the Spaffiard, "a man for a' that"; and made good
the doctrme day by day m practical terms of meat and drink?
For the Kmg's officer who stopped at Soledad ate the same
Spartan fare as priest and neophyte, or went empty on ffis
way: and clay of Indian got the same reverence as clay of
comandante from Fray Florendo when funeral or burial were
to be done. A fine Franciscan, Fray Florencio; one might say,
a fine Christian, too.
Readers of "Ramona" (and that shoffid be everybody)
will remember the description of Father Salvierderra, rismg
at break of day, throwing open ffis window and beginffing the
sunrise hymn, soon jomed by aU witffin hearmg. That is no
touch of fancy or sentiment. It was an old custom in CaU
fomia — probably throughout Spain and Mexico as weU —
and one now not long extinct among Spamsh CaUfomians,
that all m the household, led by its head or some one acting
for him or her, should greet the new mommg on awakmg by
the singmg of a hymn. A beautifffi action, surely: one of those
gracious smaU thmgs that give to the Ufe and manners of Latin
races a spontaneity, a touch of charm, that we of the Northern
370

cm'b t^txx (I(ni00ion0
blood recognize as excellent, though we neither could nor
would — nor perhaps should — emulate. The favorite of aU
hymns for tffis purpose, and one that was evidently composed
for these occasions, was what was known as El Cdntico del
Alba (the Canticle of the Dawn), a hymn addressed to the
Virgin. I leam that it became among the Mission Indians of
the old days a regular morffing prayer, bemg sung m the huts
at daybreak. Even when campmg or traveling it was sung
in the moming, the father and mother smgmg the h3Tnn
verse by verse, and the cffildren repeating the first stanza
after each verse, ffi the manner of a refram.
I wish I could give the music here with its authentic harmo-
ffies (if it was origmaUy so composed, as seems likely from the
structure of the air) ; but dffigent search has failed to produce
a record of the music so written, either printed or in manu
script, and it may be that the harmomes were suppUed at the
taste of the smger. EL CANTICO DEL ALBA

^

•bf? ^:

b p ig-

Ya vie - ne el Al - ba Ray - an - do el di

^

53t

Di ga mos
I, Ya viene el alba,
Rayando el dia;
Digamos todos
Ave Maria.
2. Naci6 Maria
Para consuelo
De pecadores,
Y luz del cielo.

to - dos A ve Ma ri - a.
I. Now comes the dawn,
Brightening to the day.
Hail, Mary, hail.
Let us all say,
2. Bom was Mary
For Heaven's light
And help of sinners
In their plight.
371

Z^t CaCifomia ^cxbxts

3. Digamos todos
Con eficacia
Nacio Maria
Llena de gracia.
4. Fue sola hermosa,
Sola Maria,
La que acompana
La luz del dia.
S. Bella grandeza
No pudo ver
La sierpe fiera
Del Lucifer.
6. La sierpe fiera
Llora sus penas.
Maria le pone
Fuertes cadenas.

Let us all sing:
Help of our race
Was Mary bom,
And full of grace.
Alone in beauty,
Unequaled one,
Mary, thou comest
Fair as the sun.
The ravening serpent,
Lucifer,
Quailed before
The beauty of her.
The ravening serpent
Cowers in pain,
Mary puts on him
Fetters of chain.

7. Respondan todos
Con alegria.
Viva Jesus,
Viva Maila,
8. Viva Jos6,
Viva Maria,
Tambien que viva
La luz del dia.
9, Viene la aurora
Con alta luz:
Digamos todos
Amen, Jesus,

7, Let all respond
In blithest accord,
Hail, Mary, hail,
Hail, Jesus, Lord.
8. And Joseph, hail.
And Mary, hail,
And hail the light
That shall not fail.
9. Comes moming light.
Brightening to the day.
Amen, Jesus,
Let us all say.

Scattered here and there about CaUfomia there are stiU a
handful of old, very old, Indians whose wonderfffi faculty of
memory has preserved some few of the hymns, chants, and
chorals, that were most regularly used m the Mission serv
ices. One such is old Femando Cdrdenas, commonly known
as Fernandito (Uttle Fernando), of whom mention has been
372

cm'b i^x (mi00ion0
made in [the chapter on Mission Santa Ines. From his Ups
Father Alexander Buckler, priest of that Mission and model
of mdustry, last year recorded by the phonograph some haff-
dozen of these. To Father Buckler I am mdebted, thus, for
the Spanish words of the foregomg Cdntico dd Alba, as also
for the Spanish words and the music of the Alabado, or Song
of Praise, a hymn wffich was ever on the Ups of priest and
neophyte, not alone at the services in the Missions, but when
out on the frequent explorations and visitations, when it
seems to have been often sung when breakmg camp before
the day's march began. Even as an ordmary greetmg it is
reported to have been sometimes used — said, not sung, one
must suppose — a statement upon wffich further Ught woffid
be wdcome m view of there bemg four verses. I give it as it
came from the lips of dghty-year-old Femandito,
ALABADO

5

t=t

^

d * •

•g -Jl il

A-la-ba-do y en-sal-za-do Se-a elDi-vi-noSa • cra-men-to

i

^

:fc=|5=

I

n J d m «'

s s s

-d — I  1 — ^-d — I — I 

En qui-en Dl-os o- cul -to a-sis-te DelasAl-masel . .sus-ten-to.

I. Alabado y ensalzado
Sea el Divino Sacramento,
En quien Dios oculto asiste
De las almas el sustento.

Praised and exalted
Be the Divine Sacrament,
Wherein the hidden Lord abides,
Of souls the sustenance.

2. Y la limpia Concepci6n
De la Reyna de los Cidos,
Que quedando Virgen pura,
Es Madre del Verbo Etemo.

And [praised be] the pure con
ception
Of the Queen of the Heavens
Who, XTrgin immaculate,
Is Mother of the Eternal Word.

373

Z^t CaCifomia i^cxbx^s
3. Y el bendito San Jos6, 3- And the blessed Saint Joseph,
Electo por Dios imnenso Chosen by God the Ahmghty
Para padre estimativo For the reputed father
De Su Hijo el Divino Verbo. Of His Son, the Divine Word.
4. Esto es por todos los siglos 4- This is for all ages
Y de los siglos. Amen, And for ever. Amen.
Amen, Jesus y Maria: Amen, Jesus and Mary:
Jesus, Maria, y Jos6. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
A generation has passed smce Stevenson wrote of ffis visit
to Carmel. At that time one might hear there, and perhaps
at other Missions, the choral singmg of a number of the In
dians who then remained in the neighborhood of their old
haunts: an experience wffich Stevenson thus feeUngly re
lates: —
"... the Indians troop together, their bright dresses con
trasting with their dark and melancholy faces; and there,
among a crowd of somewhat unsympathetic hoUday-makers,
you may hear God served with perhaps more toucffing cir
cumstances than m any other temple under heaven. An In
dian, stone-bUnd and about eighty years of age, conducts the
singmg; other Indians compose the choir; yet they have the
Gregorian music at their finger ends, and pronounce the Latm
so correctly that I could follow the music as they sang. The
pronunciation was odd and nasal, the singmg hurried and
staccato, 'In saecula sseculo-ho-homm,' they went, with a
vigorous aspirate to every additional syUable. I have never
seen faces more vividly Ut up with joy than the faces of these
Indian singers. It was to them not only the worsffip of God,
nor an act by wffich they recalled and commemorated better
days, but was besides an exercise of culture, where all they
knew of art and letters was united and expressed. And it made
a man's heart sorry for the good fathers of yore who had
taught them to dig and to reap, to read and to smg, who had
374

anb t^ixx Q(Ui00ion0
given them European mass-books wffich they stffi preserve
and study m their cottages, and who had now passed away
from aU authority and influence m that land — to be suc
ceeded by greedy land-tffieves and sacrUegious pistol-shots.
So ugly a tffing may our Anglo-Saxon Protestantism appear
beside the domgs of the Society of Jesus."
Among those aged choristers were doubtless some who were
the cffildren of Indians whom Serra himseff had taught to
smg the music of the Church, for it was then not a century
smce the great Frandscan missionary had passed away. One's
mmd goes back over that century to the scene, described by
ffis friend and biographer. Fray Francisco Palou, that fol
lowed ffis death at that same Mission. We see the sorrowmg
natives, to whom Junipero Serra had been more than m
churcffiy title a Father, bringmg from the fields their bunches
of common wild flowers of every color, among them, no doubt,
many a bouquet of those wUd roses, "like those of Castile,"
for wffich the dead priest kept ever the warmest place m ffis
heart. When the door of the ceU where he Ues is opened, they
are already there, waitmg to press ffi and cover with their
offermgs, consecrated with love and faitMul tears, the body
of their friend. And when, next day, the last rites are to
be done, the Indians gather sadly ffi the church, to chant,
"as weU as they could for their sobs and lamentations," the
solemn service for the dead.
Offiy the other day it fell to my lot to hear, at another of
the Missions, that same solemn music of the Reqffiem Mass.
I had been the guest, for a few most pleasant days, of Father
O'Suffivan, at Mission San Juan Capistrano. On the last
morffing of my visit I was wandermg, soon after daybreak,
among the yeUowing waffiut-groves that fill the vaUey of the
Uttle San Juan River, when the sound of the beUs, rung as for
a death or a burial, came to my ears. Old Acli, one of the last
375

Z^^ CaCifomia ^(ibx^s
remaining three of the San Juanenos (as the Mission Indians
of San Juan were caUed) , was the rmger, as he has been, I sup
pose, at every death for a generation and a haff of time.

i

(six times repeated)
So caUed the beUs, and by the two heavy strokes that fol
lowed I knew that it was a woman for whom we were bidden
to pray (for a man, three would be sounded).
I turned and made my way back to the Mission. Soft roUs
of mist veUed the summits of the lomas, shinmg m the bright-
enmg Ught like feathers from the plumed wmgs of some mighty
angel of the dawn. The new grass of the CaUfomia autumn-
sprmg was gray as yet with dew. "Very early m the morffing
. . . they came unto the sepffichre at the rismg of the sun";
the words of the EvangeUst came to my mind. The sun came
up. From gray of pearl the dew flashed into gUtter of dia
mond. Bees came slowly humming about, and the Father's
pigeons fiUed the air with which, which of rapid wings. Then
black-shawled women, two or three offiy, began to arrive, and
passed slowly up the path to the church. They might weU
have been those faithful women who came "bringmg the
spices wffich they had prepared, that they might anomtHim."
Already the Father is m the sacristy, with two boys of the
village who are to assist at the altar. For half an hour Dona
Engracia has been at work preparmg the tumba or catafalque,
wffich now occupies the center of the church. Candles burn
upon it and on the altar, and above it rises the token of the
Christian hope, the cmdfix. Three men (French, I tffink)
from a neighboring ranch, who are to smg, come in and pass
up to the gaUery; then another, in sweater and leggmgs,
carrying a vioUn. Then arrive four relatives of the dead
37^

cm'b t^^x (]tli00ion0
woman, a few of the regular attendants at early mass, and,
last, old Apoloffia, heralded by the loud tap-tappmg of her
stick on the tiled floor of the corridor. As she stiffly kneels
m her accustomed place, her rosary rattles Uke a famt salute
of musketry.
The vioUn breaks the silence. The priest enters, and the
service begms. From the gaUery comes the waU of vioUn,
the strong, sonorous singmg of men — Kyrie Eleison, Christe
Eleison, Kyrie Eleison; and then that moumful, beautiful,
immemorial music of the CathoUc Mass for the Dead.
Old Acu creeps past me as I kneel, and goes out. Suddenly,
startUngly, agam the two solemn strokes are sounded, break
mg upon the chantmg of the men and the murmurmg voice
of the priest.
The service ends and I go out. The day is aU a glory, after
that dim candle glimmer. The altar-boys msh off on their
bicycles to breakfast; the Frenchmen get mto a wagon and
drive briskly away. Early tourists already are gazmg and
photograpffing, and an artist is arrangmg ffis easel.
To end tffis sketch of the music of the Missions, here is
sometffing of a different kmd, a Uttle cradle-song, taken down
recentiy by my good entertainer above referred to, from the
Ups of Antoffio Leyv^a, and passed on by ffim to me. Such
items, much in the nature of folk-lore, are a treasure trove to
students of olden CaUforffia affairs, and tffis Uttle verse,
espedally m the origmal, has, I think, a rather particular
charm: —
Pajarito, amarniito, Little bird, yellow bird,
Colorcito de limon, Golden of wing,
Como quieres que te cante With my heart breaking
Si me duele el corazon? How canst thou sing?

C^Cipt6x Z)i)^t'2
DOLORES

Mission Dolores and the Two Missions of the
Contra Costa
^N my quest of the old "Mission of Our Seraphic Father
*^ Saint Frauds of Assisi," the electric car left me at Six
teenth and Dolores Streets. At the priest's house I mqffired
of a woman of comfortable rotundity, who answered my ring,
the way of admittance to the old Mission church of the
Franciscans. "You mean the adobe," she said, and directed me around
the corner.
It was somethmg of a shock to hear tffis cradle of the Pacffic
Coast metropoUs disposesd of in such short fashion; but upon
the average twentieth-century American the etffical worth of
the Lady Poverty, it is to be feared, is largely lost. So the
humble chapel of the Franciscans can hardly be expected to
compete m pubUc esteem with the overshadowing, double-
towered church edffice wffich that mommg was m process of
construction on the land where the old red-tiled corridors of
the Mission once ran. Men in their latter-day union-labor
overalls, with the alert help of steam and electricity, were
swinging huge steel beams about as easily as though they
were straws, fashioffing blocks of stone and droppmg them
into place, driving iron bolts and hammering rivets — here
where a century and a quarter before a tonsured priest or
two, gray gown tucked up in girdle, and a crowd of slow-
movmg, vacant-faced Indian neophytes at their heels, were
moulding adobes, hewing timbers, and making tule thatch.
381

Z^6^ CaCifomia ^abt;^0
Yet to the same end aU— the housmg of the mysteries of an
unchangmg faith, that they might be appUed to salvation of
human souls wffich generation after generation are bom mto
the same unchangmg need.
Of the origmal Mission estabUshment with its quadrangular
anangement of church, Uvmg-apartments, shops, and store
houses, and its Indian viUage of huts clustered about it like
cfficks about the mother hen, offiy the church part now stands.
The door stood open, and witffin a buUet-headed Irishman
with two lame legs hummed a ditty as he scrubbed the floor.
He gave me a cheery welcome and, picking up ffis cmtches,
began the tour of the bare, darklmg mterior with me, recitmg
as he went his Uttle stock of stories. I am ashamed to say I
have forgotten most of them. They had to do, I beUeve, with
altar fumisffings and wooden carvmgs brought up from
Mexico by ship and ox cart; and I do remember ffis apolo-
gizmg for the condition of the walls. These had formerly
borne the usual cmde decorations by Indian neophytes, but
now presented a monotonous expanse of modern hard plaster
spread to keep the original coating from bemg stolen piece
meal by souveffir coUectors. One can but wonder what the
pubUc has gamed by this method of circumventing robbery
— the cure seems on a par with the disease.
Although reUgious services are no longer held regularly
within the old building, it was pleasant to leam that now and
then a marriage is solemnized at the ancient altar — of
people, sometimes, who were baptized m the church and are
aUve to the sentiment of such a matter.
A feature of the Mission is the cemetery, weU known to
readers of Bret Harte — a weedy, tangled, down-at-the-heel
cemetery, with the tombs and headstones at all angles, yet,
in a way, more eloquent of the past than the tacitum old
church; for every headstone tells a story. The most famous
382

IN THE CEMETERY, MISSION DOLORES, SAN FRANCISCO

cm'b t^dx (ttli00ion0

monument, perhaps, is a marble shaft above the remauis of
Don Luis Antoffio ArgueUo, first govemor of Alta CaU
forffia under repubUcan Mexico, and brother of the herome
of CaUforffia's most famous romance. And somewhere m un
marked graves by the Mission waUs are generations of In
dians — ten thousand of them, they say.
CosmopoUtan, like the city that has risen about it, is this
old campo santo, where Spaffish and ItaUan, French and
American, English and Irish and Indian, Ue m peace together
at last — particularly the Irish. The place is musical with
their names — the KeUys and Burkes and B3Trneses, the
Croffins and GaUaghers, the Sheehans and Noonans, the
Keenans and O'Briens, the McMahons, the McGinffises and
McNamaras. AU feuds stilled, their grimy, mossy headstones
are cut deep with verses — alas, that they must be such dog
gerel! — voicing humanity's uffiversal longmg for a remeet-
ing m a world where acffing hearts and broken heads are
known no more forever. Hamlet would have found tffis old
Mission graveyard qffite as much to ffis humor, I think, as
was Elsinore's. For ready wit I would match almost any one
of these Celtic skuUs against Dane Yorick's.
A neatly barbered, right-angled campo santo would be more
respectful to the buried, I suppose; but somehow the haff-
wild tangle of this, with its unkempt malva rosas, its unre-
stramed myrtle wandermg in gypsy freedom over rail and
walk, its unpruned rosebushes, seems quite m keepmg with
the patriarchal, pastoral CaUforffia, contemporaneous with
the old Mission, the memory of wffich we cherish. Less than
a century and a half ago, the vast dty that has now aU but
swallowed up this God's acre was not even dreamed of; and
aU this Mission district of San Francisco, with soUd rows of
houses, street on street, was a sequestered wilderness vaUey
where wild strawberries reddened m the summer sun, yerba
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buena yielded up its minty incense to the dainty tread of
deer, and naked Indians came and went.
Into it one March day of 1776 came riding that sturdy
Spaffiard Colonel Juan Bautista Anza, of whom we heard at
San Gabriel, He had lately performed the unprecedented feat
of convoymg overland from Mexico to Monterey, through
deserts and over mountams patffiess until then, a band of
coloffists for the foundmg of a town at the port of San Fran
cisco — wffich port, though discovered seven years before,
had remamed unoccupied. Leavmg the coloffists at Mon
terey, Anza with a smaU escort went ahead to decide upon the
sites for Mission and Presidio. In tffis pretty vaUey two miles
from the bay shore, he found all reqffisites for a Mission
foundation — timber, stone, arable ground, water, and In
dians. The water was suppUed by a sprmg flowing into a
large pond, whose margin was a couple of modern city blocks
eastward of the present Mission. It was the Friday before
Pahn Sunday, the feast day of Our Lady of Sonows (Nues
tra Senora de los Dolores, m Spaffish) and the stream was
accordmgly named El Arroyo de los Dolores. Later the pond
became known as La Laguna de los Dolores, and m process of
time this same name Dolores came to be attached ffi popular
parlance to the Mission, though the proper name for the latter
has always been San Frandsco de Asis. It was St. Francis of
Assisi's Mission, not the Sorrowing Mother's.
In the wake of Anza, the founding party from Monterey
arrived — priests, soldiers, men and women coloffists with
their cffildren, muleteers, vaqueros, and some christiaffized
Indians to help in the commuffication with the raw Gentiles
of the region. It was a motley procession enough, some afoot,
some a-horseback, with a mule pack-train and a herd of three
hundred cattle, for cattle m Old CaUforffia formed the bed
rock of material wealth as in those more andent days of the
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race when money and cowffides were synon3mious. Doubtless
the dryad of the old wiUow m whose shade we loitered and
which grows stiU "beside the deep, brown waU " of the church,
just as it did when Bret Harte long ago wove it mto ffis sketch
(though the deep, brown waU is now prosUy sheathed m
wood) — doubtless tffis dryad might have told a picturesque
tale of that 9th of October, 1776, when the Mission was for
maUy founded — of the blessmg of the ground and its sprm-
kUng with holy water; of the plantmg and the venerating of
the great wooden cross, and the procession of priests and
soldiers and coloffists, with the image of the Serapffic Father
St. Francis bome ffi triumph on ffis platform at the head amid
the firmg of guns and the chantmg; and of the mass sung at
the mstic altar set up m the Uttle improvised bmsh chapel.
Doubtiess, ff she is the sort of dryad I think she is, she woffid
have enjoyed telUng of tffis to sympathetic auffitors, and
how Padre Frandsco Palou, one of the ministros fundadores,
worked with the Indians at the raismg of the first Uttle chapel
of wood with roof of thatch, that served the Mission for eight
years before tffis adobe bffildmg was fiffished.
Tffis, assummg that the old wUlow was here when the
Padres came; but as to that, quien sabe ? The Irish caretaker
said, as I bade him good-bye, that the story told him was that
the tree had grown from a switch of a thing planted by the
grave of the first cffild buried m the churchyard. I hope he is
wrong and that the tree is older than that — perhaps trans
planted from the willowy strand of that Laguna de los Dolores;
for I am loath to give up that dryad of 1776.
To Padre Palou CaUforffia owes her first book, an account
of the Ufe and labors of Jimipero Serra. It was during Palou's
incumbency at the Mission Dolores, between 1776 and 1784,
that he wrote the work, "amid the heathen surroundmgs of
the port of San Frandsco." It is a nanative of more general
385

Z^^ CaCifomia ^cxbx^B
interest than one might imagine from the subject and teUs
many an mddent of the sort that everyday folk Uke to know,
about the first fifteen years of the Spaffish occupation of the
country. A certam monkish pomt of view that tinctures the
style adds a sort of piquancy for the lover of old-time matters.
There is the Padre's gossip about the Gentile Indians of the
San Francisco penmsula, for mstance. It may be a Uttle lack-
mg m sdentific exactness to sffit the ethnologist, but it is
enUvened with many a human touch that the general reader
would not wiffingly spare; as ffis statement of their gomg
about unclothed "like Uttle Adams [Adamitos] without a
blush, that is, the men," the women, it seems, bemg "hon
estly" attired m a sort of divided skirt of native fiber doth.
A fact that adds to the glory of the Franciscan " conquest "
is that the CaUforffia Indian was never m the class with ffis
alert red brethren east of the Sienas. The CaUfomians were
markedly lacldng in those picturesque quaUties that have
contributed to our mterest ffi other Indians. Of low mentaUty
individuaUy, their social organization was the most primi
tive; and, although they gathered themselves into smaU vil
lages, there was no cffief in a poUtical sense, each famUy bemg
a good deal of a law to itseff. They were cowardly and Ught-
fingered. At San Diego, witffin a few days after their first
sight of a wffite man, they stole the very sheets from the m-
vaUd soldiers' beds and cribbed Padre Serra's spectacles to
the poor Father's great discomfort, tiU the tffief was caught
with the property on him and was known forever after as
Barabbas; wffile Anza teUs of a curious tribe in the San
Jadnto country, caUed by the Spaffiards dansantes, who at
pUfering were expert equaUy with feet and hands. As horse-
tffieves, the CaUforffia Gentiles became disqffietmgly adept;
but even their operations in tffis respect were hopelessly prosy,
for they ran off the horses not to ride them, but to eat them.
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cm'b t^iix Q[Tti00ion0
To their mdisposition to fight, combmed with lack of social
organization, is due the fact that a handful of Spaffiards were
able to mamtam themselves ffi domiffion over fifty thousand
Inffians m the Mission territory.
Sickness made appaffing mroads among the San Francisco
neophytes. One summer day of 1814 there was buried m the
campo santo of the Mission Dolores an old Indian woman
named Biridiana, and Padre AbeUa who registered the burial
added tffis note: "The last adffit that saw the ffist miffisters
who founded the Mission. . . . For six leagues roundabout aU
have died of those who saw the first Fathers; and of those
bom smce few are they who Uve."
That teUs the health story of the first thirty-eight years at
San Francisco. To the Padres, who before aU else were phy
sicians of the soul, and scarcely at aU of the body, the mor
taUty was very surprismg. "These Indians," they marveled,
"are more brittle than glass" (mas frdgiles que el vidrio).
Unable to stem the advancmg tide of death, the mission
aries dedded at last to estabUsh an asistencia m a more healthy
situation. They fixed upon a site northward across the bay —
the region called the Contra Costa — ma qffiet cove of the
wooded ffiUs opeffing to the water, but sheltered from the
harsh ocean wmds. Here on December 14, 181 7, was founded
the Mission San Rafael Arcangel, at first used as a sort of
sanatorium for San Francisco. Its dedication to the Arch
angel Raphael was "m order that this most glorious prince,
who in ffis name expresses 'the heaUng of God,' may care for
bodies as weU as souls."
The friar whose name is especially associated with Mission
San Rafael is Padre Juan Amor6s, a kindly man of fine abU
ity, who served from the foundmg until ffis death m 1832.
He had formerly been Presidio chaplam at Monterey, wffither
on Sundays he would come from Carmel with a store of sweet
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Z^t CaCifomia ^(xbx^s
figs, dates, and raisms m ffis sleeve to distribute to the cffil
dren at Sunday-School. Rare Padre Juan! His samtly
memory even until recent years was cherished by old Spaffish
people of the San Francisco Bay region, and Guadalupe Val
lejo has given us a pleasant story of that same sleeve that
won fame at Monterey. It seems that Padre Juan, wffile at
San Rafael, was ffi the habit of carrymg ffis dinner ffi it when
he went abroad — an ear of dry com roasted over the coals.
One noon, durmg the Padre's absence to oversee the neophytes
at work at a distant part of the Mission lands, some travelers
caUed, thinkmg to get an mvitation to a free dinner, after the
hospitable Mission custom. When mformed by the matter-of-
fact Indian servant that there was no dinner for them, be
cause the Padre had gone away and taken the dinner m his
sleeve, the wayfarers departed m an iU humor, and were weU
bantered when the joke on them leaked out.
Never a very prosperous estabUshment, San Rafael rapidly
fell to pieces after secularization, and De Mofras found it a
rum m 1841 — with, however, some superb tobacco plants
m the old garden, and twenty Indians and an Irishman
named Murphy on the land. To-day no vestige of the Mis
sion remams. Nevertheless the work of the Church stffi goes
forward ffi the beautiful Uttle dty that has grown up on
the Mission's land. In the midst of a garden of magnoUas
and pahns, apricot and orange trees, fragrant beds of roses,
UUes, and violets, and glowing banks of geraniums, a CathoUc
church Ufts its cross-tipped spire, and holds an open door to
the devout. Though my worsffiping of God is after the way
which Rome caUs heresy, I hoped it was not an mtmsion to
step mside and bow my spirit for a moment in silent prayer.
It was a lofty interior, rather splendid, m fact, with pictures
and decorations, and statues with candles burffing before
them; and the sunUght streammg through stamed-glass wm-
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cm'b t^txx QUi00ion0
dows gave a certain pure joyousness to the place, more to my
mood just then than any sermon could have been. The mur
murs of chUdren's voices at redtation m the Dominican
Sisters' school next door floated m, a dreamy music, and by
and by their exercise ended ffi a h3ann.
Whether by automobUe or tiam, it is a picturesque ride
from SausaUto, across the bay from San Frandsco, to the
ffistoric old pueblo of Sonoma, in the "VaUey of the Moon,"
where you will find amid vmeyards and orchards some rem
nant of that omega of the Frandscan estabUshments, the
Mission San Francisco Solano.
The manner of tffis Mission's commg mto bemg was not
altogether orthodox. When the nmeteenth century was stiU
newly tumed of twenty, there came to Mission Dolores a
young friar, Jose Altimira by name, fuU of missionary zeal
and, it would seem, conceit of Padre Jose Altimira. The
moribund condition of Dolores, due to the sickUness of the
neophytes and mfertiUty of the soU, proved such a damper
to ffis ambition that he dedded to move the Mission across
the bay to some new site and take San Rafael along for good
measure. He obtamed from the new Mexican governor
ArgiieUo and the legislature the needful permission, and,
without waitmg for the sanction of ffis ecclesiastical superiors,
the heady young priest looked up a spot to his mmd m the
Sonoma Valley where the climate and soU were good and the
field of unharvested GentiUsm promismg. There on July 4,
1823, he bUthely planted the cross of his new Mission, wffich
he called New San Francisco. The veto of the Padre Presi
dente, scandalized by such action sine privilegio, soon brought
matters to a standstiU, however; and it was not untU after a
lengthy wrangle m the interest of right procedure that the
fiery friar was permitted to go ahead. The foUowmg spring
saw the completion of the first church, which was built of
389

Z^^ CaCifomia ^((bx^&
boards and wffitewashed, wffile much of the furmsffing was
the gift of the Russians at Bodega Bay, who, possibly with a
view to future trade, felt the advisabihty of estabhsffing an
entente cordiale with the new enterprise. The dedication was
on AprU 4, 1824, when, first, the Mission was put under the
patronage of St. Francis Solanus. But, after all, tffis Mission
was born out of time: the sun of the Mission day was at its
setting, and the new estabUshment was hardly under way
before the ffight of secularization swallowed it up. The Rus
sian explorer. Von Kotzebue, at the time of ffis second visit
to CaUforffia, ffi the autumn of 1824, speaks of tffis Mission
as "peepmg from amid the foUage of ancient oaks." To-day
there are no ancient oaks about it, and the buildmg, far from
peepmg, stands nakedly m the open at the comer of two cross-
streets, a towerless, bamlike stmcture of adobe under a
shmgle roof with a big wooden cross. Tffis, with one corridored
wing, is aU that remams of the former estabUshment. Much
of it, mdeed, is an evident restoration, due, I beUeve, to the
interest of the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden
West, whose plan includes stiU more restormg and the en-
sconcmg of an ffistorical museum witffin the chapel. The
morffing of my call, all was mhospitaUty. The door was locked
and the wmdows barricaded; and thus was frustrated my
cherished desire to see the resting-place of Dona Maria
Ignacia Lopez de Carrillo. She, I had gathered m some of my
skimmmg of ffistorical cream, was a lady of mteresting asso
ciations. The daughter of a soldier of the guard at Mission
San Gabriel, she married another man of war, one Joaquin
CarrUlo, of local fame m ffis day as a violiffist and for havmg
once been sentenced to the stocks by ffis comandante for tak
mg an unconscionable time to tune his fiddle. Whether of ffis
own desure or that of her family I do not know, but the lady's
remams were buried under the font of tffis Mission church of
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(m'b t^dx (mi00ion0
Sonoma m order that she might profit by aU future droppmgs
of holy water at that spot. It was a conceit worthy of her
picturesque race — a humble sort of echo of that more grandi
ose act of the royal builder of the Escorial, whose burial vault
m the palace chapel was so placed as to catch the sound of the
masses that should be said at the altar there for aU time.^
San Francisco Solano's last cura was the picturesque Padre
Jose Lorenzo de la Concepcion Qffijas, He is thought to have
been an Ecuadorian Indian, and m early Ufe was a muleteer;
but, bemg crossed ffi love, he abandoned the pack-saddle for
the cowl of St, Francis. He was a big man physicaUy, with
a kind heart, and a preacher of some power, without fear of
caffing a spade a spade when deaUng with contemporary mis-
domg. His muleteerism, however, seems never to have got
out of ffis blood; or possibly ffis frequent visits to the Russian
traders at Fort Ross undenffined his morals; for it is said he
had as Ught a foot at a dance as the best. As for drinkmg,
Govemor Alvarado, a good judge, held that the friar could
put any man m Calffomia under the table. He had faUen on
decadent times, poor Fray Jose, and perhaps one may not
expect of Padres who are aUowed cur tamed beds of down the
austerity of spirit that is supposed to go with a buU hide laid
on the floor and an adobe for a pUlow. I find it pleasant to
know that Padre Qui jas Uved to do better; for, m 1843, a
Swedish traveler saw him at Mission San Jos6, quite sober.
Ah, well, "what's done, we partly may compute, but know
not what's resisted."
1 Dofia Maria Ignacia was the mother-in-law of that General Mariano-
Guadalupe Vallejo, whose name still survives more or less mispronounced in-
a town on San Pablo Bay and in Vallejo Street, San Francisco. He was one of,
the best-known men in Califorma in the days of the Mexican domination and'.
of the American conquest, and perhaps the richest. Upon the grill of Gringoism,,
however, his real estate melted away like fat in the fire, and at the time of his
death, in 1890, only his little home place, "Lacrima Montis," a mile or two out
of Sonoma, remained to him of all his princely estate.
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Z^i CaCifot;nia ^a'bxts
II
The Rose and the Pine
Mn the records of the early ffistory of CaUforma, no name
*-' meets the eye more of ten than that of ArgueUo. First Jos6
Dario ArgueUo under Spain, and later Lffis Antoffio ArgiieUo
under Mexico, father and son, did their best, as acting gov
emor and governor respectively, m gffidmg the troublous af
fairs of the provmce of Alta CaUforffia. It is the last-named
whose monument ffi the old cemetery of Mission Dolores at
San Frandsco is known, no doubt, to many of my readers, and
whose name is preserved also by that Cape ArgueUo, on the
stormy, fog-haunted coast just north of Pomt Conception,
where a few years ago there occurred the tragic wreck of the
steamsffip Santa Rosa.
But the name brmgs espedally to mind a different kind of
drama from that, — one wffich dweUs in the recoUection
most, perhaps, because of its picturesque conjunction of char
acters. The sunny pastoral of the old CaUforffia Ufe, and the
cffiU, semi-barbaric obscurity of the Russia of a century ago,
make a strange contrast of backgrounds for even the world
wide action of love. Spanish-CaUfomian herome and Mus
covite hero — it is an allotment that strikes the imagination,
and that seems, perhaps, to carry m its very essence a threat
of tragedy. The pme may sigh for the rose, but must not
mate with it.
In the baptismal records of Mission Dolores, under the
date of the 26th of Febmary, 1791, may be read an entry of
the baptism of a girl, bom on the 13th of the same month,
who was the daughter of Don Jose ArgiieUo, Lieutenant-
Captam and Commandant of the Royal Presidio of San Fran-
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cm'b t^tix (JTli00ion0
cisco, and who was christened m the names of Maria de la
Concepcion Marcela. Somewhere ffi far-away Russia, that
day, perhaps with the Court at St. Petersburg, was a young
noble. Count NUcolai Petrovich Rezanof , marked out by the
Emperor for distmction, ff aU went weU. And Fate, careless
or carefffi — who can teU? — takmg up the new thread of
Ufe, tied it with that of the Russian boy.
It is the year 1803 when we next meet our actors. Some
where m those twelve years Fate had brought m another
thread, twisted it with the Russian one, and snapped it off;
but the first knot holds, and the Unes are drawmg together.
Count Rezanof, now Imperial Chamberlam, havmg recently
lost ffis young wife, is sent by ffis master on a spedal mission
to Japan, in the hope that travel wffi benefit the young wid
ower. WhUe he is busy about ffis negotiations, across the sea
we find the girl Concepdon already the most beautifffi of
CaUforffia's daughters, the pride of her father Don Jose and
her gaUant brother Don Lffis; and that is to say, the pride of
the proudest family of Spamsh CaUforffia.
It was about this time that there began those persistent
efforts of the Russians to gain a footing on CaUforffia terri
tory wffich led, a few years later, to the buUding of Fort Ross,
near the mouth of the Russian River. It was as a prelimmary
to these attempts that in April, 1806, the frigate Juno sailed
into San Frandsco Bay, with Count Rezdnof on board. "Who
ever loved that loved not at first sight? " the poet says. How
it may have been with Rezdnof 's earUer attachment one can
not teU; but now Fate brmgs her playtffings together, the
rose and the pme, and love kmdles on the instant. Notffing
strange, either, Tffis is the description of the Senorita Con
cepcion penned by Von Langsdorff, who was surgeon and
naturaUst on Rezinof's vessel: "... Uvely and animated,
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Z^t CaCifomia ^cxbx^^

with sparkling, love-mspirmg eyes, beautiful teeth, pleasing
and expressive features, a fine form, and a thousand other
charms, yet perfectly simple and artless."
Of Rezdnof 's personaUty we have no picture. Cyffics wiU
say that, at least mmgled m the girl's feeUng for the Russian,
there was a fooUsh fasdnation for the poUshed courtier, the
traveled man of the world, the representative of a great and
wonderful empire. That would not be strange, for she was
only ffiteen, an mexperienced half -woman, half -cffild — and
the glamour of great name and great station find plenty of
followers, with less excuse, to-day. But the cyffic, devil's
advocate, has no evidence to bring: rather, aU the facts point
to the girl's attachment bemg a deep and pure one. There is,
mdeed, no reason why we should not beUeve the best of the
beautiful Concepcion's romance. Why should not that be
whoUy beautiful, too?
We can imagme the course of events for the lovers m that
Uttle isolated commimity of the San Francisco of a century
ago. Everytffing that could be done would be done to show
courtesy to the distingffished stranger. There would be
dances on shore, dinners on sffipboard, picffics and boating
parties at which they would meet, wffile the charm of each
daily grew upon the other. Diplomatic duties no doubt suf
fered, for Love and Beauty were Rezanof 's mission at present.
The matter ripened qffickly, and before long he asked the girl
to betroth herseff to ffim. Her heart was given already, but
she was a Spaffiard, and her parents must be consulted. There
came m the first shadow on their idyU. Rezinof was not a
CathoUc, and Don Jos6 and Dona Ygnacia objected. It may
weU be doubted whether a stronger pomt of objection was
not that of the separation from their daughter that marriage
would bring; be that as it may, backed by the Church on re
Ugious scmples, they forbade the match.
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(m'b t^zxx (VUi00ion0
But Concepci6n, cffild as she was, was determmed: she
would not give up her lover. The parents were distracted;
the priests even appealed to Rome; but m the end the girl's
resolution prevailed. The marriage contract was drawn up,
and a formal betrothal took place. Once more Love had
laughed at difficulties, and, it seemed, had conquered. After
aU, the rose should grace the pme.
It was now necessary for the Count to retum to St. Peters
burg, both on diplomatic grounds and also m order to make
arrangements for the marriage. A long joumey that was, m
those days, but the time should be as short as lover's haste
could make it. So Rezinof sailed away for Kamchatka,
whence he was to travel overland tffiough the vast Siberian
wastes, wffile Concepdon ArgueUo, like a buddmg rose, m-
deed, would be preparmg to bloom m fuUest loveliness as a
bride. One wonders whether no shadowy warning ever crossed the
girl's mind. Did the blast faU upon the rose like a deadly
frost at some sunny noontide? Did thoughts of black robes
and the doister never cross her dreams of imperial splendors
and silk anay? Perhaps.
Somethmg over a year had passed smce the Juno's arrival.
Then one day another vessel carrymg the Russian ensign
sailed mto the bay. Among the assembled gazers Concepd6n
watched with beatmg heart. Could he have retumed so soon?
Was aU ananged? When should the weddmg be? To think
of it, the Countess Rezanof! And she already saw herself,
what her lover had often told her she soon should be, the
beauty of wonderful foreign cities, mstead of merely Con-
cepd6n Arguello, daughter of a poor commandant of tffis
outlandish port of San Frandsco. She ran home, went to her
Uttle room, and quickly gettmg out her best gown and her
simple ornaments, made ready to receive her lover. Alas,
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Z^6^ CaCifomia ^abi;^0
poor rose! Is there yet no thought of the coming Ufelong
sorrow? Her mother is at the door, and caUs her. "Yes, yes, I wiU
come. I am ahnost ready, madre mia. Is he — is Count
NUcolai . . .?" Doiia Ygnacia enters. There is that in her
look that cffiUs the girl's happy exdtement. " Come to me,
ni-na mia." Concepci6n comes slowly, her eyes, under the
falUng showers of dusky hair, searcffing her mother's face.
"Kneel by me here, Concffita," says the mother. The long
unused pet name of cffildhood strikes forebodmgly upon the
girl. "What is it, madre mia? Has he not come? Is it not
ffis sffip? I did not stay to see. . . , Why do you look at me
so? He is not iU?"
Dofia Ygnacia took the brush from the girl's hand and
began to smooth the rich, dark hair. "Ay de mi, Chita mia,
ay de mi! Yes, he is iU. No, he is . . . Holy Mother! how can
I teU the cffild? Listen, Chita mia: Count Nikolai wiU not
come back — no, never. He had an accident; ffis horse . . .
Ah, Dios ! poor child ! It is well, indeed, that you pray ! " For
Concepcion had understood. Pale as death, she had risen and
walked to where the Uttle crucifix hung beside her bed. There
she knelt, wffite and tearless, wffile her heart aged from the
eager, happy heart of a girl, aU but a bride, to the dffiled,
unexpecting heart of a woman who suddenly knew that Ufe,
m holding out to her a splendid prize, had meant offiy to trap
her into centermg all upon it, and then — to mock her.
Her mother waited for a time ffi silence, then, half fright
ened at the girl's stiUness, she went to her, and, kneeUng,
again smoothed the glossy hair, murmuring from time to
time, "Ay de mi, mi pobrecita! ay de mi, corazon!" After a
while the girl rose and said quietly, "Tell me, my mother."
And Dona Ygnacia told her what Don Jose had learned from
the officers on the ship, that while crossmg the Siberian desert
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anb t^iix (mi00ion0
Count Rezanof had been thrown from his horse and killed.
His servant had buried the body, and gone on with his
master's papers to St, Petersburg, That was aU. And so the
thread that Fate had twmed with the Ufe of Concepdon
ArgiieUo had been broken off and carelessly tossed away m
some desolate, unnamed soUtude, wffile hers was left to pursue
its way to the end, alone.
The next day, Concepdon, pale and cahn, asked her mother
to get her the dress of a beata, — one who, without havmg
taken reUgious vows, has devoted herseff to works of charity.
Her parents Uttle thought that she would persist long m the
mood, and to humor her made no opposition. And so the
beautiful Concepcion, Rose of CaUforffia (a poor, droopmg
rose, now), passed mto La Beata Bellisima, seen no more at
the baUs and gayeties of the Uttle port, but to be found hence
forth at the bedsides of sick Indians, or helpmg the Fathers
at the Mission m teacffing the cffildren the Christian Doc
trine and Catecffism.
For it was not a passmg mood. There was sometffing ffi the
girl of sixteen that went deeper than her father and mother
had sounded: some root of asceticism, it may be, come down
from old Spaffish ancestors; but why not, rather, the deep,
etemal woman's heart turnmg, by Heaven-given mstmct,
with its wound, to that only deeper fountam of love, the
Heart of God? In any case, from the day the news came to
her of the death of her lover, Concepcion Arguello pursued
steadfastly the Ufe — banen and cheerless, it would appear
to many of us, as those cffiU Siberian wastes — of one
divorced, or, say, widowed, from the world. As years pass,
we trace her at Santa Barbara, where suitors tried m vam to
break her purpose; m Mexico; then for years at the Mission
of Soledad (that "gloomiest, bleakest, most abject-lookmg
spot m aU CaUforffia " — so a traveler about that time de-
397

Z^t CaCifomia ^cibxts
scribed it), as a member of the Tffird Order of Franciscans.
The long-desired refuge of a convent had not yet opened to
her, but when, in 1850, the Bishop Alemany arrived m CaU
forffia, Concepcion ArgueUo hastened to ask entrance mto any
reUgious house for women that might be estabUshed.
Accordingly, when, the next year, a convent of Domiffi-
cans was opened at Monterey, the first to enter was Concep-
d6n Arguello. And here she put away even the name that
came with her from that long-past time of love, of visions, of
romance. Her first name she kept, but it was as Concepci6n
that she had mled her Uttle court of love and beauty. Sister
Maria Domiffica she now became, and with that, the world
saw her no more. But let us rather think of her as Concep
cion, the rose of our sad Uttle romance, to the end. And the
end was now not far away. Somehow, one likes to think of her
as habited m wffite, our sonowful, broken rose, and such was
her dress, in fact, both as novice and as professed nun. We
follow her, then, in mmd, a few years farther, a black-veUed,
wffite-robed figure, moving day by day through the monot
onous round of work, meditation, and prayer. Do dreams of
silken gowns, of brilUant scenes, wit and laughter, still faU
across her dreary, regulated thoughts, to be huniedly put
aside, no longer, perhaps, with a sob, but even now, after long
years, with a sigh? It must be so, for that long constancy
surely teUs that Concepci6n ArgueUo was all a woman.
After three years the convent was removed from Monterey
— now no longer the capital of a Mexican provmce — to
Befficia, on the opposite side of San Francisco Bay from the
rapidly growmg new metropoUs. Of the Ufe of Concepci6n
in these last years nothmg is told; and mdeed there could be
nothmg to teU, for her concern with the world had ended long
before. For three years longer the half-Ufe dragged out withm
the convent waUs, and then it came to its release. In the
398

cm'b t^txx (mi00ion0
cemetery of the convent Concepci6n rests, under a cross of
brown stone, on wffich the visitor reads only the words: —
sister MARfA DOMINICA
O, S. D.
The records of the convent reveal the foUowmg toucffing
entry: —
"In the Monastery of Samt Catharine of Siena at Befficia,
CaUforffia, died Sister Maria Domiffica ArgiieUo, December
23, 1857, She was buried on Christmas Eve, and was dressed
m her wffite habit as a nun; she was carried on a bier mto the
chapel of the convent; first the cross-bearer bearing the cross,
then the young girls of the convent foUowed dressed m black;
then the novices in wffite, with wffite veils, carrymg Ughted
tapers; then foUowed the professed nuns, with black veils and
Ughted tapers, sigffif3dng that she had gone from darkness up
to Ught and Ufe. After the solemn requiem service was ended,
the last benediction of the CathoUc Church was pronounced
over her mortal remams, Requiescat in pace, dismissmg a
tired soul out of all the storms of Ufe into the divine tran-
qffiffity of death. The next morffing was Christmas Day, and
we hope her pure spirit was joiffing m the angeUc choms,
' Glory be to God on ffigh, and on earth peace to men of good
will,' and that she realized the fulffiess of that glorious sen
tence, 'Let me go, for the day breaketh. ... I have seen God
face to face, and my soul has been saved.' (Gen. xxxii, 26,
30.)" FareweU, mdeed, poor rose, and rest in peace!

THE END

HOW TO REACH THE MISSIONS

HOW TO REACH THE MISSIONS
San Diego — Private conveyance from the city of San Diego; or
Kensington Park electric car on Adams Avenue to crossing
of Mission Drive wUl take one within a mile of the Mission.
San Antonio de Pala — Santa Fe RaUway to Oceanside; thence
auto stage, twenty-five miles, to Pala,
San Luis Rey — Santa Fe RaUway to Oceanside; thence stage
five miles,
San Juan Capistrano — Santa Fe RaUway to town of San Juan
Capistrano.
San Gabriel — Southem Pacific RaUway to town of San Gabriel.
From Los Angeles the Pacific Electric cars are the most
direct, passing in front of the Mission.
San Fernando — Southern Pacific RaUway to Station of Fer
nando; thence one mile by electric car. From Los Angeles
the Pacific Electric cars to San Femando are the most
direct, passing in front of the Mission.
San Buenaventura — Southem Pacific Railway to the city of
Ventura.
Santa Barbara — Southem Pacific RaUway to the city of Santa
Barbara.
Santa Ines — Southem Pacific Railway to Gaviota; thence stage
seventeen miles. Or, Southem Pacific Railway to San Luis
Obispo or Guadalupe; thence Pacific Coast RaUway to Los
Olivos, whence it is six miles by private conveyance to the
Mission,
La Purisima — Southem Pacific Railway to Lompoc; thence
four iniles by private conveyance,
San Luis Obispo — Southem Pacific RaUway to city of San
Lffis Obispo,
San Miguel — Southem Pacific RaUway to town of San Miguel.
San Antonio de Padua — Southem Pacific Railway to King
City; auto stage, twenty nules, to hamlet of Jolon; thence
403

^o^ to (Reae§ t^t (mi00ion0
six nules by private conveyance, ff procurable, (The neigh
borhood is sparsely settled.)
Soledad — Southem Pacific Railway to town of Soledad; thence
four mUes by private conveyance.
San Carlos de Monterey (Carmel) — Southern Pacific RaU
way to Monterey; thence stage, five mUes, to Carmel-by-
the-Sea. The Mission is an easy nule walk from the latter
town,
San Juan Bautista — Southem Pacific RaUway to Sargent;
thence six miles by stage.
Santa Clara — In town of Santa Clara on Southem Pacific RaU
way; or electric car from city of San Jose,
San Jose — Southern Pacific RaUway to Irvington; thence four
miles by stage.
San Francisco de Asfs — In city of San Frandsco, Dolores
Street, near Sixteenth.
S.AN Rafael — In town of San Rafael on CaUforma & North
western Railway from San Francisco.
San Francisco Solano — In the town of Sonoma, on CaUforma
& Northwestern RaUway from San Francisco.

PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY

PRONOUNCING GLOSSARY
OF
SPANISH WORDS, PROPER NAMES, AND PHRASES
[The pronunciations given are according to Spanish-Califomian usage, rather than Castilian.
In Spanish America, the lisped c and z of Castile are not heard, initial and medial g is often
elided, and tbe / sound in I mouiUie ill) is usually suppressed. In the given pronunciations, a is
sounded as in ale; e as in edict; i as in ice; 0 as in only; and A as a rendering of Spanish j is guttural,
almost like the German ck. The single f is to be trilled slightly, tbe double r strongly.]
AbeUa, Ramon: rah-mon' ah-bal'ya.
Aoi: ah-coo'.
Agua CaUente: ah'gwa cal-e-an'ta; hot springs, Ut. hot water.
Aguardiente: ah-gwar-de-an'ta; brandy.
Agustin: ah-goos-teen'.
Alabado: ah-lah-bah'do; p. part, of alabar, to praise.
Alabanzas: ah-lah-bahn'sas; praises.
AlbanU: ahl-bahn-yeel'; mason.
Alcalde: al-caffi'da; overseer of a band of neophytes.
Alejandro: ah-la-hahn'dro.
AUsos, los: los al-ee'sos; the sycamores.
Alta: affi'ta; upper. The peninsular part of the country was known
as Baja (bah'ha, lower) Calffomia.
Altimira, Jose: ho-sa' ahl-te-me'ra.
Alvarado: ahl-vah-rah'do.
Ambris, Doroteo: do-ro-ta'o ahm-brees'.
Ambrosio: ahm-bro'se-o.
Amoros, Juan: hwahn ah-mo-ros'.
Anita: ahn-ee'ta.
Antffonal: ahn-te-fon-aW,
Anza, Juan Bautista: hwahn bow-tees' ta ahn'sa (bow as in bcwer).
ArgueUo, Concepcion: con-cep-ce-on' ar-wa'yo.
Arguello, Jose Dario: ho-sa' dah-ree'o ar-Wa'yo.
ArgueUo, Luis Antonio: loo'is an-to'nyo ar-wa'yo.
Arriero: ahr-re-a'ro; muleteer,
ArriUaga, Jose Joaquin de: ho-sa' hwah-keen' da arr-e-yah'ga.
407

^tonouncin^ 6fo00at^

Arroyo: arr-5'yo; a smaU stream,
Arroyo de las Llagas: arr-o'yo da las yah'gahs; brook of the
wounds [of St, Francis],
Arroyo Grande: arr-o'yo grahn'da; big brook.
Arturo: ar-too'ro,
Atole: at-o'la; a kind of gruel.
Ay de mi: I da me; alas!
BaUena: bah-ya'na; whale,
Barbarita: bar-bar-ee'ta; dimin. of Barbara,
Barron, Silvestre: sel- vas' tra bahr-ron'.
Bartolo: bar-to'lo.
Beata: ba-ah'ta.
Belen: ba-lan'; Betffiehem.
Bellisima: ba-yee'se-ma; most beautiful.
Bernardino: ber-nar-dee'no.
Borica: bor-ee'ca,
Boscana, Geronimo: ha-ro'ne-mo bos-cah'na. ""
Buchon: boo-chon'; Ut. a big craw, as of a fowl.
Buenas noches: bwa'nas n5'chas; good mght, good evemng.
Buen ginete en la sala: bwan he-na'ta en la sah'la.
Bueno: bwa'no; good.
Busca cinco pies al gato temendo cuatro: boos'ca seen'co pe-as'al
gah'to ta-ne-an'do kwah'tro.
Caballero: cah-vah-ya'ro; gentleman, sir,
Cabot, Juan: hwahn cah-bot',
Cabot, Pedro: pa'dro cah-bot',
Cajon: cah-hon'; box,
Calabasas: cah-lah-bah'sas; gourds,
Calesa: cah-la'sa; chaise,
Camilo: cah-me'lo,
Caminante, el: el cah-meen-ahn'ta; the traveler,
Camino real: cah-me'no ra-ahl'; king's highway,
Campanario: cahm-pan-ah're-o; beUry, campanile.
Campo santo: cahm'po sahn'to; cemetery, Ut, a holy tract of
ground.
Camulos: cah-moo'los,
Canada: can-yah'da; vaUey. 408

^vonounein^ 6fo00at;^

Canada de los Robles: can-yah'da da los ro'blas; vaUey of the
(deciduous) oaks,
Cantico del Alba: cahn'te-co del ahl'ba; canticle of the dawn.
Cantor: cahn- tor'; singer, chorister.
Cara sucia: cah'ra soo'ce-a; clown, lit, dirty face,
Cardenas, Fernando: fer-nahn'do car'da-nas,
Carmelo: car-ma'lo,
Carpinteria: car-pin-ta-ree'a; carpenter shop; place so called be
cause the Portola expedition found Indians buUding a canoe
there,
CarriUo, Joaquin: hwah-keen' car-ree'yo.
CarriUo, Maria Ignacia Lopez de: mah-ree'a ig-nah' ce-a I6'p5s da
car-ree'yo,
Catala, Magin: mah-heen' cah-ta-lah',
CavaUer, Jose: ho-sa' cah-vahl-yar',
Cayucos: cah-yoo'cos; canoes,
Cerro: cer'ro; hiU,
Chaparral: chap-a-rahl'; underbrush,
Chaves, Antomo: an-to'nyo chah'ves,
CMa: chee'a; a common plant of the sage family,
Cholo: cho'lo; Spanish-Indian half-breed of low caste.
Cielo: ce-a'lo; inter j. heavens!
Comandante : co-mahn-dahn'ta,
Comisario Prefecto: co-me-sah're-o pra-fac'to,
Como esta: co'mo stah; coUoquiaUsm, how are you?
Companero: com-pahn-ya'ro; companion.
Concepcion: con-cep-ce-on'.
Conchita: con-chee'ta; pet name, equivalent of Concepcion.
Convento: con-van' to; the part of a Mission containing the living
rooms.
Corazon: cor-ah-son'; heart; often used as a term of endearment.
Costanso, Miguel: me-gal' cos-tahn-so'.
Crespi, Juan: hwahn cres-pee'.
Cristianitos, los: los cris-te-ahn-ee'tos; dimin, of Cristianos.
Cristianos, los: los cris-te-ahn'os; the Christians.
Cuadro: kwah'dro; courtyard of a Mission; same as patio.
Cuesta: coo-ast'a; hill.
Cuesta, FeUpe del Arroyo de la: fa-lee'pa del arr-o'yo da la coo-
ast'a. 409

^vonouncin^ (5Co00at'g
Cupenos: coo-pa 'nyos; the people of Cupa.
Cura: coo'ra; parish-priest; Fr. cure.
Diablo, el: el de-ah'blo,
Diantre: de-ahn'tra; inter j, the deuce!
Diego y Moreno, Francisco Garcia: frahn-cees'co gar-cee'a de-
a'go e mo-ra'no.
Doc, FeUpe Santiago: fa-lee'pa sahn-te-ah'go doc.
Dolores: do-lor'es,
Domingo: do-meen'go,
Don de amor: don da ah-mor'; love-gUt.
Duarte, Leandro: la-ahn'dro doo-ahr'ta.
Duran, Narciso: nar-cee'so doo-rahn'.
Echeandia: a-cha-ahn-dee'a.
Elena: a-la'na,
Encarnacion: en-cax-nah-ce-on',
Engracia, Doiia: do'nya en-grah'ce-a.
Enramada: en-ra-mah'da; shelter buUt of brush; also caUed
ramada.
Enriquez, Ramon: rah-mon' en-ree'kes.
Escorpion: es-cor-pe-on'.
Esteban: es-ta'bahn,
Estenaga, Tomas: to-mahs' es-ta'na-ga.
Excelente: aks-sa-lan'ta.
Fages, Pedro: pa'dro fah-has'.
Felipe: fa-lee'pa.
Femandino: fer-nand-ee'no. '
Fernandito: fer-nand-ee'to.
Florencio: flo-ran'ce-o.
Flores, Tiburcio: te-boor'ce-o flor'es.
FraUe: fri'la; friar.
Fray: fri; contraction oi fraile, used as an appeUative; abbr. Fr.
Frijoles: fre-ho'les; pink beans.
Fuster, Vicente: ve-cen'ta foo-star'.
Gabriel: gah-bre-el'.
Galanteador: gah-lahn-ta-ah-dor'; courtier, gaUant.
410

^tonouncinij 6Co00atr^

Garbanzos: gar-bahn'sos; chick-peas.
Garcia, Diego: de-a'go gar-cee'a.
Gaviota: gav-e-o'ta; sea-gull; place so named because the soldiers
of Portola shot one there.
Gente de razon: han'ta da rah-son'; Ut, people of intelUgence;
hence, white people, as distinguished from Indians,
Gil, Leon: la-5n' heel.
Gil y Taboada, Luis: loo'is heel e tah-bo-ah'da.
GiU, Bartolome: bar-to-lo-ma' he-lee'.
Gomez, Francisco: frahn-cees'co gS'mes.
Gonzalez: gon-sah'les.
Gregorio: gra-g5're-o.
Guatamote: wah-tah-mo'ta; a species of groundsel.
Guchapa: goo-chah'pa,
Guerra y Noriega, Jose de la: ho-sa' da la gar'ra e nor-e-a'ga,
GuUlermo: weel-yar'mo. (Span, gheel-yar-mo.)
Hacienda: ah-ce-an'da; landed estate.
Hasta luego: ahs'ta loo-a'go; lit. untU soon, meaning good-bye
for a short time.
Hijo mio: ee'ho mee'o; my son.
Hoya de la Sierra de Santa Lucia: o'ya da la se-er'ra da san'ta
loo-cee'a; hoUow of the Santa Lucia Mountains.
Ibanez, Florencio: flo-ran'ce-o e-bahn'yes.
Ibarra, Francisco Gonzales de: frahn-cees'co gon-sah'les da e-
bahr'ra.
Ingeniero: en-ha-ne-a'ro; engineer.
Jaime, Antonio: an-to'nyo hi'ma.
Jaume: how'ma.
Jayme, Luis: loo'is hi'ma.
Jesus: ha-soos'.
Jesus de los Temblores: ha-soos' da l5s tem-blor'es.
Jolon: ho-lon'.
Jorge: hor'ha.
Josafat: ho-sa-fat'.
Jose: ho-sa'.
Josef: ho-saf. 411

^tonounein^ 6Co00ar^

Juan: hwahn.
Juana: hwahn'a.
Juego de gaUo: hwa'go da gah'yo; lit. game of the cock.
Julio: hoo'le-o.
Ladrillo: lah-dree'yo; square, flat brick,
Laguna de los Dolores: lah-goo'na da los do-lor'es; lake of the sor
rows.
Lasuen, Francisco Fermin: frahn-cees'co far-meen' lah-soo-an',
Lavandera: lah-vahn-da'ra; washerwoman,
Le3rva, Andres Munoz: ahn-dras' moon'yos la-ee'va.
Loma: lo'ma; hUlock.
Lomas de la Purificadon: lo'mas da la poor-e-fe-cah-ce-on'.
Lompoc: lom-poc'.
Lopez, Julian: hoo-le-ahn' lo'pes.
Madre mia: mah'dra mee'a; my mother.
Magdalena: mag-dah-la'na,
Magin: mah-heen'.
Margarita: mar-gah-ree'ta.
Maria de la Concepcion Marcela: mah-ree'a da la con-cep-ce-on'
mar-sa'la.
Maria Domimca: mah-ree'a do-me'ne-ca.
Maria Magdalena: mah-ree'a mag-dah-la'na.
Marinero: mah-re-na'ro; saUor.
Marta: mar'ta.
Martin, Juan: hwahn mar- teen',
Martinez, Luis Antonio: loo'is an-to'nyo mar-teen'es.
Mayordomo: mah-yor-do'mo; overseer, house-steward,
Merienda: ma-re-an'da; luncheon, picnic,
Miguel: me-gal'.
Mijo: mee'ho; a running together of mi hijo, my son,
Milpitas: mil-pee' tas; Ut. small cultivated fields.
Mi mama: me ma-mah',
Mimstros fundadores: me-nees' tros foon-da-dor'es; ministers at
the founding of a Mission,
Mira, que vista tan hermosa: me'ra ka vees'ta tahn ar-mo'sa.
Misa Catalana : me'sa cat-a-lah'na,
Misa del gaUo: me'sa del gah'yo; mass at cock-crow.
412

(pronouncing 6Co00at'g

Mision Vieja: me-se-on' ve-a'ha; Old Mission.
Monjerio: mon-ha're-o.
Monte: mon'ta; mountain; also thicket.
Monterey: mon-ta-ra'.
Mudo: moo'do; dumb.
Murguia, Josef: ho-saf moor-ghe'a.
Muy querida: moo'e ka-ree'-da; much beloved.
Nacimiento, Rio del: re'o del nah-ce-me-an'to; river of the birth.
Natividad de Nuestra Seiiora: nah-te-ve-dahd' da noo-as' tra san-
yo'ra; Nativity of Our Lady,
Navidad, la : la nah-ve-dahd' ; the Nativity; also written Natividad.
Neofito: na-o'fe-to; neophyte.
Nifia mia: neen'ya mee'a; my child (fern.).
Niiio Salvador, el: el neen'yo sal-vah-dor'; the Child Saviour,
Nipaguay: ne-pah'gwi,
Noche Buena, la: la no'cha bwa'na; the Good Night, i.e., Christ
mas Eve,
Nuestra Seiiora del Refugio: noo-as'tra san-yo 'ra del ra-foo'he-o;
Our Lady of the Refuge,
Nuestra Seiiora Dolorosisima de la Soledad: noo-as'tra san-yo'ra
do-lor-o-see'se-ma da la so-la-dahd'; Our Most Sorrowful Lady
of the SoUtude.
Ojitos: o-hee't5s; dimin, of ojos (o'hos), eyes.
OKva, Vicente Pascual de: ve-cen'ta pahs-coo-ahl' da o-lee'va.
Oraya: o-ra'ya; an Americanized spelling of Orella, the original
form.
Osos, los: los o'sos; the bears.
Pablo: pah'blo.
Padre: pah'dra.
Padre Celestial: pah'dra ce-les-te-ahl',
Paisano: pi-sah'no; native of the country; /ew., paisana.
Pala: pah'la,
Palomar: pah-lo-mahr',
Palou, Francisco: frahn-cees'co pah-loo',
Parron, Fernando: fe-nahn'do pahrr-on'.
Pasquala: pahs-kwah'la. 413

pronouncing 6Co00at^

Pastorela: pahs-to-ra'la; drama with shepherds as characters,
specifically, representing the Nativity.
Patio: pah'te-o; courtyard.
Pauma: pah-oo'ma.
Payeras, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no pah-ya'ras.
Pedro: pa'dro.
Peso: pa'so; doUar,
Peyri, Antomo: an-t5'nyo pa're,
Pieras, Miguel: me-gal' pe-a'ras,
Piloto: pe-lo'to.
Pio: pe'o.
Pobrecita: po-bra-cee'ta; poor Uttle one (fem.).
Portola, Caspar de: gas-par' da por-to-lah'.
Pozas: po'sas; weUs,
Pozole : po-so'la ; gruel containing meat, beans, or something simUar.
Pozolera: po-so-la'ra; place where pozole was cooked.
Pueblo: poo-a'blo; viUage, smaU town; also signifies population.
Puente: poo-an'ta; bridge.
Purisima Concepcion de la Santisima Virgen Maria, madre de
Dios y Nuestra Seiiora: poo-ree'se-ma con-cep-ce-on'da la sahn-
tee'se-ma veer'han mah-ree'a mah'dra da de-os' e noo-as'tra
san-yo'ra; most pure conception of the Most Holy Virgm Mary,
Mother of God, and Our Lady.
Q. B. S. M., (que besa su mano) : ka ba'sa soo mah'no; who kisses
your hand. A polite conventional form in closing a letter.
Que hay: ka i; a colloquialism equivalent to our "What's doing?"
Quien sabe: ke-an' sah'ba; who knows?
Quijas, Jose Lorenzo de la Concepci6n: ho-sa' lo-ran'so da la con-
cep-ce-on' kee'has.
Quintana: keen-tah'na.
Quitasol: kee-tah-sol'; sunshade.
Ramada: rah-mah'da; shelter of r arnas (rah'mas), branches;
properly enra-mada.
Rancheria: ran-cha-ree'a; Indian viUage.
Real: ra-ahl'; camp; also a coin, one eighth of a peso or dollar.
Real, Jose Maria: ho-sa' mah-ree'a ra-ahl'.
Reata: ra-ah'ta; lasso. 414

pronouncing (5Co00ar^

Reja: ra'hah; ¦window-grating.
Reynaldo: ra-nahl'do.
Riendas: re-an'das; reins.
Rfo Hondo: re'o on'do; Ut. deep river, not necessarUy referring to
depth of the water but possibly to the stream's running below
the level of the surrounding country,
Rios, Petronelo: pa-tro-na'lo re'os.
Ripoll, Antonio: an-tS'nyo re-pol' ye (the e practically mute).
Rivera y Moncada, Femando: fer-nahn'do re-va'ra e mon-cah'da.
Rodriguez, Antomo Catarino: an-to'nyo cah-ta-re'no rod-ree'-
ghes,
Rojas, Leandro : la-ahn'dro ro'has,
Rubl, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no roo-bee',
Rubio, Jose Maria de Jesus Gonzalez: ho-sa' mah-ree'a da ha-
soos' gon-sah'les.
Ruega por mi: roo-a'ga por me; pray for me.
San Antonio de Padua de los Robles: san an-to'nyo da pah'doo-a
da los ro'blas; St. Anthony of Padua of the Oaks. St. Anthony
of Padua was a Franciscan monk and preacher of the X3th
century,
San Apolinario: san a-pol-e-nah're-o.
San Bias: san blahs,
San Buenaventura: san bwa'na-ven-too'ra; a learned ItaUan
Franciscan of the 13th century.
San Carlos de Monterey: san car'los da mont-a-ra'; St. Charles of
Monterey, St, Charles was an Italian archbishop and reformer.
Carlo Borromeo, of the i6th century.
San Diego de Alcala: san dc'-a'go da ahl-ca-lah'; St. James of
Alcala ; a Spanish Franciscan of the 15th century, not the patron
Saint James of Spain.
San Fernando, Rey de Espana: san fer-nahn'do ra des-pahn'ya;
St, Ferdinand, King of Spain; Ferdinand III, first king of the
united Leon and Castile,
San Francisco de Asis: san frahn-cees'co da ah-sees'; St. Francis
of Assisi; founder of the Order of Friars Mmor.
San Francisco Solano: san frahn-cees'co so-lah'no; a Franciscan
missionary among the South American Indians, particularly
the Peruvians, among whom he died, in 1610.
415

pronouncing (5Co00ar^

San Gabriel Arcangel: san gah-bre-el' arc-ahng'hel; St, Gabriel
Archangel, (American pronunciation, san ga'bri-el.)
San Joaquin: san hwah-keen'.
San Jose, el Gloriosisimo Patriarca Senor: el glo-re-o-see'se-mo
pah-tre-arc'a san-yor' san ho-sa'; the most glorious patriarch
lord St. Joseph; the husband of the Virgin Mary,
San Jose, Valle de: vah'ya da san ho-sa'; vaUey of San Jose.
San Juan Bautista: san hwahn bow-tees'ta (bcw as in bower);
St. John Baptist.
San Juan Capistrano: san hwahn cap-is-trah'no; St. John of
Capistran; an Italian Franciscan of the 15th century, famous as
the leader of an army of crusaders agauist the Turkish besiegers
of Belgrade,
San Juaneiios: san hwahn-a'nyos; Indians of San Juan.
San Ladislao: san lah-dis-low' {low as in allo-w).
San Lucas: san loo'cas; St, Luke,
San Luis Obispo de Tolosa; san loo'is o-bes'po da to-lo'sa; St.
Louis, Bishop of Toulouse ; a young French Franciscan of the
13th century, who became a bishop at twenty-three. He was a
grand-nephew of St, Louis, the King,
San Luis Rey de Francia: san loo'is ra da frahn'ce-a; St, Louis
King of France; Louis IX, a crusading French monarch of
the 13th century,
San Mateo: san mah-ta'o; St, Matthew.
San Miguel Arcangel: san me-gal' arc-ahng'hel; St. Michael
Archangel.
San Rafael Arcangel: san rah-fah-el' arc-ahng'hel; St, Raphael
Archangel, (American pronunciation, san raf-el',)
San Tomas: san to-mahs'; St, Thomas.
Sanchez, Jose Bernardo: ho-sa' bar-nard'o sahn'ches.
Sancho, Juan Bautista: hwahn bow-tees'ta sahn'cho (bow as in
boiver).
Sangre pura: sahng'gra poor; pure blood.
Santa Barbara, Virgen y Martir: sant'a bar'bar-a veer'hen e
mart'eer; St, Barbara, Virgin and Martyr; a virgin martyr of
the 3d century,
Santa Clara de Asis: sant'a clahr'a da ah-sees'; St, Clare of Assisi;
the "spiritual sister" of St, Francis, and founder of the Order
of Franciscan nuns caUed Poor Clares.
416

pronouncing (5(o00ar^

Santa Cruz: sant'a croos; holy cross. (American pronunciation,
santa crooz.)
Santa Ines, Virgen y Martir: sant'a e-nes' veer'hen e mart'eer;
a chUd martyr of the 3d century. She is the St. Agnes, the
eve of whose day Qanuary 21) gives title to Keats's poem. On
her anniversary eve a maid may have sight of her lover in a
vision.
Santa Lucia: sant'a loo-cee'a.
Santa Maria, Vicente de: ve-cen'ta da sant'a mah-ree'a,
Santa Pragedis de los Rosales: sant'a prah-ha'des da los ro-sahl'es;
St. Praxedis of the rose-bushes.
Santa Ysabel: sant'a ees-a-bel'.
Santiago : san-te-ah'go.
Sarria, Vicente Francisco de: ve-cen'ta frahn-cees'co da sar-ree'a.
Satanas: sah-tah-nahs' ; Satan.
Senan, Jose Francisco de Paula: ho-sa' frahn-cees'co da pow'la
san-yahn'.
Sepulveda: sa-pool'va-da.
Serape: sa-rah'pa; Mexican blanket wom as cloak.
Serra, Junipero: hoo-nee'pa-ro serr'a.
Simi: se-mee'.
Sitjar, Buenaventura: bwa'na-ven-too'ra seet-har'.
Soberanes, Mariano: mah-re-ah'no so-bar-ah'nes.
Sobrenombre: so'bra-nom'bra; nickname.
Sola: so-lah'.
Soldados de cuera: sol-dah'dos da kwa'ra; soldiers in leather
jackets, arrow-proof.
Soledad: so-la-dahd'; soUtude.
Soils, Juan: hwahn so-lees'.
Suiier, Francisco: frahn-cees'co soon-yar'.
Tapis, Esteban: es-ta'bahn tah'pees.
Temblor: tem-blor'; earthquake.
Teofilo: ta-o'fe-lo.
Tienda: te-an'da; shop, store,
Tobaco: to-bah'co; Ut, tobacco, but signifymg also cigar or cig
arette; also speUed tobaco.
Tomas; to-mahs',
Tularenos: too-lar-a'nyos; Indians of the Tulare region.
417

pronouncing <5Co00ar'g

Tulares: too-lah'res; pi. of tular (too-la)hr'), a place where tules
(bulrushes) grow.
Tumba: toom'ba; catafalque.
Tunas: too'nas; prickly pears.
Urbano: oor-bah'no.
Uria, Francisco: frahn-cees'co oo-ree'a.
Urselino: oor-sa-le'no.
Valenzuela, Consuelo: con-soo-a'lo vah-lan-swa'la.
VaUejo, Mariano Guadalupe: mah-re-ah'no wah-da-loo'pa vah-
ya'ho. (American pronunciation, val a'-ho.)
Verdaderamente, Don Dinero es gran criminoso: var-dahd-ar-ah-
man'ta don de-na'ro es grahn cre-me-no'so,
Viader, Jose: ho-sa' ve-ah-dar'.
Vicente: ve-cen'ta.
Ybaiiez: e-bahn'yes,
Ybarra: e-bahr'ra.
Ybarronda: e-bahr-ron'da,
Yerba Buena: yar'ba bwa'na; the Mexican viUage out of which
the city of San Francisco grew. The words mean both the garden
mint and a wUd mint-Uke herb formerly common on the San
Francisco hills,
Ygnacia, Doiia: do'nya ig-nah'ce-a.
Yorba: yor'ba.
Ysabel: ees-a-bel'.
Zacatecano: sah-cah-ta-cah'no; of Zacatecas, Mexico.
Zalvidea, Jose Maria: ho-sa' mah-ree'a sahl-ve-da'a.
Zanja de Cota: sahng'ha da co'ta; Cota's irrigation ditch.
Zape: sah'pa; interjection of horror.

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