The Author of Ramona at Pala.
When Helen Hunt Jackson, the gifted author of the romance
_Ramona_--over which hundreds of thousands of Americans have shed
bitter tears in deep sympathy with the wrongs perpetrated upon the
Indians--was visiting the Mission Indians of California, in 1883, she
wrote the following sketch of Pala. This is copied from her
_California and the Missions_, by kind permission of the publishers,
Little, Brown & Co., of Boston:
One of the most beautiful appanages of the San Luis Rey
Mission, in the time of its prosperity, was the Pala Valley.
It lies about twenty-five miles east (twenty miles, Ed.) of
San Luis, among broken spurs of the Coast Range, watered by
the San Luis River, and also by its own little stream, the
Pala Creek. It was always a favorite home of the Indians; and
at the time of the secularization, over a thousand of them
used to gather at the weekly mass in its chapel. Now, on the
occasional visits of the San Juan Capistrano priest, to hold
service there, the dilapidated little church is not half
filled, and the numbers are growing smaller each year. The
buildings are all in decay; the stone steps leading to the
belfry have crumbled; the walls of the little graveyard are
broken in many places, the paling and the graves are thrown
down. On the day we were there, a memorial service for the
dead was going on in the chapel; a great square altar was
draped with black, decorated with silver lace and ghostly
funereal emblems; candles were burning; a row of kneeling
black-shawled women were holding lighted candles in their
hands; two old Indians were chanting a Latin hymn from a
tattered missal bound in rawhide; the whole place was full of
chilly gloom, in sharp contrast to the bright valley
outside, with its sunlight and silence. This mass was for the
soul of an old Indian woman named Margarita, sister of
Manuelito, a somewhat famous chief of several bands of the
San Luiseños. Her home was at the Potrero,--a mountain
meadow, or pasture, as the word signifies,--about ten miles
from Pala, high up the mountainside, and reached by an almost
impassable road. This farm--or "saeter" it would be called in
Norway--was given to Margarita by the friars; and by some
exceptional good fortune she had a title which, it is said,
can be maintained by her heirs. In 1871, in a revolt of some
of Manuelito's bands, Margarita was hung up by her wrists
till she was near dying, but was cut down at the last minute
and saved.
One of her daughters speaks a little English; and finding
that we had visited Pala solely on account of our interest in
the Indians, she asked us to come up to the Potrero and pass
the night. She said timidly that they had plenty of beds, and
would do all that they knew how to do to make us comfortable.
One might be in many a dear-priced hotel less comfortably
lodged and served than we were by these hospitable Indians in
their mud house, floored with earth. In my bedroom were three
beds, all neatly made, with lace-trimmed sheets and
pillow-cases and patchwork coverlids. One small square window
with a wooden shutter was the only aperture for air, and
there was no furniture except one chair and a half-dozen
trunks. The Indians, like the Norwegian peasants, keep their
clothes and various properties all neatly packed away in
boxes or trunks. As I fell asleep, I wondered if in the
morning I should see Indian heads on the pillows opposite me;
the whole place was swarming with men, women, and babies, and
it seemed impossible for them to spare so many beds; but, no,
when I waked, there were the beds still undisturbed; a
soft-eyed Indian girl was on her knees rummaging in one of
the trunks; seeing me awake, she murmured a few words in
Indian, which conveyed her apology as well as if I had
understood them. From the very bottom of the trunk she drew
out a gilt-edged china mug, darted out of the room, and came
back bringing it filled with fresh water. As she set it in
the chair, in which she had already put a tin pan of water
and a clean coarse towel, she smiled, and made a sign that it
was for my teeth. There was a thoughtfulness and delicacy in
the attention which lifted it far beyond the level of its
literal value. The gilt-edged mug was her most precious
possession; and, in remembering water for the teeth, she had
provided me with the last superfluity in the way of white
man's comfort of which she could think.
The food which they gave us was a surprise; it was far better
than we had found the night before in the house of an
Austrian colonel's son, at Pala. Chicken, deliciously cooked,
with rice and chile; soda-biscuits delicately made; good milk
and butter, all laid in orderly fashion, with a clean
tablecloth, and clean, white stone china. When I said to our
hostess that I regretted very much that they had given up
their beds in my room, that they ought not to have done it,
she answered me with a wave of her hand that "It was nothing;
they hoped I had slept well; that they had plenty of other
beds." The hospitable lie did not deceive me, for by
examination I had convinced myself that the greater part of
the family must have slept on the bare earth in the kitchen.
They would not have taken pay for our lodging, except that
they had had heavy expenses connected with Margarita's
funeral.... We left at six o'clock in the morning;
Margarita's husband, the "captain," riding off with us to see
us safe on our way. When we had passed the worst gullies and
boulders, he whirled his horse, lifted his ragged old
sombrero with the grace of a cavalier, smiled, wished us
good-day and good luck, and was out of sight in a second, his
little wild pony galloping up the rough trail as if it were
as smooth as a race-course.
Between the Potrero and Pala are two Indian villages, the
Rincon and Pauma. The Rincon is at the head of the valley,
snugged up against the mountains, as its name signifies, in a
"corner." Here were fences, irrigating ditches, fields of
barley, wheat, hay and peas; a little herd of horses and cows
grazing, and several flocks of sheep. The men were all away
sheep-shearing; the women were at work in the fields, some
hoeing, some clearing out the irrigating ditches, and all the
old women plaiting baskets. These Rincon Indians, we were
told, had refused a school offered them by the Government;
they said they would accept nothing at the hands of the
Government until it gave them a title to their lands.
[Illustration: An Old San Luis Rey Mission Indian.]
[Illustration: The Pala Campanile from the Graveyard.]
[Illustration: Just Entering Pala Valley on the Road from Oceanside.]
[Illustration: An Ancient Pala Indian.]