at San Diego. No retaliation was shown toward the Indians for this; on
the contrary, the orders of both friars and military commanders were
that they should be treated with even greater kindness than before;
and in less than two years the mission buildings were rebuilt, under a
guard of only a half-score of soldiers with hundreds of Indians
looking on, and many helping cheerfully in the work. The San Carlos
Mission at Monterey was Father Junipero's own charge. There he spent
all his time, when not called away by his duties as president of the
missions. There he died, and there he was buried. There, also, his
beloved friend and brother, Father Crespí, labored by his side for
thirteen years. Crespí was a sanguine, joyous man, sometimes called El
Beato, from his happy temperament. No doubt his gayety made Serra's
sunshine in many a dark day; and grief at his death did much to break
down the splendid old man's courage and strength. Only a few months
before it occurred, they had gone together for a short visit to their
comrade, Father Palon, at the San Francisco Mission. When they took
leave of him, Crespí said, "Farewell forever; you will see me no more."
This was late in the autumn of 1781, and on New Year's Day, 1782, he
died, aged sixty years, and having spent half of those years in
laboring for the Indians. Serra lived only two years longer, and is
said never to have been afterwards the same as before. For many years
he had been a great sufferer from an affection of the heart,--aggravated,
if not induced, by his fierce beatings of his breast with a stone
while he was preaching. But physical pain seemed to make no impression
on his mind. If it did not incapacitate him for action, he held it of
no account. Only the year before his death, being then seventy years
old, and very lame, he had journeyed on foot from San Diego to
Monterey, visiting every mission and turning aside into all the Indian
settlements on the way. At this time there were on the Santa Barbara
coast alone, within a space of eighty miles, twenty-one villages of
Indians, roughly estimated as containing between twenty and thirty
thousand souls. He is said to have gone weeping from village to
village because he could do nothing for them.
He reached San Carlos in January, 1784, and never again went away. The
story of his last hours and death is in the old church records of
Monterey, written there by the hand of the sorrowing Palon, the second
day after he had closed his friend's eyes. It is a quaint and touching
narrative.
Up to the day before his death, his indomitable will upholding the
failing strength of his dying body, Father Junipero had read in the
church the canonical offices of each day, a service requiring an hour
and a half of time. The evening before his death he walked alone to
the church to receive the last sacrament. The church was crowded to
overflowing with Indians and whites, many crying aloud in
uncontrollable grief.
Father Junipero knelt before the altar with great fervor of manner,
while Father Palon, with tears rolling down his cheeks, read the
services for the dying, gave him absolution, and administered the Holy
Viaticum. Then rose from choked and tremulous voices the strains of
the grand hymn "Tantum Ergo,"--
"Tantum ergo Sacramentum
Veneremur cernui,
Et antiquum documentum
Novo cedat ritui;
Præstet fides supplementum
Sensuum defectui.
"Genitori genitoque
Laus et jubilatio,
Salus, honor, virtus quoque
Sit et benedictio;
Procedenti ab utroque
Compar sit laudatio."
A startled thrill ran through the church as Father Junipero's own
voice, "high and strong as ever," says the record, joined in the
hymn. One by one the voices of his people broke down, stifled by sobs,
until at last the dying man's voice, almost alone, finished the hymn.
After this he gave thanks, and returning to his cell-like room spent
the whole of the night in listening to penitential psalms and
litanies, and giving thanks to God; all the time kneeling or sitting
on the ground supported by the loving and faithful Palon. In the
morning, early, he asked for the plenary indulgence, for which he
again knelt, and confessed again. At noon the chaplain and the captain
of the bark "St. Joseph," then lying in port at Monterey, came to
visit him. He welcomed them, and cordially embracing the chaplain,
said, "You have come just in time to cast the earth upon my body."
After they took their leave, he asked Palon to read to him again the
Recommendations of the Soul. At its conclusion he responded earnestly,
in as clear voice as in health, adding, "Thank God, I am now without
fear." Then with a firm step he walked to the kitchen, saying that he
would like a cup of broth. As soon as he had taken the broth, he
exclaimed, "I feel better now; I will rest;" and lying down he closed
his eyes, and without another word or sign of struggle or pain ceased
to breathe, entering indeed into a rest of which his last word had
been solemnly prophetic.
Ever since morning the grief-stricken people had been waiting and
listening for the tolling death-bell to announce that all was over. At
its first note they came in crowds, breathless, weeping, and
lamenting. It was with great difficulty that the soldiers could keep
them from tearing Father Junipero's habit piecemeal from his body, so
ardent was their desire to possess some relic of him. The corpse was
laid at once in a coffin which he himself had ordered made many weeks
before. The vessels in port fired a salute of one hundred and one
guns, answered by the same from the guns of the presidio at
Monterey,--an honor given to no one below the rank of general. But the
hundred gun salutes were a paltry honor in comparison with the tears
of the Indian congregation. Soldiers kept watch around his coffin
night and day till the burial; but they could not hold back the
throngs of the poor creatures who pressed to touch the hand of the
father they had so much loved, and to bear away something, if only a
thread, of the garments he had worn.
His ardent and impassioned nature and his untiring labors had won
their deepest affection and confidence. It was his habit when at San
Carlos to spend all his time with them, working by their side in the
fields, making adobe, digging, tilling, doing, in short, all that he
required of them. Day after day he thus labored, only desisting at the
hours for performing offices in the church. Whenever an Indian came to
address him, he made the sign of the cross on his forehead, and spoke
to him some words of spiritual injunction or benediction. The
arbitrariness--or, as some of his enemies called it, haughty
self-will--which brought Serra at times into conflict with the
military authorities when their purposes or views clashed with his
own, never came to the surface in his spiritual functions, or in his
relation with the Indian converts. He loved them, and yearned over
them as brands to be snatched from the burning. He had baptized over
one thousand of them with his own hands; his whole life he spent for
them, and was ready at any moment to lay it down if that would have
benefited them more. Absolute single-heartedness like this is never
misunderstood by, and never antagonizes equally single-hearted people,
either high or low. But to be absolutely single-hearted in a moral
purpose is almost inevitably to be doggedly one-ideaed in regard to
practical methods; and the single-hearted, one-ideaed man, with a
great moral purpose, is sure to be often at swords' points with
average men of selfish interests and mixed notions. This is the
explanation of the fact that the later years of Serra's life were
marred by occasional collisions with the military authorities in the
country. No doubt the impetuosity of his nature made him sometimes hot
in resentment and indiscreet of speech. But in spite of these
failings, he yet remains the foremost, grandest figure in the
missions' history. If his successors in their administration had been
equal to him in spirituality, enthusiasm, and intellect, the mission
establishments would never have been so utterly overthrown and ruined.
Father Junipero sleeps on the spot where he labored and died. His
grave is under the ruins of the beautiful stone church of his
mission,--the church which he saw only in ardent and longing fancy.
It was perhaps the most beautiful, though not the grandest of the
mission churches; and its ruins have to-day a charm far exceeding all
the others. The fine yellow tint of the stone, the grand and unique
contour of the arches, the beautiful star-shaped window in the front,
the simple yet effective lines of carving on pilaster and pillar and
doorway, the symmetrical Moorish tower and dome, the worn steps
leading up to the belfry,--all make a picture whose beauty, apart from
hallowing associations, is enough to hold one spell-bound. Reverent
Nature has rebuilt with grass and blossoms even the crumbling
window-sills, across which the wind blows free from the blue ocean
just beyond; and on the day we saw the place, golden wheat, fresh
reaped, was piled in loose mounds on the south slope below the
church's southern wall. It reminded me of the tales I had heard from
many aged men and women of a beautiful custom the Indians had of
scattering their choicest grains on the ground at the friars' feet, as
a token of homage.
The roof of the church long ago fell in; its doors have stood open for
years; and the fierce sea-gales have been sweeping in, piling sands
until a great part of the floor is covered with solid earth on which
every summer grasses and weeds grow high enough to be cut by sickles.
Of the thousands of acres which the Mission Indians once cultivated in
the San Carlos valley, only nine were finally decreed by the United
States Government to belong to the church. These were so carelessly
surveyed that no avenue of approach was left open to the mission
buildings, and a part of the land had to be sold to buy a right of way
to the church. The remnant left makes a little farm, by the rental of
which a man can be hired to take charge of the whole place, and keep
it, if possible, from further desecration and ruin. The present keeper
is a devout Portuguese, whose broken English becomes eloquent as he
speaks of the old friars whose graves he guards.
"Dem work for civilize," he said, "not work for money. Dey work to
religion."
In clearing away the earth at the altar end of the church, in the
winter of 1882, this man came upon stone slabs evidently covering
graves. On opening one of these graves, it was found to hold three
coffins. From the minute description, in the old records, of Father
Junipero's place of burial, Father Carenova, the priest now in charge
of the Monterey parish, became convinced that one of these coffins
must be his. On the opposite side of the church is another grave,
where are buried two of the earliest governors of California.
It is a disgrace to both the Catholic Church and the State of
California that this grand old ruin, with its sacred sepulchres,
should be left to crumble away. If nothing is done to protect and save
it, one short hundred years more will see it a shapeless, wind-swept
mound of sand. It is not in our power to confer honor or bring
dishonor on the illustrious dead. We ourselves, alone, are dishonored
when we fail in reverence to them. The grave of Junipero Serra may be
buried centuries deep, and its very place forgotten; yet his name will
not perish, nor his fame suffer. But for the men of the country whose
civilization he founded, and of the Church whose faith he so
glorified, to permit his burial-place to sink into oblivion, is a
shame indeed!
II.
If the little grief-stricken band of monks who stood weeping around
Junipero Serra's grave in 1784 could have foreseen the events of the
next thirty years, their weeping would have been turned into exultant
joy; but not the most daring enthusiast among them could have dreamed
of the harvest of power destined to be raised from the seed thus sown
in weakness.
Almost with his dying breath Father Junipero had promised to use "all
his influence with God" in behalf of the missions. In the course of
the next four months after his death more converts were baptized than
in the whole three years previous; and it became at once the common
belief that his soul had passed directly into heaven, and that this
great wave of conversions was the result of his prayers. Prosperity
continued steadily to increase. Mission after mission was successfully
founded, until, in 1804, the occupation of the sea-coast line from San
Francisco to San Diego was complete, there being nineteen mission
establishments only an easy day's journey apart from each other.
The ten new missions were founded in the following order: Santa
Barbara, Dec. 4, 1786; La Purissima, Dec. 8, 1787; Santa Cruz, Sept.
25, 1791; Soledad, Oct. 9, 1791; San José, June 11, 1797; San Juan
Bautista, June 24, 1797; San Miguel, July 25, 1797; San Fernando Rey,
Sept. 8, 1797; San Luis Rey de Francia, June 18, 1798; Santa Inez,
Sept. 7, 1804.
Beginnings had also been made on a projected second line, to be from
thirty to fifty miles back from the sea; and this inland chain of
settlements and development promised to be in no way inferior to the
first. The wealth of the mission establishments had grown to an almost
incredible degree. In several of them massive stone churches had been
built, of an architecture at once so simple and harmonious that, even
in ruins, it is to-day the grandest in America; and it will remain, so
long as arch, pillar, or dome of it shall stand, a noble and touching
monument of the patient Indian workers who built, and of the devoted
friars who designed, its majestic and graceful proportions.
In all of the missions were buildings on a large scale, providing for
hundreds of occupants, for all the necessary trades and manufactures,
and many of the ornamental arts of civilized life. Enormous tracts of
land were under high cultivation; the grains and cool fruits of the
temperate zone flourishing, in the marvellous California air, side by
side with the palm, olive, grape, fig, orange, and pomegranate. From
the two hundred head of cattle sent by the wise Galvez, had grown
herds past numbering; and to these had been added vast flocks of sheep
and herds of horses. In these nineteen missions were gathered over
twenty thousand Indians, leading regular and industrious lives, and
conforming to the usages of the Catholic religion.
A description of the San Luis Rey Mission, written by De Mofras, an
_attaché_ of the French Legation in Mexico in 1842, gives a clear
idea of the form, and some of the methods, of the mission
establishments:--
"The building is a quadrilateral, four hundred and fifty feet
square; the church occupies one of its wings; the façade is
ornamented with a gallery. The building is two stories in
height. The interior is formed by a court ornamented with
fountains, and decorated with trees. Upon the gallery which
runs around it open the dormitories of the monks, of the
majors-domo, and of travellers, small workshops, schoolrooms,
and storerooms. The hospitals are situated in the most quiet
parts of the mission, where also the schools are kept. The
young Indian girls dwell in halls called monasteries, and are
called nuns. Placed under the care of Indian matrons, who are
worthy of confidence, they learn to make cloth of wool, cotton,
and flax, and do not leave the monastery until they are old
enough to be married. The Indian children mingle in schools
with those of the white colonists. A certain number chosen
among the pupils who display the most intelligence learn music,
chanting, the violin, flute, horn, violoncello, or other
instruments. Those who distinguish themselves in the
carpenters' shops, at the forge, or in agricultural labors are
appointed alcaldes, or overseers, and charged with the
directions of the laborers."
Surrounding these buildings, or arranged in regular streets upon one
side of them, were the homes of the Indian families. These were built
of adobe, or of reeds, after the native fashion. The daily routine of
the Indians' life was simple and uniform. They were divided into
squads of laborers. At sunrise the Angelus bell called them to mass.
After the mass they breakfasted, and then dispersed to their various
labors. At eleven they were again summoned together for dinner, after
which they rested until two, when they went again to work, and worked
until the evening Angelus, just before sunset. After prayers and
supper they were in the habit of dancing and playing games until
bedtime. Their food was good. They had meat at noon, accompanied by
_posale_, a sort of succotash made of corn, beans, and wheat, boiled
together. Their breakfast and supper were usually of porridge made
from different grains, called _atole_ and _pinole_.
The men wore linen shirts, pantaloons, and blankets. The overseers and
best workmen had suits of cloth like the Spaniards. The women
received every year two chemises, one gown, and a blanket. De Mofras
says:--
"When the hides, tallow, grain, wine, and oil were sold at good
prices to ships from abroad, the monks distributed
handkerchiefs, wearing apparel, tobacco, and trinkets among the
Indians, and devoted the surplus to the embellishment of the
churches, the purchase of musical instruments, pictures, church
ornaments, etc.; still they were careful to keep a part of the
harvest in the granaries to provide for years of scarcity."
The rule of the friars was in the main a kindly one. The vice of
drunkenness was severely punished by flogging. Quarrelling between
husbands and wives was also dealt with summarily, the offending
parties being chained together by the leg till they were glad to
promise to keep peace. New converts and recruits were secured in many
ways: sometimes by sending out parties of those already attached to
the new mode of life, and letting them set forth to the savages the
advantages and comforts of the Christian way; sometimes by luring
strangers in with gifts; sometimes, it is said, by capturing them by
main force; but of this there is only scanty evidence, and it is not
probable that it was often practised. It has also been said that cruel
and severe methods were used to compel the Indians to work; that they
were driven under the lash by their overseers, and goaded with lances
by the soldiers. No doubt there were individual instances of cruelty;
seeds of it being indigenous in human nature, such absolute control of
hundreds of human beings could not exist without some abuses of the
power. But that the Indians were, on the whole, well treated and cared
for, the fact that so many thousands of them chose to remain in the
missions is proof. With open wilderness on all sides, and with
thousands of savage friends and relatives close at hand, nothing but
their own free will could have kept such numbers of them loyal and
contented. Forbes, in his history of California, written in 1832,
says:--
"The best and most unequivocal proof of the good conduct of the
fathers is to be found in the unbounded affection and devotion
invariably shown toward them by their Indian subjects. They
venerate them not merely as friends and fathers, but with a
degree of devotion approaching to adoration."
The picture of life in one of these missions during their period of
prosperity is unique and attractive. The whole place was a hive of
industry: trades plying indoors and outdoors; tillers, herders,
vintagers by hundreds, going to and fro; children in schools; women
spinning; bands of young men practising on musical instruments; music,
the scores of which, in many instances, they had themselves written
out; at evening, all sorts of games of running, leaping, dancing, and
ball-throwing, and the picturesque ceremonies of a religion which has
always been wise in availing itself of beautiful agencies in color,
form, and harmony.
At every mission were walled gardens with waving palms, sparkling
fountains, groves of olive trees, broad vineyards, and orchards of all
manner of fruits; over all, the sunny, delicious, winterless
California sky.
More than mortal, indeed, must the Franciscans have been, to have been
able, under these conditions, to preserve intact the fervor and spirit
of self-abnegation and deprivation inculcated by the rules of their
order. There is a half-comic pathos in the records of occasional
efforts made by one and another of the presidents to check the growing
disposition toward ease on the part of the friars. At one time several
of them were found to be carrying silver watches. The watches were
taken away, and sent to Guadalajara to be sold, the money to be paid
into the Church treasury. At another time an order was issued,
forbidding the wearing of shoes and stockings in place of sandals, and
the occupying of too large and comfortable rooms. And one zealous
president, finding that the friars occasionally rode in the carts
belonging to their missions, had all the carts burned, to compel the
fathers to go about on foot.
The friars were forced, by the very facts of their situation, into the
exercise of a constant and abounding hospitality; and this of itself
inevitably brought about large departures from the ascetic _régime_ of
living originally preached and practised. Most royally did they
discharge the obligations of this hospitality. Travellers' rooms were
kept always ready in every mission; and there were even set apart
fruit orchards called "travellers' orchards." A man might ride from
San Diego to Monterey by easy day's journeys, spending each night as
guest in a mission establishment. As soon as he rode up, an Indian
page would appear to take his horse; another to show him to one of the
travellers' rooms. He was served with the best of food and wine as
long as he liked to stay, and when he left he might, if he wished,
take from the mission herd a fresh horse to carry him on his journey.
All the California voyagers and travellers of the time speak in
glowing terms of this generous and cordial entertaining by the friars.
It was, undoubtedly, part of their policy as representatives of the
State, but it was no less a part of their duty as Franciscans.
Some of the highest tributes which have been paid to them, both as men
and as administrators of affairs, have come from strangers who, thus
sojourning under their roofs, had the best opportunity of knowing
their lives. Says Forbes:--
"Their conduct has been marked by a degree of benevolence,
humanity, and moderation probably unexampled in any other
situation.... I have never heard that they have not acted with
the most perfect fidelity, or that they ever betrayed a trust,
or acted with inhumanity."
This testimony is of the more weight that it comes from a man not in
sympathy with either the religious or the secular system on which the
friars' labors were based.
The tales still told by old people of festal occasions at the missions
sound like tales of the Old World rather than of the New. There was a
strange difference, fifty years ago, between the atmosphere of life on
the east and west sides of the American continent: on the Atlantic
shore, the descendants of the Puritans, weighed down by serious
purpose, half grudging the time for their one staid yearly
Thanksgiving, and driving the Indians farther and farther into the
wilderness every year, fighting and killing them; on the sunny Pacific
shore, the merry people of Mexican and Spanish blood, troubling
themselves about nothing, dancing away whole days and nights like
children, while their priests were gathering the Indians by thousands
into communities, and feeding and teaching them.