One of the few settlements of the old mission Indians remaining in
California is Pala, a little village tucked away amidst some of the most
charming scenery to be found in the southern part of the state. It is
twenty miles east from Mission San Luis Rey, of which mission it was an
asistencia, or branch, and twenty-four miles from Oceanside, the nearest
point on the coast. The village stands in a valley which is completely
surrounded by mountains, high and low, far and near, uniting with it
in a succession of beautiful pictures around the entire horizon. To
the east, the mountains pile themselves up into huge masses, their tips
hidden frequently by clouds, and by the fogs of early morning; toward
the west, they fall away into low-lying hills, allowing the sea-breeze
of every warm afternoon to sweep the village over them, and through the
gap of the San Luis Rey River and Valley. At all times of the year the
color and light and shade in every part of the valley are most lovely,
delighting the artist’s eye with a whole gamut of aerial perspective;
but it is in the spring that the hillsides and valley put on their
most gorgeous robes, from the lightest tints of yellow and green, down
through every hue and tone of red, blue and purple, soft and brilliant,
pricked out here and there with spots of intense, flaming yellow and
orange, or deepest crimson. Such color scenes are not common even in
California; but on account of its comparative inaccessibility, few
people visit Pala, and the village has been left much to itself in these
latter days of American life in the state. The Indians live the life
of the poorest class of Mexicans, dwell in adobe huts, and pursue an
agricultural occupation.
During the last week of May, 1895, I passed two days in this interesting
place, exploring the remains of the asistencia, and sketching the unique
bell-tower and near-by mission houses. I was an object of interest to
all who saw me, but was not favored with much company until the second
afternoon, when, after I had passed an hour or so in the campo santo,
an old Indian slowly appeared and greeted me. He must have been nearly
eighty years old, and he was obliged to use a cane to assist his slow
and faltering steps. Several times during the two days I had seen him,
sitting in the sun on the rough porch of a house close by, or ambling
slowly about, and had been struck with his appearance. Although bent
with his years, he was tall, and, in his younger days, must have had a
graceful, as well as powerful, figure, traces of it remaining still,
in spite of his decrepitude. But his face was the most noticeable thing
about him. Notwithstanding the dimness of age, there was a wonderful
amount of intelligence and animation in his expression, and the deep,
black eyes could hardly have been brighter and more piercing at the age
of forty than they now appeared. His long straight hair was still thick,
but very grey. He wore the ordinary dress of the poor man. He was, in
fine, a specimen of what the missions could do with the Indians when
working on the best material to be found among them.
“Buenos dias, Senor,” he said gravely, as he came near.
“Buenos dias.”
“Will the Senor be disturbed if I stay here awhile and watch him work?”
he continued in Spanish, which he spoke rather slowly, but with as much
ease and correctness as a Mexican.
I answered I should be glad to have him remain so long as he pleased,
and, in return, after he had seated himself beside me on an old ruined
adobe wall, asked if he had lived long here.
“For over sixty years, Senor.”
“And where did you spend your early years, for I think you have seen
many more than sixty?” I asked.
“Si, Senor, I am eighty-one now. Until I was about twenty, I lived at
Mission San Luis Rey, twenty miles from here. Has the Senor ever seen
San Luis Rey?”