History of California

Chapter IV

The Cross of San­ta Fe

The kings high­way which led up from Ve­ra Cruz, the chief port of the east­ern coast of Mex­ico, to the cap­ital city of New Spain had in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry more his­to­ry con­nect­ed with it than any oth­er road in the new world. Over it had passed Mon­tezu­ma with all the splen­dor of his pa­gan court. On it, too, had marched and counter marched his grim con­queror, the great Cortez. Through its white dust had trav­eled an al­most end­less pro­ces­sion of mules and slaves, car­ry­ing the trea­sures of the mines of Mex­ico and the rich im­ports of Mani­la and In­dia on to­ward Spain.

Over this road there was jour­ney­ing, one win­ter day in the year 1749, a trav­el­er of more im­por­tance to the his­to­ry of the state of Cal­ifor­nia than any one who had gone be­fore. He was no great sol­dier or king, on­ly a priest in the brown­ish gray cloak of the or­der of St. Fran­cis. He was slight in fig­ure, and limped painful­ly from a sore on his leg, caused, it is sup­posed, by the bite of some poi­sonous rep­tile. The chance com­pan­ions who trav­eled with him begged him to stop and rest be­side a stream, but he would not. Then, as he grew more weary, they en­treat­ed him to seek shel­ter in a ranch house near by and give up his jour­ney.

“Speak not to me thus. I am de­ter­mined to con­tin­ue. I seem to hear voic­es of un­con­vert­ed thou­sands call­ing me,” was all the an­swer he gave. So on foot, with no lug­gage but his prayer book, he limped out of sight –the hum­ble Span­ish priest, Ju­nipero Ser­ra.

While on­ly a school­boy, young Ser­ra had been more in­ter­est­ed in the In­di­an in­hab­itants of the new world than in boy­ish plea­sure. As he grew old­er it be­came his great­est de­sire to go to them as a mis­sion­ary. At eigh­teen he be­came a priest; but it was not un­til his thir­ty-​sixth year that he gained the op­por­tu­ni­ty of which he had so long dreamed, when, in com­pa­ny with a body of mis­sion­ar­ies, among whom were his boy­hood friends, Fran­cis­co Palou and Juan Crespi, he land­ed at Ve­ra Cruz.

He was too im­pa­tient to be­gin his new work, to wait for the gov­ern­ment es­cort which was com­ing to meet them. So he start­ed out on foot, with on­ly such com­pan­ions as he might pick up by the way, to make the long jour­ney to the city of Mex­ico.

Six­teen years lat­er, at­tend­ed by a gay com­pa­ny of gen­tle­men and ladies, there trav­eled over this road one of Spain’s wis­est states­men, Jose de Galvez, whom the king had sent out to look af­ter af­fairs in the new world. Flour­ish­ing set­tle­ments were by this time scat­tered over a large por­tion of Mex­ico, and even in the penin­su­la of Low­er Cal­ifor­nia there were a num­ber of mis­sions. It was al­most a hun­dred years be­fore this time that two Catholic priests of the So­ci­ety of Je­sus had asked per­mis­sion to found mis­sion set­tle­ments among the In­di­ans of this penin­su­la.

“You may found the mis­sions if you like, but do not look to us for mon­ey to help you,” was the an­swer re­turned by the of­fi­cers of the gov­ern­ment. So the two Je­suit priests set about col­lect­ing funds for the work.

They were elo­quent men, and the peo­ple who heard them preach be­came so in­ter­est­ed in the In­di­ans that they were glad to give. And so, lit­tle by lit­tle, this fund grew. As the good work went on, greater gifts poured in. Whole for­tunes were left them, and fi­nal­ly they had a very large sum care­ful­ly in­vest­ed in the city of Mex­ico. This was known as the Pius Fund. From it was tak­en all the mon­ey need­ed for the found­ing of the mis­sions of Low­er Cal­ifor­nia; and, many years lat­er, the ex­pens­es of found­ing the twen­ty-​one mis­sions of Up­per Cal­ifor­nia came from the same source. This fund be­came the sub­ject of a long dis­pute be­tween Mex­ico and the Unit­ed States, of which an ac­count is giv­en in Chap­ter XI.

In 1767 all the Je­suit priests in New Spain were called back to Eu­rope, and a large por­tion of their wealth and mis­sions on the penin­su­la were giv­en over to the or­der of St. Fran­cis, with Ju­nipero Ser­ra at their head. It was Galvez’s du­ty to su­per­in­tend this change, and while he was on his way to the penin­su­la for that pur­pose he was over­tak­en by an or­der from the king of Spain to oc­cu­py and for­ti­fy the ports of San Diego and Mon­terey. The Span­ish gov­ern­ment had the de­scrip­tion of these ports fur­nished by Viz­caino in his ac­count of his ex­plo­rations in Up­per and Low­er Cal­ifor­nia over one hun­dred and six­ty years be­fore.

The ar­ti­cles of the king’s or­der were: first, to es­tab­lish the Catholic faith; sec­ond, to ex­tend Span­ish do­min­ion; third, to check the am­bi­tious schemes of a for­eign pow­er; and last­ly, to car­ry out a plan formed by Philip the Third, as long ago as 1603, for the es­tab­lish­ment of a town on the Cal­ifor­nia coast where there was a har­bor suit­able for ships of the Mani­la trade.

Galvez at once pro­ceed­ed to or­ga­nize four ex­pe­di­tions for the set­tle­ment of Up­per Cal­ifor­nia, two by land, two by sea. Cap­tain Por­to­la, gov­er­nor of the penin­su­la, was put in com­mand, with good lead­ers un­der him. Still, Galvez was not sat­is­fied.

“This is all very well,” he said; “these men will obey my or­ders, but they do not care much whether this land is set­tled or not, and if dis­cour­age­ments arise, back they will come, and I shall have the whole thing to do over again. I must find some one who is in­ter­est­ed in the work, some one who will not find any­thing im­pos­si­ble. I think I shall send for that lame, pale-​faced priest, with the beau­ti­ful eyes, who has tak­en up the work of these mis­sions so ea­ger­ly.”

“So you think we can make the ven­ture a suc­cess?” asked Galvez, af­ter he had talked over his plans with Ju­nipero.

“Sure­ly,” said Padre Ser­ra, his eyes shin­ing, his whole face glow­ing with en­thu­si­asm. “It is God’s work to car­ry the cross of the holy faith [San­ta Fe] in­to the wilder­ness, and He will go with us; can you not hear the hea­then call­ing us to bring them the blessed Gospel? I can see that I have lived all my life for this glo­ri­ous day.”

Then they went to work, the priest and the king’s coun­selor–down on the wharf, even work­ing with their own hands, pack­ing away the car­go.

“Hur­ry! Hur­ry!” said Galvez. The word was passed along, and in a short time the four ex­pe­di­tions were ready.

Many were the tri­als and dis­cour­age­ments of the var­ious par­ties. Scurvy was so se­vere among the sailors that one ship lost all its crew save two men, and there were a num­ber of deaths on an­oth­er ship; while a third ves­sel which start­ed lat­er was nev­er heard from. Padre Ju­nipero, who ac­com­pa­nied the sec­ond land par­ty, un­der the charge of Gov­er­nor Por­to­la, be­came so ill from the wound on his leg that the com­man­der urged him to re­turn; but he would not. Call­ing a mule­teer who was busy af­ter the day’s march, doc­tor­ing the sores on his an­imals, he said:–

“Come, my son, and cure my sores al­so.”

“Padre,” ex­claimed the man, shocked at the idea, “I am no sur­geon; I doc­tor on­ly my beasts.”

“Think then that I am a beast, my child,” said the padre, “and treat me ac­cord­ing­ly.”

The man obeyed. Gath­er­ing some leaves of the mal­va, or cheese plant, he bruised them a lit­tle, heat­ed them on the stones of the camp fire, and spread­ing them with warm tal­low, ap­plied them to the wound. The next morn­ing the leg was so much bet­ter that the cure was thought to be a mir­acle. Still the padre was very weak; and there was great re­joic­ing in the par­ty when at last they looked down from a height on San Diego Bay, with the two ships–the San Car­los and the San An­to­nio–rid­ing at an­chor, white tents on the beach, and sol­diers grouped about. Salutes were fired by the new­com­ers and re­turned by the sol­diers and ships, and very soon the four ex­pe­di­tions were re­unit­ed.

On the next day, Sun­day, solemn thanks­giv­ing ser­vices were held. Then for four­teen days all were busy at­tend­ing to the sick, mak­ing ready for the de­par­ture of the ship San An­to­nio, which was to be sent back for sup­plies, and pack­ing up food and oth­er ne­ces­si­ties for the jour­ney to Mon­terey. The San An­to­nio sailed on the 9th of Ju­ly, 1769, and five days lat­er Gov­er­nor Por­to­la and two thirds of the well por­tion of the com­pa­ny start­ed over­land to Mon­terey.

Mean­time Padre Ju­nipero had been im­pa­tient­ly await­ing an op­por­tu­ni­ty to be­gin his great work–the con­ver­sion of the hea­then. He had writ­ten back in his own pe­cu­liar way to his friend Padre Palou, whom he left in charge of the mis­sions of Low­er Cal­ifor­nia.

“Long Live Je­sus, Joseph, and Mary, This to Fray Fran­cis­co Palou.

“My dear friend and Sir:–

“I, thanks be to God, ar­rived day be­fore yes­ter­day at this, in truth, beau­ti­ful, and with rea­son fa­mous, port of San Diego. We find Gen­tiles [the name giv­en to the wild In­di­ans] here in great num­bers. They seem to lead tem­per­ate lives on var­ious seeds and on fish which they catch from their rafts of tule which are formed like a ca­noe.”

The sec­ond day af­ter the de­par­ture of Por­to­la and his par­ty, Sun­day, Ju­ly 16, Padre Ser­ra felt that the glo­ri­ous mo­ment for which he had so long prayed had at length ar­rived. The mis­sion bells were un­packed and hung on a tree, and a neo­phyte, or con­vert­ed In­di­an, whom he had brought with him from the penin­su­la, was ap­point­ed to ring them. As the sweet tones sound­ed on the clear air, all the par­ty who were able gath­ered about the padre, who stood lift­ing the cross of Christ on high. All joined in solemn­ly chant­ing a hymn, and a ser­mon was preached. Then with more chant­ing, the tolling of, the bells, and the fir­ing of mus­kets, was con­clud­ed the cer­emo­ny of the found­ing of the first of the Cal­ifor­nia mis­sions, that of San Diego.

Por­to­la and his men, in spite of many dis­cour­age­ments, trav­eled steadi­ly north­ward for near­ly two months un­til at last, one Oc­to­ber morn­ing, they saw what they thought to be Point Pinos, the name giv­en by Cabril­lo to the pine-​cov­ered cape to the south of Mon­terey Bay. They were right in think­ing this Point Pinos, but the sad part is that when they climbed a hill and looked down on the bay they had come so far to find, they failed to rec­og­nize it.

They tramped weari­ly over the sun-​dried hills that bor­dered it, and walked on its sandy beach, but could not be­lieve the wide, open road­stead, en­cir­cled by bare brown heights, could be the well-​in­closed port ly­ing at the foot of hills rich­ly green, so warm­ly de­scribed by Viz­caino in his win­ter voy­age. It was a great dis­ap­point­ment, for this was the lat­itude in which they had ex­pect­ed to find Mon­terey. Af­ter talk­ing it over, they de­cid­ed they must be still too far south, so they tramped on for many days.

On the last day of Oc­to­ber, those of the par­ty who were well enough, climbed a high hill–(Point San Pe­dro on the west coast of the penin­su­la)–and were re­ward­ed by a glo­ri­ous view. On their left the great ocean stretched away to the hori­zon line, its waves break­ing in high-​tossed foam on the rocky shore be­neath them. Be­fore them they saw an open bay, or road­stead, ly­ing be­tween the point on which they stood, and one ex­tend­ing in­to the sea far to the north­west. Up­on look­ing at their map of Viz­caino’s voy­age, they right­ly de­cid­ed that this far­ther pro­jec­tion was Point Reyes; the lit­tle bay shel­tered by the curve of its arm was the one named on the map St. Fran­cis, and now known as Drakes Bay. Well out to sea they dis­cov­ered a group of rocky is­lands which they called Far­al­lones; but not a man who stood on the height dreamed that on­ly a short dis­tance to the right up the rocky coast there lay a bay so im­mense and so per­fect­ly in­closed that it would ev­er be one of the won­ders of the land they were ex­plor­ing.

On ac­count of the sick of the par­ty, among whom were the com­man­der and his lieu­tenant, it was de­cid­ed to trav­el no fur­ther, but to camp here while Sergeant Or­te­ga was dis­patched to fol­low the coast line to Point Reyes and ex­plore the lit­tle bay it in­closed.

With a few men and three days’ pro­vi­sions con­sist­ing of small cakes made of bran and wa­ter, which was the on­ly food they had left, this brave Span­ish of­fi­cer marched away, lit­tle imag­in­ing the hon­or which was soon to be his. Lead­ing this ex­pe­di­tion, he was the first white man to ex­plore the penin­su­la where now stands the guardian city of the west­ern coast, and we must won­der what were his thoughts when, push­ing his way up some brush-​cov­ered heights, he came out sud­den­ly up­on the great bay we call San Fran­cis­co.

What a mighty sur­prise was that six­ty miles of peace­ful wa­ter that had so long re­mained hid­den from Eu­ro­pean ex­plor­ers, baf­fling the anx­ious gaze of Cabril­lo, the faith­ful ex­plo­rations of Fer­re­lo, the ea­gle eyes of Drake, and the earnest search of Viz­caino!

Push­ing steadi­ly on to­ward Point Reyes, Or­te­ga en­coun­tered a sec­ond sur­prise, when from the Pre­sidio hills he looked down on beau­ti­ful Gold­en Gate, whose rum­pled wa­ters seemed to say:–

“No far­ther can you come. We keep guard here.”

See­ing that it was quite im­pos­si­ble for him to reach Point Reyes, Or­te­ga de­cid­ed to re­turn to Por­to­la. He found the com­man­der and his par­ty so weak­ened by sick­ness and the lack of food that it had been de­cid­ed to ex­plore no far­ther, but to re­turn at once to the south­ern mis­sion. Af­ter a painful march of six­ty days the par­ty reached San Diego.

Bit­ter was the dis­ap­point­ment of Padre Ju­nipero Ser­ra at the fail­ure to found the mis­sion of Mon­terey. he did not be­lieve, as many of the par­ty re­port­ed, that the bay was filled up with sand. Keen­er still was his grief when Por­to­la, af­ter look­ing over the sup­ply of food, an­nounced that un­less the ship San An­to­nio or the sloop San Jose ar­rived by a cer­tain date with pro­vi­sions, they would have to aban­don Up­per Cal­ifor­nia and re­turn to the penin­su­la.

The padre at once called the peo­ple to­geth­er for a nine days’ ses­sion of prayer and oth­er church ser­vices at which to pray for the com­ing of the re­lief boat. Por­to­la, though he at­tend­ed the ser­vices, went steadi­ly on with his prepa­ra­tions for de­par­ture. On the morn­ing of the day be­fore the one set for the be­gin­ning of the march to­ward Low­er Cal­ifor­nia, the padres went to the heights over­look­ing the bay, where they re­mained watch­ing and pray­ing. At sea a heavy fog hung over the wa­ter. Hour af­ter hour passed as they gazed out on the love­ly bay. Noon came, but they would not re­turn to the mis­sion to rest or eat. The af­ter­noon wore away, the sun sank in the clouds above the hori­zon, then, as all hope seemed gone, the fog was lift­ed by a sun­set breeze, and there, far out at sea, they saw a white sail. The good men fell on their knees in thanks­giv­ing, while their In­di­an ser­vants ran to car­ry the news to camp.

This ves­sel, the San An­to­nio, brought not on­ly abun­dant pro­vi­sions but fresh or­ders from Galvez to hur­ry the work at Mon­terey. The set­tle­ment of Up­per Cal­ifor­nia was now made cer­tain.

An ex­pe­di­tion by land and the San An­to­nio by sea im­me­di­ate­ly start­ed north­ward. A few weeks lat­er Padre Ju­nipero wrote to Padre Palou: “By the fa­vor of God, af­ter a month and a half of painful nav­iga­tion, the San An­to­nio found an­chor in this port of Mon­terey, which we find un­vary­ing in cir­cum­stances and sub­stance as de­scribed by Don Se­bas­tian Viz­caino.”

They even found Viz­caino’s oak. In­deed, it is said on good au­thor­ity, that the oak re­mained stand­ing un­til 1838, when the high tides washed the earth from its roots so that it fell.

Soon the land ex­pe­di­tion ar­rived, and one June morn­ing in 1770 the mem­bers of the two par­ties, all in their best at­tire, were gath­ered on the beach for the pur­pose of found­ing the sec­ond mis­sion. It must have been a pret­ty scene,–the stanch lit­tle ves­sel San An­to­nio, gay with bunting, swing­ing at an­chor a short dis­tance out, while on shore were grouped the sailors in the bright dress of sea­men of those times, the sol­diers in leather uni­form, the gov­er­nor and his staff in the hand­some cos­tumes of Span­ish of­fi­cials, and the padres in their gray robes. Close be­side the oak a brush house had been built, bells hung, and an al­tar erect­ed. While the bells tolled, the solemn ser­vice of ded­ica­tion was held by Padre Ju­nipero, and so was found­ed the Mis­sion San Car­los de Bor­romeo at Mon­terey.

Near each of the ear­li­er coast mis­sions there was al­so found­ed a mil­itary sta­tion called a pre­sidio, a name bor­rowed from the Ro­man pre­sid­ium. The word meant a fort or for­ti­fied town. These pre­sid­ios were in­tend­ed to guard the safe­ty of the mis­sions from the wild In­di­ans, and to de­fend the coast from ships of oth­er coun­tries.

Af­ter the re­li­gious ser­vices Gov­er­nor Por­to­la pro­ceed­ed to found the pre­sidio and take for­mal pos­ses­sion in the name of the king of Spain by hoist­ing and salut­ing the roy­al ban­ner, pulling up bunch­es of grass, and cast­ing stones, which was an an­cient man­ner of tak­ing pos­ses­sion of a piece of land or coun­try. The pre­sidio of Mon­terey was for a long time the site of the cap­ital of Up­per Cal­ifor­nia and there­fore most im­por­tant in the his­to­ry of the state.

For the sake of bet­ter land and wa­ter the mis­sion site was soon re­moved about six miles, to the Carme­lo Riv­er. Al­though not so wealthy as some of the mis­sions, it was the home of Padre Ju­nipero Ser­ra, pres­ident of all the mis­sions, and so its his­to­ry is es­pe­cial­ly in­ter­est­ing.

The news of the set­tle­ment of San Diego and Mon­terey was re­ceived in Mex­ico with great joy, and it was re­solved to found five more mis­sions above San Diego. Four of these were San Gabriel, near the present site of Los An­ge­les; San Luis Obis­po, far­ther north; San An­to­nio; and San Fran­cis­co. Be­fore leav­ing the penin­su­la, Padre Ser­ra had asked Galvez, “And for Fa­ther Fran­cis­co, head of our or­der, is there to be no mis­sion for him?” To which Galvez had replied, “If Saint Fran­cis wants a mis­sion, let him cause his port to be found and it will be placed there.” When the beau­ti­ful bay was dis­cov­ered by Sergeant Or­te­ga, it was thought that this might be the har­bor Saint Fran­cis in­tend­ed for him­self, but be­fore nam­ing it for the head of the or­der it was nec­es­sary that it should be ex­plored. Al­though two land ex­pe­di­tions were sent up for this pur­pose, they were un­suc­cess­ful; and it was not un­til Au­gust, 1775, about four months af­ter the event­ful bat­tle of Lex­ing­ton had tak­en place on the At­lantic coast, that white men first en­tered the Bay of San Fran­cis­co in a ship.

Lieu­tenant Ay­ala of the Span­ish navy, with the San Car­los, had the hon­or of con­duct­ing this ex­pe­di­tion.

He reached the en­trance to the bay just as night was com­ing on. Not lik­ing to trust his ves­sel in a strange har­bor, he sent for­ward a boat to make ex­plo­rations, and then, as it was a lit­tle slow in re­turn­ing, he dar­ing­ly pushed on in the dark­ness in­to the un­known wa­ter. His small craft bobbed and plunged in the rough wa­ter of the bar, dart­ed through Gold­en Gate, and came safe­ly to an­chor near North Beach. Soon af­ter this ex­plo­ration it was set­tled that here Saint Fran­cis should have his mis­sion.

Padre Ju­nipero Ser­ra ap­point­ed his friend Fran­cis­co Palou, who had now joined him in his work in Up­per Cal­ifor­nia, to make this set­tle­ment, and on the 9th of Oc­to­ber, 1776, there was found­ed in that por­tion of San Fran­cis­co known as the Mis­sion Dis­trict, at the cor­ner of Six­teenth and Do­lores streets, the mis­sion of San Fran­cis­co. This is of­ten called Mis­sion Do­lores from the name of a small lake and stream be­side which it was built. To-​day the name San Fran­cis­co rests not on­ly on the old mis­sion build­ing, with its white pil­lars, but on the beau­ti­ful city which is the metropo­lis of our west­ern coast.

As fast as pos­si­ble Padre Ju­nipero has­tened the es­tab­lish­ment of mis­sions, choos­ing those places where there were the largest na­tive set­tle­ments. In the vicin­ity of Mon­terey Bay there were, be­sides the San Car­los mis­sion, San­ta Cruz on the north­ern curve of the bay, and in the fer­tile val­ley back of the San­ta Cruz Moun­tains the mis­sions of San­ta Clara, San Jose, and San Juan Bautista. Far­ther south on a lone­ly height stood Soledad, and much far­ther south, San Miguel.

The In­di­ans along the San­ta Bar­bara Chan­nel, of whom there were a great many, were more in­tel­li­gent and in­dus­tri­ous than in oth­er por­tions of the coun­try set­tled by the mis­sion­ar­ies, and here were the mis­sions of San­ta Bar­bara, San Bue­naven­tu­ra, La Purisi­ma, and San­ta In­ez.

In the south, in the fer­tile val­ley where are now the great grain fields of Los An­ge­les coun­ty, San Fer­nan­do was found­ed. Be­tween San Gabriel and San Diego were placed San Juan Capis­tra­no, San Luis Rey, and the chapel of Pala. San Rafael and Solano, to the north of San Fran­cis­co Bay, com­plete the list of twen­ty-​one mis­sions of Up­per Cal­ifor­nia.

It is im­pos­si­ble to give more than the names of most of these mis­sions, al­though about each many true and beau­ti­ful sto­ries might be told. It would be well if those who live near one of these no­ble ru­ins would seek out its par­tic­ular his­to­ry and the sto­ries con­nect­ed with it. This would be in­ter­est­ing and help­ful work for the stu­dents in the schools of the state.

The sto­ry of the mis­sions seems like a fairy tale, won­der­ful and un­re­al. In­to a wilder­ness in­hab­it­ed on­ly by sav­age men and wild an­imals, hun­dreds of miles from any civ­ilized set­tle­ment, there came these men trained as sim­ple priests.

Two by two they came, bring­ing with them, for the start­ing of each mis­sion, a few sol­diers, sev­en to ten, a few con­vert­ed In­di­ans from the mis­sions of Low­er Cal­ifor­nia, a lit­tle live stock, some church fur­ni­ture, and al­ways the bells; yet in a lit­tle over forty years they had suc­ceed­ed in found­ing a chain of mis­sions whose sweet-​toned bells chimed the hours and called to prayer from San Diego to the Bay of San Fran­cis­co.

Church­es were built larg­er and of­ten of a pur­er type of ar­chi­tec­ture than those in the civ­ilized well-​set­tled por­tions of the land,– build­ings that have last­ed for a hun­dred years and may last many years longer if care is tak­en to pre­serve them. Canals of stone and ce­ment and dams of ma­son­ry were con­struct­ed that would do cred­it to our best work­men of to-​day.

The lit­tle pack­ages of wheat and oth­er grains, seeds from Span­ish or­anges and olives, lit­tle dried bun­dles of grapevines from Mex­ico, de­vel­oped, un­der their care, in­to the great fields of grain, groves of or­anges and olives, and the wide-​spread­ing vine­yards of the mis­sion ranch­es. All these won­ders were per­formed with In­di­an work­men trained by the padres.

But what the mis­sion­ar­ies cared for more than their suc­cess in build­ing and plant­ing were the thou­sands of bap­tized In­di­ans at each mis­sion. These they in­struct­ed dai­ly for the good of their souls in the truths of the Chris­tian re­li­gion, while for their bod­ily needs they were taught to plow the earth, to plant seed, to raise and care for do­mes­tic an­imals. They learned al­so many use­ful trades; and mu­sic, fres­co­ing, and art were taught those who seemed to have an es­pe­cial taste for such things.

At the head of this great work was gen­tle Padre Ju­nipero Ser­ra, the most in­ter­est­ing char­ac­ter in the his­to­ry of the mis­sions. He was frail and slen­der and much worn by con­stant la­bor of head and hands, but his ev­ery thought and ac­tion seemed to be for oth­ers. Back and forth from Mon­terey to San Diego, from mis­sion to mis­sion, he trav­eled al­most con­stant­ly, teach­ing, bap­tiz­ing, con­firm­ing thou­sands of his dusky charges. He was pres­ident of all the mis­sions, and be­sides this was bish­op, doc­tor, judge, and ar­chi­tect, as well as stew­ard of the mis­sion prod­ucts and mon­ey.

As­so­ci­at­ed with him in his work were a group of no­ble men whose lives were spent in car­ing for the na­tive peo­ple with whom they worked and among whom they fi­nal­ly died. The in­hab­itants of Cal­ifor­nia may well hon­or the mis­sion padres for their earnest, un­selfish lives, and in no way can this be done so ful­ly as in the preser­va­tion of the grand old build­ings they left be­hind, which are in­deed fit­ting mon­uments to their de­vo­tion, en­er­gy, and skill.

Be­gin­ning with San Diego, let us, in fan­cy, vis­it the mis­sions in the ear­ly part of the nine­teenth cen­tu­ry.

It is a win­ter day in the year 1813 when we ride up the broad, wind-​swept road which leads to the new­ly ded­icat­ed mis­sion build­ing of San Diego. The wide plain that sur­rounds it is green with na­tive grass and the blades of young wheat. Of the two hun­dred cat­tle, one hun­dred sheep, one hun­dred hors­es, and twen­ty ass­es brought up by Padre Ju­nipero in 1769 to be di­vid­ed among the ear­li­er mis­sions, San Diego had on­ly its due share; yet un­der the wise man­age­ment of the padres, they have now at this mis­sion, feed­ing on the green plains, thou­sands of cat­tle, hors­es, and sheep, which are tend­ed by com­fort­ably clothed In­di­an herders. Near the mis­sion are the green and gold of or­ange or­chards, the gray of the olive, and the bare branch­es of ex­ten­sive vine­yards. At one side we see a large kitchen gar­den where young In­di­ans are at work plant­ing and hoe­ing.

As we draw up in front of the church, In­di­an ser­vants come out to take our hors­es. We dis­mount, and a padre who is su­per­in­tend­ing work in the or­chard comes and wel­comes us with gen­tle cour­tesy. He sends us a ser­vant to show us to our room, a small square apart­ment with a hard earth­en floor and bare, white­washed walls with no or­na­ment but a cross. The beds are of rawhide stretched over a frame. The cov­er­ing con­sists of sheets of coarse cot­ton grown and wo­ven at the south­ern mis­sions, and blan­kets, coarse but warm, made by the In­di­ans from the wool of the mis­sion sheep.

Din­ner at the padre’s ta­ble we find most en­joy­able. There is beef and chick­en, the fri­jole, or red bean of Spain, and oth­er veg­eta­bles pre­pared in a tasty man­ner pe­cu­liar to Span­ish cook­ing, so we do not doubt that the cook has been taught his trade by the padre him­self. The In­di­an boys who wait on the ta­ble al­so show care­ful train­ing, per­form­ing their du­ties quick­ly and qui­et­ly. Here we can find for bread the tor­tilla,–still the food of the In­di­an and Mex­ican peo­ple of Cal­ifor­nia. It is a thin cake made of meal or flour and wa­ter, and baked with­out grease on a hot stone or grid­dle. Wines made at the mis­sion, the fa­vorite choco­late, thick and sweet, and some fruit from the padre’s gar­den com­plete the meal.

Din­ner over, we vis­it the church and ad­mire the strik­ing con­trast be­tween the red tiles of the roof and the creamy white of the walls. All the build­ings are made of bricks mold­ed from a clay called adobe and dried slow­ly in the sun. Each brick is twelve inch­es square by four inch­es thick, and the walls are laid two or three bricks deep, those of the church it­self be­ing near­ly four feet in thick­ness. It seems al­most im­pos­si­ble that so large and well made a build­ing could have been con­struct­ed by un­trained work­men. Next to the church are the rooms of the padres, then the din­ing room and the quar­ters of the mis­sion guard, which con­sists ap­par­ent­ly of but two men, the rest be­ing at the pre­sidio, sev­er­al miles away. Ad­join­ing these are the store­hous­es and shops of the In­di­an work­men, all of which open on the great court­yard.

In the court­yard is a busy scene. Black­smiths with ham­mer and anvil make sound­ing blows as they work up old iron in­to need­ed farm uten­sils. The soap mak­er’s cal­dron sends up a cloud of ill-​smelling steam. At one side car­pen­ters are at work trim­ming and cut­ting square holes in logs for the beams of new build­ings which the padres wish to put up. Sad­dle mak­ers, squat­ted on the ground, are busy fash­ion­ing sad­dle­trees, carv­ing, and sewing leather. The shoe­mak­er is hard at work with nee­dle and awl. These and many oth­er trades are all go­ing on at once. These courts, which are called pa­tios, were gen­er­al­ly sev­er­al acres in ex­tent and at the most flour­ish­ing pe­ri­od of the mis­sions each set­tle­ment of­ten gave shel­ter to over a thou­sand peo­ple.

Be­hind the cen­tral court is the home of the un­mar­ried wom­en. This, and the rooms for their work, open on a sep­arate square where there is shade from or­ange and fig trees and a bathing pond sup­plied by the zan­ja, or wa­ter ditch. Here square-​fig­ured, heavy-​fea­tured In­di­an girls are busy spin­ning and weav­ing thread in­to cloth. Oth­ers are cut­ting out and sewing gar­ments. Some, squat­ted on the ground, are grind­ing corn in­to a coarse meal for the atole, or mush. At the zan­ja sev­er­al are en­gaged in wash­ing clothes. Here these girls live un­der the care of an old In­di­an wom­an, and un­less she ac­com­pa­nies them they may not, un­til they are mar­ried, go out­side these walls. Near the mis­sion we vis­it a long row of small adobe build­ings, the homes of the fam­ilies of the Chris­tian In­di­ans; a neat, busy set­tle­ment where the lit­tle ones, com­fort­ably clothed, play about at­tend­ed by the old­er chil­dren, while the moth­ers work for the padres four or five hours dai­ly.

Leav­ing San Diego and trav­el­ing north­ward along “El Camino Re­al,” the high­way which leads from mis­sion to mis­sion, we reach San Luis Rey, “King of the Mis­sions,” as it is some­times called. Its church is the largest of all those erect­ed by the padres, be­ing one hun­dred and six­ty feet long, fifty-​eight feet wide, and six­ty feet high. Its one square, two-​sto­ry tow­er has a chime of bells, the sweet clear tones of which reached our ears while we were yet miles from the mis­sion. Count­ing the arch­es of the long cor­ri­dor, we find there are two hun­dred and fifty-​six. This mis­sion be­came very wealthy. At one time it had a bap­tized In­di­an pop­ula­tion of sev­er­al thou­sand, owned twen­ty-​four thou­sand cat­tle, ten thou­sand hors­es, and one hun­dred thou­sand sheep, and har­vest­ed four­teen thou­sand bushels of grain a year.

Its pros­per­ity was due in a great mea­sure to good Padre Peyri, who had charge of it from its be­gin­ning. Many years af­ter­wards, as we shall see, the padres were or­dered by the Mex­ican gov­ern­ment to leave their mis­sions, the wealth they had gath­ered, and the In­di­ans they had taught and cared for. Fa­ther Peyri, know­ing how hard it would be for him to get away from his In­di­an chil­dren, as he called them, slipped off by night to San Diego. In the morn­ing the In­di­ans missed him. Learn­ing what had hap­pened, five hun­dred of them mount­ed their ponies in hot haste and gal­loped all the way to San Diego, forty-​five miles, to bring him back by force. They ar­rived just as the ship, with Padre Peyri on board, was weigh­ing an­chor. Stand­ing on deck with out­stretched arms, the padre blessed them amid their tears and loud cries. Some flung them­selves in­to the wa­ter and swam af­ter the ship. Four reached it, and, climb­ing up its sides, so im­plored to be tak­en on board that the padre con­sent­ed and car­ried them with him to Rome, where one af­ter­wards be­came a priest.

The next link in our chain, the most beau­ti­ful of all the mis­sions, is that of San Juan Capis­tra­no. It was found­ed in 1776, the year of our Dec­la­ra­tion of In­de­pen­dence, but in 1812 it was de­stroyed by an earth­quake, the mas­sive tow­ers and no­ble arch falling in on the In­di­ans, who were as­sem­bled in the church for morn­ing prayers. Many of them were killed. The church has nev­er been re­built.

It is Christ­mas Day when we reach San Gabriel, the next sta­tion on El Camino Re­al. In­side the great cac­tus fence which in­clos­es the square about the mis­sion we see a strange­ly mixed com­pa­ny,–In­di­ans in their best clothes, their faces shin­ing from a lib­er­al use of mis­sion soap and wa­ter; sol­diers in their leather suits fresh­ened up for the hol­iday; a few ranch­men in the gay dress of the times, rid­ing beau­ti­ful hors­es; wom­en and girls each bril­liant in a bright-​col­ored skirt with shawl or scarf grace­ful­ly draped over head and shoul­ders.

The Christ­mas Day morn­ing ser­vice, held at four o’clock and known by the com­mon peo­ple as the Roost­er Mass, is long since over. The crowd is now gath­ered for the Pa­storel, which, like the mir­acle plays of the Mid­dle Ages, is a dra­ma with char­ac­ters tak­en from the Bible.

First to ap­pear on the scene is an or­ches­tra com­posed of young In­di­ans play­ing vi­olins, bass vi­ols, reeds, flutes, and gui­tars. Close­ly fol­low­ing come the ac­tors, rep­re­sent­ing San Gabriel and at­ten­dant an­gels, Sa­tan, Blind Bar­timeus, and a com­pa­ny of shep­herds. The en­ter­tain­ment is very sim­ple. There is the an­nounce­ment of the birth of the Sav­ior, the ado­ra­tion of the babe, and the of­fer­ing of gifts. The play con­cludes with a pro­tract­ed strug­gle be­tween San Gabriel and Sa­tan for the pos­ses­sion of Blind Bar­timeus, in which the saint fi­nal­ly comes off vic­tor while the or­ches­tra plays live­ly mu­sic. Af­ter the Pa­storel there are games, danc­ing, and feast­ing. Ev­ery one seems hap­py, and it is with re­gret that we leave the gay scene.

Through the hills to the north, across the Ar­royo Seco, not dry now, but a swift stream tur­bu­lent from the win­ter rains, we jour­ney on. We pass Ea­gle Rock, a great bowlder high up­on the green hill­side, one of the land­marks of the re­gion, and en­ter the val­ley of the Los An­ge­les Riv­er. Af­ter trav­el­ing for sev­er­al hours, we come to a large plan­ta­tion of trees, vines, and grain­fields, in the midst of which lies the mis­sion of San Fer­nan­do. Its land ex­tends for miles on ev­ery side and is ex­ceed­ing­ly fer­tile. In front of the beau­ti­ful clois­ters, un­der tall and state­ly palm trees, a foun­tain sends high its sparkling wa­ter, which falls back with pleas­ant tin­kle in­to a basin of carved stone.

When we reach San Bue­naven­tu­ra, the next mis­sion on our route, we find priests and In­di­ans ex­ceed­ing­ly busy, for word has come from Mon­terey that a Yan­kee trad­ing ves­sel will soon sail for the south, and cat­tle must be killed and the fat ren­dered in­to tal­low for the mar­ket. As hides and tal­low are about the on­ly com­modi­ties the padres have for sale, this is an im­por­tant event. In­di­ans tend the cal­drons of bub­bling grease, and keep up the fires un­der the ket­tles. When the tal­low is slight­ly cooled, they pour it in­to sacks made from the skins of an­imals. These, when filled with the hard­ened tal­low, look as though each again held a plump beast.

Trav­el­ing up the coast we come one af­ter­noon to

A gold­en bay ‘neath soft blue skies Where on a hill­side creamy rise The mis­sion tow­ers whose pa­tron saint Is Bar­bara–with leg­end quaint.

Here spring is merg­ing in­to sum­mer, and we are in time to see the cer­emo­ny which clos­es the wheat har­vest. The work­men gath­er the last four sheaves from the field, and, fas­ten­ing them in the form of a cross, car­ry them, fol­lowed by a long pro­ces­sion of dusky reapers, up the as­cent to the church. As they ap­proach, the bells burst out in a joy­ous peal, and from the mis­sion doors the padres come forth, one bear­ing a cross, an­oth­er the ban­ner of the Vir­gin. A choir of In­di­an boys fol­lows, chant­ing a hymn. All ad­vance slow­ly down the av­enue to meet the sheaf bear­ers, then counter march to the church, where the har­vest fes­ti­val is cel­ebrat­ed.

Pass­ing by oth­er mis­sions, we must close our jour­ney with a vis­it to San Car­los, the Mon­terey mis­sion, most promi­nent of all in the his­to­ry of the church and state. It was from the first the spe­cial charge of Padre Ju­nipero Ser­ra, and, at the time we see it, his mon­ument as well; for in it at last his weary body was laid to rest be­side his friend Padre Juan Crespi, to whose writ­ings, next to those of Padre Fran­cis­co Palou, we are most in­debt­ed for our knowl­edge of Ju­nipero Ser­ra and his great work. In 1813, with its grace­ful arched front and two tow­ers, San Car­los was a no­ble-​look­ing build­ing, but since that time one tow­er has fall­en.

We are re­mind­ed, as we look, of the scene when Ju­nipero lay dy­ing. Ev­er since morn­ing the grief-​strick­en peo­ple had been wait­ing, lis­ten­ing for the news from the sick room. When the tolling of the bell an­nounced that the beau­ti­ful life was end­ed, crowds came weep­ing and lament­ing, anx­ious to see again the beloved face.

It was with great dif­fi­cul­ty that the In­di­ans could be kept from tear­ing the padre’s robe from his body, so earnest­ly did they de­sire to pos­sess some rel­ic of the fa­ther they had loved so long.

Here we no­tice the dai­ly life of the In­di­an, which (in 1813) is the same at all the mis­sions. At sun­rise comes the sound of the bells call­ing to the morn­ing prayers, and we see the na­tives hur­ry­ing to the church. Af­ter ser­vice they gath­er for break­fast of mush and tor­tillas. As the flocks and herds have in­creased, meat forms part of the dai­ly food, some­times from the fresh­ly killed beeves, but gen­er­al­ly in a dried state called carne seco. Af­ter break­fast the work­ers go in groups to their var­ious em­ploy­ments. Din­ner is served at eleven, and they have a rest­ing pe­ri­od un­til two. Then work is again tak­en up and con­tin­ued un­til an hour be­fore sun­set, when the bells call to evening prayer. Sup­per fol­lows the evening ser­vice, af­ter which the In­di­ans can do as they like un­til bed­time. We see some en­gaged in a game of ball. Many are squat­ted on the ground play­ing oth­er games,–gam­bling, we sus­pect. In one group there is danc­ing to the mu­sic of vi­olin and gui­tar. There is laugh­ter and chat­ter­ing on all sides, and to us they seem hap­py, at least for the time.

The life led by the In­di­ans at the mis­sions was not gen­er­al­ly a hard one. No doubt when they first came, or were brought, in­to the set­tle­ments, from their free wild life, they found it hard­er to keep the reg­ular hours of the mis­sions than to per­form the work, which was sel­dom very heavy. When dis­obe­di­ent or lazy, they were pun­ished severe­ly, judg­ing by the stan­dards of to-​day, but re­al­ly no hard­er than was at that time the cus­tom in schools and in navies the world over. When the sol­diers came in con­tact with the na­tives, there was gen­er­al­ly cru­el treat­ment for the lat­ter. But as far as pos­si­ble the padres stood be­tween their charges and the sol­diers, al­ways plac­ing the mis­sion as far from the pre­sidio as the safe­ty of the for­mer would al­low.

At San Diego, about five years af­ter its set­tle­ment, wild In­di­ans sur­prised the mis­sion guard, and killed the padre and sev­er­al of the con­vert­ed In­di­ans in a most cru­el man­ner. The Span­ish gov­ern­ment gave or­ders that the mur­der­ers should be tak­en and ex­ecut­ed and this mis­sion aban­doned; but Padre Ju­nipero begged so hard for the cul­prits, who, he said, knew no bet­ter, hav­ing no knowl­edge of God, that he was fi­nal­ly al­lowed to have his way. Gen­tle­ness and pa­tience won the day; not on­ly the In­di­ans who made the at­tack were con­vert­ed, but many more of their tribe, and the mis­sion be­came a flour­ish­ing set­tle­ment. There was once a re­bel­lion among the San­ta Clara and San Jose In­di­ans, led by a young con­vert from San­ta Clara, which re­quired sol­diers from Mon­terey to put down. Gen­er­al­ly, how­ev­er, the mis­sion life was peace­ful, the In­di­ans be­ing fond of their padres.

When Mex­ico be­came free from Spain, no more mon­ey was sent up to pay the sol­diers or run the gov­ern­ment in Up­per Cal­ifor­nia, and for a long time the mis­sions ad­vanced the mon­ey for the ex­pens­es of the gov­ern­ment.

Af­ter a time the new priests who came up from Mex­ico were not gen­er­al­ly men of such ed­uca­tion and no­ble char­ac­ter as the ear­ly mis­sion padres. They cared less for mis­sion­ary work, and were not so en­er­get­ic. Their in­flu­ence was not al­ways good for the In­di­ans, who quick­ly saw the dif­fer­ence be­tween them and their old padres. They had lit­tle con­fi­dence in the new­com­ers, so at the few mis­sions where such as these were in charge the In­di­ans were dis­obe­di­ent, and re­ceived harsh pun­ish­ments from the padres; and trou­ble fol­lowed.

In 1833 the Mex­ican gov­ern­ment de­cid­ed to con­firm the man­date is­sued by Spain sev­er­al years be­fore in re­gard to the break­ing up of the mis­sion set­tle­ments. By this law each In­di­an was to have his own piece of land to own and care for. He was to be no longer un­der the con­trol of the church, but to be his own mas­ter like any oth­er cit­izen. As for the padres, they were to give up their wealth and lands, and leave for oth­er mis­sion­ary fields. That this would cre­ate a great change in Cal­ifor­nia all re­al­ized; still it was no new idea, but the plan Spain had in mind when the mis­sions were first found­ed. The mis­take was in sup­pos­ing that it was pos­si­ble for a peo­ple to rise in so short a time from the wild life of the Cal­ifor­nia In­di­an to the po­si­tion of self-​sup­port­ing cit­izens in a civ­ilized coun­try.

When the In­di­ans un­der­stood this or­der, some were pleased and, like chil­dren when freed from re­straint, ceased to work and be­came trou­ble­some. Many, how­ev­er, when they found that the padres were to leave them, be­came very un­hap­py; some, it is said, even died from home­sick­ness for the mis­sion and the padre. One com­mit­ted sui­cide.

It was soon seen that they were not fit­ted to look af­ter them­selves. On­ly a few years had passed since they were sav­ages, know­ing noth­ing of civ­ilized life, and they still need­ed some one to guide them. They not on­ly be­gan to drink and gam­ble, but were cheat­ed and ill-​treat­ed on all sides, un­til many of them be­came afraid of liv­ing in towns and went back to wild life. For this they were no longer fit­ted, and they suf­fered so much from hunger and cold that great num­bers of them died.

Be­cause the In­di­ans were not ca­pa­ble of car­ing for them­selves at the time of the sec­ular­iza­tion of the mis­sions, the padres are of­ten severe­ly blamed. It is said that they tried to keep the na­tives with­out knowl­edge, in fact some­thing like slaves. But the truth is that the padres taught them by thou­sands, not on­ly to cul­ti­vate the soil, to ir­ri­gate wise­ly, to raise do­mes­tic cat­tle, but to work at ev­ery trade that could be of use in a new coun­try. They were en­cour­aged to choose from among them­selves al­caldes, or un­der of­fi­cers of the mis­sion. In this way ev­ery in­duce­ment was giv­en to the In­di­an show­ing him­self ca­pa­ble of self-​con­trol, to rise to a promi­nent po­si­tion in his lit­tle world, where he gen­er­al­ly ruled his fel­low-​work­men wise­ly and kind­ly.

Added to this, the In­di­ans ac­quired, through the teach­ing and ex­am­ple of the padres, a re­li­gion that has last­ed through gen­er­ations. The break­ing up of the mis­sion set­tle­ments scat­tered the In­di­ans through the coun­try, many of them go­ing back to the wild life in the for­est and moun­tains, where they no longer had any re­li­gious in­struc­tions. Yet to-​day, af­ter all the years that have passed, there are few In­di­ans from San Diego to San Fran­cis­co who do not speak the lan­guage of the padres and fol­low, though it may be but fee­bly, the teach­ing of the Catholic faith, the “San­ta Fe” of the padres.

Some of the mis­sion build­ings, many of the flocks, and much of the land fell in­to the hands of men who had no pos­si­ble right to them. Or­chards and vine­yards were cut down, cat­tle killed and stolen, and there was on­ly ru­in where a short time be­fore there had been thou­sands of busy peo­ple lead­ing com­fort­able lives. Soon the church­es were ne­glect­ed and be­gan to crum­ble away, bats flew in and out of the bro­ken arch­es, squir­rels chat­tered fear­less­ly in the padre’s din­ing room, and the on­ly hu­man vis­itor was some sad-​heart­ed In­di­an wor­shiper, slip­ping timid­ly in­to the des­olate build­ing to kneel alone be­fore the al­tar where once

Sweet strains from dusky neo­phytes Rose up to God in praise, When life cen­tered ’round the mis­sions In the hap­py gold­en days.