THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1800, 19 January 1884, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE LEGEND OF PADRE JOSE.

In tho beautiful city of Monterey, close beside the old Franciscan convent, there stands a single stately palm, larger and more perfeot in it 3 growth than any other palm that you will nnd in all the country for miles around. It glows upon an odd corner of waste Jand — that very likely was the convent garden a couple of hundred years or so ago — and behind it, across the broad sweep of the treeclad valley, the blue Sierra raises its jagged ciest against the bluer sky. Instinctively, you know, as you look at this beautiful palm — with its waving, feathery branches reared high toward heaven, and its deep-set roots drawing strength from the ground that the good fathers long ago made holy by their prayers — that it has a story o£ some soit to loll ; that a meaning attaches to its presence beside the convent wall j that it cam 9 there, back in the misty past, by no mere i^le chance. But among the gentlefolk of Monterey, you will ask in vain for this solitary palm's story. Culture and refinement somehow are at Avar with the sweet traditions which modestly, along quiet ways, came down to us from times of old., And so, if you would know tho story you must seek it among tho hiiSiblo dwellers in the town : the cargadores, who carry heavy loads of other people's goods upon their shoulders; the serenos, who watch over < the' safety of the city in the still, dark

hours o£ night; ; the patient lenadores, who bring in wood, loaded upon yet more patient burros, from the mountains near at hand, or other of the children of toil : for all of these, knowing not of books, and busying themselves not with the serious thoughts and concerns which vex the souls of their betters, are learned in legendary lore. In these simple, trustful minds, illuminating them with a light that brightens the dark places of weary lives, the old stories live on through the centuries ; passing from lip to heart, from heart to lip, and so to heart again, yet gaining always a more mellow beauty with the passing yeais. Therefore, it niudt be among the lowly folk of Monterey that you search for the story of the stately palm ; and if your search be well sped, you will hear told, in the graciau? Spanish of Mexico— which is richer and softer, even than is the rich, soft Spanish of Spain — this legend of the Padre Jose. Padre Jose wa3 not bred to the Church fiom his youth. He was the son of the gallant soldier Don Diego de Vargas, and his profession was that of his father — the sword. When Don Diego was ordered up into the rebellious northern country — back in the y-jar 1G92 this was, before the father of the oldest man now living was born — Don Jose went aLo. And this although the day was named for the wedding, and the Dona Ana de Onate, most beautiful of all the maidens in the realm of New Spain, was watiing to be his bride. As all the world knows, there was hard lighting during that campaign. For a dozen years the revolted Pueblos had stood out against their Spanish masters, and even Don Diego, with all hi?, gallantry, and with all his soldierly skill, could not in a moment conquer them. There were battles at Santa Cruz do la Canada, at San Yldefonso, at Taos ; even under the very walls of Santa Fe. But the campaign ended, and Don Diego drew hi? forces southward again for rest while the winter lasted, and yet the Spaniards were not conquerors. It was about the blessed Christmas season — the nochc buena — tint the sad news came down to Dona Ana, in tho city of Mexico, that in one of these battles her lover had been slain. And so, no joyfulneas being left in life, she entered the stern order of the Capuchinas. Passing into and so beyond the grave— as was that order's wont — she to the world was dead. Through that new year, and through great pait of the next, Don Diego battled with the Pueblos ; and finally, having subdued them, ha came gallaatly homo; and, a strange thing! with him came Don Jose, alive and well I Being taken prisoner in the fight on tho mesa before San Yldefonso, he had been carried oif into the mountains of the Sangre de Cristo and there held for near two whole years. His was a dreary home-coming, for hid promised bride was wedded to the holy church, and so was lost to him utterly. There waa no light of hope left for him in the world at all. Terrible was Don Jose's raging agony. At last, in his fierce despair, ha cursed the holy church for severing him from his love. But God was merciful to this sinner, and, in-ste-id of consuming him in a moment in wrathful flame, sent to him a messenger of peaco. That night the blessed Saint Francis appeared to him in a vision and told him that his dread sin would be pardoned and ever, in tho end, lest from his iWce sorrow would be given him, if h.-» would devote Ins life to God's service in saving heathen souls. Theiefore, Don Jose entered the order of the Franciscans. Nor did he, as is the wont of ' those who enter the religious life, change his name. A3 JOO6, ho said, he had sinned ; and as Jose he would work out, in deeds meet foi repentance, his full forgiveness. And as Jose is a name most holy, and most beloved in the church, there was none to cavil. Because there were few heathen thereabouts, but more because he felt that he could be stronger in his faith and work if widely separated from his dead yet living love, Padre Jose asked to be sent out from the City of Mexico into some far corner of the land. And so it fell out that Padre J036 was sent to make his home in the old Franciscan convent heie in the city of Monterey. Even in the first year of h"s service many woie tho wandering souls that hi 3 love and qcntJeness and great compassion brought? safe to shelter in the good care of God. Yet for a long while thote wai only sorrow in the heart of Padre Jo.'c. His good works gladdened others, but himself they made not glad ; for always rose up between him and happiness the memory of his lost love. His was a gentle, clinging nature — albeit a most gallant one, as his brave deeds of arms time and again had shown— and the need for a psi'faonal love was strong within him. There was a holy comfort in his love of the good Good, and in hia love of working for His dear sake ; but this touched only the spiritual side of his nature, and left his human longing for something real, that he mi^ht tend and cherish, and, if need be, spend his life for, all unsatisfied. While this blank in his being remained unfilled there was nothing to check the return of his love to the dear one who had passed from him into the bosom of the church ; of whom, even to think, as the poor padre but too well knew, was deadly sin. So his soul was wrenched and torn within him by this ever-recurring conflict between his holy duty and his human love. Therefore it came to pass that the kind God, seeing how loyally the Padre Jose strove to do his duty, and how bitter hard that duty was to do, one day took pity upon him and lightened his heavy load. Beneath the hot sun that beats down so fiercely here in the long summer time, makiug the air one quivering cloud of scorching heat, Padre Jose came slowly across tho valley toward the town. He came from tho little chapel of Our lady of Guadalupe, over on the first of the foot-hills ; and his heart was heavy, for tew, and careless of its meaning, were the Indians who had come to his celebration of the mass. The distance from the chapel to the convent is but a mile — a trifling walk on one of ihe cool, crisp, October-like days which serve for winter here in Monterey. But beneath that summer sun even a strong man would have grown faint and weary — if he had not fallen outright by the way. The strength of Padre Jose was given so largely to the service of God that but little remained for his own needs 1 and so, midway in his weary walk, coming to a place where a tangle of mesquites cast a warm shadow — that yet, in contrast with the fiery sunshine, was refreshingly cool — he thankfully cast himself down upon the ground for rest. Close beside where he sat was a field just cleared for planting, and along the newly made accquia the brown water was moving slowly, and was giving great solace to the thirsty land. It is thought by some that the large field set about with palmas, on the slope below the chapel of Guadalupe, is the very field beside which Padre Jose rested that day. Whether this be truth — as it well may be — or only a fancy, we may not know; but it surely is true that while the Padre sat there resting he saw lying in the dußfc of the wayside, where it had been carelessly tossed when plucked up from the ground, a little palmtree scarce a span long — a thin, green shoot, rmlely wrested from Ihe placa where it had begun its innocent, joyous life, and thus cast forth to die. At first the Padre, worn by the heat and by the sorrow of his heart, thought not at all of this poor little palm on which, his eyes rested idly. And when, presently, he perceived its presence, and understood its evil plight, there came for it no compassion into his heart. He even, for a little space, felt a cruel pleasure in watching it lie shrivelling there in the scorching sunshine, while he eat resting in the shade — so bard and bitter was his mood,

But such wicked feelings as these could not long find harbor in the Padre's breast. Soon a sense o£ great shame, and of horror at his own einfulness, came over him ; and he rose up, praying that he might be forgiven, and that he might, with God's good help, savo the little palm's life. Through the blistering sunshine- -forgetful that his hood had fallen back from off his tonsured head — he carried the sorrowful little tree to the accquia and plunged it into the refreshment of the slow-moving brown water ; and held it there, tenderly, until the pitiful limpness vanished fiom the tiny leaves and there was something of firmness in the pale green stem. And lie felt that this mourning thing, now marie joyful, was offering its thanks to him. Then, m some soft moss that he found beneath the grove of mesquites, well wet, so that a grateful dampness might be had for the rest of the hot walk, he enwrapped it lovingly — and so set off once more for the town. Not until he sat resting in his still, cool cell, the little palm meanwhile having been planted in rich, moist earth in the convent garden, and carefully shaded from the sun until its strength should come again, did Padre Jose realize that in lightening the troubles of this poor, forsaken tree he had for a brief space wholly ceased to feel the weight of his own. And as he prayed there, in the shady stillness of his cell, the thought came into his heart that God, in His infinite goodness and mercy, had sent him his little palm that he might have something to love. Being yet upon his knce3, he prayed from out the depths of his simple, truthful soul that this good gift might indeed be his, and that the little palm might live. And the palm did live. Prom clay to day, from week to week, as Padre Jose tended it lovingly and faithfully, praying the while for its well-being with the same trusting faith that he was wont to pray for the saving of heathen souls, it grew and flourished ; and it rejoiced in the strength of its regained life with a visible gladness that was reflected into and that gladdened his own sorrowing heart. When the weariness of his labor rested heavily upon him ; when a dark despondency seized him and the thought weighed upon his soul that his work among the heathen was in vain, and that should he die no one would have been the better for his life or would be the worse for his death— then stealing in upon this darkness of sorrow would come the sweet consciousness that the palm lived and loved him, and depended upon him. And the other, tho human love that so wrenched and tormented him, and that could not, in its very nature, be cast out of his being, was tempeied and chastened by this purer love. When, in the early morning, and again in the evening's dusk, he came x,o his palm and ministered to its wants — gi\ing it draughts of sweet water, heaping rich eaith about its roots, pruning away its too-luxuriant leaves so that its life might be concentrated and strengthened for a more vigorous growth — the memory of his early, passionate love would come back to him: but comfortingly, being purified. And as he went about his holy work by clay, the thought of the little tree that loved him, and that waited for his return at night, upheld and strengthened him. The palm, for its part, repaid the care that Padre Jose gave it by growing as never palm grew before. Its slim stem became thick and sturdy, it 3 gracioua leaves spread out in a feathery crest, and everywhere upon it were the signs of a rich, abundant life. Bo the months slipped silently away, and were lo3fc in the depths of the passing years, and the palm shot up and became a strong, beautiful tree ; and because of its existeaes there came to be, if not happiness, at least a refreshing love that bred peace in the heart of Padro Jose. And so was fulfilled the promise that God made to him, speaking by the blessed St. Francis in the vision. Thus more than a score of years passed on. Through all this time the Padre Jose gave of his strength freely in his holy work, and many heathen souls were savod, which, bat for his zealous labor surely would have been 10-it. His palm long since had outgrown his caie for it, and now, in its turn, cared for him — even as his sturdy son, being come to man's c&tate, might have cared for him had it pleased Heaven to satisfy his human love. It was a noble tree now ; and against its foot he had made a seat, where he would come in the early morning, and again as the sun went down, for rest and comforting. Aud the palm, swaying a little in the evening breeze, would press its trunk against him lovingly, and soft whisperings of its thankfulness for the life that he had given it would come down to him from its rustling, feathery leaves. When he was sad, thinking of the weariness of life, and o£ all the sorrow that there was therein, the palm-leaves rustled to him mournfully in echo of the mourning that was in his heart, Yet, imperceptibly, the tone of their murmurings would change, bringing into his heart more and more of brightness. At other times, when the memory of his lost love on earth would come back to him and fill him with a dreary sadness, the palm would whisper of its own love and faithfulness. It would tell of its bitter sorrow as it lay in the scorching sunshine by the wayside where he found it cast out to die, and of its joy when his hands gave it water to drink, and shielded it in the cool, damp moss, and gave it, too, there in the convent garden, a safe refuge where it might rejoice in its newfound life. But it came to pas 3, at the end of many yeais, that a pestilence fell upon the city — a deadly fever that ro^s up from the earth and that caused many to die ; such a fever as never before was kuown, and, mercifully, never since has been known here in Monterey. In every house was the shadow of death. The fathers of the convent were instant in good works among the sick ; and even, that they might have more time to save the living, they forebore for a season to say masses for the dead. Only each morning and each night the townsfolk in whom was left strength to walk, came to the church of St. Francis, and there, together with the good fathers, sent up their prayers that the pestilence might be stayed. And when the deaths grew many, and there was sore need for yet more nurses for the kick, the convent of the Oapuehinas opened its doors, and the holy nuns came forth and gave their aid. (The Holy Father gave them grace and fullest absolution when, in the after years, their prayer for pardon went to Eome.) The blessed presence aud sweet gentleness of these saintly nuns brought comfort into many a stricken house in that most dreary time. But — such was the division of their work among the sick — the Franciscanos and the Capuchinas rarely met. Faithful wa3 Padre Jose in caring for the sick, and in consoling in the name of the blessed saints those whose sickness was even unto death. Almost his only rest was the little space when he, morning and evening, sat beneath his palm. And being, after his many years of zealous labour, but a frail man, and going thus constantly into those places where the pestilence was at its worst, the time came when he himself felt that the fever had him in its hold ; and hi 3 heart was gladdened, for he knew that now his rest would come. Close upon the evening of the third day, feeling then that his release was near, he asked that they would carry him out beyond the convent walls into the garden, and place him in the seat beneath his palm, and leave him there. Beautiful is the evening in Monterey. When the sun has sunk beyond the crest of the noble Mitra, a great burst of red and golden glory leaps up into the sky and for a long time hangs quivering there above the

mountains. Clouds of gorgeous coloring float beyond the Sierra and outline its sombre, jagged ridge against their rich splendor; and through the clefts between the peaks, broad rays of light shoot out across the valley, and bathe the farther mountains in a liquid flame. And even more beautiful, or, perhaps, only differently beautiful, is the time, a little after this, when the glorious magnificence has vanished from the sky, and in its place have come subdued, delicious colorings — echoes of the splendor that has passed away. And Padre Jose, sitting beneath his palm, with the fever quite gone from him — for it had done its work — thanked God in his heart that this most perfect earthly beauty should l»e his last sight of earth. It was a fit prelude, as he whispered to the palm — his head resting, as for years he had been wont as he sat there to rest it, against the palm's loving trunk — for the sight yet more beautiful, being heavenly, that would be his so soon. Dreamily he whispered his thankfulness'for all that the palm had been to him ; for all its constant tenderness and love through these long years. Then the cool evening wind, which sweeps down from the mountains at the end of the hot days, and brings with it a most delectable refreshment, passed softly through the palm leaves, and made again the old, sweet story of the palm-tree's gratitude and love. And, possessing none of the selfiseness that goes with, if, indeed, it be not the very essence of, all human love, the palmtree murmured its own joyfulnoss that the time had come when the one whom it loved so truly would cease to ba acquainted with sorrow, and would know only the perfect happiness of an endless holy peace. Then the Padre whispered again, or it may be that this thought was framed only in hia heart, his longing to see tho Dona Ana yet once more before his eyes forever closed to things of earth. And, lo I as this longing rested upon his soul, there came to the open gate of the convent garden — being led thither, surely, by God's good grace — a holy nun ; and looking on her face, the Padre Jose knew that for the little time of life yet left to him the love that he had lost was found ! So she sat beside him, baneath the palm, stroking his cold hand lovingly ; yet with a love chastened by long suffering of love's lack, and now sanctified because it welled out anew toward one upon whom rested visibly the hand of death. Together they talked of the long years which, in their severed lives, would have been dead years but for the life that had come to each from a living lore of God ; and a3 they talked, Padre Josecame to know that in all this dreary time sho had not been afar from him, but near at hand — watching over him as an angel might have watched, and rejoicing in the fair perfection of his holy work. For she had prayed that she might bo sent to where he was ; and her prayer had been granted through a firm confidence in her loyal faith to the higher love which she had professed in taking upon her her holy vows. Slowly the splendor of tho sky and mountains faded into the mellow half-tints and subtle blendings of delicate colorings through which the gracious sunlight passes before it is lost in the dull dusk of night. As she cherished it between her own warm hands the hand of Padre Jose grow yet more cold ; and she knew how little was left to him of life. Presently, as the light grew fainter and fainter, and as the spirit of Padre Jose grew less and les3 a thing of earth, so near to heaven had it come, there sounded through the stilhioas of tho evening air the ringing of the angelu3 : a low, Iremulous ringing, for the ringer in tho tower was woi n with much toil and watching, and scarce had strength left in him to sound the call to prayer. There was a wailing melancholy, yet a deep tenderness in the faint ringing of this sweet bell, as though it mourned — yet with a great compassion, in v/hich was hope. And as its dying tones vibrated softly through the dusky air, there went a shivering rustle through the branches of the deserted palm, there came a thrill of mortal agony into a lonely woman's heart — for the spirit of Padre Jose, leaving poor, earthly love Behind it, and leaving behind it harsh earthly toil and care, had passed hence into the perfect love of heaven, into tho perfect and eternal rest. Herein is seen a mystery of the natures of man and woman. The man, to banish lib love, had sought lo place the woman afar from him ; but tho woman, not less resolutely determined that her love should be crushed, knew that she best could crush it when near the man. Thomas A. Janvier, in the Century.

A Peer's First Earned Shilling.] Tub following episode, whioh happened lately at one of our fashionable hotels, proves that virtue is sometimes more substantially rewarded lha' the old adage would seem to indicate : One uvu 1 ing, rather late, a gentleman a great admirer of man's bo3t friend, saw some magnificent dogs in the care of the hall portpr. Having entered into conversation with the temporary keeper of the Cerberi, he learned that the owner had left no instructions as to their being fed ; he therefore took upon himself to order a repast for them. They wcic still enjoying it when the owner returned, and the good Samaritan, going up, told him that he had been admiring his dogs, and had ordered them to be fed. "Oh thank you 1 Here take this " ; and the owner's gratitude took the tangible shape of the coin recruiting sergeants dispense in the Queen's name. The gentleman smilingly took the proffered reward, and said : "I am Lord , and I most heartily thank you for the first shilling I have ever earned. I shall have a hole drilled in it, and wear it as a charm. It may bring me luck." " Oh, my Lord, I cannot tell you how sorry I am at my blunder. Pray give me back the shilling, and accept my most [heartfelt apology ! " "I beg you not to apologize. You have made me ieol quite a proud man, and, as to the shilling, you must allow me to keep fa, that it may become an heirloom in my family, where we have never had an opportunity of earning money. — London Truth.

James Payn, the novelist, lives in one of the most attractive houses in Mai. a Vale, London, and spends most of hi 3 time there, except, of course, when at his office. He says that in his boyhood he never took part in any frames or sports, and to this day doesn't know anything about cricket, tennis, croquet, rowing, yachting, horseback riding, or anything of the Bort. He doesn't take any recreation now ; not even walking, or going to the theatre. Leaving his house in the morning, he goes to the nearest cab stand — about twenty steps from his door — and rides to his office. From ten to one o'clock he writes fiction, and then walks — one block — to the lleform Club and takes lunch with his old friend, William Black. Then he goes back raid reads MSS. and proofs until four o'clock, when he returns to the club and plays whist for one hour and a half. Then he rides home, dines, dozes in his chair, goes to bed and sleeps ten hours, gets up and takes breakfast, and starts off again on the same rostinc, which he repeats day after day, with no variation or shadow of turning. He smokes forty or fifty pipes of tobacco a day; in fact, he smokes constantly. He writes an execrable hand, and has his daughter copy all his JMSS. with a type-writer to send to the printer.

"You see I never contradict, and I sometimes forget," said Lord Beaconsfield, when asked why he was a favorite of the Queen,