On the day when Doctor Ashton and I visited the Mission Dolores
we were deeply impressed with what we saw. There stood the old
building, partly overshadowed by the new edifice erected recently just
north of it. Yonder were the hills, north and south and west, which
from the first had looked down upon it; but the old gardens and olive
trees which had surrounded it for many years were gone, and instead
the eye fell on blocks of comfortable houses and streets suggestive of
the new life which had taken place of the old. The bull-fights which
used to take place near this spot on Sunday afternoons are things
of the past happily, and the gay, moving throngs, with picturesque
costume of Spanish make and Mexican hue, have forever vanished. The
old graveyard with its high walls on the south side of the Church
remains. Tall grass bends over the prostrate tombstones, a willow tree
serves as a mourning sentinel here and there, while the odours of
flowers, emblems of undying hopes, are wafted to us on the balmy air
as we stand, with memories of the past rushing on the mind, and gaze
silently on the scene.
Pages:
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249