It is not, therefore, the busy streets and handsome dwellings of Los
Angeles and Pasadena, but the adobe ruins, the battered statues, the
cracked and voiceless bells, the poor remnants of the Indian tribes,
and even the old Spanish names, behind which lies a century of
sanctity and romance, which give to Southern California an atmosphere
of the Old World and harmonize most perfectly with its history.

[Illustration: SAN DIEGO MISSION.]

Most of the Mission buildings are in a sad condition. Earthquakes
have shattered some; neglect and malice have disfigured others; but a
society, composed alike of Catholics and Protestants, is now, in the
interest of the past, endeavoring to rescue them from utter ruin. It
is a worthy task. What subjects for a painter most of them present!
How picturesque are their old cloisters, looming up dark, grand, and
desolate against the sky! How worn and battered are they by the
storms of years! How tremblingly stands the Cross upon their ancient
towers, as if its sacred form had become feeble like the fraternity
that once flourished here! What witnesses they are of an irrevocable
past! Their crumbling walls, if they could speak, might grow
sublimely eloquent, and thrill us with inspiring tales of heroism,
patience, tact, and fortitude exhibited when these Missions bloomed
like flowery oases on the arid areas of the South and West, and
taught a faith of which their melancholy cloisters are the sad
memorials.

Ten miles from Los Angeles, the Southern Pacific railroad passes a
long edifice, the massive walls of which might lead us to suppose it
was a fortress, but for its cross and a few antiquated bells. It is