Twenty-five miles, at a rapid gait over a level and fertile plain, brought us to the rancho of Don Francisco Sanchez, where we halted to change horses.  Breathing our animals a short time, we resumed our journey, and reached the mission of San Francisco Dolores, three miles from the town of San Francisco, just after sunset.  Between the mission and the town the road is very sandy, and we determined to remain here for the night, corraling the loose animals, and picketing those we rode.  It was some time, however, before we could find a house to lodge in.  The foreign occupants of the mission buildings, to whom we applied for accommodations for the night, gave us no satisfaction.  After several applications, we were at last accommodated by an old and very poor Californian Spaniard, who inhabited a small house in one of the ruinous squares, formerly occupied by the operative Indians.  All that he had (and it was but little) was at our disposal.  A more miserable supper I never sat down to; but the spirit of genuine hospitality in which it was given imparted to the poor viands a flavour that rendered the entertainment almost sumptuous—­in my imagination.  A cup of water cheerfully given to the weary and thirsty traveller, by him who has no more to part with, is worth a cask of wine grudgingly bestowed by the stingy or the ostentatious churl.  Notwithstanding we preferred sleeping on our own blankets, these poor people would not suffer us to do it, but spread their own pallets on the earth floor of their miserable hut, and insisted so strongly upon our occupying them, that we could not refuse.

September 21.—­We rose at daylight.  The morning was clear, and our horses were shivering with the cold.  The mission of San Francisco is situated at the northern terminus of the fertile plain over which we travelled yesterday, and at the foot, on the eastern side, of the coast range of mountains.  These mountains are of considerable elevation.  The shore of the Bay of San Francisco is about two miles distant from the mission.  An arroyo waters the mission lands, and empties into the bay.  The church of the mission, and the main buildings contiguous, are in tolerable repair.  In the latter, several Mormon families, which arrived in the ship Brooklyn from New York, are quartered.  As in the other missions I have passed through, the Indian quarters are crumbling into shapeless heaps of mud.

Our aged host, notwithstanding he is a pious Catholic, and considers us as heretics and heathens, gave us his benediction in a very impressive manner when we were about to start.  Mounting our horses at sunrise, we travelled three miles over low ridges of sand-hills, with sufficient soil, however, to produce a thick growth of scrubby evergreen oak, and brambles of hawthorn, wild currant and gooseberry bushes, rose bushes, briers, etc.  We reached the residence of Wm. A. Leidesdorff, Esq., late American vice-consul at San Francisco,