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 the church of the San Gabriel Mission.  All other buildings of the institution have disappeared; but this old edifice remains, and, unless purposely destroyed by man, may stand here for five centuries more, since its enormous walls are five feet thick, and the mortar used in their construction has rendered them almost as solid as if hewn from rock.  As I descended, at the station a quarter of a mile away, a little barefooted Mexican boy approached and shyly offered me his hand.  “Are you the Father,” he asked?

“No,” I said, “I am not the Father, but I have come to see the church; can you show it to me?”

“But Padre Joaquin said I was to meet a Father.”

“Well,” I answered, “I am the only passenger who has come by this train, so you had better walk back with me.”

[Illustration:  San Gabriel mission church.]

The Mexican boys seem to be the best part of what Mexico has left in California.  This lad, for example, was attending an American school, and appeared bright and ambitious, though so extremely courteous and respectful that he seemed almost timid.  The little hut in which he lived was opposite the church, and he seemed perfectly familiar with the sacred structure.  “See,” he said, pointing to some mutilated wooden statues in the poor, scantily furnished sacristy, “here are some images which cannot be used, they are so broken, and here are more,” he added, opening some drawers and displaying four or five smaller figures in various stages of dilapidation.  Thus, for some time he continued to call my attention to different curious relics with such interest and reverence that I was almost sorry when Father Joaquin appeared.  It was sad to see the altar of the church defaced