In California, however, they managed these things better. The wily monks took care to keep all interlopers from the country, established themselves in snug quarters, instructed the Indians in agriculture, and soon gained such an ascendency over them, that no difficulty was experienced in keeping them under proper and wholesome restraint. Strong and commodious missions were built and fortified, well stored with arms and ammunition, and containing sufficient defenders to defy attack. Luxuriant gardens and thriving vineyards soon surrounded these isolated stations: the plains waved with golden corn; whilst domestic cattle, thriving on the rich pasture, and roaming far and near, multiplied and increased a hundred-fold.
Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of one of these missions, to the traveller who has lately passed the arid and barren wilderness of the North-west. The adobe walls of the convent-looking building, surmounted by cross and belfry, are generally hidden in a mass of luxuriant vegetation. Fig-trees, bananas, cherry, and apple, leaf-spreading platanos, and groves of olives, form umbrageous vistas, under which the sleek monks delight to wander; gardens, cultivated by their own hands, testify to the horticultural skill of the worthy padres; whilst vineyards yield their grateful produce to gladden the hearts of the holy exiles in these western solitudes. Vast herds of cattle roam half-wild on the plains, and bands of mules and horses, whose fame has even reached the distant table-lands of the Rocky Mountains, and excited the covetousness of the hunters—and thousands of which, from the day they are foaled to that of their death, never feel a saddle on their backs—cover the country. Indians (Mansitos) idle round the skirts of these vast herds, (whose very numbers keep them together,) living, at their own choice, upon the flesh of mule, or ox, or horse.
THE CAXTONS.—PART VI.
CHAPTER XVIII.
“I don’t know that,” said my father.
“What is it my father does not know? My father does not know that happiness is our being’s end and aim.”
And pertinent to what does my father reply, by words so sceptical, to an assertion so little disputed?
Reader, Mr Trevanion has been half-an-hour seated in our little drawing-room. He has received two cups of tea from my mother’s fair hand; he has made himself at home. With Mr Trevanion has come another old friend of my father’s, whom he has not seen since he left college—Sir Sedley Beaudesert.
Now, you must understand that it is a warm night, a little after nine o’clock—a night between departing summer and approaching autumn—the windows are open—we have a balcony, which my mother has taken care to fill with flowers—the air, though we are in London, is sweet and fresh—the street quiet, except that an occasional carriage or hackney cabriolet rolls rapidly by—a few stealthy passengers pass to and fro noiselessly on their way homeward. We are on classic ground—near that old and venerable Museum, the dark monastic pile, with its learned treasures, which the taste of the age had spared then—and the quiet of the temple seems to hallow the precincts; Captain Roland is seated by the fireplace, and though there is no fire, he is shading his face with a handscreen; my father and Mr Trevanion have drawn their chairs close to each other in the middle of the room; Sir Sedley Beaudesert leans against the wall near the window, and behind my mother, who looks prettier and more pleased than usual, since her Austin has his old friends about him; and I, leaning my elbow on the table, and my chin upon my hand, am gazing with great admiration on Sir Sedley Beaudesert.
O rare specimen of a race fast decaying!—specimen of the true fine gentleman, ere the word dandy was known, and before exquisite became a noun substantive—let me here pause to describe thee! Sir Sedley Beaudesert was the contemporary of Trevanion and my father; but, without affecting to be young, he still seemed so. Dress, tone, look, manner—all were young—yet all had a certain dignity which does not belong to youth. At the age of five-and-twenty, he had won what would have been fame to a French marquis of the old regime, viz.—he was “the most charming man of his day”—the most popular with our sex—the most favoured, my dear lady reader, with yours. It is a mistake, I believe, to suppose that it does not require talent to become the fashion; at all events, Sir Sedley was the fashion, and he had talent. He had travelled much, he had read much—especially in memoirs, history, and belles-lettres—he made verses with grace and a certain originality of easy wit and courtly sentiment—he conversed delightfully—he was polished and urbane in manner—he was brave and honourable in conduct; in words he could flatter—in deeds he was sincere.